Chapter 200: The Black Lizard Healing Potion and a Debt of Gratitude
They passed through the window glass as if walking through a sheet of cool water. The sensation was both familiar and strange to Ethan. It was familiar because it resembled his experience just the day before at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, where a hidden entrance lay within a solid barrier. The strangeness came from the sensation itself; entering the platform had simply felt like stepping through an invisible doorway, not like passing through water.
"Is this the same kind of magic they use at the station? And that feeling of walking through a curtain of water, is that because of some kind of protective enchantment?"
"You guessed correctly," Cyril confirmed with a smile. "It's the same magical application. The only difference is an extra layer of identification and protection to keep Muggles from accidentally wandering in."
They emerged into a crowded, clamorous reception area. Rows of witches and wizards sat on worn wooden chairs, waiting as healers in green robes moved among them, asking questions and jotting notes on clipboards. A quick glance around showed that the most common ailments involved physical deformities: extra limbs, tails, or other strange appendages. The remaining cases were a mixed bag. One wizard's head was emitting steady streams of steam from his facial orifices, as if he had overdosed on Pepperup Potion. A witch nearby convulsed rhythmically, and with each spasm, a heart-shaped puff of smoke drifted up from her head. There were also patients who looked perfectly ordinary, indistinguishable from any other witch or wizard. These, however, were often the most difficult cases to treat. Ethan watched as one such witch, who showed no outward signs of anything wrong, was led away by several green-robed healers.
The staff in the green robes were the "doctors" of St. Mungo's, known in the wizarding world as Healers. Embroidered on their chests was the St. Mungo's emblem: a cross made of a wand and a bone.
Cyril and Ethan did not sit down. Instead, they joined a long line that was slowly making its way toward a desk marked *Inquiries*. While they waited, Cyril explained to Ethan, "Even though I was just here a few days ago, it's best to confirm that Vartan hasn't been moved to a different ward. I made that mistake once before. I assumed he'd still be in the same room, but someone else had taken his place, and I had to come back down and wait in line all over again."
Ethan nodded, casting a curious glance at the plump, blonde witch behind the desk and the various notices and posters plastered on the wall behind her. The signs covered a range of topics: *A Clean Cauldron Keeps Potions from Becoming Poison* and *Antidotes Are Not to Be Used Recklessly; Approval from a Qualified Healer Required.* A large portrait hung on the wall, bearing the inscription:
*Dilys Derwent*
*Healer at St. Mungo's (1722-1741)*
*Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1741-1768)*
The witch in the portrait, with her long silver curls, was the same elderly woman Ethan often saw in Dumbledore's office. As Ethan looked up at the portrait of the former headmistress, she noticed him. She nodded to him and then disappeared from her frame, perhaps on her way to Hogwarts.
"Hello, we're here to see Vartan Ohajian." The line crept forward until finally it was their turn. Cyril addressed the witch at the desk.
"Fifth floor, Ward Fifty-Three." The witch ran her finger down a long list and quickly stopped at a name.
"Thank you."
"We should be heading to the fifth floor as well, shouldn't we?" Ethan had noticed a directory sign to the left of the desk while they waited, listing the departments on each of St. Mungo's six floors. Based on Cyril's symptoms, Ethan had concluded they needed the fifth floor: the Spell Damage ward. This department specialized in lingering or improperly cast spell damage, which seemed to fit Cyril's case.
"Yes. My previous treatments here were all on the fifth floor. Since Vartan hasn't changed rooms, we'll go see him first, and then I'll go straight to the Healer who saw me before. He should still be there."
"Mm." Ethan nodded.
Cyril led Ethan through a set of double doors and into a narrow corridor. Portraits of notable Healers lined the walls, and crystal bubbles filled with candles floated near the ceiling, illuminating the hallway. Green-robed Healers bustled in and out of the rooms on either side, and the occasional moan of pain drifted from within. They climbed a rickety staircase to the fifth floor, the Spell Damage ward. After passing through a door labeled with the ward's name and walking past several rooms, they reached their destination: Ward Fifty-Three.
Knock, knock. Cyril rapped on the door.
After receiving a response from inside, he pushed the door open. The room was small and dim, lit only by a single narrow window set high on the wall opposite the door and a cluster of candle-filled crystal bubbles hanging from the ceiling, just like the ones they had seen in the corridor.
"Vartan, Ethan's on vacation now. He came by to see you."
Ohajian was the room's sole occupant. The old wizard had been seated in a chair, scribbling away on a piece of parchment with a quill. The knock had interrupted his train of thought, but he set down his quill with a smile upon seeing his visitors and rose to greet them.
As soon as they were seated, Ethan asked, "Mr. Ohajian, have you managed to remember anything more over the past few days?"
The old wizard handed him a peach before answering. "A bit more than I had at the time of the trial. The last bits are always the hardest, so I'm afraid it will still be some time before I've recovered everything. And that method you mentioned before," he added, shaking his head somewhat helplessly, "there's been no progress on that front either."
He had initially been quite hopeful after hearing Ethan's idea about the memory thread, but with Lockhart now imprisoned in Azkaban, it was difficult for Dumbledore to take any immediate action to retrieve it.
"For now, I'm working on rebuilding the spell from scratch every day, hoping I can reconstruct it."
Cyril offered some words of comfort. "You've only got a little bit left to recall. I'm sure your memory will return in full."
Once they finished the peach, they took their leave. The old wizard, aware of why they had come, did not try to detain them. It was entirely possible, after all, that Cyril would soon be joining him as a roommate in this very ward.
Cyril guided Ethan down the corridor to the treatment area. They walked past several examination rooms without stopping until Cyril halted in front of a door bearing a familiar name. He knocked.
"Come in," came a low, aged voice from the other side.
Upon entering, Ethan saw an elderly wizard with a full head of silver hair, dressed in the standard green robes of a Healer.
"Irma, it's been a long time," Cyril greeted the man.
The name on the placard outside the door read Irma Drummond.
"Cyril? Cyril Shafiq?" The silver-haired Healer looked Cyril up and down for a long moment, a note of uncertainty in his voice.
"That's me." Cyril smiled, confirming the guess.
"It really is you. You've changed a bit over the years. You look much the same, but your demeanor is greatly improved. I saw the article about your Diagon Alley shop in the paper six months ago, and there was a photo of the Shafiq family heir. He's even more handsome in person."
Once he was sure it was indeed Cyril, Healer Drummond stood up excitedly, his gaze moving between Cyril and Ethan. He remembered Cyril quite vividly; at St. Mungo's, apart from those with known incurable conditions, patients who had been in treatment for years without improvement were quite rare.
"Yes, I'm doing much better than before." Cyril placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder.
"After all these years, you've come back to St. Mungo's. I take it you've heard about the new potion?" Drummond deduced Cyril's purpose after a brief pause.
Cyril nodded. "Yes. Ethan here spoke with Professor Snape and confirmed that the potion has officially entered clinical use. He strongly encouraged me to give it a try."
*Ethan? That name sounds familiar.* Drummond was certain he'd heard it somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place it. Since he couldn't remember, he decided it probably wasn't important and let it go. "Your information is very up-to-date. The potion has only just been fully validated. After more than six months of use, we've confirmed that the Black Lizard Healing Potion is highly effective with minimal side effects. It should help with your injuries."
He settled behind his desk and began writing on a small slip of paper. "Ever since the Black Lizard Healing Potion entered clinical trials, I've thought of you. This potion seemed almost tailor-made for your specific symptoms. I even considered inviting you to participate in the trials, but I wasn't sure of your current address and couldn't send a letter."
"I've been dividing my time between France and England. My address hasn't been stable."
After he finished writing, Drummond rolled the slip of paper into a small scroll and dropped it into a tube on his desk. Moments later, another tiny scroll was ejected from the tube. Drummond read its contents and stood up. "Alright, then. The paperwork is done. Let's head to my treatment ward."
As they walked toward the ward area, the Healer explained his reasoning for admitting Cyril. "Based on our findings, the potion is best administered every other day. The maximum therapeutic effect is achieved after three doses; additional doses show no significant benefit. Strictly speaking, if it were just a matter of taking the potion, hospitalization wouldn't be necessary. However, since this is still a relatively new potion and we haven't identified any adverse reactions yet, the number of patients who have used it is still small. It's best to keep you here for observation, just in case of any unforeseen complications."
Soon, they reached Drummond's assigned ward. The room was nearly identical to Ohajian's, except that this one already had an occupant. Upon entering, Drummond glanced briefly at the wizard sleeping in one of the beds, then pointed to a bed in the corner. "You'll be staying there for the next few days. Have a seat. I'll go fetch the potion."
He left the room briskly. Ethan and Cyril looked over at the still-sleeping wizard, then walked quietly to the corner and sat down, speaking in low voices.
Drummond soon returned, carrying a vial of red potion. The first thing he said upon entering was addressed to Ethan. "Ethan Jones? You attend Hogwarts, correct?"
"Yes. Is there a problem, Healer Drummond?" He was confused by the question.
"It *is* you. I knew the name sounded familiar." Drummond walked over quickly and gave the vial in his hand a little shake. "This potion was invented by your Professor Snape. But when he provided it to us for testing, he explicitly stated that his student, Ethan Jones, had played a significant role in its development. He told us that if the potion proved effective, your name had to be included in the official record."
As Drummond spoke, he recalled Cyril's earlier comment and couldn't help but laugh. "No wonder Cyril showed up here so quickly. You were the one pushing for it. When Snape came by the hospital to review the feedback on the potion, he mentioned that someone was waiting for this treatment and urged us to speed up our trials. The person he was referring to was Cyril, I take it?"
Ethan was a bit stunned. He hadn't expected Snape to give him partial credit for inventing the new potion. After all, he had merely provided some of the ingredients, even if one of them couldn't have been created without him. Hearing Drummond's words, he felt a sudden wave of gratitude. That cold, taciturn professor had actually pushed the Healers at St. Mungo's to move faster because of Ethan's frequent inquiries about the potion's progress.
Cyril, too, only now realized just how much Ethan had been doing behind the scenes to make this treatment possible. He felt an immense sense of contentment wash over him. He looked at Ethan's face, wanting to say something, but in the end, no words came out.
"Healer Drummond," came a voice from the other bed. The sleeping wizard had woken up. "Did I just hear the name Ethan Jones, or was I mistaken?"
"You heard correctly," Drummond said, turning to smile at Ethan. "And he's standing right here in front of you. This is Rani Innes. He was one of the first patients to receive the Black Lizard potion. He's been wanting to thank the potion's inventors, Professor Snape and you, Ethan Jones."
"Mr. Jones, it really is you! I thought I was dreaming!" The wizard, a white-haired man with heavy bags and dark circles under his eyes, grasped Ethan's hand and shook it fervently. "I can't thank you enough. Thanks to this new potion, I'm finally free from thirty years of pain and suffering. I can actually sleep properly now, instead of having to knock myself out with Draught of Living Death."
"Ah, all the credit belongs to Professor Snape. I only helped out a bit." The enthusiastic gratitude made Ethan feel awkward.
"You're far too modest. Professor Snape hasn't been by the hospital lately, or I would have thanked him in person as well." The wizard began patting down his robes, searching for something he might give Ethan as a token of his appreciation. "I don't seem to have anything suitable on me at the moment. Please, you must give me a way to contact you. Once I'm discharged, I will certainly express my gratitude properly."
He searched all his pockets but found nothing of value. Rani Innes looked disappointed.
Ethan tried to decline. "No, really, that's not necessary. If you want to thank anyone, Professor Snape is the one."
Healer Drummond chose that moment to interject diplomatically. "Mr. Innes, Mr. Jones is here accompanying his grandfather for treatment. There's no need to settle everything this very moment. You'll have plenty of time later."
With that, Innes's expression relaxed somewhat. He nodded firmly, making a mental note to have his family send a suitable gift to St. Mungo's before he was discharged. Ethan, meanwhile, quietly turned his head away and let out a soft sigh of relief, which made Cyril chuckle.
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