“Mr.
Styx.” Augusta Longbottom stood in the corridor outside the permanent ward at St.
Mungo’s.
The proud, unyielding woman who had once stared down half the pure-blood families of Britain now looked simply exhausted.
Bloodshot eyes, the kind that came from eleven years of refusing to look away.
“Are you certain…” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Truly certain you can cure them?” Eleven years was long enough to grind hope into fine gray dust.
That she still stood here at all said more about her than any family crest ever could.
Styx met her gaze without flinching.
“Please trust me, Madam.
After all… I am Neville’s professor.” Neville stood half a step behind his grandmother and kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
He would not look up.
Looking up would mean hoping, and hope had already hurt him enough for one lifetime.
They stopped at the door.
Augusta drew a slow breath, wiped her face with the back of one hand, and opened it.
The ward was quiet in the way only places that have given up on noise can be.
A single clock ticked on the wall.
Frank and Alice Longbottom sat side by side near the window.
Sunlight fell across their faces and did nothing.
Their eyes were hollow, as though someone had carefully scraped the people out and left the shells.
Alice stared at the light without seeing it.
Frank hummed something low and broken under his breath.
Styx studied them for a moment, then spoke.
“Madam Longbottom.
Their reactions may be violent.
That is expected.
You and Neville will stay back.” [System.
Purchase two Memory-Regression Potions.] [2,000 Evil God Points deducted.] Two slender crystal vials appeared in his hand.
Intricate silver-gray patterns wound around the glass.
The liquid inside moved like slow mercury.
Augusta’s voice trembled.
“What is that?” “Memory-Regression Potion.
It can pull their shattered memories back into place.” He uncorked the first vial.
The air filled with the scent of wet earth after rain and the faint smell of old photographs.
Styx stepped to Frank first.
One hand steadied the man’s jaw.
The other tilted the potion carefully past his lips.
A thin trail of liquid escaped the corner of Frank’s mouth and ran into the stubble.
Alice next.
The same measured care.
When both vials were empty, Styx stepped back two paces.
“Now we wait—” Frank’s body locked rigid before the sentence finished.
A raw, animal sound tore out of his throat.
His hands clamped the armrests hard enough that the wood creaked.
Nails bit into the grain.
Alice convulsed at the same instant.
Her pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Eleven years collapsed in a single breath.
Green light.
Bellatrix’s shrieking laughter.
A baby’s thin wail.
Frank falling.
The memories the Cruciatus had pulverized came back all at once.
She sobbed in broken gasps, thrashing like someone drowning inside her own skull.
“Frank!” “Alice!” Augusta lunged forward on pure instinct.
“Madam Longbottom.” Styx’s voice was quiet and absolute.
“They have to walk this part alone.
Do not waste eleven years of waiting now.” Augusta froze mid-step.
Her outstretched hand shook in the air.
Neville stood rigid, face wet, eyes squeezed shut.
His breathing had gone ragged.
“Professor…” He tugged at Styx’s sleeve without opening his eyes.
“Are Mum and Dad hurting a lot?” Styx looked down at the boy.
“Yes.
It will hurt a great deal.” A pause.
“But pain is proof they’re still here.” Five minutes stretched into something that felt closer to centuries.
Frank’s spasms slowly eased.
He dragged air into his lungs in harsh, wet pulls.
Sweat soaked the hospital gown.
Then his eyes opened—really opened—and focus returned for the first time in over a decade.
He turned his head toward the woman beside him.
Alice was already looking back.
“Al… Alice?” The voice was rough, unused, but it belonged to a person again.
Alice’s lips trembled.
Tears spilled without sound.
She reached out with a shaking hand and touched his face the way someone touches a ghost they are terrified will vanish.
“Frank…” His hand closed over hers and held on as if the world might still try to take her.
Augusta watched the scene she had prayed for through eleven empty years.
The rigid spine that had carried her through every Ministry slight and every pitying glance finally broke.
The umbrella clattered to the floor.
She dropped to her knees and buried her face against her son’s legs.
The sobs she had kept locked away for more than a decade tore free without restraint.
“Grandma…” Neville’s voice cracked.
He stumbled forward.
Four people folded into one messy, shaking embrace of weeping and half-formed words and the simple need to confirm the others were solid.
Styx stood to the side and said nothing.
When the worst of the storm had passed he spoke, low and even.
“They have only just returned.
Their memories will take time to settle.
Do not press them with questions.
Let them rest.” He turned toward the door.
As he passed Augusta he paused.
“Madam Longbottom.
You did well.
The only reason they lasted this long is that you never stopped waiting.” Augusta lifted her head.
Tears still tracked down her face.
She opened her mouth, found no words, and simply nodded once, hard.
Styx returned the nod and stepped out into the corridor.
Dumbledore was already there, leaning against the wall with a tin of Sherbet Lemons in one hand.
Fawkes sat on his shoulder, head turned deliberately away from the ward door.
“How is it?” “I did not embarrass the post.” Styx took a lemon drop without asking.
Dumbledore studied his face for a long moment.
Something complicated moved behind the half-moon spectacles.
“Eleven years…” “I simply found a method that worked.” Styx kept his voice flat.
When he turned away, a flicker of something quieter passed through his eyes and was gone.
“Lethean.” “Hm?” “Thank you.” The sincerity in Dumbledore’s gaze made Styx look elsewhere.
“No need for ceremony.
I did it for selfish reasons.
I would rather not have my office buried under parental owls for the rest of the term.” A small, tired smile touched Dumbledore’s mouth.
He rested a hand briefly on Styx’s shoulder.
“I imagine the quiet will not last long.
By tomorrow the entire wizarding world will know a miracle occurred here.” Styx exhaled through his nose.
“Is it too late to request a transfer to Muggle Studies?” “I’m afraid so.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, though the humor was thin.
“The Saviour’s professor.
The Longbottom family’s benefactor.
You have become rather difficult to ignore.” “…Wonderful.” Styx’s expression did not change.
“I am filled with joy.” — The next morning the Daily Prophet devoted nearly the entire front page to a single headline.
MIRACLE AT ST.
MUNGO’S — LONGBOTTOMS AWAKEN The sub-head was worse: Eleven-Year Curse Broken by Mysterious Hogwarts Professor — Hospital Leadership in Overnight Emergency Session At the staff table Styx stared at the mountain of letters that had already piled in front of his plate.
His face had gone several shades paler than his hair.
“Can I still transfer to Muggle Studies?” Flitwick peered over a jam dish.
“Styx, the director of St.
Mungo’s contacted me personally this morning.
He wants to know if you would consider a nominal post.
Three times your current salary.
Lifetime honorary healer title.” Styx lifted his coffee, tilted his head back, and stared at the enchanted ceiling as though considering whether he could simply fly away.
“Tell him… I’m free next Sunday.” Snape, seated two places down, did not look up from his plate.
“Childish.”