Hogwarts Study Panel.

Chapter 634, Section 632: Touching its ears

The rain finally stopped in the evening.

Only the unfallen water droplets are still tapping on the eaves.

Sheen had no idea how long he had been in St. Mungo's.

He did not leave immediately after leaving Jenas Sitch's ward.

Lupin said he needed to see a therapist to change his dressing, while Sirius, having been crouching next to Sheehan for too long, had his wound start bleeding again and was pushed back onto the bed by the therapist.

Both of them told Sheen to go back first, saying, "There are more places that need you."

Lupin spoke these words gently, yet firmly.

Sheen did not go downstairs immediately.

He went to the sixth floor.

The sixth floor of St. Mungo's houses a tea room and shops.

Sheehan remembered the inquisitor witch mentioning that visitors could rest here or buy gifts for the patient.

Every gift undergoes a thorough inspection before being sent out to ensure its safety.

Sheen sat down by the window in the tea room.

He ordered a steaming hot pumpkin juice.

London outside the window is sinking into twilight.

The windows of St. Mungo's were not decorated with magic.

They are just ordinary glass windows with dark red old wood frames that have been polished to a shine.

Looking out from the sixth floor, the London skyline gradually brightened in the twilight after the rain.

Scattered and scattered, one by one, like someone using a lighter to burn small holes in a gray-blue silk cloth, from which light leaks out.

The red brick roofs, washed by the rain, gleamed a dark red. In the distance, the gray office buildings became shadows in the twilight. On the top floor of one of the buildings, a window was lit, its light warm, presumably the kitchen.

Further away, in the direction of the Thames, there was a denser halo, softened into a blurry gold by the post-rain mist.

He wasn't the only one in the tea room.

A middle-aged witch in a green robe sat in the corner.

Wizards all like this kind of color, and of course, this color also reminded Sheen of his formal robes.

Will the dance, which is supposed to take place on Christmas Day, be moved forward?

After all, the arrival time of the two magic schools and the Goblet of Fire selection have been brought forward.

Headmaster Dumbledore seemed to be in a hurry to do something.

He pushed Voldemort to the brink of death and plunged the entire wizarding world into chaos.

But this is not the old wizard's fault.

"Tom, we all know that he is not as powerful as he thinks he is."

Now, he's revealed too many flaws. I have plenty of time to deal with him, as you told me last time—"

Sheehan recalled his last phone call with Headmaster Dumbledore, when he saw the lion of Gryffindor in Dumbledore's eyes.

On the other end of the magic mirror, Dumbledore held up a broken cup, and Sheehan could see the Hufflepuff pattern on it.

Without a doubt, it was Hufflepuff's relic, and also the suspicious item Sheen saw in the tavern.

Voldemort killed Wormtail in the tavern and created Horcruxes.

In the intelligence that Sheen shared with Headmaster Dumbledore, the glowing cup was part of the suspicious Horcrux.

There weren't many suspicious items in the tavern back then.

A book, a relic associated with Hufflepuff, and a locket that is most likely a fake.

Of course, there were also some bottles and jars, large pots for boiling blood, and bones.

Now they've ruled out another wrong answer.

The time for peace to be restored in the magical world is drawing ever closer.

Sheehan understood that in Headmaster Dumbledore's plan, these difficult days were a necessary sacrifice.

"How is he?"

Beside Sheen, the witch, looking tense, spoke.

She was wearing a faded, over-washed, grey-green robe.

There was an old basket at my feet, with a few copies of "The Quibbler" and an unopened bag of chocolate frogs peeking out from the edge of the basket.

Her hands were clasped together beside her thighs, her fingers twisting a handkerchief incessantly.

"Fortunately, ma'am—if it were a little later—"

Sheen nearly fainted when he saw the witch in the green robe.

"We're about to get off work."

The green-robed witch blushed, and the joking wizard quickly became serious.

Healthcare workers have this magical quality: when their expressions turn serious, it makes your heart pound.

The same was true 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 screamed.

"Excuse me, are you referring to what it looks like?"

Sheen couldn't help but ask in a low voice.

"Yeah, he looks like he's going to die, but he's actually fine, right? It's just a tiny, insignificant curse cast by a dark wizard posing as a Death Eater."

The therapist blinked, then her tone became somewhat weak, "Madam, you're too tense. There are too many wizards like you lately. St. Mungo's Hospital hopes you can relax a bit more."

If everyone rushes to the hospital because of minor injuries from curses, those who truly need help will be left without assistance.

"Levi, the healer!"

A shout came from the end of the corridor, and the joking therapist quickly left.

Having experienced the highs and lows of life, the green-robed witch sat back in her chair, muttering under her breath, "What a morally bankrupt doctor."

Night was drawing ever closer.

Sheehan stood up, preparing to take one last look at the Longbottoms before saying goodbye to Sirius and Lupin.

As she walked up the stairs, Sheen noticed that there were many wizards on the sixth floor.

Not far from him sat a very old male wizard with a grayish-white beard, leaning on a wand with a worn tip.

He was studying a tea room menu with his head down. The words on the menu hadn't been changed in a long time, and several strokes of the letters were missing, but he still looked at it word by word, as if he was using the menu to kill time during a long period of waiting.

A small leather suitcase sat at his feet, with a St. Mungo's visitation registration card affixed to it.

A couple was sitting at the table near the stairwell.

The man was wearing a Muggle-style dark blue work jacket, and next to the woman was a magic umbrella that was slowly closing automatically, with water still dripping from the tip, leaving a small dark water stain on the stone slab.

Their eyes all carried the same weariness.

Sheen looked at them and suddenly realized something.

These people are just like him.

Everyone in this tea room—the witch in the opposite corner, the white-bearded wizard, the couple—they are all visitors to someone.

They sat in the same tea room, on chairs of varying wear and tear, breathing the same air mixed with the scent of disinfectant and lavender, and holding the same pumpkin juice that was gradually cooling down.

There are many, many people like this.

On the fifth floor, behind the sign for Jenas Sitch's ward in the Spell Damage Department, lived Frank and Alice Longbottom.

They've waited for Na'vi for fifteen years, and they're still waiting.

On the second floor, in the Biological Injury Department, the woman whose leg had a large chunk of flesh bitten off had just had new flesh grow back this afternoon; in the "dangerous" Day Llewellyn ward, the man bitten by the werewolf had his dressing changed for the third time today.

On the fourth floor, in the Pharmacy and Plant Poisoning Department, a patient who had been poisoned by a drug that caused uncontrollable laughter had probably just been fed a mandrake decoction, and the laughter finally stopped.

On the third floor, in the Department of Strange Bacterial Infections, a patient suffering from draconis is running a high fever. The green rashes on his skin are being treated with some kind of medicinal powder by the therapist, emitting a faint glow.

On the first floor, in the Equipment Accident Department, the Muggle whose arm was cut off by the Death Eaters has probably grown a new bone.

He didn't recognize any of these people.

But he knew their names.

Sheen would know because they share a common name: people bitten by something, people cursed, and families who have been waiting for a long time.

They are the inconspicuous news items in the corner of the Daily Prophet, the "casualty figures" mentioned only briefly at the Ministry of Magic press conferences, the names that follow the "Have you heard?" exchanged among magical colleagues, the "Oh, didn't he used to work in the Department of Magical Accidents and Disasters" that suddenly comes to mind when you bring your teacup to your lips—

At times, Sheen would see these names in eulogies.

Each of them is someone's entire world.

The bitten woman's child came home from school today to find his mother not in the kitchen; Herbert Joly, the Muggle assistant minister who amused the public by imitating a duck after being cursed, had his assistant changing the ink bottle on his desk because he would probably be back at work tomorrow.

Waiting for the old wizard to return might be a cat perched on the windowsill watching the rain, wondering why dinner was two hours late. Alice Longbottom folds candy flowers, none of them given to anyone, yet she continues folding them, ever since that Christmas.

Sheehan realized that terrorist attacks didn't just happen on the battlefield.

It happens in the bedroom, next to the crib, on the way home from school, on every morning when wizards think it's just another ordinary day.

A sigh echoed from the sixth floor, long and drawn out.

Sheen suddenly felt that the accident was like a knife that cut people directly away from their daily lives, like tearing a page out of a book you were reading.

The remaining page has jagged, torn edges; you're still turning the pages, but the story is no longer coherent.

More and more lights are appearing outside the window.

As dusk fell, the London skyline transformed into a dense patch of tiny points of light—red, yellow, and white—covering the window frames in a dense, intricate pattern.

Behind every lamp is a person, and each person has their own story to tell. Each story has been complete, or almost complete.

In the tea room, the middle-aged witch finally stood up.

She picked up the old basket at her feet and walked towards the stairwell.

She was exhausted, but the lettering on the sign on the stairwell wall was still lit up.

The young wizard remained silent for a long time. When Sirius Black slipped out, he simply raised his head and said goodbye.

"You should go back to Hogwarts as soon as possible—"

Sirius said he saw the tired wizards on the sixth floor, "Oh, them—"

He seemed to realize something, but his tone became even more uplifting. "Don't be sad about yesterday, okay? We know these days will eventually pass, right, Mr. Green?"

"Perhaps. Goodbye, Mr. Sirius, Mr. Lupin."

Sheehan said his body was contorted.

"Isn't that amazing apparition?"

Sirius said to Lupin beside him.

"Um.

""

Lupin leaned back in his chair.

"Both of you are quiet fellows. I wish Mr. Green were a bit more outgoing."

Sirius smacked his lips.

Lupin smiled slightly and glanced at him: "Bigfoot, a kind person will experience the pain of others, and naturally will not be able to be frank easily."

Sometimes, what is called frankness is actually violence.

It's foggy in Gonglan.

In the Grand Canyon, fog is such a common occurrence that no one pays any attention to it.

Hogwarts was unusually quiet today; even after the curfew bells rang, the young wizards weren't necessarily silent.

Wisps of white mist seeped out from under the nameplate of room 404, permeating the Ravenclaw common room.

This is not very common.

The Gryffindor common room, which is also relatively uncommon, is also a former member of the Gryffindor clubhouse.

The Gryffindor common room is a circular room filled with plush armchairs, tables, and a bulletin board with school notices, various GGs and posters, etc.

A large fireplace took up the entire wall.

Even a fireplace that covers an entire wall couldn't dispel the white steam.

The mist swept across the scarlet decorative tapestries on the walls, over the many portraits of male and female witches, and silently slipped into the bedroom on the left.

Neville Longbottom curled up in his chubby body. Ron, who hadn't yet gotten into bed, pouted and pulled the blanket up for him.

"Where am I?!"

Neville muttered to himself, glancing around timidly.

To my horror, I found myself standing on wisps of mist.

Is it really safe for a person to stand here?

He's bound to fall, isn't he?!

Before he could scream for help, a heavy feeling came over his shoulder, and his mouth was covered by something furry.

"Good evening, Mr. Longbottom."

A voice that was both familiar and unfamiliar spoke.

The voice was familiar because Neville was certain he had heard it somewhere before, but unfamiliar because he couldn't remember where he heard it.

Memories seem to be veiled by a thin layer of mist.

Good evening.

Neville immediately straightened up, and the chubby little wizard stood at attention.

"Don't be too nervous, Mr. Longbottom."

The thing on his shoulder seemed to have jumped off, and Neville looked shakily toward where he was.

"Mr. Lucky Black Cat" 7

He exclaimed in surprise.

The black cat nodded slightly, like a gentleman.

Neville snapped out of his daze, and a reminder from a certain Hufflepuff club member immediately came to mind:

Use honorifics —

"The master of dreams and mists, the bridge between life and death, and a symbol of enduring good fortune."

He said, his face flushed.

The black cat was taken aback.

[I must offer a flower; this is secret intelligence from Lanmi.]

Neville looked left and right, and just as he had the thought of "wanting a flower," a flower actually appeared in his hand, much to his delight.

He quickly handed over the flowers, Hannah's last words echoing in his mind:

【Yes, no, you absolutely must! Touch its ears—】

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