"Is Neville still having trouble sleeping?"
"Yeah, Hermione, you don't even know. He's obsessed with Professor Lestrange's potion. I've caught him multiple times at night, just sitting up in bed, wide awake, staring at nothing. Ugh…"
"Lack of sleep's killing his energy, and he's been totally spaced out. Yesterday, Professor Sprout asked him to help in the greenhouse, and he nearly face-planted into a pile of fertilizer. Plus, those annoying Longbottom relatives keep sending letters telling him what classes to take."
"Speaking of his relatives, Harry, I just realized something weird. Neville's gran hasn't sent one of her nagging letters in days. The last one came three days ago."
"Now that you mention it, you're right."
"Why's that?"
Harry and Ron fell into thought, their hands slowing as they worked. As they pondered, a sharp rustle of wide sleeves cut through the air behind them.
Pop…
Two crisp smacks rang out on their heads. Before they could even yelp, Snape's flat voice sounded nearby:
"Potter, Weasley, chatting and daydreaming during detention? That's two more hours."
Harry, wearing protective gloves, glared up at Snape, trying to channel his fury through his eyes. It was useless—Snape's gaze lingered briefly before sliding away.
"We weren't chatting! We were discussing something important."
"Oh?"
"We're going to see Professor Dumbledore later. Professor Lestrange's potion might help Neville's parents."
Snape's sneer deepened. "If your brains were sharper than a salamander's, you'd notice Dumbledore hasn't been in the Great Hall for two days."
The trio froze, mentally flipping through the past few days' meals. Come to think of it, neither Dumbledore nor Lestrange had shown up. By their count, they'd been gone for days.
"Hufflepuff was a Hogwarts founder, a great healer from a thousand years ago. Do you think you're the only ones who value her potions or thought to use them for Cruciatus Curse damage?" Snape scoffed. "Arrogance is the height of stupidity."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "You mean… they've already started treatment?"
Snape didn't answer, just snorted and turned away. "Keep working. You're not leaving until those salamanders are processed."
The three exchanged glances, winking and grinning. The extra detention didn't even bother them—Snape was starting to seem almost tolerable.
…
London, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Plain armchairs circled a hospital bed.
On it, two patients slept peacefully. The witch was thin and haggard, her hair brittle and white like autumn grass. The wizard was bloated, his face pale and bloodless.
The armchairs held senior Healers, most Hogwarts graduates whose achievements occasionally made the papers. They wore elegant green robes, each emblazoned with a crossed wand and bone.
Non-specialists were relegated to the outer edges, nearly thirty wizards packed into the sealed ward of the Spell Damage floor.
The ward, named for 17th-century wizard Janus Thickey, sat on the fifth floor with a seven-meter-high ceiling. A wide space with a single window framed in heavy iron, a green plant sat along the sill, sunlight streaming in to lend the room a touch of life.
Non-specialists—like Dumbledore and Melvin—chose to sit in the corner. Though they'd provided the potion, and their magical prowess far outstripped the Healers', they respected expertise. In spell damage treatment, they had no business meddling.
The two stayed out of the consultation, chatting quietly in voices only they could hear.
"Head Healer, Herbert Spring—I've seen his name in the papers."
"Mhm, Daily Prophet health column writer."
"Janus Thickey… that name rings a bell." Melvin, not part of the treatment discussion, kept his voice low with Dumbledore. "Feels familiar. Was he some famous Healer? Or a St. Mungo's director?"
"Maybe you saw it in Ministry case files or heard it from a pub landlord." Dumbledore replied calmly. "He faked his own death, let his wife and daughter think he was gone, then ran off with the family fortune to shack up with the landlady of the Green Dragon."
"Wizard scum, huh… So why name a ward after him?"
"He was filthy rich and donated generously."
"Another creep buying fame with Galleons."
Melvin sighed. St. Mungo's had six floors, and aside from the top-floor shop and tearoom, each level had dozens of wards, most named for shady types who'd piled up Galleons. A fascinating wizard sociology topic.
Dumbledore shot him a sideways glance, sensing a jab.
"Quiet." Herbert Spring's voice echoed through the sealed ward.
The headmaster and professor fell silent. The other Healers looked solemn, while an elderly witch by the bed—face etched with stern wrinkles—clung to her last shred of pride. Only when she glanced at the patients did her eyes betray grief and pity.
"Let's summarize the consultation. Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom are heroes of the wizarding world, tragically struck down by Death Eaters, robbed of their sanity. For thirteen years, St. Mungo's has never given up, and I believe no Healer ever will." Spring paused. "We've also had generous wizards funding our efforts."
Spring, St. Mungo's deputy director and a newspaper columnist, knew how to play the social game.
Lucius Malfoy wasn't here today, but his annual donations arrived like clockwork. Taking his gold with little research progress meant tossing kind words to the Longbottoms—good PR for future fundraising.
"The patients' symptoms stem from prolonged Cruciatus Curse exposure, led by Bellatrix Lestrange and a dozen Death Eaters. The unbearable pain scrambled their minds, leaving their souls scarred…"
The two patients lay serene, faces pale, bodies swollen—side effects of long-term confinement in a sealed ward.
Sudden physical or mental trauma can overwhelm, causing amnesia or mental breakdown. Muggle medicine sees similar cases, even developing fields like acute stress response or post-traumatic stress disorder.
In most Muggle cases, symptoms ease within weeks or years. With stable care, even without full memory recovery, patients can regain sanity and live normally.
The Longbottoms had been in St. Mungo's for thirteen years with no improvement. One reason: lingering foreign magic in their bodies.
The Unforgivable Curses touch the soul. Repeated Cruciatus Curses from multiple Death Eaters were like slicing the soul apart. Even after the spells stopped, that foreign magic lingered like a corrosive poison, clinging to their souls, blocking healing.
Memory is the root of thought. The Longbottoms' past memories were buried under pain, new ones couldn't stick, and their minds were shrouded in fog, with only instincts occasionally breaking through.
Such deep soul wounds couldn't be healed by phoenix tears, not even by Dumbledore. But Hufflepuff's potion offered a glimmer of hope.
"The potion from Hogwarts is remarkable, but Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom's condition is complex…" Spring concluded. "We can neutralize the Cruciatus effects, allowing their minds to store new memories."
"So… their old memories might not come back," Augusta Longbottom said softly.
The ward fell silent. Every wizard understood: memory defines identity. Without their past, without recognizing family or recalling their knowledge, were the Longbottoms still themselves?
Hope flickered briefly in Augusta's eyes, only to be smothered by shadow, weighing heavy on the old witch.
"Whatever they recover to, it's better than being trapped in this ward forever."
Augusta closed her eyes, took a deep breath, her vulture-stuffed hat trembling slightly. "Draw up the treatment plan."
Spring nodded. "First, we tackle the residual foreign magic—the hardest step. Thanks to Dumbledore and Lestrange's potion, that's handled. Next, we soothe the soul's wounds, clear the fog, and get their minds working again. Finally, memory—we can't intervene there. That's up to family. Talk to them, take them to familiar places."
Augusta stood silently, memorizing the plan. After the Healers dispersed, she approached Dumbledore and Melvin.
Melvin now saw her clearly: a green velvet robe, expensive but moth-eaten in spots, its elegance faded.
The ancient pure-blood family had lost its former glory. With her son and daughter-in-law bedridden, her young grandson still growing, the weight of the Longbottom name rested on her alone, threatening to crush her—but she refused to bend.
"Thank you again, Headmaster, Professor," Augusta said, her gaunt face earnest.
Melvin nodded, staying quiet.
"It's what we should do…" Dumbledore sighed. "It all happened so fast back then. No one was ready. If I'd warned Frank and Alice sooner, they—"
"It's not your fault. It's those damned Death Eaters!"
Augusta's voice was sharp, her pain still raw after twelve years.
Melvin watched the vulture on her hat quiver, her bone-deep hatred pulsing through the trembling brim. He sighed too.
Frank and Alice weren't captured together. The Death Eaters ambushed Frank on a mission, tortured him for information, and got nothing. So they targeted Alice.
Bellatrix knew their love and exploited it. No torture is crueler than watching your beloved suffer. But they underestimated the Auror couple. Even as their minds broke, neither spilled secrets nor begged for mercy.
The ward grew quiet. Melvin caught a commotion in the corridor outside, one voice oddly familiar. His heart stirred.
"Headmaster, Mrs. Longbottom, you keep talking. I'll check outside…"
The sealed ward was on the fifth floor, alongside other spell-damage patients with mental issues. After coordinating with the hospital, Dumbledore had cleared it for this consultation, moving other patients to nearby wards.
Melvin turned left out the door and spotted the familiar figure. Same garish purple robe, same beaming smile, blond hair, blue eyes, dazzlingly white teeth—though now the hair and robes were a bit disheveled.
"Gilderoy Lockhart."
"You know me?"
The man leaned close, his grin widening. "Here for an autograph, right?"
Before Melvin could respond, Lockhart whipped out a quill, its tip snapped, and scribbled his name on a scrap of paper, the handwriting wobbly like a toddler's.
Melvin studied his eyes. Gone was the old cunning, replaced by a childlike innocence.
"Gilderoy, you're wandering again!"
A Healer witch hurried over, spotting Melvin and apologizing. "Sorry, I took my eyes off him. He's naughtier than a two-year-old. I turned to mix a potion for a second, and he bolted."
"I wasn't wandering!" Lockhart pouted. "I was signing for him."
"Signing?" The Healer eyed Melvin skeptically. "You two know each other?"
Melvin smiled. "We worked together briefly."
"Wonderful! No one's ever visited him! Come, his ward's this way…" The Healer eagerly led him in.
As they walked, Melvin learned Lockhart's situation.
The Ministry hadn't publicly tried Lockhart's memory theft case, but the Daily Prophet covered the verdict. Unmarried, with no close relatives, and facing massive fines, his distant kin wanted nothing to do with the mess.
Unable to care for himself, Lockhart couldn't be sent to Azkaban. So he lingered at St. Mungo's.
His Obliviation-induced dementia wasn't as severe as the Longbottoms'. Though most memories were gone, he retained basic reasoning.
To avoid triggering him, Healers screened his mail, withholding hate letters and passing only fan mail from diehard supporters. Those letters convinced Gilderoy he was still a beloved star, handing out signatures left and right.
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