Hogsmeade Station
Steam puffed from the train's chimney, the boiler hissing as it released pressure. Hagrid, the gamekeeper, stood a few meters from the tracks, directing young witches and wizards to line up and board. When a student got separated from friends and lingered on the platform, he'd grab them by the collar and hoist them into a carriage.
Professor Kettleburn was also taking this train, bidding farewell to Hogwarts and decades of teaching. Other professors were there to see him off, including Dumbledore. Even Snape showed up, standing stone-faced nearby, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
But a few minutes earlier, Melvin had spotted Snape's parting gift to the old professor: a bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion, expertly brewed by a Potions Master—priceless and rare.
"Don't worry, these old bones of mine aren't done moving yet," Kettleburn said.
"It's exactly those old bones I'm worried about. You don't have many left, so stop sticking your head near dragon mouths," Hagrid teased.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
Hagrid kept glancing over, speeding up his student-wrangling to get a proper goodbye. Melvin and the others chatted casually, in no rush.
Wizards lived longer than Muggles, and with the Floo Network and Apparition, visiting friends was easy. Best of all, Kettleburn was settling in Hogsmeade—just a short walk away. They could meet for drinks at the Three Broomsticks any weekend, with plenty of time to catch up.
A group approached with the sound of footsteps.
Melvin turned to see seventh-year Muggle Studies advanced students, almost as tall as adult wizards. They'd ditched their school robes for colorful, varied outfits. The girls wore flowing skirts that swayed as they walked.
Their clothes were adult, but their faces still held a touch of youth.
"Professor Levent, we're off!" called a Gryffindor named Reginald.
"Not boarding yet? You'll have to squeeze into someone else's compartment now," Melvin said.
"Let 'em squeeze! It's our last ride," a Hufflepuff girl said with a wave, unbothered. "You always promised us exciting lessons, but you'd start a topic and never finish it. Now we're graduating, and all that stuff about perspectives, logic, and society—we won't hear it anymore."
"Leaving school doesn't mean you stop learning," Melvin said with a grin. "Life's more exciting, and you'll explore it yourselves."
"Blah, blah, blah," the girl mimicked, rolling her eyes but smirking. "Your classes weren't preachy, but you sure get preachy after. Anyway, we're here to thank you!"
"For what?"
"Because of Muggle Studies, we've landed great jobs!" she said, standing outside the carriage, tilting her head as steam curled behind her. "The Daily Prophet is expanding, and the Nott family's diving into the scrying mirror industry. They need witches and wizards who know Muggle stuff—high pay, pure-blood family kind of high."
Reginald nodded firmly. "Most of us are average students, but our Muggle Studies certificates got us these gigs. Thanks, Professor."
The others chimed in with thanks. Not all benefited from the mirror industry—some Muggle-born students had planned to take low-end jobs in the wizarding world but, inspired by Melvin, were rethinking tech and returning to Muggle society.
Others were still undecided, planning post-graduation trips.
"…"
Melvin listened quietly to their future plans, offering blessings and travel tips for Romania and North America but avoiding specific advice on careers or life paths.
Toot, toot…
The train's whistle soared into the sky as the Hogwarts Express rolled toward the fields, just like the graduates' futures—full of new sights to discover.
…
After seeing off the Express, Hogwarts didn't immediately quiet down. The corridors were free of rowdy students, but the portraits' wizards threw a lively wine party, their chatter louder than ever. Ghosts roamed freely, planning visits to friends elsewhere.
Moaning Myrtle, friendless as ever, wailed and screeched to vent, claiming Nearly Headless Nick was off to Kent to visit his widow friend.
Besides a few professors with nowhere to go, only the caretaker and gamekeeper stayed over the summer. The staff discussed last year's planned travel routes as they packed.
On his way upstairs to his office, Melvin ran into Dumbledore, who casually asked, "Melvin, any summer plans?"
"Hm…"
Melvin's eyes narrowed slightly. He'd spotted Dumbledore waiting on the landing earlier, as if lying in wait. "I'm thinking of visiting old colleagues in Paris," he said carefully, watching Dumbledore's face.
"When do you leave?"
"Next week…" Melvin slowed, then changed course. "No, tomorrow. I'm off tomorrow."
Dumbledore's smile was sly, like an old fox. "Perfect. Plenty of time to join me for a trip to St. Mungo's."
…
Melvin stood on a bustling street, glancing at the sign for Purge and Dowse Ltd. before scanning the passersby.
Under magical influence, they ignored the shop. Those who noticed the two loitering at the entrance would pause, puzzled, glance at the sign, then walk off in a daze, forgetting the moment entirely.
Dumbledore leaned toward the shop window, addressing the old plastic mannequin. "Hello, we're here to see Frank and Alice Longbottom."
The mannequin's stiff joints creaked as it nodded and waved, a layer of magic cloaking the glass.
The window stayed the same, but the inner space opened to them. Melvin followed Dumbledore inside, passing through the glass with no resistance, feeling only a cool brush of magic.
The room inside was a crowded waiting area, much like a Muggle community hospital. A reception desk bore an "Inquiries" sign, and patients lined the walls in chairs. Their ailments were more shocking: faces with jumbled features, missing limbs, extra limbs, or body parts from other species.
Posters plastered the walls with warnings:
"Clean your cauldron after brewing, lest your potion turn to poison."
"Don't misuse antidotes—potioneers aren't healers."
Last time, Melvin had used the headmaster's private route, arriving via a fifth-floor fireplace. Now, taking the public entrance, he looked around, finding it novel.
"Augusta Longbottom is already here, waiting in the secure ward," said a portrait of Dilys Derwent, smiling. "I checked—Healer Sprout's away, so no one will disturb you."
The dutiful witch, a former hospital and Hogwarts head, still served after death.
"The potion from the cup is remarkable for treating dark magic aftereffects," Dumbledore said as they walked. "Healer Sprout told me Frank and Alice's first-phase treatment has gone exceptionally well…"
Dumbledore led the way to the fifth-floor secure ward, stopping at a door marked Janus Thickey. He tapped the stone with his wand.
The door rumbled open.
An elderly witch stood inside, dressed in a dark green robe and a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a stuffed vulture and moth-eaten fox fur. Her gaunt, wrinkled face was softer than last time, a hint of a smile in her eyes.
"How are they, Augusta?" Dumbledore asked.
"The healers say there's hope. Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore—and you, Professor Levent." Madam Longbottom turned to the boy behind her. "Neville, sweetie, come say hello to the professors."
Melvin hadn't noticed Neville standing there.
In casual robes, his slightly chubby face showed traces of tears, clutching a candy wrapper. Embarrassed to be seen so vulnerable, he mumbled, "Headmaster… Professor."
"The Express got here early?" Melvin asked, pretending not to see the tears. "I thought it wouldn't reach London until evening."
"Neville didn't take the Express," Madam Longbottom explained. "After leaving school, he went to Hogsmeade. His Uncle Algie picked him up, and I brought him here. He was just telling his mum about school, and I updated him on the treatment plan. Thank you so much for your care…"
These situations were always tricky to navigate.
Melvin sighed. "Let's see the patients. You say the treatment's going well, but you called us here specifically. There's a problem, isn't there?"
They approached the beds, now decorated with a few green plants. Last time, both Principals Frank and Alice were asleep; today, they were awake.
The couple looked better. Frank's swelling had gone down, his pale face more alert. Alice had gained some weight, her gray hair less prominent, her eyes no longer vacant but brighter—especially when she saw Neville.
The changes were subtle but transformative.
"The treatment's going smoothly," Madam Longbottom said softly. "The potion's clearing the dark magic from their bodies. No more nightmares, they're sleeping well, and their appetites are back to normal. Healer Sprout says at this rate, they could be discharged by autumn."
The couple stared at her moving lips, not understanding but amused, as if her lips were wriggling worms. They giggled together.
"But… their memories show no signs of returning."
Madam Longbottom's eyes grew heavy at their laughter, her voice tinged with pain. "For two people lost to madness, returning to normal is a miracle, but I want them to remember—to be the old Alice and Frank again. I know it's greedy, but I hope you can help."
Neville flung himself into his grandmother's arms, soaking her robes with tears.
The witch, startled, patted his back, frantically shoving more candy wrappers into his hands. Frank joined in, clumsily trying to comfort him.
The room fell quiet, save for Neville's muffled sobs. This time, Madam Longbottom didn't stop him, letting their family's vulnerability show before outsiders.
After some fuss, the three Longbottoms huddled together and fell asleep.
Melvin stood beside Dumbledore, watching him cast diagnostic spells with practiced ease. Age had its perks—Dumbledore's broad knowledge rivaled even skilled healers.
"Their chaotic magic is stabilized, and their own magic is nourishing their bodies. They might not need until autumn—by summer's end, they could be out," Dumbledore said, settling them comfortably and conjuring blankets.
Melvin glanced at the elderly witch by the bed. "And the memory restoration?"
"That's up to you."
"?"
Melvin blinked, unaware he had such skills.
Dumbledore's voice was calm, his blue eyes deep. "This is dark magic damage and its aftereffects. You'd need a dark magic expert. Luckily, we know one."
"You mean… Tom?"
Melvin paused, thinking. "I could ask him about it, but getting a treatment plan might take time. No quick results."
"Take it slow," Dumbledore said, pausing. "They've waited years—they're anxious but patient enough to keep going."
…
Melvin left the ward alone, as Dumbledore stayed to speak with Madam Longbottom, reassuring her without mentioning Horcruxes or Voldemort.
Before the stone door closed, Melvin caught Dumbledore's cryptic look, wondering if the headmaster misunderstood him, thinking he was some master manipulator who could coax trust from a Horcrux.
"…"
Melvin's mood was complex.
He didn't leave immediately, wandering to the next ward where the door was ajar, unlocked. He stepped inside.
It was a multi-patient ward. A glum wizard sat on one bed, lost in thought, sighing repeatedly and ignoring passersby. Two beds over, a witch with a furry face buried it in her pillow at the sound of footsteps.
Further in was Lockhart's bed, plastered with his photos, all sporting his signature dazzling grin.
"Mr. Levent!" Healer Miriam Strout looked up, beaming like the honeysuckle in her hair. "Here to see Gilderoy? Thanks to your potion, he's improving fast. He can remember two days at a time now, write his signature, and recall simple spells."
Melvin glanced at Lockhart, who looked up, blue eyes narrowing as he flashed a wide, toothy grin.