Mrs. Longbottom's face was etched with fatigue, and the air in the ward carried a faint, indefinable stink. St Mungo's was hidden inside a Muggle department store, and that fact came with a natural, darkly funny metaphor—as if the patients could be treated like goods displayed on shelves. Right now, Skyl had been invited to view two of them: Mrs. Longbottom and Mr. Longbottom.
When customers pick out products in a supermarket, they can't help flipping the box over to check the manufacture date, the place of origin. In a hospital, visitors can't help asking about the cause of illness.
If the family tells you the patient can be cured, the visitor immediately finds themselves a convenient "step" to stand on: they offer comfort, saying that as long as it can be healed, any expense is worth it. Like soothing someone who feels guilty about buying a luxury—yes, you spent a fortune, but if it makes you happy, then it's worth it.
Put consumerism into the special environment of a hospital, and it instantly takes on a black, absurd edge.
Because the truth is, many illnesses can't be cured. The end result is often losing both the person and the money, and at that point every comforting line becomes paper-thin.
Muggles have their difficult, unsolvable conditions; wizards have their own. For these patients' families, magic isn't enough—only a miracle can save a home.
Mrs. Longbottom spoke in a low voice about the couple's past, about the courage and integrity they once had. Skyl only listened. He didn't say a word.
Sunlight filtered through the green curtains, turning the room into something like a swamp-forest—damp, cold, and dim. Neville's father lay in bed like a middle-aged man taking an afternoon nap, faintly snoring, as though he could open his eyes at any moment and go straight back to work. A sleeping patient gives a family hope, the way a crashed electronic device does: maybe if you restart it, it'll run again.
Neville's mother was awake. Her hair had gone white; she was so thin and wasted she looked even more worn than Mrs. Longbottom. She was skittish with strangers. When she saw Skyl, she stared at him with suspicion, hunching her body inward, trying to look harmless.
Mrs. Longbottom introduced Skyl to her, but she wasn't interested. Her gaze slid past the visitor and landed on Neville, who was crying. So she slowly shuffled around from Mrs. Longbottom's side—then, all at once, she walked lightly up to Neville and handed him a piece of bubble-gum wrapper.
A present for him. Something precious, in her eyes.
She probably didn't understand what "son" meant. She probably didn't remember who Neville was. She just kept the habit of loving him.
"Neville," Mrs. Longbottom said, her tone a little too heavy, "when your mother gives you something, what should you say?"
"Thank you." Neville took the wrapper and forced out a bright, shy smile, snot shining on his front teeth.
His mother hummed a little tune, tottered back to the bed, and climbed up onto the edge of it.
Mrs. Longbottom said softly, "Let's go." Then she raised her voice just a little. "Alice, we're leaving."
Neville's mother sat there and nodded faintly, her upper body swaying weakly along with it. She didn't look at them at all. She looked like she was dozing—like a broken loom, working in vain, trying to weave the past back into memory.
Before Mrs. Longbottom led Neville away, Skyl finally spoke. He really hadn't said a single word until then.
"Ma'am, I'm about to visit Professor Dumbledore. If Neville comes along, the professor will be very happy to see his student."
The stern old witch nodded and agreed.
Neville's tears were spent; he looked a lot more optimistic now. He followed behind Skyl like a younger brother.
When they visited the old wizard's room again, it had already emptied out. With only one person in it, it felt cold and quiet—like the lonely air of an empty-nest old man.
"Professor, feeling any better?" Skyl had brought a handful of sweets. The attendants wouldn't allow Dumbledore, as a patient, to eat candy—but the old bumblebee had a sweet tooth to the bone. Seeing chocolate was like seeing family.
"Much better. Oh—Mr. Longbottom." Dumbledore looked at Neville. "How are Frank and Alice?"
Neville nodded.
"Come here, my boy." Dumbledore took Neville's hand and told him many things about his parents' past. They had been brave Aurors, members of the original Order of the Phoenix. In those years when darkness ran rampant, they had stood up fearlessly against the Dark Lord's forces. Whenever Dumbledore spoke of it, his eyes always shimmered with tears.
Neville really was encouraged by it. Dumbledore's status in Hogwarts students' hearts was very high. The same words, coming from his grandmother, simply wouldn't have had the same effect.
Again and again, Dumbledore told Neville he was a strong, brave young man—showing the steady maturity of an old educator, especially in the art of comforting children.
"There are many things in life we can't do anything about. What you can do is plan yourself well. The suffering your parents endured shouldn't become your burden. If you care too much about what others think, you'll lose yourself. Sometimes you have to learn to be selfish. Don't grieve for anyone. In the end, you'll discover that no one cares about you—and no one can walk your road for you."
"My mum cares about me." Neville lowered his head, mumbling through his words. "Mum cares."
Dumbledore's gaze fell, dim and heavy. He realized he'd pushed too hard, too fast. No one grows by being lectured.
Mrs. Longbottom came to the bedside, exchanged a few polite words with Dumbledore, and then took Neville away. The boy still hunched his shoulders, looking painfully unsure of himself.
Seeing it, the old headmaster could only sigh. "Good people shouldn't end up like this."
"Have faith in miracles, Professor."
"I have seen a miracle," Dumbledore said, hope bright in his eyes. "And that is you."
Skyl shook his head. "Neville will heal his parents. I've foreseen the day it happens."
The light in the old wizard's eyes went out. He frowned deeply and shook his head. "You did divination for him? Doesn't that mean there's absolutely no hope, then?"
Skyl's face went dark. Without a word, he pulled on gloves and gave the headmaster a physical checkup—none too gently. Dumbledore yelped as if being tortured.
"Skyl! This is personal revenge dressed up as professional duty! I'm taking points from Gryffindor!"
"Take them. You'll add them back for Harry and his lot anyway. Ever since I ended up in Gryffindor, I haven't spent a single day worrying about the House Cup."
The headmaster cried that he'd made a fatal mistake—back then, he should've had the Sorting Hat put Skyl in Ravenclaw, or Slytherin.
"I knew you could influence the Sorting Hat, old man!" Skyl laughed and cursed fondly.
Dumbledore's external injuries were basically healed. The mental corruption from the Dark Lord Sauron had also been dispelled in The Tower of Tomes, leaving only faint aftereffects—oversensitive nerves, mild auditory hallucinations, and night blindness.
"What did the Healers say?" Skyl checked the headmaster's eyes; they were clear, no bloodshot, perfectly clean.
"I can be discharged the day after tomorrow."
"Good." Skyl nodded. "And is the castle expansion and refurbishment all arranged?"
Dumbledore looked delighted. "Yes. The construction crews will arrive at the school one day before the first-years. For the next school year, everyone will have to live alongside a few little noises—but I think the final result will satisfy everyone."
"Hogwarts is already luxurious," Skyl teased. "Think about the poor College of Winterhold."
"Then that's that." He stood. "Rest well. I'll wait for the good news of your discharge."
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