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0748 Life's Plans
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 11:13:02 +0000 UTC'Hope your parents to recover?'
Hermione's brow furrowed deeply, as her mind immediately began dissecting the strange phrasing of Mrs. Longbottom's inquiry.
'What a strange question for Mrs. Longbottom to ask,' She thought to herself. 'How could Neville possibly not want his parents to recover?'
Instinctively, Hermione's gaze shifted toward Professor Dumbledore, her eyes searching his face for any hint. But this time, Professor Dumbledore just stood in the doorway with his hands folded maintaining his silence without giving her any clues.
Dumbledore was not a man who remained quiet without purpose, and his refusal to give guidance or clarification meant that this was a decision that Neville—and only Neville—could make. This realization made Hermione understand that whatever was happening here was far more serious than she had initially knew.
Left to puzzle out the situation on her own, Hermione's mind began working through the available information.
The facts, as she understood them, began to arrange themselves in her mind like pieces of a complex puzzle.
Professor Dumbledore had clearly engaged in conversation with Mrs. Longbottom regarding Professor Watson's proposed treatment plan for Neville's parents.
The treatment plan itself was undoubtedly effective—that much seemed certain. Otherwise, Mrs. Longbottom wouldn't have spoken as she did. Professor Watson's earlier success with the tortured Muggle patient had clearly demonstrated that recovery from Cruciatus Curse damage was indeed possible, at least under certain circumstances.
But—there were obviously significant risks involved. Risks so severe that they silenced to two of the most courageous and decisive individuals she had ever known.
'Yes, that absolutely has to be it,' she thought, pressing her lips together as she continued to observed Neville's pale, anxious face with growing concern and sympathy. 'This all makes perfect sense.'
The more she thought about it, the more inevitable it seemed that such a treatment would carry substantial dangers. This was, after all, a medical puzzle that had perplexed the greatest healers in the wizarding world for centuries.
The type of damage inflicted by the Cruciatus Curse had been classified as incurable by the vast majority of magical medical professionals.
For Professor Watson to have developed a potential cure in just a few months was nothing but miraculous, and Hermione knew miracles rarely came without a price. The more the potential benefit, the more likely it was that equal risks were involved.
From her familiarity with Mrs. Longbottom during their conversations over the past two weeks, Hermione had come to know her as a person of remarkable decisiveness and courage.
This was a woman who had raised her grandson with high expectations, who had faced the tragic loss of her son and daughter-in-law's minds, who had taken decades of disappointment and false hope without losing her dignity and determination.
For something to make such a strong, resolute woman hesitate, the potential danger must be far from simple. And for that same uncertainty to leave even Professor Dumbledore speechless, choosing silence even with successful cases at hand, the risks involved must be unimaginably high.
The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place in Hermione's mind.
Across the room, Neville stared blankly at his grandmother, his eyes showing a complex mixture of emotions. Despite his youth and his reputation for being somewhat slow to grasp complex situations, a strange clarity was emerging in his mind.
His first instinct from years of disappointment and the fear of having his hopes crushed yet again, was to refuse. If the treatment meant that his parents would face unpredictable danger—and this danger must be extremely severe, or else his grandmother and Professor Dumbledore wouldn't be showing such obvious hesitation even with Professor Watson's successful example, then perhaps it would be better to leave things as they were.
'Without treatment, at least I would still be someone who has parents,' Neville thought to himself.
But even as these thoughts appeared, Neville found himself unable to speak them. Looking at his grandmother's old figure standing in the doorway, he felt his throat tighten with emotion. The words he wanted to say, the refusal that seemed like the safe, sensible choice, became trapped somewhere between his heart and his lips.
His grandmother had always told him that his parents had been transformed into their current state while fighting against the forces of evil, that their sacrifice had helped protect countless innocent people from the dark wizards who had sought to plunge the wizarding world into chaos and terror.
She had taught him that he should be proud of their bravery, that their willingness to stand up against overwhelming odds was the courage that ran in the Longbottom bloodline.
But surely, his grandmother's inner pain was the same as his own—perhaps it was even more intense.
In front of Neville's eyes, as if summoned by his emotions, appeared a vivid mental image of his parents as he had seen them during his most recent visit to their ward.
Each time Neville visited them after an interval, he could feel the passage of time flowing coldly through their deteriorating bodies. Those terrible nightmares continued tormenting them in their dreams, causing them unbearable pain and accelerating their visible decline.
"Is living like this until death truly what they would want?" The question formed in Neville's mind, covering all his fears and uncertainties.
Neville's clenched fists trembled slightly.
If it were him, he wouldn't want to live on in such a degraded state—he would rather die quickly and cleanly than endure years or decades of such torment.
And if that was what he would want for himself, then how could he deny them the same choice? How could he allow his own cowardice to deprive them of what might be their only chance at genuine recovery?
"I want them to recover!"
The words erupted from Neville with courage and determination. Gradually, Neville's breathing steadied, his gaze was no longer evasive. He faced his grandmother's wrinkled face and shouted like a warrior charging fearlessly into battle.
Westminster, Mayfair District
No matter how thoroughly you plan your life's trajectory, life will always present you with situations that you could never have foreseen.
In the quiet district, beside the clean road, Bryan stood beneath a tall, neatly trimmed ash tree, silently observing the end of the street. There sat an expansive estate with pure white marble walls inlaid with golden reliefs. This was a luxurious manor that could rival even the famous Malfoy family estate in the wizarding world. This thought crossed his mind.
Since bringing Harry here once before, Bryan had thought he would never return to this place. Yet unexpectedly, a letter had mysteriously drawn him back.
The letter came from someone within the manor, though it hadn't been sent directly from this address.
After graduating from Hogwarts, Bryan had begun his "world travels." To ensure the orphanage could contact him in truly urgent situations, he had deliberately left a secure address in London with an owl that could relay messages to him at any time.
The letter he had received earlier that day at St. Mungo's had indeed come through this channel. However, the sender was not someone from the orphanage. Instead, it was from Lawrence, the butler who now managed the Watson estate.
Though the Watson family had fallen from grace, they apparently still possessed certain connections. Lawrence had likely used Muggle channels to trace the name "Bryan Watson" back to the orphanage.
Despite the spring season, the Watson estate exuded an air of desolation.
The great fountain in the center courtyard was covered with a layer of ash, clearly having been inactive for some time.
The maple trees on the cobblestone path, though lush with foliage, grew wild and unkempt, lacking their former beauty. The iron gates no longer had the smartly dressed guards from his previous visit but only an elderly Muggle security guard dozing at a desk in the small gatehouse.
Bryan didn't disturb the peacefully sleeping guard. He approached the gate quietly, his body flickering momentarily before appearing inside the courtyard.
The vast grounds of the estate, which should have been bustling with the activity of a full maintenance staff, showed almost no sign of human presence or care, except for a few servants listlessly maintaining the villa's cleanliness.
The mansion's interior remained largely unchanged from his previous visit. The extravagant, luxurious decorations still stood in their places, unsold despite the estate's obvious need for funds to cover basic maintenance and operational costs.
The preservation of these assets, despite the family's financial difficulties and the estate's circumstances, spoke about Lawrence's character and his deep emotional connection to the Watson Family.
However, none of these observations and reflections were Bryan's concern at the moment. Without alerting any of the remaining staff members to his presence, he silently appeared in a room on the third floor's east side.
Looking at the room's door, his expression showed the first sign of emotion since arriving.
When Mr. Watson who had shared blood relations with him had passed away, he had left the entire Watson family fortune to Bryan. But Bryan had declined the inheritance, suggesting instead that the property be liquidated and the proceeds donated to charitable organizations according to Mr. Watson's original wishes.
This mansion was the only thing Lawrence had begged to keep. He had pleaded in tears to Bryan not to sell and donate the ancestral home. Though it was somewhat presumptuous, Bryan had agreed.
So theoretically, Lawrence was now the master of Watson Manor.
Yet he still occupied the butler's quarters rather than the master's rooms.
Whether Muggle or wizard, a person of upright character and principle always deserved respect.
Knock, knock—
Bryan's knuckles knocked gently on the wooden door.
After a long moment, a weak, hoarse voice came from behind the door.
"Is that you, Hank?"
The voice continued, each word seeming to require tremendous effort, "Come in, please. You know that I can't get out of bed to open the door for you."
Click—
Bryan turned the handle slowly and entered the room.
The room was small but clean and tidy. With only a dim lamp glowing on the nightstand, the space appeared quite dark.
Bryan's eye immediately took note of the numerous medicine bottles on the nightstand. Then he turned his attention to Lawrence, lying in the bed.
The old butler, who had always been absolutely meticulous about his appearance now lay with disheveled gray hair spread across his pillow. His lips were now dry and pale, almost colorless, and deep purple shadows ringed his tightly closed eyes like bruises.
From the irregular rise and fall of his bedcovers, his breathing was clearly difficult and painful.
"Huff—huff—"
Lawrence wheezed hoarsely, his chest rattling with each inhalation, still not opening his eyes to see who had actually entered his room.
"I—I already told you quite clearly, Hank," He managed to say between difficult breaths, "I have no appetite right now. If I want to eat—eat something later, I promise I'll let you know immediately. Please, go rest now. You work too hard taking care of an old man."
Bryan pressed his lips together in a tight line and walked closer to the bed.
Looking down at Lawrence, at this gaunt old butler who had devoted his entire life to serving others with dignity and grace, Bryan spoke in a gentle, voice,
"You wrote to me saying that you wanted to see me once more before dying, Lawrence. But from what I can see, you still have quite a way to go before death comes calling at your door."
The difficult, rattling breathing stopped immediately, as if someone had suddenly held their breath underwater. Lawrence's eyes flew open on his sickbed with startling suddenness.
In the dim, golden light cast by the bedside lamp, he stared with wonder and disbelief at that very familiar young face. The next second, he threw off the lethargy and weakness and sat up abruptly in bed. His voice, suddenly clear and strong, rang out in heartfelt joy and relief:
"Master Watson! You came! You actually came!"
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