Chapter 634: Touch Its Ears
The rain finally stopped at dusk.
Only the unfallen drops were still tapping against the eaves.
Sean didn't know how long he had been at St Mungo's. After leaving the Janus Thickey Ward, he didn't depart immediately.
Lupin said he needed to go to the Healer to have his dressings changed, and Sirius had been crouching next to Sean for so long that his wounds had started bleeding again, prompting a Healer to force him back into bed.
They both urged Sean to head back first—
"There are more places that need you." Lupin's tone was gentle when he said this, but also firm.
Sean didn't go straight downstairs. He went to the sixth floor.
The sixth floor of St Mungo's housed the tearoom and hospital shop. Sean remembered the witch at the Enquiries desk mentioning it in passing—visitors could rest here or purchase gifts for patients. Every gift would be thoroughly inspected for safety before being handed over.
Sean sat down by the window in the tearoom. He ordered a steaming cup of pumpkin juice.
London outside the window was sinking into twilight.
The windows of St Mungo's had no magical embellishments. They were just ordinary glass windows with dark red, old wood frames, their paint worn to a shine.
Looking out from the sixth floor, London's skyline gradually lit up in the post-rain dusk. Scattered, one by one, like someone burning small holes into grey-blue silk with a lighter, allowing light to leak through those very holes.
The red-brick roofs, washed by the rain, gleamed a dark crimson. The distant grey office buildings turned into silhouettes in the twilight. On the top floor of a certain building, a window was lit with a warm hue, likely a kitchen.
Further away, towards the River Thames, there was a denser halo of light, softened by the post-rain mist into a blurry patch of gold.
He wasn't the only one in the tearoom.
In the corner sat a middle-aged witch in green robes. Wizards loved these sorts of colours; of course, this colour also reminded Sean of his dress robes.
The ball that was supposed to take place at Christmas—would it be brought forward? After all, the arrival time of the two magical schools and the Goblet of Fire selection had been moved up.
Headmaster Dumbledore seemed to be in a hurry to get things done. He had pushed Voldemort to the brink of death, but had also dragged the entire magical world into chaos.
But it wasn't the old wizard's fault.
"Tom isn't as powerful as he thinks he is, we all know that. Now, he's exposed far too many flaws. I have plenty of time to deal with him, as you told me last time..."
Sean recalled his last communication with Headmaster Dumbledore, when he had seen the spirit of a Gryffindor lion burning in the old wizard's eyes.
On the other end of the Magic Hand Mirror, Dumbledore had held up a shattered cup; Sean could see the Hufflepuff crest on it.
Undoubtedly, it was a Hufflepuff relic, and also the suspicious item Sean had spotted in the pub. Voldemort had killed Wormtail in that pub and created a Horcrux. And in the intelligence Sean had shared with Headmaster Dumbledore, the glowing cup was part of the suspected Horcrux collection.
At that time, there weren't many suspicious items in the pub. A book, a relic associated with Hufflepuff, and a locket that was highly likely a fake. Of course, there were also some bottles and jars, a cauldron brewing blood, and bones.
Now they had eliminated one incorrect answer.
The time for the magical world to restore peace was drawing nearer. Sean understood that in Headmaster Dumbledore's grand plan, the current arduous days were a necessary sacrifice...
"How is he?"
Beside Sean, a nervous-looking witch spoke up. She was wearing a faded, overly-washed grey-green robe. By her feet was an old basket, the edge revealing a few copies of The Quibbler and an unopened pack of Chocolate Frogs.
Her hands were clasped by her thighs, her fingers constantly wringing a handkerchief.
"Fortunately, Madam... Any later..."
Sean saw the green-robed witch look as though she were about to faint.
"...and we would have been off shift."
The green-robed witch flushed red with anger, and the joking Healer quickly turned serious. Medical professionals always had this magic: when their expressions turned grave, someone's heart would invariably start pounding. It was the same in the magical world; the green-robed witch held her breath.
"However, he looks like he's going to die."
"What?!" The green-robed witch shrieked.
"Excuse me, did you say looks like?" Sean couldn't help but ask softly.
"Spot on, he looks like he's dying, but actually he's perfectly fine, isn't he? It was just the tiniest of jinxes cast by a dark wizard posing as a Death Eater." The Healer blinked, then his tone became somewhat exasperated. "Madam, you're all too tense. There are too many wizards like you lately; St Mungo's hopes you can relax a bit more. If everyone rushed to the hospital because of a minor jinx, those who truly need saving wouldn't get help."
"Healer Levell!"
A shout came from the end of the corridor, and the joking Healer hurriedly scurried away. The green-robed witch, having experienced extreme emotional whiplash, slumped back into her chair, muttering softly under her breath, "What a doctor with terrible bedside manners..."
Night was drawing closer.
Sean stood up, preparing to take one last look at the Longbottoms before bidding farewell to Sirius and Lupin.
Heading to the stairwell, Sean noticed there were many, many wizards on the sixth floor.
Not far from him sat a very old wizard with a greyish-white beard, leaning on a wand with a worn tip. He was looking down, studying a tearoom menu. The words on the menu hadn't been changed in a long time, missing several strokes of letters, but he read it word by word, as if using this piece of parchment to kill a long, inevitable wait. By his feet was a small leather suitcase with a St Mungo's visitor registration card stuck to it.
At the table near the stairs sat a couple. The man wore a dark blue Muggle work jacket; beside the woman was a magical umbrella slowly folding itself up, the tip still dripping, spreading a small dark puddle on the stone floor.
Their eyes held the same kind of weariness.
Sean looked at them and suddenly realized something. These people were all like him.
Everyone in this tearoom—the witch in the opposite corner, the white-bearded wizard, the couple—they were all someone's visitor. They sat on chairs of varying wear and tear in the same tearoom, breathing the same air mixed with disinfectant potions and Lavender-scented charms, holding the same kind of slowly cooling pumpkin juice.
There were many, many such people.
Fifth floor, Spell Damage. Behind the sign for the Janus Thickey Ward lived Frank and Alice Longbottom. They had waited for Neville for fifteen years, and were still waiting.
Second floor, Creature-Induced Injuries. The woman who had a large chunk of flesh bitten out of her leg had just grown new flesh this afternoon; in the "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn Ward, the man bitten by a werewolf had his dressings changed for the third time today.
Fourth floor, Potions and Plant Poisoning. A patient poisoned with uncontrollable laughter had probably just been fed Mandrake Draught, and the laughter had finally stopped.
Third floor, Magical Bugs. The patient with Dragon Pox was running a high fever, the green rashes on their skin covered with some faintly glowing powder applied by a Healer.
First floor, Artifact Accidents. The Muggle whose arm was chopped off by a Death Eater had probably grown new bones by now.
He didn't know a single one of these people. But he knew their names.
Sean would know, because they shared common labels—the person bitten by something, the person hit by some curse, the family member who had waited for who knows how long.
They were the inconspicuous news items in the corners of the Daily Prophet, the casually glossed-over "casualty figures" at Ministry press conferences, the names following "Did you hear?" when magical colleagues gossiped, the "Oh, didn't he used to work in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes?" remembered suddenly when lifting a teacup to one's mouth...
At times, Sean would see these names in obituaries.
Each of them was someone's entire world.
The child of the bitten woman, coming home from school today to find their mother absent from the kitchen; the Muggle Junior Minister Herbert Chorley, who imitated a duck after being hit by the Imperius Curse to the amusement of the public—his assistant was still changing the ink bottle on his desk, because tomorrow—he would probably be back to work tomorrow, right?
What awaited the old wizard might be a cat sitting on a windowsill watching the rain, not understanding why dinner was two hours late today. Not a single one of the sweet wrapper flowers Alice Longbottom folded would be given to anyone, but she kept folding them, folding them ever since that fateful Christmas.
Sean realized that terrorist attacks didn't just happen on battlefields. They happened in bedrooms, next to cots, on the way home from school, on the mornings when every wizard thought today would be just another ordinary day.
A sigh echoed on the sixth floor, long, with a lingering tail.
Sean suddenly felt that accidents were like a knife slicing people straight out of their daily lives, like tearing a page out of a book you were reading. The remaining page had jagged, torn edges; you kept turning, but the story was no longer coherent.
The lights outside the window multiplied.
London's skyline turned into a dense mass of light dots in the twilight, red, yellow, and white, thickly paving the window frame. Behind every light was a person, everyone had their own story, and every story had once been complete, or almost complete.
In the tearoom, the middle-aged witch finally stood up. She picked up the old basket by her feet and walked toward the stairs. In front of her, on the stairwell wall, the letters on the directory sign were still glowing.
The young wizard remained silent for a long time. When Sirius slipped out again, he merely raised his head slowly to say goodbye.
"You ought to hurry back to Hogwarts..." Sirius said. He saw the weary wizards on the sixth floor. "Oh, them..."
He thought of something, but his tone became even more uplifted. "Let's not grieve for yesterday, alright? We know these days will eventually pass, right? Mr. Green."
"Perhaps so. Goodbye, Mr. Sirius, Mr. Lupin," Sean said, and his figure twisted.
"Brilliant Disapparition, isn't it?" Sirius said to Lupin beside him.
"Mhm." Lupin leaned against the edge of a chair.
"You two are both blokes of few words. I really wish Mr. Green would be a bit more cheerful." Sirius smacked his lips.
Lupin smiled slightly and gave him a sweeping glance. "Padfoot, a person who is too kind will experience the pain of others, and naturally cannot easily be frank. Sometimes, so-called frankness is actually just violence..."
Fog rolled into England.
In England, fog was too common an occurrence. So common that no one would pay it any mind.
Hogwarts was uncharacteristically quiet today. One must know that even after the curfew bell rang, the young wizards wouldn't necessarily quiet down.
Wisps of white mist seeped out from under the door plate of Dormitory 404, permeating the Ravenclaw common room. This was rather uncommon.
Equally uncommon was the Gryffindor common room.
The Gryffindor common room was a circular room filled with squashy armchairs, tables, and a noticeboard plastered with school notices, various advertisements, and posters. A large fireplace occupied an entire wall.
But even a wall-sized fireplace couldn't dispel the white mist.
The mist swept past the scarlet decorative tapestries on the walls, swept past the portraits of many witches and wizards, and quietly slipped into the dormitory on the left.
Neville Longbottom curled up his plump body. Ron, who had yet to fall asleep, twitched his mouth and pulled the blanket up for him.
"Where... is this?"
Neville muttered to himself, looking around timidly. He was terrified to find himself standing on clumps of mist.
Can someone really stand on this? He would definitely fall through, right?!
Before he could scream for help, a heavy sensation hit his shoulder, and his mouth was covered by something furry.
"Good evening, Mr. Longbottom," said a voice both familiar and unfamiliar.
Familiar because Neville was sure he had heard this voice somewhere before; unfamiliar because he couldn't remember where. Memories seemed to be separated by a thin layer of fog.
"Good evening—"
Neville immediately stiffened his body; the plump young wizard stood at attention.
"No need to be so tense, Mr. Longbottom."
The thing on his shoulder seemed to jump down, and Neville tremblingly looked in front of him.
"Mr. Lucky Black Cat—" he exclaimed.
The black cat gave a slight nod like a proper gentleman.
Neville came to his senses, immediately recalling the reminder of a certain Hufflepuff club president:
[Use an honorific...]
"Master of Dreams and Mist, Bridge Between Life and Death, Symbol of Eternal Good Fortune—" he said, his face flushing red.
The black cat was taken aback.
[You must offer a flower, this is top-secret intelligence...]
Neville looked left and right. When the thought "I want a flower" appeared in his mind, a flower actually appeared in his hand, leaving him overjoyed.
He hurriedly offered the flower, Hannah's final instruction echoing in his head:
[You must—oh no, you absolutely must! Touch its ears—]