The hospital hall was quiet. No one said much as Tris led Blake straight to the fifth floor.
On the way up, they ran into Dean Bohan. Clearly, he'd heard the news.
He wanted to see how Blake would treat the patients even St. Mungo's hadn't been able to help in years. He'd also kept the other healers away—too many onlookers might affect Blake's focus.
Blake didn't mind. He preferred working without a crowd.
"If you need anything, just let us know," Bohan said warmly.
The last time Blake visited St. Mungo's, it had greatly benefited the hospital. The healers' skills improved, and many patients had been cured. Naturally, Bohan was eager to support him.
Blake paused, then said, "Hot water, clean towels… and some nutrient potions."
"Already prepared," Tris said with a nod, holding a tray.
They continued toward the permanent ward. Compared to the last time Blake had been here, it felt emptier. That was no surprise—most of the patients had been cured after his last visit. Only the Longbottoms remained.
Previously, the ward had been expanded using an Invisible Stretching Charm. Now, with fewer patients, it had returned to a smaller space. Inside, only two beds were occupied.
Frank and Alice Longbottom sat across from each other, staring blankly into space.
Neville and Augusta approached them quietly. To Blake's surprise, as Neville stepped closer, Frank and Alice's dull eyes suddenly gained focus.
They recognized him.
It was impossible—based on the state of their souls, they shouldn't have retained coherent memories. And yet… they did.
Blake suddenly understood Dumbledore's insistence on the power of love. Strong emotions like love or hate were the fuel of magic. Maybe, just maybe, love really could create miracles.
Alice raised a trembling hand and gave Neville a crumpled candy wrapper.
Neville accepted it like it was the most precious gift in the world, gently tucking it into his pocket. Augusta's eyes misted over.
Then, for the first time, Neville spoke to Blake.
"Blake… if the treatment doesn't work… will they be in danger?"
"Neville!" Augusta said sharply, but there was no rebuke in Blake's expression.
"If there was any risk to their lives," Blake replied gently, "I wouldn't be here."
Neville nodded after a long pause. "I believe you."
Blake gave a small nod and pulled out his Ruyi Wand.
Tris returned, carrying towels, hot water, and two bottles of nutrients.
"Let them drink these first," Blake instructed. "The treatment might be exhausting."
He had two ways to help Frank and Alice. The first was quick and simple—direct treatment using the Ruyi Wand. But that method was unexplainable. Too miraculous. Too unbelievable.
So he chose the second option: soul magic, learned from repairing Tom Riddle's fragmented soul. Slower, more complex—but understandable, even respectable. And it would further his research.
Tris helped Frank and Alice drink the nutrient potions, calming them. Blake rolled up his sleeves and stepped between the two beds.
He gently tapped Alice's forehead with his wand.
She slumped, unconscious.
Tris laid her down, and Blake repeated the process with Frank.
With both patients now unconscious, Blake reached out with his hand—and stunned everyone in the room.
His fingers phased straight into Frank's head, like a ghost's. Then, slowly, Blake pulled out a faint, flickering soul.
Even Augusta, who had carried some lingering doubt, now stared in disbelief.
Not even Dumbledore had been able to do this.
Frank's soul hovered above his body, dim but whole. To most observers, it looked normal—maybe a little faded.
But Blake saw more.
He activated the Eye of Truth, and his vision sharpened. Cracks spidered across Frank's soul. Pieces were chipped and dulled. Some fragments were still bright, intact. Others had lost their vitality.
The task ahead was clear: revive the deadened fragments and seal the cracks.
Blake focused. He began infusing soul energy into the dim areas—something he'd done countless times when working on Voldemort's splintered remnants.
Compared to that, this was easy.
Bit by bit, Frank's soul brightened. From the outside, Blake just seemed to be poking and prodding at Frank's body, sweat pouring down his face.
Then Tris whispered, "Dean… Frank's soul looks brighter."
Bohan was about to hush her—but then he saw it too. She was right.
The change was undeniable.
The dim, barely-visible soul was growing clearer and stronger. Everyone in the room saw it—even those who didn't understand soul magic could see that Frank was healing.
Blake stayed focused. As the final dull fragment lit up, Frank's face twisted in pain.
Without hesitation, Blake tapped Frank's soul on the forehead with his wand.
The expression softened. Blake knew what had happened—Frank's memories of torture had resurfaced.
Time for the next step.
This time, Blake infused soul energy not into the fragments, but into the cracks between them—filling them like glue, sealing them together.
Slowly, piece by piece, the fractures began to mend.
The soul's surface smoothed. The flickering steadied. Wholeness returned.
When the last crack was sealed, Blake pressed his palm to Frank's chest—and gently guided the soul back into his body.
He exhaled, sweat beading down his face.
Then he leaned forward, raised his hand near Frank's cheek, and snapped his fingers.
Snap!
"Frank Longbottom," he said firmly, "wake up."
Frank's eyes flew open.
"I'll never give in! You beasts!" he cried, bolting upright in bed.
Then he saw the people around him—his son, his mother, Blake, even Dumbledore—and his expression turned to confusion. Bewilderment.
But he was awake.
Alive.
Conscious.
Blake let out a long breath. Relief flooded the room.
"Welcome home, Mr. Longbottom," he said softly.
=============
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