The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 349 Treatment Plan (5.1K) (2/2)

As Lin Qi finished speaking, it was as if a silent thunderclap exploded in the room filled with books and silverware.

Dumbledore's eyes behind his half-moon spectacles widened suddenly for a moment, his deep blue pupils filled with disbelief and shock, as well as a hint of instinctive, deep-seated pessimism and doubt.

His fingers, resting on the table, tightened unconsciously.

"Lynch—" His voice was even hoarser than before, filled with complex emotions, "Do you know what you're saying? St. Mungo's conclusion—all the cutting-edge healing magic and soul damage research shows that prolonged Cruciatus Curse, especially the kind of torture with extreme malice and specific dark magic enhancements, causes damage that is—almost irreversible. We've poured countless hopes and efforts into it, and ultimately—"

He didn't finish speaking, but the heaviness and helplessness in his voice said it all.

The Longbottoms' condition had long been considered a hopeless conclusion by the entire magical medicine community.

"I know those conclusions, and I understand the limitations of mainstream research." Lynch interrupted Dumbledore, his tone unwavering despite the latter's skepticism, but instead becoming even more composed. "But we live in a magical world, where accepted views can be overturned with just the appearance of a genius."

Dumbledore's gaze fell on Lynch's face, his deep blue eyes narrowing slightly, gleaming with inquiry and a hint of disbelief. He didn't speak, but the meaning in his eyes couldn't be clearer: You, are you the "genius"?

Lin Qi met his gaze and slowly shook his head, showing no trace of arrogance.

"No, Principal. I'm not the kind of person who can overturn established conclusions. But that 'genius'—you and I have both seen him."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed imperceptibly, his doubts deepening.

He had met many geniuses, but who was qualified to delve into such a profound and almost hopeless field of soul damage?

Instead of immediately solving the mystery, Lin Qi reached into his pocket and took out a notebook.

He didn't use the Summoning Charm or any fancy method; he simply and solemnly placed it on the table in front of Dumbledore.

The cover of this notebook is a deep emerald green, made of some kind of soft and delicate leather. It has a warm and smooth feel, and the edges are slightly worn, with some even being frayed at the corners, showing signs of being frequently read and carried.

It may look unremarkable, but it has a certain rich and mellow quality.

Dumbledore's gaze fell on the notebook, then shifted to Lynch, awaiting his explanation.

"These are Gilderoy Lockhart's belongings," Lynch said calmly, uttering the name of the man who died at the hands of Voldemort's Horcruxes.

A complex mix of realization and surprise flashed across Dumbledore's face.

Lockhart?

That boastful Defense Against the Dark Arts professor who swindles people by stealing other people's adventure stories and forgetfulness spells?

"Putting aside his regrettable character and flamboyant style," Lynch's voice revealed no personal praise or criticism of Lockhart, only a purely technical assessment, "Giddro Lockhart possesses a truly dazzling talent in the field of memory magic, especially in the intricate weaving, modification, and implantation of memories. This talent may even border on an instinct."

He paused slightly to make sure Dumbledore understood he wasn't joking.

"Headmaster, you should recall that a few years ago at Hogwarts, he successfully cast an extremely complex compound spell on Professor Flitwick. It wasn't just a simple 'forget everything,' but rather a masterful weaving of a fabricated memory that temporarily overwrote and dominated Professor Flitwick's consciousness and behavior, making him act entirely according to his script. While the method itself was illegitimate, the precision with which he understood and manipulated memory structures was truly impressive."

Lynch's gaze fell on the green notebook, as if he could see the contents inside through the leather.

"This notebook records his insights, conjectures, experimental fragments, and some other things he has learned about memory magic over the years—"

Unconventional spellcasting techniques. These include a fundamental explanation and proposed variations of the "memory weaving" technique used against Professor Flitwick. This knowledge, if used for good, if used to repair rather than destroy—"

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was crystal clear.

Gilderoy Lockhart, whom everyone regarded as a joke and a clown, revealed a core of pure magical talent beneath his glamorous exterior—an extraordinary understanding and manipulation of memory and consciousness structures—which may well be the only long-lost key to unlock the Longbottoms' supposedly permanently closed door to their hearts.

Dumbledore listened quietly, his gaze shifting between the green notebook and Lynch's earnest face. His initial surprise gradually gave way to a deep contemplation.

He realized that Lynch wasn't proposing a far-fetched solution, but rather pointing out a path that everyone had overlooked.

It originated from a highly unorthodox technical approach that may directly address the core of the problem, stemming from a notorious individual.

Lynch gently placed his hands on the dark green notebook, turned his gaze to Dumbledore, and began to speak in a clear,

He explained his theory in an almost anatomically calm tone: "We can roughly view a person's complete mind as a combination of two parts: the soul, which is the foundation and framework that carries everything; and memory, which is the countless puzzle pieces that fill it and depict life experiences."

He paused slightly to make sure Dumbledore was following the analogy.

"I've done some—unorthodox but in-depth—study of the soul," Lynch said. "My understanding is that the soul is extremely resilient. Apart from a very few cases of self-destructive, deliberate splitting and blasphemy like Voldemort's, the soul, after suffering trauma, mostly possesses a slow but tenacious tendency to heal itself. It tends to restore wholeness and stability."

Dumbledore nodded slightly, indicating his understanding of this macro perspective, and gestured for him to continue.

"Based on this understanding, and observing the Longbottoms' more than ten years of stagnation—their condition did not deteriorate further, nor did they perish; they maintained a rigid existence—I tend to believe that the violent shocks and tears that their soul frameworks suffered have, over a long period of time, completed a preliminary, basal-level healing. The most direct and destructive impact of that curse has been smoothed over by time and the resilience of their own souls."

At this point, Lynch's gaze sharpened, pointing to the core of the problem: "However, the healing of the soul is not the same as the restoration of the mind. The key lies in those pieces of the puzzle—their memories, personalities, emotional connections, and cognitive patterns—which were utterly shattered and scattered in that storm, becoming countless disordered fragments. Now, the healed soul framework is empty, and those massive fragments of memory cannot automatically find their correct positions; they may even overlap, distort, and lose connection with each other. They are not 'gone,' but rather plunged into utter chaos and disorder. This, perhaps, is the fundamental reason why they have been unable to regain self-awareness."

He gently patted Lockhart's notebook.

"So, I brought this with me. Lockhart's talent lies in his extraordinary perception and precision in manipulating the structure, texture, and logical connections of a puzzle—that is, memory itself. He can weave, modify, and subtly embed or cover. What we need is not to weave lies, but to perform the most complex and precise puzzle-solving surgery in history amidst a vast sea of ​​fragments."

Lynch leaned forward slightly, his tone revealing a newfound seriousness bordering on a challenge: "Headmaster Dumbledore, I've come here hoping we can join forces. Combining our understanding of the soul and memory with Lockhart's insights into the nature of memory magic, we can advance along two paths simultaneously. We need to analyze those fragmented memory signals, understand their original affiliation and sequence, and then find a way to guide them, or rather, assist the healed soul framework in re-organizing and integrating them in a more orderly manner. This isn't just for Frank and Alice Longbottom; it could be a completely new path to exploring the repair of damaged consciousness, and even—in the future, a weapon against some deeper darkness."

He stopped talking and just looked at Dumbledore.

In the afternoon sunlight, dust motes floated slowly, and the office was completely silent.

Lynch's proposal was no longer just a treatment plan, but a bold, interdisciplinary research project that combined fringe magical knowledge with forbidden talents. Its goal was to target the forbidden zones of magical medicine, and its significance might far exceed healing the two victims.

Dumbledore remained silent for a long time, simply watching Lynch. His gaze lingered on Lynch's young face, which was filled with an undeniable seriousness and a scholarly focus, before slowly falling on the dark green notebook that held astonishing possibilities. The firelight from the fireplace danced in his azure eyes.

Finally, he exhaled a long, slow breath, which ruffled his long, silvery-white beard.

A genuine and bright light dispelled the heavy gloom that had long lingered in his eyes due to the tragedy of the Longbottoms, and was even brighter than when he tasted a sweet candy.

"Professor Lynch," his voice was softer than ever, yet contained a firm strength, "please allow me to say this—this is the best news I've heard in years, no, perhaps even longer. It's so wonderful that I'm almost afraid to believe it."

This statement carries significant weight.

It is not just an endorsement of a treatment plan, but also the highest praise for Lynch's entire disruptive approach and the perseverance and insight behind it.

"But that's precisely why," Dumbledore stood up, walked around the desk, his steps seeming lighter, "we must do everything in our power to verify it."

He walked to a shelf displaying many strange and wonderful silver items and gently waved his wand.

Several silver items moved aside automatically, revealing a seemingly ordinary peach wood box engraved with complex Rughren script. The box opened silently, revealing neatly arranged scrolls of unusually ancient and even somewhat tattered parchment, as well as several large books with leather covers that exuded a faint magical protective aura.

"I think we might be able to start from several directions simultaneously." Dumbledore's tone returned to its usual gentleness, but with an added excitement of research and exploration. "I have some fragments here about ancient soul-stabilizing rituals and consciousness-protecting spells. Although they may not be directly related, they might provide historical insights into the stability of the framework."

Lynch also stood up and walked to Dumbledore's side. He opened the dark green notebook and skillfully flipped to several specially marked pages. The notebook's pages were filled with Lockhart's ornate cursive script, interspersed with diagrams, fragments of spells, and personal reflections, clearly having been studied repeatedly. Many paragraphs also had Lynch's own concise and precise annotations and deductions.

“I’ve studied Lockhart’s notes for a long time,” Lynch began, his finger lightly touching a complex diagram on one of the pages. Next to the diagram were Lockhart’s hastily scribbled words, “Emotional Resonance Location,” and Lynch’s annotations in different colored inks. “His core talent…”

For the next few hours, the principal's office transformed into a highly focused research room.

As the sunlight gradually slanted westward, turning golden-red, it was eventually replaced by nightfall, but the magic lamp on the table automatically lit up with a soft glow.

The parchment covered half the table.

They juxtapose the rhythmic patterns of memory echoes and emotional resonance, and the principles of ancient Egyptian symbols and modern consciousness magic, searching for a magical resonance that transcends time.

"Perhaps we can draw a familiar warmth from Neville as the first note in our lives."

"It requires listening to the rhythm deep within their souls—I once refined an ancient incantation to detect ripples in consciousness."

"It must be as gentle as moonlight spreading across a lake; it cannot be rushed."

"It may be necessary to prepare a medicinal mist that can soothe the soul's tremors, or to find a natural crystal that can carry the resonance."

Their conversation was sometimes interrupted by pauses in deep thought, and sometimes they would nod in tacit agreement when a flash of inspiration struck.

Those wounds that were once considered hopeless are now being dismantled into marks that can be smoothed out one by one by ancient incantations, subtle magical perception, and profound understanding.

It was another sunny day, but the sunlight seemed unable to penetrate the long, always slightly gloomy corridor of the "Spell Injury Department" on the fifth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries.

The air was filled with the scent of herbal ointments and some kind of faint magical cleansing agent. Occasionally, a healer would hurry by carrying a tray or medical records, the hem of his robe fluttering in the breeze.

In a quiet hospital room at the end of the corridor, the window was half-open, and the sheer curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. Two hospital beds were placed side by side, on which lay Frank and Alice Longbottom. They were dressed in neat hospital gowns, their hair was carefully combed, and their faces were clean, even peaceful.

If you didn't look into their eyes, you might think they were just asleep.

But their eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling, unable to see the blue sky and white clouds outside the window, nor the loved ones standing by the bedside. Their hands are quietly placed at their sides, not reaching out to grasp any outstretched hand, unresponsive to external sounds, touches, or even the calls of their closest relatives.

Like two meticulously maintained wax figures that have lost their souls, only the faint rise and fall of their chests proves that life still exists.

Neville stood between his parents' beds, clutching tightly in his hand a small bunch of wild daisies that his grandmother had given him that morning, still fragrant with the scent of earth. He stood stiffly, somewhat awkwardly, as if undergoing some kind of serious inspection.

He looked at his father and mother alternately, his lips moving slightly, as if he wanted to say something and report his grades in herbalism class.

Could they talk about their friends? Or just say "Mom" or "Dad"—but in the end, not a single word came out.

My throat felt blocked by something, and only a familiar soreness rose in my nasal cavity.

He could only grip the flower stem even tighter, his fingertips turning white.

His grandmother, Mrs. Augusta-Lombardon, stood a step behind him, dressed in a crisp dark green robe and wearing her signature hat topped with a vulture specimen.

Her face was etched with resolute lines, her chin held high, her sharp gaze sweeping over her son and daughter-in-law as if inspecting whether they were receiving the meticulous care they deserved. Then, her gaze fell on her grandson's thin, taut back, her stern lips softening almost imperceptibly for a moment, only to tighten again immediately.

"Put the flowers in, Neville," Mrs. Longbottom's voice was not loud, but it carried her usual authoritative tone. "There's water in the vase. Be careful not to knock anything over."

Neville nodded silently, carefully placing the small, bright bouquet of daisies into a simple white porcelain vase on the bedside table. The pale yellow flowers added a tiny, yet exceptionally persistent, touch of life to the overly clean and lifeless white space.

"They look to be in good health—well maintained," Mrs. Longbottom said, as if to Neville, as if confirming her own opinion, and as if warning of a possible, invisible "negligence."

"The therapist said that her bodily functions are all stable." She stepped forward, her movements not gentle, but extremely careful as she tidied a single strand of Alice's hair that was not messy by her ear, and then tugged at the collar of Frank's hospital gown.

When her fingertips touched her son's warm cheek, she paused almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second before quickly withdrawing them, as if the temperature had burned her.

Neville watched his grandmother's actions, then looked at his parents' unchanged faces.

Those empty eyes were like two whirlpools, almost sucking away all his pitiful courage and the words he wanted to say. He suddenly missed Hogwarts terribly, missed the damp, earthy smell of the greenhouse, missed the piercing cry of the mandrakes, even missed Professor Snape's cold sarcasm—at least those were vibrant, responsive. And here, there was only a suffocating, merciful silence.

Mrs. Longbottom cleared her throat and, as usual, said a few brief and practical words to her son and daughter-in-law, such as "The family business is operating normally" and "Neville's herbalism grades are acceptable."

A few seconds after Neville's name was uttered by Mrs. Longbottom, Alice Longbottom, who had been lying quietly on the bed, suddenly twitched very slightly with her thin hand, which was resting on the outside of the snow-white sheets.