St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Fifth Floor.
Blake stepped onto the fifth floor, his thoughts racing. He had expected something more, but there was only one permanent ward here: Janus Sitch Ward, also known as Ward 49.
Dumbledore hadn't made any special arrangements—after all, few patients required permanent admission. With wizarding medicine being as advanced as it was, only severe conditions, particularly those affecting the mind, warranted such long-term care.
Theresa Pye had led them up but left immediately, as per instructions. If Blake Green arrived, she was to guide him up and leave without interfering.
Now, standing in the short corridor, Blake noted only two doors—one leading to the attending physician's office and the other to the permanent ward. The office was empty, a steaming cup of tea on the desk suggesting the healer had left in a hurry. Dumbledore truly had everything well managed.
Blake entered Ward 49 with Nagini and Old Repp. Inside, a man crouched on a fragile coffee table, his messy hair, sallow complexion, and sorrowful face making him look utterly lost. The table's legs strained under his weight.
"What are you doing?" Blake asked.
The man shifted his gaze toward Blake but quickly looked away without answering.
"Aren't you tired of squatting like that?"
No response.
"If you break the table, are you planning to pay for it?"
Finally, the man snapped, "The coffee table breaks, you fix it with a spell. Why would I pay for it?"
Blake smirked. "You know that much? Then you're not completely out of it."
The man shot him an irritated glance. "I'm a lunatic, not an idiot."
Blake felt strangely insulted. "You're Broderick Bode, right?"
"No. I'm a teapot."
"A teapot talking back to me? Seems pretty mad."
Blake recalled another patient in this ward, someone who had believed he was a teapot after an attack by Death Eaters. That patient had met a grim fate at the hands of a Devil's Snare. But Bode was speaking clearly—his mind seemed intact. Yet something felt off. If Blake remembered correctly, Bode worked in the Department of Mysteries and had been admitted to the ward in 1995. But this was only 1992. Had Blake's arrival altered history?
"You're not a teapot, Bode. You can't pour tea."
"I can."
"You can?"
"You don't believe me?"
"Not a chance."
"I'll show you."
Bode began unfastening his trousers.
"STOP! I believe you!"
Old Repp burst into laughter, wheezing from amusement. Even Nagini smirked. Blake, maintaining composure, muttered, "Madness truly knows no limits. But we'll see how stubborn you are after I cure you."
Ward 49 was a large space divided into cubicles, each housing a patient. Bode's bed, near the entrance, was ignored in favor of his precarious perch on the coffee table. The second cubicle held a man and a woman, sitting motionless on their beds, gazes empty. No crying, no struggling—just absolute hollowness. The woman clutched a candy wrapper. Blake's stomach tightened.
Neville's parents.
Their souls weren't just damaged; they were nearly ruined. Fixable, but difficult.
He moved on to the next cubicle. Two more witches sat there, pale and frail, one practicing writing, the other arranging flowers. When they noticed Blake, their blank stares held a flicker of confusion. They weren't completely gone—just lost.
The attending healer had them relearning basic skills, a slow, painful process. A crude method, but the only one available. Blake, however, had no intention of leaving them in this state.
He turned to Old Repp. "You don't need to stand guard."
"What if someone interrupts?"
"Using Soul magic doesn't take long."
Blake had spent a year practising with Voldemort's remnant soul. His proficiency in soul magic was unmatched. Restoring memories for these witches would be easier than curing Bode.
Nagini handed him a wand and some clothes from her pack. Blake drew his wand and approached the women.
"I'm here to help you. You'll sleep for a while, but when you wake up, you'll remember everything."
With a gentle tap on their foreheads, a faint purple light pulsed from his wand and seeped into their skin. Both witches collapsed into sleep.
Old Repp fumbled with his pipe. "That's it? We're done?"
Blake smirked. "It was never complicated. The Obliviation Curse suppresses parts of the soul. I just gave theirs a jumpstart."
"So… you just turned them off and on again?"
"Exactly."
One of the witches stirred. Her once-vacant eyes now held clarity. "My name is Agnes. I did banish the female ghost of Bandon… I thought he was a good man."
She spoke of Lockhart, her voice laced with bitterness.
"You'll need to improve your ability to judge character," Blake said dryly.
Agnes, like Old Repp, retained her memories from her time in St. Mungo's. Her gratitude toward Blake was palpable.
Another notification chimed in Blake's mind.
[Ding! A follower has voluntarily pledged allegiance. Accept?]
The second witch, Agatha, opened her eyes, blinking rapidly before gazing at Blake. "It feels so good to think again."
She sat up. "You saved me. I'm yours to command."
Blake blinked, surprised. "What… did you do before?"
"I was a Bounty hunter," Agatha said. "I took contracts and collected rewards. My last hunt was a hag. I'd just taken out their leader when Lockhart charmed me with lies."
Blake's system updated Agatha's stats, her abilities ranking close to Old Repp's. Another powerful ally.
"How did he trick you?"
Agatha's grip on the vase tightened. "That bastard offered a hundred Galleons for dueling lessons. During the demonstration, he swapped the Disarming Charm for the Obliviation Curse."
Blake exhaled sharply. Duel demonstrations required trust. To switch spells mid-duel was despicable.
Agatha's eyes darkened. "You know where he is, don't you?"
Blake nodded.
"Tell me. I want to crush his balls with my own hands."