Chapter 203: St Mungo’s Consultation
“Is Neville still having trouble sleeping these days?”
“Yes, Hermione, you don’t know, he’s thinking about Professor Levent’s potions all the time. Several times when I got up at night to use the bathroom, I saw him sitting up at the bedside with his eyes open, sigh…”
“Not sleeping well means no energy, and he’s distracted all day. Professor Sprout called him to help in the greenhouse yesterday, and he almost fell into the dung heap. And those annoying relatives from the Lumbardons family write letters every day instructing him on course selection.”
“Speaking of his family’s relatives, Harry, I suddenly remembered something strange. Neville’s grandmother hasn’t written any nagging letters these days. The last one was delivered three days ago.”
“Now that you mention it, I remember too.”
“Why is that?”
Harry and Ron fell into thought, unconsciously slowing their hand movements. Just as they were thinking, a whooshing sound of wide sleeves suddenly rang out behind their heads.
“Pop…”
Their heads made two crisp sounds. Before the two could gasp in pain, Snape’s flat voice sounded nearby:
“Potter, Weasley, chatting and daydreaming during detention. Detention extended by two hours.”
Harry, wearing protective gloves, looked up at Snape. He tried to convey his anger with his eyes, but found it useless. Snape’s gaze lingered briefly before shifting away.
“We’re not chatting idly! We’re talking about serious matters.”
“Oh?”
“We’re going to see Headmaster Dumbledore later. Professor Levent’s potions might be useful for Neville’s parents.”
Snape’s mocking tone grew thicker: “If your brains were smarter than newts, you’d realize Dumbledore isn’t at school either. He hasn’t appeared in the Great Hall for two days.”
The three froze in place, recalling memories of meals over the past few days. It seemed neither the headmaster nor Professor Levent had attended. By the timeline, they had been missing for several days.
“Helga Hufflepuff is a founder of Hogwarts, a great healer from a thousand years ago. Do you think you’re the only ones who value her potions, the only ones who thought of using them to treat the Cruciatus Curse?” Snape sneered. “Self-importance is the greatest folly.”
Hermione’s mouth opened wide in surprise: “You mean they’ve already started the treatment?”
Snape didn’t answer, snorted coldly, and turned: “Continue detention. You’re not leaving until this batch of newts is processed!”
The three exchanged glances, winking at each other with smiles on their faces. They weren’t annoyed even with the extended detention and even found Snape much more agreeable.
……
London, St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Simple armchairs were arranged around the hospital bed.
The two patients on the bed slept peacefully. The witch was thin and haggard, her hair dry and whitened like autumn grass. The wizard’s body was bloated, his face pale without any color.
The armchairs were occupied by senior healers.
Most of these healers were Hogwarts graduates, their achievements occasionally published in newspapers. Each wore an elegant green robe with a crest of crossed wands and bone on the chest.
A few non-professionals could only sit on the periphery and listen. Nearly thirty wizards crowded into the sealed ward of the Spell Damage department, packed full.
This ward was named after the 17th-century wizard Janus Thickey, located on the hospital’s fifth floor. It had a ceiling nearly seven meters high, spacious interior, a window opening in the wall with a glass window framed in thick iron, a green plant along the wall ledge, and sunlight pouring in from outside, adding some life to the room.
Non-professionals specifically referred to people like Dumbledore and Melvin. They chose to sit in the corner themselves. Though they were the potion providers with magical prowess far surpassing these healers, they fully respected professional expertise and had no intention of laymen guiding experts in the field of spell damage treatment.
The two didn’t participate in the consultation, just sat in the corner chatting in voices only they could hear.
“Lead expert, Herbert Spring. I’ve seen that name in the newspaper.”
“Mm, 《Daily Prophet》 health advice columnist.”
“Janus Thickey… I’ve heard that name somewhere.” Melvin wasn’t involved in the treatment discussion and lowered his voice to chat with Dumbledore. “It feels familiar. Is this some outstanding healer? Or St. Mungo’s dean?”
“Maybe you saw it in Ministry of Magic case files, or some tavern owner mentioned him to you.” Dumbledore answered calmly. “He once faked his own death scene, making his wife and daughter think he was dead, but actually ran off with the family fortune due to an affair, ending up with the female owner of the Green Fire Dragon tavern.”
“Wizard scum… Then why is this ward named after him?”
“Because he was very rich and donated generously.”
“Another dreadful fellow trading galleons for fame.”
Melvin sighed. The entire St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries had six floors. Excluding the top-floor shop and tearoom, each floor had at least a dozen wards, almost all piled up with galleons by these dreadful fellows. It was a worthwhile topic for wizarding sociology research.
Dumbledore gave him a sideways glance. This young professor seemed to be implying something.
“Quiet.” Herbert Spring’s voice echoed in the sealed ward.
The headmaster and professor also stopped chatting. The other healers looked solemn, and at the bedside was an elderly old witch with a wrinkled face that was resolute and stern, her neck stiff with last pride, though her eyes showed some sorrow and pity when occasionally looking at the two patients on the bed.
“Now to summarize the consultation results. Mr. Lumbardon and Mrs. Lumbardon are heroes of the wizarding world who unfortunately fell victim to Death Eaters and lost their sanity. For over a decade, St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries has never given up. I believe no healer would abandon hope of curing them.” Spring paused briefly. “And some generous kind-hearted wizards have provided us with financial support.”
Spring was St. Mungo’s deputy dean and a newspaper columnist, with his own unique understanding of managing relationships.
Though Mr. Malfoy wasn’t present today, he was a major donor after all, with galleons arriving on time every year. Having taken his money with no progress in treatment research, saying a few kind words in front of the Lumbardon family could be considered some help, giving more confidence for future fundraising.
“The patient’s current symptoms are mainly aftereffects from multiple Cruciatus Curses, led by Bellatrix Lestrange. Over a dozen Death Eaters tortured them with repeated cruelty. This unbearable pain for ordinary people disrupted their brains, leaving their souls covered in scars…”
The two patients lay peacefully on the bed, faces pale, bodies bloated—symptoms from long-term stay in the sealed ward.
When body or mind suffers major trauma in a short time and can’t bear it, it leads to amnesia or mental breakdown. The Muggle world has many related cases, even developing professional research, calling it acute stress reaction or stress-induced mental disorder.
But in most cases, Muggle symptoms ease in weeks or years. Even if memories can’t be recovered, as long as the patient rests in a stable environment, they can regain sanity and live normally again.
The Lumbardon couple had rested quietly at St. Mungo’s for thirteen years with no signs of improvement, one reason being residual foreign magic power in their bodies.
The Unforgivable Curse itself is magic touching the soul. Over a dozen Death Eaters repeatedly casting Cruciatus Curse was like repeatedly slicing the soul. After stopping, this foreign magic lingered like bone-eroding poison, hidden in the body, attached to the soul level, preventing scars from healing.
Memory is the foundation of thought. The Lumbardon couple’s past memories were shrouded in pain, new memories couldn’t stay, rationality shrouded in fog, with only instinct occasionally breaking through the body.
Such deep soul injuries couldn’t be healed even by phoenix tears. Even Dumbledore was powerless, but the appearance of Helga Hufflepuff’s potion brought a glimmer of hope.
“The potion from Hogwarts is very miraculous, but Mr. Lumbardon and Mrs. Lumbardon’s condition is very complex…” Spring concluded. “We can eliminate the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, allowing their brains to store new memories.”
“So… past memories might not be recoverable.” Old Mrs. Longbottom said softly.
The sealed ward fell silent. All the wizards present understood: memory is the mark of consciousness. If past memories can’t be recovered, not recognizing family, losing knowledge and history—are such Lumbardons still the original Lumbardons?
Hope briefly flashed before Old Mrs. Longbottom’s eyes, but shadows overwhelmed the light of hope, weighing heavily on the old witch.
“No matter what state they recover to, it’s better than being trapped in a sealed ward all day now.”
Old Mrs. Longbottom closed her eyes, took a deep breath. The vulture specimen on her pointed wizard hat shook slightly as she said softly, “Formulate a detailed treatment plan.”
Spring nodded: “First, handle the residual foreign magic in the two warriors’ bodies—the most important and difficult step. But with the potions from Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Levent, this hurdle is cleared. Then soothe the soul wounds, dispel shadows and fog, let the jumbled brains start working again… Finally, handle the memory issue. Healers can’t intervene; it must be left to you relatives. Talk more to the patients, take them to familiar places.”
Old Mrs. Longbottom stood silently nearby, noting the detailed plan. After seeing the healers disperse, she came before Dumbledore and Melvin.
Only then did Melvin clearly see the old witch’s face. She wore a velvet green robe, expensive fabric, exquisite style, though with obvious moth holes on the velvet.
This ancient pure-blood family no longer had its glory from a hundred years ago. The old witch had hardly anyone left at home. Her son and daughter-in-law bedridden and gravely ill, grandson young and needing time to grow. The great Lumbardon name weighed on her alone, making her sway but not daring to bend.
“Thank you again, Headmaster, Professor.” Old Mrs. Longbottom stood before them, her gaunt face sincere.
Melvin nodded in greeting, saying nothing.
“It’s what we should do…” Dumbledore sighed. “Things happened too suddenly back then; no one was prepared. If I could have notified Frank and Alice sooner, they…”
“It’s not your fault. It’s all those damned Death Eaters!”
Old Mrs. Longbottom said sharply. Even after twelve years, she couldn’t let go.
Melvin saw the vulture specimen on her hat shaking nonstop, bone-deep hatred transmitted through the old witch’s trembling hat brim. He sighed too.
Frank and Alice weren’t captured by Death Eaters at the same time. They first ambushed Frank on duty, got no intel from torture, then found a way to capture Alice.
Bellatrix knew their love and tried to exploit it. No punishment is crueler than watching a loved one tortured before one’s eyes, but they underestimated the Auror couple. Even until both minds collapsed, neither revealed any intel or begged for mercy.
The ward quieted. Melvin heard commotion in the outside corridor, one voice somewhat familiar. His heart stirred slightly:
“Headmaster, Mrs. Lumbardon, you chat. I’ll go check outside…”
This sealed ward was on the fifth floor. There were originally a few other patients, all with spell damage-induced mental breakdowns. After Dumbledore coordinated with the hospital for this consultation, the other patients were temporarily moved to other wards on the same floor.
Melvin turned left upon exiting and indeed saw that familiar figure. Still in a flashy purple-red robe, still with a smile, golden hair, blue eyes, and dazzlingly white teeth—just hair and robe slightly disheveled now.
“Gilderoy Lockhart.”
“You know me?”
The man’s face leaned close, smile even brighter. “You’re here for my autograph, aren’t you?”
Before Melvin could answer, he immediately pulled a quill from his pocket, gripped the broken nib, and wrote his name on scraps of paper. The writing was crooked, like that of an uneducated child.
Melvin observed his eyes; the former cunning was gone, replaced by near-childlike innocence.
“Gilderoy, you’re running around again!”
A healer witch hurried over. Seeing a stranger nearby, she apologized quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t watch him. He’s naughtier than a two-year-old now. He slipped out in the few seconds I turned to mix potions.”
“I wasn’t running around!” Lockhart muttered unhappily. “I was giving him an autograph.”
“Autograph?” The healer looked at him suspiciously. “Sir, do you know each other?”
Melvin nodded with a smile: “We worked together for a time.”
“Great! No one’s ever visited him before! Come in, his ward is this way…” The healer enthusiastically led him into the ward.
Melvin didn’t refuse. In conversation with the witch, he learned Lockhart’s recent situation.
The Ministry of Magic didn’t publicly try Lockhart’s memory theft case, but 《Daily Prophet》 series reports revealed the trial outcome. Lockhart had no family or close relatives. Facing huge fines and reparations, other relatives didn’t want the trouble.
Because Lockhart couldn’t care for himself and couldn’t be held in Azkaban, he stayed at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries indefinitely.
The Obliviate-induced dementia wasn’t as severe as the Lumbardon couple’s. Though Lockhart’s head had few memories left, he retained some basic thinking ability.
Worried external information might worsen his condition, healers screened incoming letters, withholding abusive ones and only forwarding from brainless die-hard fans. These letters made Gilderoy think he was a popular star, signing everywhere.
