"Is there truly nothing that can be done?"
Harry's voice was trembling.
Dumbledore had made it clear, and Lockhart's performance just now had been equally plain—yet Harry still couldn't bring himself to accept it. The feeling of hope crumbling at the very moment it seemed within reach was more than he could bear.
"It would appear so, for now." Dumbledore shook his head slowly, his voice as gentle as ever. "We shall have to wait and see. Perhaps an opportunity will present itself in time."
Even as he said it, Dumbledore knew in his heart that such an outcome was unlikely.
He had, once before, extracted true memories buried beneath fabricated ones—from the minds of the house-elf Hokey, and from Morfin Gaunt. But Lockhart's case was different.
Those two had had their memories tampered with by Voldemort himself. Skilled as Dumbledore was, he had been able to part the fog and reach the truth.
Lockhart's false memories, however, were entirely his own creation—and ones he believed in absolutely.
As Lockhart had said to them just moments before, the performance of heroism before an audience was, to him, the very purpose of his existence.
That obsession—fanatical, unshakeable—had been so deeply rooted that it had allowed him to hold on even after Voldemort had invaded his very soul. Now that he had finally come back to something resembling himself, those invented feats of valor had taken root even deeper, embedding themselves beyond reach.
For Dumbledore, this posed a greater challenge than unraveling any memory Voldemort had constructed. Absurd as it sounded—it was simply the truth.
All eyes drifted to Gilderoy Lockhart.
The once-dazzling wizard was staring blankly at a photograph on his bedside table, a faint, self-satisfied smile curling at the corner of his lips.
Harry instinctively turned his head. Hermione did the same, almost simultaneously.
Both looked toward Sherlock.
If even Dumbledore was at a loss, then it could only fall to Sherlock now.
But Sherlock's attention was elsewhere—not on Lockhart at all.
This long, narrow ward naturally held more patients than just him.
In the iron-framed bed across the way lay a wizard whose complexion had turned the dull yellow of old parchment. His gaunt fingers clutched at the bedsheet, lips moving quietly, as though reciting an incantation no one else could understand, utterly oblivious to the world around him.
Two beds down, a woman with a face covered in tawny-brown fuzz was curled up beneath her blankets.
The fuzz trailed down along her jaw like the coat of a startled, overgrown cat. A Healer in pale-blue robes was bent over her, speaking softly: "Agnes, your son sent an owl—said he'd come to see you this evening. Isn't that lovely?"
The moment the Healer finished, Agnes tilted her head back and let out a series of bright, clear meows, the sound trailing long and distinct in the silence of the ward.
But none of this held Sherlock's interest.
His gaze moved past the scattered beds to the far end of the room, where two beds had been drawn completely closed behind curtains printed with a lily-of-the-valley pattern—pale green fabric shifting faintly in the cross-draught, shielding what lay within from any outside eyes.
Harry and Hermione followed Sherlock's gaze and saw the same thing, though neither thought much of it. Drawn curtains were a matter of course, offered for the privacy of patients and visitors alike.
Then, with a sudden rustle, the curtains were pulled back from the inside. Two figures emerged, one after the other.
The old witch who came first made it impossible to look away.
She wore a long dark-green velvet robe, its collar and cuffs worn to a fringe, draped over with a fox-fur cape that had clearly been moth-eaten for years, loose tufts of fur still clinging to the ragged hem. Most striking of all was the pointed hat on her head: at the very center of the brim sat a mounted vulture, its dried beak slightly open.
The moment Harry and Hermione saw her, they had the odd feeling they recognized her—though they both knew with certainty they had never laid eyes on her before.
It was only when they made out the figure trailing behind her, head bowed, that they both stopped short.
Neville Longbottom.
In that instant, Hermione understood at once why the old witch had seemed familiar. Third year, first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson—the Boggart that faced Neville had taken the shape of Professor Snape. Then, under Professor Lupin's direction, the Snape-Boggart had been dressed in his grandmother's clothes.
That outfit was exactly what stood before them now.
Harry hadn't recalled the lesson, but instinct alone was enough: this woman had to be Neville's grandmother.
Sherlock had known far longer than either of them. He had watched Dumbledore's memory. He knew the two curtained beds held Neville's parents—Frank and Alice Longbottom, heroes of the Wizarding War.
He had, however, made a promise to Dumbledore: unless Neville himself chose to speak of it, Sherlock would not breathe a word. So even now, with the truth plain before them, he said nothing.
Harry was about to call out to Neville—but an eager voice beat him to it.
"Why, if it isn't Neville Longbottom!"
Lockhart shot upright in his bed, waving enthusiastically, his trademark vivid smile was spreading wide across his face. "My dear Neville, have you come especially to visit me? I knew it—my students never forget me!"
In his own mind, Lockhart was riding a wave of absolute confidence. Naturally, Neville's arrival could only mean one thing: the boy had come to see him, just as Sherlock and the others had.
But at the sound of his voice, Neville flinched—a full-body shudder, sharp and reflex, as though someone had spoken Voldemort's name.
"It's us, Neville!"
Harry cast Lockhart an exasperated glance. In third year, Neville had admittedly been one of Lockhart's more favored students—frequently dragooned into playing the monsters Lockhart had supposedly vanquished which perhaps explained the enthusiasm. But it didn't make it any less tiresome.
Hermione stood and turned to Neville with a smile. "We came to visit Professor Lockhart. What about you?"
Both were genuinely pleased to run into a friend, and neither noticed the deep red flooding Neville's face, nor the flash of mortification and panic in his eyes before he looked away.
Dumbledore and Lupin exchanged a glance. The helplessness in it was mutual. They knew Neville's history. They understood exactly what was twisting inside the boy right now. But some things, in the end, had to be faced.
Mrs. Longbottom paid Lockhart's gushing greeting no mind. When she heard Harry and Hermione's voices, however, a smile crossed her face. She gave Neville a pat on the back and said warmly, "Are these your friends, Neville dear?"
With that, she steered him toward the group.
The color in Neville's round face deepened—red was shading into something almost purple.
He stared rigidly at the toes of his shoes as though they contained some rare and extraordinary treasure. He couldn't bring himself to meet his friends' eyes, couldn't even risk a sidelong glance in their direction. He would have preferred, in that moment, to be hauled off to detention by Filch rather than encounter anyone he knew in a place like this.
"Albus! And Remus—what a coincidence!"
When Mrs. Longbottom caught sight of Dumbledore, the strictness in her face softened considerably. She quickened her pace toward him, extending one of her thin, talon-like hands.
"Good afternoon, Augusta." Dumbledore took her hand with graceful ease and pressed a light kiss to the back of it.
"Mrs. Longbottom, it has been a long time." Lupin inclined his head slightly, his voice remained warm and courteous.
After exchanging pleasantries with the two professors, Mrs. Longbottom's attention settled on the three young students. Her gaze lingered first on Harry's face; something approving flickered in her eyes.
She extended her eagle-claw hand once more. "Ha—I know exactly who you are. Neville speaks very highly of you."
She hadn't said Harry Potter, but Harry understood perfectly. He reached out and shook Neville's grandmother's hand. "How do you do, Mrs. Longbottom. Thank you for the kind words."
"And you must be Hermione Granger."
Mrs. Longbottom withdrew her hand and turned to Hermione with a nod.
Hermione blinked in surprise.
Mrs. Longbottom smiled. "I believe you are the cleverest witch in your year."
Hermione coloured slightly, but took her hand with composure. "You're far too kind, ma'am."
"And you."
Mrs. Longbottom's gaze finally came to rest on Sherlock. Before she could speak, Sherlock had already extended his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Harry, Neville, and I share a dormitory in Gryffindor."
"The great detective Sherlock, in the flesh!"
Mrs. Longbottom let out a hearty laugh, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were folding deep.
"Who in the wizarding world doesn't know your name? After Harry Potter himself, you must be the most famous of the lot—outwitting the Death Eaters' schemes, no less. No wonder Neville speaks so well of you. He tells me you help him out of trouble regularly."
That was certainly true. Every time Neville's travelling toad, Trevor, went missing which was often—it was Sherlock who found him.
"I've done very little. The credit belongs to Neville—he has a genuine talent for certain things."
Sherlock was thinking of swordsmanship. He had also noticed that since Neville and his grandmother had arrived, Neville had not once lifted his head. The round face was a deep, alarming shade of purple. The misery behind it was not difficult to imagine.
"Exactly so—he is a good boy!"
Mrs. Longbottom was clearly pleased by Sherlock's words, but her tone sharpened in the very next breath, turning to Neville. "If only he'd inherited a little more of his father's gift—"
She tilted her head subtly toward the curtained beds at the far end of the room. The stuffed vulture on her hat swayed with the motion.
"What? Neville, are those your—"
Harry had already started asking before a quiet pressure on the top of his foot stopped him short. Hermione—subtle enough in her long skirt that the gesture was almost invisible.
Harry understood immediately. Neville had never once spoken of his parents to any of them. He clearly did not want this known.
Harry shifted course at once, his voice sincere: "Mrs. Longbottom, his aunt and uncle must be very proud of him. These past few years he's trained with Sherlock every single morning—fencing, rain or shine, never once missed a day. None of the rest of us in the dormitory have ever managed that."
Neville's body gave a small tremor.
He raised his head at last, met Harry's eyes for a brief instant—gratitude was spilling from his own and looked away again.
"Is that so?" Mrs. Longbottom turned to Sherlock looking plainly skeptical.
"It is." Sherlock nodded. "As I said, Neville has a genuine talent."
"Fencing?"
Mrs. Longbottom looked startled, then broke into a broad laugh. "I'd assumed you meant Herbology—now that's a proper Gryffindor tradition! Sherlock, you're exceptional yourself. Make sure you bring him along properly."
"Perseverance is one of the necessary conditions for success."
Dumbledore spoke at just the right moment, his voice was slow and gentle. "Augusta, the courage Neville carries will make him a remarkable wizard one day. Harry is quite right—Frank and Alice would be proud of him."
"You make a fair point." Mrs. Longbottom nodded, then turned back to Neville, her tone was resuming its customary strictness. "Neville, learn from your friends. When you've grown, you'll be an Auror just like them—what is it, Alice?"
Her words cut off. Her gaze shifted toward the far end of the ward.
The others followed.
A middle-aged witch was making her way slowly toward them along the wall, one hand steadying herself against it. She wore a set of faded, washed-out striped pajamas. Her body was so thin she looked as though a breath of wind might knock her over; her cheeks were sunken, which made her large eyes seem enormous. She could not have been much more than forty, yet her hair had gone entirely white—a dry, loose tangle of it spilling in loose coils over her shoulders.
There was no need to ask. This was Neville's mother. Alice Longbottom.
She walked up to Neville and stopped. Her lips moved, but no clear sound came out. Her gaze drifted—whether she recognized the boy in front of her was impossible to tell, or perhaps she was struggling to recall something just out of reach.
After a few seconds, she reached out toward Neville—tentative, almost shy—her thin fingers were pinching something very small.
"Another one?"
There was a faint tiredness buried in Mrs. Longbottom's voice, but she caught Neville's eye and nodded to him. "Very good, Alice. Well done—Neville, take it."
Before the words were even out, Neville had already stepped forward, both hands cupped and held out to his mother.
Only then did the others see what Alice was holding: a crumpled Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper.
With trembling fingers, she set it gently into Neville's palm.
"Good, dear. Very good."
Mrs. Longbottom stepped closer and patted her daughter-in-law softly on the back, working to keep the warmth in her voice.
Neville closed his fingers around the wrapper. He tilted his head back and said, very quietly, "Thank you, Mum."
Alice looked at Neville and a smile of complete contentment spread across her face.
Then she turned, and shuffled back toward her bed, humming a tuneless little melody beneath her breath.
The sound drifted away with her footsteps—light as air as it receded, yet falling heavy on Neville's heart.
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