Flickering torches lit the castle corridors, brushing a faint warm glow across the cold gray stone walls and making the thousand-year-old fortress feel a little more alive. Portraits whispered to one another, occasionally waving or calling out to passing students and ghosts.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron had a pretty solid reputation among the painted crowd. On their way up to Saturday-night tutoring, they got greetings the whole way.
"Harry, Hermione, where've you two been all afternoon?" Ron grumbled. "The common room was packed and you were nowhere. I needed teammates for the Gobstones club tournament and had to drag Neville instead. Got sprayed with mud the whole time."
"Library… writing an essay…" Hermione answered, sounding like a deflating balloon.
"Wood kept me for extra Quidditch practice right after morning training," Harry sighed. "It's his last year; he wants the Cup to stay in Gryffindor before he graduates." His butt still hurt from sitting on a broom all day.
"Why didn't the twins have to train? They spent the whole afternoon counting their betting money. Piles of Sickles! They were literally waving it in my face!" Ron snarled. "I swear I'm gonna tell Mum they're running a gambling ring. She'll break their legs!"
Harry just shook his head. Everyone else on the team was a veteran; the second practice ended they vanished. He was the only one left putting away brooms when Wood grabbed him.
Hermione, brain moving slowly, finally remembered what the betting had been about: last night's "practice duel" between Snape and Professor Lupin. The first ten minutes were dead even, then Lupin ran out of steam and couldn't dodge the last spell.
Fred and George laughed so hard Lee Jordan and half the common room nearly dragged them to the bathroom for a group beating.
Snape… hadn't actually humiliated Lupin. He'd just won clean.
Hermione slowed down. "Don't you guys think that's weird? Snape hates Gryffindors, docks points for breathing, and he's always nasty to Lupin. So why didn't he blast him off the platform like he did Lockhart?"
"Maybe… because they were in the same year at school?" Harry offered, thinking about everything Professor Lewent had told him: Lupin and two other wizards had been best friends with his dad… and were partly responsible for his parents' deaths.
"Or maybe because Lupin's sick and even Snape's not that much of a jerk in front of the whole staff," Ron said with a shrug.
"Speaking of," Harry glanced toward the lighted windows of the hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, "what exactly does Lupin have? Snape's brewing special potions for him and Hagrid's keeping it secret. Definitely not a cold."
"Something that needs to be kept secret…" Hermione thought out loud, digging through the medical knowledge she'd absorbed growing up in a doctor's house. "Probably a chronic contagious disease, like HIV or hepatitis; not dangerous under normal circumstances, but the stigma would cause panic."
"Hermione, you're a witch. Stop slapping Muggle diseases on everything," Ron rolled his eyes. "If you ask me, he's got Dragon Pox."
"Mr. Weasley, before you flaunt your tragically thin wizarding medical knowledge, maybe open a book," Hermione snapped. "Dragon Pox is the deadliest known magical contagion. Almost no cure; just raw magical power keeping you alive. Old wizards and kids die from it all the time. Use your brain: if Lupin had something that lethal, would Dumbledore and McGonagall hire him?"
"You're the know-it-all," Ron muttered, scratching his cheek.
"We can just ask Professor Lewent later," Harry said, playing peacemaker. By then they'd reached the Muggle Studies office; it was Saturday tutoring night.
Hermione glanced at Ron. He wasn't actually in the class.
Ron grinned and pulled out his half-finished Muggle Studies essay. "I came to ask for help!"
Harry ignored them both, listened at the door for a moment (no sound), then knocked. The thud echoed down the empty corridor.
No answer.
He knocked again, harder.
Still nothing.
"Hey, over here!" a voice called from the hallway behind them.
It was Sir Cadogan in his summer-church painting, bouncing excitedly on the grass with his silver armor and lance.
He tried to urge his fat little pony closer to the frame. "Professor Lewent asked me to tell you: tonight's lesson is postponed. He's got urgent business."
"Do you know what it's about, Sir Cadogan?" Hermione asked.
"How would we portraits know what real wizards are up to? I just saw a bunch of professors leave the castle at dusk, plus the Drama Club president."
"You mean Neville?"
"Maybe the portraits in the Headmaster's office know more. Dilys Derwent's been bouncing between St. Mungo's and Hogwarts all day."
Cadogan suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth. "I shouldn't be telling you this! A proper knight never betrays a confidence!"
He spurred his pony dramatically, nearly fell off when the pony bucked, and the two of them bickered all the way into the back of the painting until they vanished.
The trio exchanged confused looks.
…
Nighttime Hogsmeade looked almost like a Muggle city with its glowing magical candles. Regular shops were dark, but the Three Broomsticks still blazed with light.
Neville Longbottom stared blankly at the signs, shivering in the night breeze. Goosebumps prickled his arms. Third-years weren't supposed to visit Hogsmeade until after Halloween, and only with permission slips.
"I'm three months early?" he thought.
"Cold, dear?" Professor Sprout asked gently beside him.
Neville looked up and saw pretty much every heavy-hitter at Hogwarts surrounding him. Up front: Dumbledore, Professor Lewent, and Professor Lupin, discussing how to unseal long-buried memories. Behind them walked the four Heads of House.
A few elective professors had stayed behind to watch the castle.
Even though the patients were his parents, the lineup felt way over-the-top.
Lewent walked on the right side of the street. They'd just passed the Three Broomsticks; the post office night-light was still on. Their destination: the old cottage Professor Kettleburn bought when he retired.
Last night they'd finalized the treatment plan. Kettleburn had pulled strings and acquired enough Boggarts overnight. Dumbledore coordinated with St. Mungo's and Neville's grandmother to bring Frank and Alice Longbottom to Hogsmeade.
"Let me be clear," Lewent said, eyes fixed on a non-stick cauldron displayed in a shop window. "This is experimental. I can't promise success."
"None of us can," Dumbledore replied, stroking his silver beard (currently tied with a pink ribbon). "Frank and Alice are out of the Janus Thickey ward. Augusta is nothing but grateful to you, no matter the outcome."
"Frank and Alice," Lupin murmured, voice thick with memory.
Old Order of the Phoenix comrades, one year ahead of the Marauders at school. The golden couple everyone envied. Graduated together, became Aurors together, fought Voldemort together. Survived countless Death Eater ambushes. Had Neville and still stayed on the front lines: gathering intel, passing messages, rescuing witches and wizards in danger.
They'd made it all the way to Voldemort's fall… only to get cornered by Bellatrix Lestrange months later. She tortured them for information about Voldemort's whereabouts until their minds shattered.
Almost the same story as James and Lily. Sometimes Lupin wondered if there really was a curse.
"Lupin," Lewent said, "as co-author of this treatment plan, you're on Boggart-wrangling duty later. No slacking. And Headmaster, Order leader and the most technically skilled wizard here: keep an eye on the patients' condition."
"I'm actually not very good with False Memory charms," Dumbledore admitted.
"But you're a Legilimency master. Boggarts and Dementors both read minds the same way. With your understanding of magic, adapting should be easy."
They turned into the residential streets and arrived at Kettleburn's cottage.
Before Lewent could read whether the street was named Skunk or Serpent, Kettleburn was already at the door grinning, robes missing an arm and a leg as usual. Behind him stood Neville's formidable grandmother, still wearing her trademark stuffed-vulture hat and a fox-fur coat with moth holes.
St. Mungo's had sent one healer (quietly, per Dumbledore's request): Healer Miriam Strout, whom they all knew well.
"Frank and Alice were given Draught of Living Death in their lunch," Miriam reported. "They've been asleep since. The potion should be wearing off soon."
"Seventeen Boggarts, ready and waiting," Kettleburn added proudly.
"Let's begin," Dumbledore said.
They filed into the dimly lit room. Frank and Alice lay asleep on wooden beds by the window. Seventeen elm trunks lined the floor, rattling nervously as the wizards approached.
"It's all yours, Melvin," Dumbledore said quietly.
Every eye turned to Lewent.
He wasted no time.
"Everyone, this treatment requires your help. Thirteen years ago, Frank and Alice Longbottom endured prolonged Cruciatus exposure. The overwhelming pain caused their minds and souls to seal away those memories for protection. I got the idea from an old dark wizard: to break that seal, we need to hit them with pain just as unbearable."
"Boggarts will be our tool," Lupin explained. "They feed on fear. With False Memory charms we can make them reenact the exact torture session."
"Reenact the torture…?" Neville's voice cracked. "You're going to Crucio my parents?"
He knew this was the agreed-upon plan, but his eyes still filled with dread. He looked desperately at the professors. His grandmother opened her mouth, then closed it.
"Not physical torture," Lewent said firmly. "True, soul-deep pain."
He snapped his fingers. The copper locks on the trunks clicked open in sequence. The Boggarts inside grew frantic.
The nearest trunk burst open. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out, wearing her signature cruel smile. The wand in her hand glowed with the red light of the Cruciatus Curse.
Everyone froze.
"The patients sealed the memory themselves, so a normal Boggart can't access it," Lewent continued. "We'll use False Memory charms to guide the Boggarts into replaying the exact scene. At the same time, I'll use ancient magic to try to wake the buried memories. Your job is to provoke the strongest possible emotional reaction from Frank and Alice."
He turned to Neville and his grandmother.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed in understanding. "You want them to watch Neville and Augusta being tortured in front of them."
"Yes. Physical pain right now could break their bodies instead of the seal. Mental anguish (watching the people they love most suffer) will hit harder and deeper. And if anything goes wrong, we can Obliviate the whole thing away."
"Like staging one of those mirror-vision dramas?" Flitwick asked, remembering the scripted "show" they'd put on for Quirrell and Voldemort two years ago.
"Exactly. We're the crew in the shadows. Augusta and Neville are the actors on stage."
Every professor stepped back into the candlelit darkness. Wands flicked; Disillusionment Charms rippled over them like water, turning them invisible.
McGonagall shrank into her tabby cat Animagus form and leapt silently onto the headboard, tail curled neatly around her paws.
"Professor Snape," Lewent's disembodied voice echoed, "would you mind waking them?"
"Bloody hell, this is a healer's job," Snape muttered (definitely sensing the petty revenge in the request). Back when Frank and Alice were being tortured, he'd still been a Death Eater. Now he got to play healer in their recovery drama.
He pulled a small porcelain dish from his pocket and waved it under their noses. Sharp peppermint scent filled the air.
Frank and Alice's eyelids fluttered.
They opened their eyes.
And found themselves staring into a face both familiar… and long forgotten.