Breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning was louder than usual.
Nearly every table had the same issue of the Daily Prophet spread open.
Students leaned in close, reading in clusters.
Every so often someone would glance toward the staff table, then quickly look away as if nothing had happened.
The front-page headline was printed in heavy black type: HOGWARTS PROFESSOR ATTACKS MINISTRY COMMISSIONER AT PRIVATE BANQUET — OFFICIAL SERIOUSLY INJURED The moving photograph showed a corner of the Malfoy Manor hall: frozen guests, a dark pool on the marble, and the clear profile of a white-haired young man.
The timing was almost perfect—the Shadowkhan had already withdrawn, and Umbridge still lay on the floor staring up in pure terror.
The rest of the image was blurred; whoever took it had not dared get closer.
Styx’s face, however, was sharp.
Annoyingly handsome, several students muttered.
At the Gryffindor table Seamus turned the paper over and back again.
“Umbridge?
The one who came about the troll?
Professor Styx broke her legs?” “Not just the legs.” Dean pointed at a line.
“It says both lower legs were severed and every tooth was removed.
The Ministry is calling for a full review.” Ron tore a piece of bread.
“So she got beaten and now the Ministry wants to put the person who beat her on trial?
That’s—” “Because the person who beat her is our professor,” Hermione said quietly, “and he did it in front of half the Board of Governors.” Neville pulled the paper from Seamus’s hands, read it carefully from top to bottom, and lingered for a moment on the words “Ministry commissioner.” Then the corner of his mouth lifted in the most genuine smile anyone had seen from him since term began.
“Good.” Several nearby Gryffindors turned to stare as though their own cat had just spoken English.
Neville ignored them, folded the paper neatly beside his plate, and went back to his breakfast.
At the Slytherin table Pansy looked around for Draco and found only Crabbe, who mumbled through a mouthful of bacon that Malfoy’s father had called him home for the weekend.
At the staff table McGonagall set the newspaper next to Dumbledore’s plate.
He was carefully spreading honey to every corner of his toast.
“Albus.” “The honey is particularly good this morning, Minerva.” “The front page.” “I saw it.
Umbridge should not have touched him that night.
He was already in a poor mood.” McGonagall opened her mouth, closed it again, and simply took the honey for herself.
Sugar did help.
Owls poured through the high windows in a sudden rush of wings.
Most of them ignored the students entirely and headed straight for the staff table.
Letters landed in neat stacks beside Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, even Flitwick.
One arrived in front of Snape; he glanced at the handwriting, expressionless, and slid it into an inner pocket.
The space in front of Styx remained empty.
“I have all of yours,” Dumbledore said, holding up a small sheaf.
“Are you going to answer them?” “I don’t know how.” Dumbledore opened the top letter and read aloud in a mild voice.
“Dear Headmaster, after seeing this morning’s Prophet… regarding the new Dark Arts Practical professor, we wish to confirm that his background has been thoroughly vetted… our daughter finds his lessons unusual, but we are more concerned whether a man who resorts to violence at a private banquet is suitable to teach under-age children…” “They only want reassurance,” Dumbledore said, setting it down.
“A little over a hundred so far.” Styx took a slow sip of tea and said nothing.
— The fire in the Headmaster’s office burned steadily all morning.
Dumbledore sat behind the desk answering letter after letter.
Fawkes watched from the perch, occasionally giving a soft cry.
At midday Snape entered without knocking, laid several draft replies on the corner of the desk, and waited in silence while Dumbledore reviewed them.
The language was precise and cold; Dumbledore could still feel the underlying impatience with pure-blood parental anxiety.
By the time McGonagall arrived two hours later the pile had been reduced by more than half.
Returning owls sometimes carried new letters from parents who found the first answer insufficient.
Dumbledore simply continued, adding the same handwritten line at the bottom of every reply: I give you my personal assurance that your child is safe.
Styx waited until the timing felt right before he pushed the door open.
“Headmaster.
I need you to contact someone for me.” “Who?” “Augusta Longbottom.
Neville’s grandmother.
It would be better if the request came from you.” Dumbledore set down his quill.
“Why her?” “Her son and daughter-in-law have been in the permanent wing at St Mungo’s for eleven years.
Irreversible psychological damage from the Cruciatus Curse.
That’s the official consensus.” Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then capped the ink.
“What exactly are you proposing?” “I can cure them.” The office went very still.
Fawkes made a soft sound.
Several portraits of former headmasters opened their eyes; a few sat up straighter.
Dumbledore rose and walked to the window, back turned.
“Do you know how many methods St Mungo’s has already tried?” “All of them.” “Eleven years.
Potions, charms, Muggle neurology, even phoenix tears.
Nothing has ever worked.
The Cruciatus destroys the deepest emotional pathways.
The damage is considered permanent.” “I know.” “Then on what basis do you claim you can reverse it?” Styx answered the question silently first.
[System.
The Memory-Regression Potion in the mall—will it work?] [Confirmed.
It is capable of repairing Cruciatus-induced mental damage.] Only then did he speak aloud.
“I have a method.” Dumbledore turned.
The look he gave Styx was the same one from the corridor the night before—measuring, tired, and without judgment.
He did not ask further questions.
He simply took a clean sheet of parchment and began to write.
“A letter to Augusta Longbottom.
The wording will need to be careful.” He glanced up once.
“If you can actually do this, the letter will change a great many things.” He sealed it with red wax and held it out to Fawkes.
The phoenix took the letter and vanished through the open window in a flash of gold and crimson.
By evening the news had already moved through the staff.
Sprout heard it first in the staff room, then Flitwick, then Hooch.
When Sinistra came down from the Astronomy Tower for tea the conversation was already circulating.
McGonagall pressed a cup into her hands and said simply, “Styx claims he can cure the Longbottoms.” “The new Practical professor?” “Yes.
He went to Dumbledore this afternoon.
A letter has already been sent.” Snape stood by the fireplace, listened to the entire exchange, and offered no comment.
When McGonagall finished he set his cup on the mantel and turned to leave.
“Severus.” He paused but did not look back.
“Do you think it’s possible?” “Longbottom’s toad is still alive,” Snape said.
“His grandmother deserves at least the chance to see his parents awake.” He walked out.
McGonagall watched the empty doorway for a moment, then turned to Sprout.
“Pass me that tin of biscuits.” That same night, with Dumbledore’s quiet approval, McGonagall contacted Xenophilius Lovegood of The Quibbler in her personal capacity.
An interview was arranged within hours: an exclusive feature on the Dark Arts Practical class, including classroom observation and teaching philosophy.
Snape wrote short private notes to several senior Slytherin governors: There were multiple witnesses at the manor.
Progress regarding the Longbottoms will be made public shortly.
Refrain from premature conclusions.
Sprout wrapped several calming magical plants from the greenhouses and sent them to Hufflepuff parents with a brief note suggesting weekend tea to discuss recent events.
Flitwick proposed moving the open observation day for Dark Arts Practical forward to the following month; the motion passed without opposition.
Styx knew none of this.
The next morning Fawkes returned with a letter sealed in purple wax.
The envelope carried only one line: To Albus Dumbledore, from Augusta Longbottom.
Dumbledore read it, then handed it across the desk.
Styx read it once, then again, and gave it back.
“Schedule the meeting.
As soon as possible.”