The situation was truly bizarre. One patient's head had transformed into a cluster of flowers, and despite the absence of eyes, he could still clearly see his surroundings.
He was even excitedly shaking Harry's hand without stopping.
In Harry's view, magical accidents were perhaps even more wondrous than magic itself. At least proper magic required study and practice, but magical accidents always produced marvelous outcomes that ordinary spells could never achieve.
After finally escaping the enthusiastic fans, the two made their way to the fifth floor of the hospital.
"They're really enthusiastic," Neville said, standing at the staircase and glancing back with lingering trepidation. "We're here, Harry. The fifth floor is all locked wards. The people staying here are those who need long-term care."
Neville's mood visibly darkened, and even his attempt at a smile felt forced.
"Let's go," Harry said simply, without offering excessive comfort. "Let me take a look."
Perhaps it was the shadow of his childhood or the influence of a stern grandmother, but despite Neville's usual timid and shrinking demeanor, Harry believed he was actually a very resilient person. In moments like this, words of comfort often felt hollow.
It wasn't a private ward. The room where Neville's parents stayed held over a dozen beds, each adorned with colorful curtains. The walls were decorated with peculiar landscape paintings hand-drawn by healers.
There were no healers present in the room at the moment. Some patients were muttering incoherently, others stared silently at the ceiling, and some made strange noises.
"I'm here to see you, Dad, Mum," Neville said sadly, approaching a bed near the back. "This is my friend, Harry Potter. He's a great man, and he's here to save you…"
"Hello, Mr. Longbottom, Mrs. Longbottom."
Harry greeted them politely, but as expected, there was no response.
By wizarding standards, Neville's father should have been in his prime, but the man lying in the bed looked far older than his years. His hair was white, and he appeared gaunt, almost skeletal.
As if completely disconnected from the world, Mr. Longbottom mechanically shuffled a deck of playing cards in his hands—not playing a game, just mindlessly handling them.
Mrs. Longbottom, on the other hand, seemed to be in slightly better condition than her husband. At least she showed some reaction to the outside world.
When she heard Neville and Harry's greetings, Mrs. Longbottom lifted her head blankly. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow, and she handed each of them a candy wrapper.
"Mum, she… she gives these to everyone she sees," Neville stammered to Harry. "Sorry, Harry, she doesn't—"
"It's okay, Neville," Harry interrupted, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to him. "I'll keep this gift safe… Thank you, Mrs. Longbottom."
At some point, tears had begun streaming down Neville's face.
Seeing his parents like this always filled him with overwhelming sadness.
"Thank you… Thank you, Harry."
Patting Neville's shoulder, Harry stepped forward to examine Mr. Longbottom's condition.
Healing the sick was a fundamental skill for every shaman of the Horde, and Harry had also studied alchemy. Even in a different world, he could still make an accurate assessment of Mr. Longbottom's physical state.
Though he appeared withered and frail, Mr. Longbottom's body was technically healthy. His current state was simply the result of years spent bedridden without exercise, sustained only by minimal nutrition. If his mind could be restored and he underwent some physical rehabilitation, Mr. Longbottom could be as healthy as any normal person.
After checking Mr. Longbottom, Harry examined Mrs. Longbottom as well. Their conditions were strikingly similar. The healers at St. Mungo's had used charms and potions to restore their physical health, healing the bodily injuries they had suffered during the war—but only their physical injuries.
The reason Neville's parents were in this state was that, twelve years ago during the war, they had been captured by Death Eaters. The Death Eaters had tortured them relentlessly with the Cruciatus Curse until they were driven mad.
The Death Eater responsible was named Bellatrix.
At this thought, Harry glanced at Neville beside him. He hadn't killed Bellatrix himself precisely to leave that vengeance for Neville to claim. Taking down an enemy with one's own hands was the truest form of satisfaction.
Harry was no longer the apprentice who had just entered the unknown world of magic last year. Now, he had even mastered the three Unforgivable Curses.
It was because of his practice and understanding of the Cruciatus Curse that Harry had wanted to examine Neville's parents himself.
Their condition matched what he had observed in experiments on ordinary animals: their souls were shattered.
The Cruciatus Curse, one of the three Unforgivable Curses, had a fundamental trait: the damage it inflicted was irreversible and could not be healed.
To successfully cast the Cruciatus Curse, the caster had to genuinely relish the act of inflicting pain, to take pleasure in tormenting others, driven by pure malice.
To understand the curse's effects, Harry had once asked Snape to cast it on him—an act that nearly sent Snape into a rage. While hurling insults at Harry's intelligence with venomous words Harry had never heard before, Snape had pulled a potion from his pocket, intent on forcing it down Harry's throat, claiming it would "wake him up."
It had taken considerable effort to calm Snape's fury, at least enough to stop him from saying things like, "Is this how you honor your mother?"
Snape's Cruciatus Curse had been cast with some difficulty—his malice was insufficient—but in the end, he steeled himself and succeeded.
Having experienced the Cruciatus Curse firsthand, Harry grasped its true nature. The excruciating pain that felt like every inch of skin and every nerve was set ablaze was merely a symptom. The curse's essence lay in tearing apart the victim's soul.
Even someone with nerve damage, unable to feel physical pain, would be driven to agony by the curse, as their soul was repeatedly sliced apart as if by a knife.
When someone endured excessive exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, their soul would be ground to pieces, their will shattered, and their sense of self destroyed, leaving them an empty shell.
Just like the Longbottoms now. When Harry observed them through the astral perspective, he saw that their astral forms were fragmented, like crumpled, torn sheets of paper.
Their souls were broken, their memories shattered, their minds in pieces. This kind of injury was beyond the capabilities of the healers at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, as soul damage was something wizards in this world could not heal.
But Harry was different.
It might sound odd, but aside from warlocks who specialized in manipulating souls, shamans were also quite adept at handling soul energy.
This naturally included healing soul-related injuries.
Lowering his hand from Mr. Longbottom's forehead, Harry stood up and saw Neville beside him, so tense he seemed to be holding his breath, staring wide-eyed.
"Don't worry, it's treatable," Harry said with a smile.
"!!!"
Neville gasped sharply, clenching his fists. He looked like he might leap up in excitement but caught himself, realizing where he was, and forcibly restrained himself.
"Thank you! Harry! Thank you!!"
Trembling all over, Neville struggled to calm himself, repeating his gratitude to Harry.
"No need to thank me. We're friends, aren't we?" Harry said with a smile. "Your parents made such a great sacrifice fighting against Voldemort's cause. Of course, I don't want to see heroes like them waste away in a hospital… Don't worry, I'll heal them."
With that, Harry called upon the ever-present water elementals, summoning their purifying and healing powers to envelop the Longbottoms.
From the outside, it looked as though the Longbottoms were encased in a sphere of water. The spectacle naturally drew the attention of the other patients in the ward, though given their conditions, they could only stare blankly, unable to comprehend what was happening.
Soon, a soft blue glow began to permeate the water sphere, as if invisible hands were reaching into the depths of the Longbottoms' souls. Harry suddenly felt like he was assembling a puzzle, piecing together the fragments of their souls—torn apart by the Cruciatus Curse—and placing them back where they belonged.
The process sounded simple in theory, but in practice, it was anything but easy.
Harry not only had to locate the correct positions for the shattered soul fragments but also use soul energy to mend them, replenishing the strength they had lost due to years of neglect.
The treatment took a long time. When Harry finally wiped the sweat from his brow and sat up, he realized that Neville wasn't the only one anxiously watching him. An elderly woman stood nearby—Neville's grandmother, whom Harry had met once before.
"Headmaster Potter, Neville's told me everything," she said bluntly as Harry looked up. "Can Frank and Alice really—really—?"
In Neville's stories, his grandmother was always described as stern and unsmiling, but Harry couldn't see that now. She was as agitated as her grandson, so overwhelmed that she struggled to articulate her words clearly.
"Mum."
Suddenly, a hoarse, weak voice—sounding as if it hadn't been used in years—echoed through the ward. That frail voice struck Neville's grandmother like a bolt of lightning. It was hard to imagine that this resolute woman, who had raised her grandson alone after her son and daughter-in-law's tragedy, would break down in tears in an instant.
She looked at the gaunt man staring at her and called out his name.
"Frank!"
"So, mate—your parents are really recovering?" Ron said loudly, tossing a box full of rubbish into the corridor. "I knew Harry could do it! He's Harry Potter, after all!"
"They're not fully recovered yet," Harry sighed. "The Longbottoms' souls still have some fragmented pieces. The Cruciatus Curse and years of neglect have destroyed parts of them almost completely, and it's hard to piece them back together perfectly. That means they'll permanently lose some memories, and while they won't be Squibs, their magical abilities will be significantly reduced… At the very least, Mr. Frank won't be able to return to being an Auror."
"That's okay, Harry, it doesn't matter!" Neville interjected before Harry could finish. "It's already amazing like this—I mean, they're awake, aren't they? They recognize Gran, and now they recognize me. That's more than enough!"
"Honestly, I thought they'd be like that for the rest of their lives!" Neville continued, tears welling up again. "Thank you, Harry! Really, thank you!!"
As he spoke, Neville's emotions overwhelmed him again. He rushed forward and gave Harry a fierce hug, squeezing so tightly it felt like he might crush him.
"They can eat on their own now, joke with me, and listen to me talk about what's happened over the years. I've only ever seen that in my dreams! But this isn't a dream—it's real!!"
"No need to be so formal, Neville," Harry said gently, patting Neville's back as he hugged him. "I told you, we're friends. Of course I wouldn't refuse to do something I'm capable of—something that makes you happy. That's what friends are for, right?"
"Exactly! Friends don't fuss over stuff like this, Neville!" Ron added enthusiastically, waving his fist. "This is true Gryffindor friendship!"
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