Author's note: I admit I messed up in my retelling of The Prisoner of Azkaban by giving Hermione advanced knowledge of Neville's parents' fate. At some point, I will go back and change that reference to reflect the following chapter.
Surprisingly, Harry opened the door right away. Hermione had braced herself for a battle to break through his stubbornness. "What are you doing here? I thought you were skiing with your mum and dad?"
"Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing," Hermione said, stepping into the room. Both she and Harry knew she was lying, but Harry let it slide. "But don't tell Ron. I told him skiing's brilliant because he kept laughing so much. Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I've told them that everyone serious about exams is staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do well, so they'll understand."
"Anyway," she continued briskly, determined not to dwell on her parents, "let's go to your bedroom. Ron's mum has lit a fire in there, and she's sent up sandwiches."
Together, she and Harry stomped down the stairs to the second floor. Inside, Ron and Ginny were waiting for them, the warmth of the fire casting a cosy glow over the room.
"I came on the Knight Bus," Hermione said to Harry, hoping to pre-empt his questions. She was eager to get to the heart of the matter. "Dumbledore told me what happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr Weasley was in St Mungo's and he'd given you all permission to visit. So…" She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron all looked up at Harry expectantly. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," said Harry stiffly.
"Oh, don't lie, Harry," Hermione said impatiently. "Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St Mungo's."
"They do, do they?" said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet, but Ginny seemed entirely unabashed.
"Well, you have!" she said. "And you won't look at any of us!"
"It's you lot who won't look at me!" Harry snapped back.
"Maybe you're taking it in turns to look and keep missing each other," Hermione suggested, the corners of her mouth twitching despite the tension.
"Very funny," Harry muttered, turning away.
"Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood," said Hermione sharply. "Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears—"
"Yeah?" growled Harry. "All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it."
"We wanted to talk to you, Harry," said Ginny, sounding as exasperated with Harry's "poor me" routine as Hermione was becoming. "But as you've been hiding ever since we got back—"
"I didn't want anyone to talk to me," said Harry, sticking out his lower jaw in a pout.
"Well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels," Ginny stood with her hands on her hips, staring down the Boy Who Lived. Hermione could see it all click in her best friend's head.
"I forgot," he said sheepishly.
"Lucky you," said Ginny coolly.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, though Hermione could hear the sincerity in his voice. "So… do you think I'm being possessed then?"
"Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?" Ginny asked. "Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?"
"No," he replied.
"Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you," said Ginny simply, sitting back down on the bed. "When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there."
Hermione could see Harry trying to work through it all. "That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though—"
"Harry, you've had these dreams before," Hermione said. "You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year."
"This was different," said Harry, shaking his head. "I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake… what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London—?"
Hermione rolled her eyes but tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. "One day, you'll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparate inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry."
"You didn't leave your bed, mate," said Ron. "I saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up."
Hermione watched as Harry began pacing up and down the room again, his thoughts clearly working overtime. She could almost hear the click when Harry finally started to listen to reason. Maybe this time, he had learned the lesson.
Christmas at Grimmauld Place blended unexpected warmth and lingering shadows, but Sirius's infectious delight at having the house full again worked wonders in lifting everyone's spirits. Gone was the sullen host from the summer; in his place stood a man determined to create a festive atmosphere that rivalled, if not surpassed, the celebrations at Hogwarts. With Harry back, Sirius seemed on a mission to ensure that everyone would remember this Christmas for years to come.
In the days leading up to Christmas, Sirius worked tirelessly, enlisting the help of anyone willing to lend a hand. Together, they scrubbed and polished, swept and dusted, until the house began to sparkle with a newfound brilliance. By the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve, the transformation was nothing short of magical.
The tarnished chandeliers, once draped in cobwebs, now glimmered with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers. Enchanted snowflakes floated down gently, settling in sparkling heaps over the threadbare carpets. A magnificent Christmas tree, procured by Mundungus and adorned with live fairies that fluttered and glowed, stood proudly in the drawing room, effectively blocking out the sight of Sirius's grim family tree tapestry. Even the grim, stuffed elf-heads on the hall walls had been given a festive makeover, each wearing a talking Father Christmas Hat (courtesy of the twins) and a beard.
Hermione, Ron, and Ginny bustled around the tree, adding the final touches to the decorations. Hermione, in particular, had taken on the role of chief decorator with her usual meticulous attention to detail. She stood on tiptoe, carefully adjusting a particularly stubborn bauble, when she felt a presence beside her. Ron was there, awkwardly trying to hang a piece of mistletoe just above her head.
"What are you doing, Ron?" she asked, an amused smile playing on her lips.
"Just thought this spot needed a bit of festive charm," he replied, his ears turning a familiar shade of red.
Hermione laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Mistletoe, really?"
Ron shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "Why not? It's tradition, innit?"
Ginny, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing look, piped up, "Well, are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to kiss her?"
Both Hermione and Ron turned scarlet. Hermione glanced up at the mistletoe, then back at Ron. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, in a swift, impulsive move, Hermione leaned in and kissed Ron on the cheek, her lips brushing against his skin in a fleeting yet heart-stopping moment.
"There," she said briskly, stepping back with a playful smile. "Happy Christmas, Ron."
Ron stood frozen for a second, a dazed look on his face. "Happy Christmas, Hermione," he finally managed to stammer, his heart pounding in his chest.
The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of laughter, decorations, and shared stories. They hung stockings by the fireplace, Sirius leading them in a raucous rendition of a traditional wizarding carol. The mood was light and joyful, with everyone momentarily forgetting the dark times they were living in.
Later that night, as Hermione lay in bed, she couldn't help but replay the evening's events in her mind. Despite the looming threats outside, there was something incredibly comforting about being surrounded by friends and loved ones, sharing in the simple joy of Christmas. Her thoughts drifted briefly to her parents, but she pushed them out of her mind, determined to keep her spirits bright.
The next morning, Hermione awoke to a pile of presents at the end of her bed. She looked over and saw Ginny starting to stir. "Happy Christmas!" Hermione called brightly.
"Happy Christmas!" Ginny replied with equal enthusiasm.
They both scrambled to the foot of their beds, eager to see what surprises awaited them. Hermione reached for the first gift, a neatly wrapped package from Ron. She carefully untied the ribbon and unwrapped the paper to reveal a delicate bottle of perfume.
"Perfume from Ron," she said, holding it up with a bemused smile.
Ginny laughed. "He's trying to be romantic. That's adorable."
Hermione gave it a spritz and immediately had a sneezing fit. The scent smelled distinctly like a library… a very dusty and old library.
"You're supposed to wear that?" Ginny said, sneezing herself.
"I think so…"
"Maybe you should save it for special occasions," Ginny suggested, "like the next time you get petrified by a basilisk and lose your sense of smell."
"It's the thought that counts…?" Hermione said, trying to find a positive spin.
"Whatever you say," Ginny said, reaching for a rectangular box with a red tag that read: "To Ginny, from Hermione." She looked at Hermione with curiosity and excitement before carefully opening it. Inside, she found a set of customised Quidditch gloves and a helmet, both adorned with the Gryffindor lion and her initials.
"Hermione, these are amazing!" Ginny said, her voice filled with awe. She tried on the gloves, which fit perfectly. "I can't believe it! They're perfect!"
"I'm glad you like them, Ginny," Hermione said, her face glowing with happiness. "I wanted to get you something that you'd really love and use."
"These are incredible. I can't wait to wear them in our next match," Ginny said, hugging Hermione tightly. "Thank you so much! Open mine next."
Hermione reached for the package Ginny had pointed to. It was wrapped in bright, cheerful paper. The tag read: "To Hermione, from Ginny." She eagerly unwrapped it to find a beautifully hand-knitted scarf in shades of maroon and gold, with an "H" on each end.
"Ginny, this is beautiful," Hermione said, running her fingers over the soft, warm yarn. She wrapped the scarf around her neck, feeling the warmth seep into her skin. "Did you knit this yourself?"
Ginny nodded a shy smile on her face. "I did. I wanted to make you something special, something to keep you warm and remind you of home. Plus, you've been making so many hats, I thought you deserved something yourself."
"It's perfect," Hermione said, her eyes welling up with emotion.
"It's no Molly Weasley Original, but I hope you like it."
"Honestly, Gin—it's brilliant!"
Fearing she'd completely lose her composure, Hermione reached for the last few unopened presents and concentrated on ripping them open. She found a book from Harry, New Theory of Numerology, which she had wanted for ages, and gave him a warm smile when they met in the hallway.
Once they were both done opening, Hermione and Ginny got up and dressed. They could hear the other inhabitants of the house calling "Merry Christmas" to one another. Hermione grabbed one last present and headed downstairs behind Ginny. On their way, they ran into Ron and Harry.
"Thanks for the new book, Harry," she said happily. "I've been wanting that New Theory of Numerology for ages! And that perfume's really unusual, Ron." She had to elbow Ginny to keep her from snickering at her word choice.
"No problem," said Ron, his ears turning pink. "Who's that for, anyway?" he added, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she was carrying.
"Kreacher," said Hermione brightly.
"It had better not be clothes!" Ron warned her. "You know what Sirius said: Kreacher knows too much; we can't set him free!"
"It isn't clothes," Hermione rolled her eyes. She wasn't stupid. "Although, if I had my way, I'd certainly give him something to wear other than that filthy old rag. No, it's a patchwork quilt. I thought it would brighten up his bedroom."
"What bedroom?" asked Harry in a whisper as they passed the portrait of Mrs Black.
"Well, Sirius says it's not so much a bedroom, more a kind of… den," said Hermione. "Apparently, he sleeps under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen."
Mrs Weasley was the only person in the kitchen when they arrived. Standing at the stove, she sounded as though she had a nasty head cold as she wished them a Merry Christmas. Hermione suspected there was something more to Mrs Weasley's demeanour than just a head cold, but she didn't want to pry. It was probably hard for her to be estranged from Percy, especially during the holidays.
"So, this is Kreacher's bedroom?" asked Ron, sauntering over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry.
"Yes," said Hermione. "Er, I think we'd better knock."
Ron rapped on the door a few times, but there was no reply.
"He must be sneaking around upstairs," he said, and without further ado, he pulled open the door. "Urgh!"
They all peered inside. The cupboard was dominated by a massive, antiquated boiler, its pipes snaking through the space like skeletal fingers. Beneath the pipes, in a small, cramped area, Kreacher had fashioned a makeshift nest. Hermione's heart ached at the sight of it—a tangled heap of rags and filthy old blankets arranged haphazardly on the floor. In the centre, a slight indentation marked where Kreacher curled up to sleep each night, a pitiful sight that spoke volumes about his living conditions.
Hermione wrinkled her nose as the musty odour of stale bread crusts and mouldy cheese reached her. The remnants of Kreacher's meals were scattered among the rags, adding to the squalor. It was heartbreaking to think of him scavenging for food in the shadows, his loyalty to the Black family driving him to hoard these pathetic scraps.
Her eyes travelled to the far corner, where a small collection of objects glinted faintly. Coins and trinkets, salvaged from Sirius's efforts to clean the house, lay in a sad, magpie-like hoard. Among them, Hermione spotted silver-framed family photographs, their glass shattered but painstakingly repaired with Spellotape. She leaned in closer, recognising the dark, heavy-lidded woman in one of the photos—Bellatrix Lestrange. The sight of her made Hermione's stomach churn with unease.
It was clear that Bellatrix was Kreacher's favourite. Her photograph had been placed at the forefront of the collection, and the clumsy mending job with Spellotape suggested Kreacher had devoted considerable effort to preserving it. Hermione couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the house elf, twisted and corrupted by his loyalty to a family that had shown him nothing but disdain.
Hermione pulled herself back into the fresh air of the kitchen. "I think I'll just leave his present here," she said, laying the package neatly in the middle of the depression in the rags and blankets and closing the door quietly. "He'll find it later; that'll be fine."
"Come to think of it," said Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the cupboard door, "has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?"
"I haven't seen him since the night we came back here," said Harry. "You were ordering him out of the kitchen."
"Yeah…" said Sirius, frowning. "You know, I think that's the last time I saw him too… he must be hiding upstairs somewhere."
"He couldn't have left, could he?" asked Harry. "I mean, when you said 'out,' maybe he thought you meant out of the house?"
"No, no, house-elves can't leave unless they're given clothes. They're tied to their family's house," said Sirius.
"They can leave the house if they really want to," Harry contradicted him. "Dobby did. He left the Malfoys' to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterward, but he still managed it."
Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment and then said, "I'll look for him later. I expect I'll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother's old bloomers or something. Of course, he may have crawled into the airing cupboard and died… but I mustn't get my hopes up."
Hermione didn't have a good feeling about any of it. If Kreacher had left Headquarters, who knew what he could do or say. With how Sirius and most of the Weasleys treated him, she couldn't entirely blame the house-elf for being spiteful. She sighed, hoping the patchwork quilt might bring Kreacher some small comfort, and joined the others in the kitchen to help with the Christmas lunch.
After lunch, Hermione, the Weasleys, and Harry prepared to visit Mr Weasley at St Mungo's. Hermione was excited to finally see Mr Weasley and experience the renowned wizarding hospital. Mad-Eye and Lupin were to escort them, and Mundungus turned up just in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having "borrowed" a car for the occasion, as the Underground didn't run on Christmas Day.
Hermione was highly suspicious that the car hadn't been borrowed with the owner's consent, but she knew better than to start a scene about it on Christmas, especially on their way to visit Mr Weasley. The car was bewitched to be much larger on the inside, and although it appeared normally proportioned on the outside, all ten people fit comfortably within. Mundungus was driving, though Hermione used the term loosely. She had experienced fewer bumps on the Knight Bus. Thankfully, there wasn't much traffic on the holiday.
They all piled out of the stolen car and stepped into the wintry air on a broad, store-lined street in the heart of London. The group naturally sectioned off into smaller clumps to avoid drawing attention from the few people milling about. Hermione, Ginny, and Ron clustered together, with Ron leading the way.
"You know," Ron said with an air of authority, "it wasn't easy to find a good location for a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough, and we couldn't have it underground like the Ministry—wouldn't be healthy."
"Thanks for the history lesson," Ginny said sarcastically.
"'Mione's never been here," Ron retorted. "I know she likes stuff like that."
"I do like stuff like that," Hermione said, unable to suppress a smile. "Thank you."
"See?!" Ron stuck his tongue out at Ginny, ruining any semblance of maturity. "Anyway, here it is. St Mungo's."
Hermione looked up at the large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge & Dowse, Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air about it. The window displays held a plethora of sad, chipped mannequins with their wigs askew, modelling fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on the dusty doors read: "Closed for Refurbishment."
Ron took Hermione's hand and pulled her toward a window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly female dummy. Its false eyelashes were hanging off, and it was modelling a green nylon pinafore dress. Ron leaned toward the glass and seemed to speak directly to the dummy. "We're here to see Arthur Weasley."
Hermione was shocked to see the dummy give a slight nod. Before she knew what was happening, Ron was pulling her—Ginny right behind her—through the glass. It felt like passing through a sheet of cold water, and they emerged quite warm and dry on the other side.
There was no sign of the dummy or the space it had occupied. Instead, they found themselves in a crowded reception area very similar to what one might see at a Muggle hospital. The area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St Mungo's had been coloured red and gold to become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway; and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each one topped with a gleaming gold star. Witches and wizards dressed in green robes with clipboards were assessing those in the waiting room. To Hermione's right was a small queue in front of a desk marked "Enquiries." The wall behind her was covered in notices and posters with messages like "A clean cauldron keeps potions from becoming poisons" and "Antidotes are anti-don'ts unless approved by a qualified healer." There was also a large directory sign posted near the front of the queue:
ARTEFACT ACCIDENTS — Ground floor
Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom crashes, etc.
CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES — First floor
Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.
MAGICAL BUGS — Second floor
Contagious maladies, e.g. dragon pox, vanishing sickness, scrojungulus, etc.
POTION AND PLANT POISONING — Third floor
Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable giggling, etc.
SPELL DAMAGE — Fourth floor
Unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly applied charms, etc.
VISITORS' TEAROOM / HOSPITAL SHOP — Fifth floor
IF YOU ARE UNSURE WHERE TO GO, INCAPABLE OF NORMAL SPEECH, OR UNABLE TO REMEMBER WHY YOU ARE HERE, OUR WELCOMEWITCH WILL BE PLEASED TO HELP.
Once everyone had entered, they climbed a flight of stairs and entered the Creature-Induced Injuries corridor. The second door on the right bore the words: "'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites." Underneath this was a card in a brass holder on which had been handwritten: "Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck. Trainee Healer: Augustus Pye."
The ward was small and somewhat dingy, as the only window was narrow and set high in the wall facing the door. Most of the light came from more shining crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling. The walls were panelled oak, and a portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard was on the wall, captioned: "Urquhart Rackharrow, 1612-1697, Inventor of the Entrail-expelling Curse."
There were only three patients. Mr Weasley was occupying the bed beside the tiny window at the far end of the ward. He looked up as they walked toward him and, seeing who it was, beamed. On his lap were the remains of his turkey dinner. Hermione was so relieved to see how well he looked despite all the bruises and minor cuts.
"Everything all right, Arthur?" asked Mrs Weasley after they had all greeted him and handed over their presents.
"Fine, fine," said Mr Weasley, a little too heartily. "You—er—haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?"
"No," said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, "why?"
"Nothing, nothing," said Mr Weasley airily, unwrapping his pile of gifts. "Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh! Harry! This is absolutely wonderful!" For he had just opened Harry's gift of fuse wire and screwdrivers.
Mrs Weasley was not satisfied with Mr Weasley's answer by any means. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry's hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt.
"Arthur," she said with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, "you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow."
"What?" said Mr Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. "No, no—it's nothing—it's—I—"
He seemed to deflate under Mrs Weasley's piercing gaze.
"Well—now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea… he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in… um… complementary medicine… I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies… well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on—on Muggle wounds—"
Mrs Weasley made an ominous noise between a shriek and a snarl. Professor Lupin smartly strolled over to visit with another patient across the room. Bill Weasley muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea, and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning.
"Do you mean to tell me," said Mrs Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word, "that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?"
"Not messing about, Molly, dear," implored Mr Weasley, "it was just—just something Pye, and I thought we'd try—only, most unfortunately—well, with these particular kinds of wounds—it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped—"
"Meaning?!"
"Well… well, I don't know whether you know what—what stitches are?"
Hermione looked wildly at Mrs Weasley, wondering the same. "It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together," said Mrs Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, "but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid—"
"I fancy a cup of tea, too," Harry said just before Hermione could do the same, jumping to his feet. Hermione also bolted up, and she, Ron, Ginny, and Harry nearly sprinted to the door. She (and Harry) knew precisely what was about to happen. As it closed behind them, they heard Mrs Weasley shriek, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?"
"Typical Dad," said Ginny, shaking her head. "Stitches, I ask you…"
"Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds," said Hermione. "I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something." She looked around and down the corridor. "I wonder where the tearoom is?"
"Fifth floor," said Harry.
They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors, and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.
"And what's that supposed to be?" he asked angrily as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.
"Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now—"
"Watch who you're calling gruesome!" said Ron, his ears blazing red.
"—the only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked at the full moon in a barrel of eels' eyes—"
"I have not got spattergroit!"
"But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master—"
"They're freckles!" roared Ron. "Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!"
He rounded on the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces.
"What floor is this?"
"I think it's the fifth," said Hermione, clamping her mouth shut as soon as she spoke so she wouldn't laugh.
"Nah, it's the fourth," said Harry. "One more—"
Harry took another step to the next landing and came to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that marked the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. Hermione followed his gaze and spied a man peering out at them with his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a broad, vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white teeth. Hermione would have known that face anywhere.
"Blimey!" Ron uttered before Hermione could find her voice.
"Oh, my goodness!" said Hermione. "Professor Lockhart!"
Their ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed open the doors and moved towards them, wearing a long lilac dressing gown.
"Well, hello there!" he said. "I expect you'd like my autograph, would you?"
"Er—how are you, Professor?" said Ron, sounding slightly guilty. It was, after all, Ron's malfunctioning wand that had damaged Professor Lockhart's memory so severely that he had landed in St Mungo's in the first place. However, as Lockhart had been attempting to permanently wipe Ron and Harry's memories at the time, Hermione didn't think he should feel that bad.
"I'm very well indeed, thank you!" said Lockhart. He pulled a rather battered peacock feather quill from his pocket. "Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!"
"Er—we don't want any at the moment, thanks," said Ron.
"Professor," Harry interjected, "should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?"
Lockhart's smile faded slowly from his face. For a few moments, he gazed intently at Harry, then said, "Haven't we met?"
"Er—yeah, we have," said Harry. "You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?"
"Teach?" repeated Lockhart, looking unsettled. "Me? Did I?"
And then the smile reappeared upon his face so suddenly it was rather alarming. Hermione was completely unsettled.
"Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen? You can give them to all your little friends then, and nobody will be left out!"
Just then, a head poked out of a door at the far end of the corridor, and a voice called, "Gilderoy, you naughty boy. Where have you wandered off to?"
A motherly-looking Healer wearing tinsel in her hair came bustling up the corridor, smiling warmly at them all.
"Oh, Gilderoy! You've got visitors! How lovely, and on Christmas Day, too! Do you know, he never gets visitors, poor lamb, and I can't think why; he's such a sweetie, aren't you?"
"We're doing autographs," Gilderoy told the Healer with another glittering smile. "They want loads of them, won't take no for an answer! I just hope we've got enough photographs!"
"Listen to him," said the Healer, taking their ex-professor's arm and beaming fondly at him like he was a precocious two-year-old. "He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be starting to come back. Will you step this way? He's in a closed ward, you know; he must have slipped out while I was bringing in the Christmas presents. The door's usually kept locked… not that he's dangerous! But," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "he's a bit of a danger to himself, bless him… doesn't know who he is, you see, wanders off and can't remember how to get back… it is nice of you to have come to see him."
"Er," said Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above, "actually, we were just—er—"
But the Healer was smiling expectantly at them, and Ron's feeble mutter of "going to have a cup of tea" trailed away into nothingness. Ron looked at Hermione helplessly and then resigned to follow Lockhart and his Healer along the corridor.
"Let's not stay long," Ron said quietly. Hermione fought the urge to respond, "Obviously."
The Healer pointed her wand at the door of the Janus Thickey Ward and muttered, "Alohomora." The door swung open, and she led the way inside, keeping a firm grasp on Lockhart's arm until she had settled him into an armchair beside his bed.
"This is our long-term residents' ward," she informed them in a low voice. "For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement. Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself, and we've seen a real improvement in Mr Bode; he seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, though he isn't speaking any language we recognise yet. Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas presents. I'll leave you all to chat."
Hermione glanced around the ward as the Healer left them alone with Gilderoy. She couldn't bring herself to look at the shell of a human her ex-professor now was. The ward bore unmistakable signs of being a permanent home to its residents. They had many more personal effects around their beds than in Mr Weasley's ward; the wall around Gilderoy's headboard, for instance, was papered with pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at the new arrivals. He had autographed many of them to himself in disjointed, childish writing.
"You can put them in envelopes," he said, throwing some signed photos into Ginny's lap one by one as he finished them. "I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail… Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly! I just wish I knew why…" He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed again and returned to his signing with renewed vigour. "I suspect it is simply my good looks…"
Hermione felt a flush of shame for the way she idolised him in their second year. Like many (though that was no excuse), she had been duped by his brave and impressive lies. It was apparent what Gilderoy Lockhart was when stripped of his stories: a self-righteous, egotistical git.
"Here you are, Agnes," the Healer said brightly to one of the other patients on the ward. The woman was furry-faced and staring blankly as the Healer handed her a small pile of Christmas presents. "See? Not forgotten, are you? And your son's sent an owl to say he's visiting tonight, so that's nice, isn't it?"
Agnes gave several loud barks in reply.
"And look, Broderick," the Healer continued to a sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard opposite Lockhart's bed, "you've been sent a pot plant and a lovely calendar with a different fancy Hippogriff for each month. They'll brighten things up, won't they?"
The Healer set a rather ugly plant with long, swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixed the calendar to the wall with her wand. There was something suspicious about that plant…
But Hermione's thoughts were interrupted again by the Healer: "And - oh, Mrs Longbottom, are you leaving already?"
A cold chill washed over Hermione, and she joined Ron, Harry, and Ginny in whipping their heads around. The curtains at the back of the ward had been drawn back from the two beds, and two visitors were walking back down the aisle between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur, and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakably a stuffed vulture. Trailing behind her, looking thoroughly depressed, was Neville.
Ron took a step towards their fellow Gryffindor and called out, "Neville!"
Neville jumped and cowered as though a bullet had narrowly missed him.
"It's us, Neville!" said Ron brightly. "Have you seen—? Lockhart's here! Who've you been visiting?"
"Friends of yours, Neville, dear?" said Neville's grandmother graciously, bearing down upon them all.
Poor Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere in the world but there. Hermione was trying desperately to figure out what was happening and why Neville and his grandmother were at St. Mungo's, let alone in this specific ward. A dull purple flush crept up his plump face, and he was not making eye contact with any of them.
"Ah, yes," said Neville's grandmother, her eyes flicking up to Harry's forehead. She stuck out a shrivelled, claw-like hand for him to shake. "Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you."
"Er—thanks," said Harry, shaking hands. Neville was staring at his own feet, the colour deepening in his face all the while.
"And you two are clearly Weasleys," Mrs Longbottom continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and Ginny in turn. "Yes, I know your parents—not well, of course—but fine people, fine people… and you must be Hermione Granger?"
Hermione had kind of met Mrs Longbottom their first year as she had indirectly helped Hermione and her parents figure out Platform 9 ¾. She took the woman's hand and shook it.
"Yes, Neville's told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you? He's a good boy," she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her rather bony nose at Neville, "but he hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say." And she jerked her head toward the two beds at the end of the ward so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled alarmingly. Hermione knew Mrs Longbottom was hard on Neville, but that comment was just rude and mean-spirited.
Ron piped up just as she was about to tell Neville's grandmother off. "What?" he said, straining to look down the corridor. "Is that your dad down the end, Neville?"
"What's this?" said Mrs Longbottom sharply. "Haven't you told your friends about your parents, Neville?"
Hermione watched as her poor friend took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling, and shook his head. Almost immediately, she put two and two together: his parents were patients and, based on the ward and the state of Professor Lockhart, they weren't doing too well.
"Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of!" said Mrs Longbottom angrily. "You should be proud, Neville, proud! They didn't give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!"
"I'm not ashamed," said Neville. While his reply was very faint and he was looking anywhere but at them, Hermione felt a swell of pride at her friend for standing up to his grandmother, albeit just a little bit.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Ron, unfortunately, standing on his tiptoes and gawking at the inhabitants of the two beds.
"Well, you've got a funny way of showing it!" said Mrs Longbottom. "My son and his wife," she said, turning haughtily to Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Harry, "were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers."
Hermione and Ginny clapped their hands over their mouths. Ron (thankfully) stopped craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville's parents and looked mortified.
"They were Aurors, you know, and very respected within the wizarding community," Mrs Longbottom went on. "Highly gifted, the pair of them. I—yes, Alice dear, what is it?"
Neville's mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-looking face Hermione had seen in pictures. Her face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed overlarge, and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak or, perhaps, she was not able to, but she made timid motions towards Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand. Would this be her fate if Umbridge had her way?
"Again?" said Mrs Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. "Very well, Alice dear, very well—Neville, take it, whatever it is."
But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper.
"Very nice, dear," said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder.
But Neville said quietly, "Thanks, Mum."
His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but laughing was the absolute last thing Hermione wanted to do.
"Well, we'd better get back," sighed Mrs Longbottom, drawing on her long green gloves. "Very nice to have met you all. Neville put that wrapper in the bin. She must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now."
But as they walked past them on the way to the exit, Hermione noticed Neville slipping the sweet wrapper into his pocket.
The door closed behind them, leaving the four friends in a heavy silence.
"I never knew," said Hermione, tearing up.
"Nor did I," said Ron rather hoarsely.
"Nor me," whispered Ginny.
"I did," Harry admitted glumly. "Dumbledore told me, but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone… that's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds."
"Bellatrix Lestrange did that?" whispered Hermione, horrified as she looked at Mr and Mrs Longbottom at the end of the ward. "That woman Kreacher's got a photo of in his den?"
There was a long silence, broken by Lockhart's angry voice.
"Look, I didn't learn joined-up writing for nothing, you know!"