7th May 1994
St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
Classes had barely ended when Neville and I slipped through a quiet corner of the castle into a shimmering golden ring of light — the portal leading to Mum's chamber at St Mungo's. The familiar hum of magic filled my ears as we stepped through.
Mum looked up from the neat stack of patient charts on her desk, her expression softening the instant she saw us.
"Ben," she greeted warmly, rising from her chair. "Right on time." Then her eyes moved to Neville, her smile kind and knowing. "How are you doing, Neville?"
"I'm great, Mrs. Carter. Thanks," Neville said, his voice steady but his hands clasped behind his back — the way he always did when trying to mask nerves.
"Hi, Mum," I said, smiling. "Is everything ready?"
She nodded, her expression turning serious. "Yes. Come with me."
We followed her out into the main corridor of St Mungo's. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic potions and fresh dittany — that unique, sharp scent that clung to the hospital no matter how many ventilation charms they used. Healers in lime-green robes hurried about, levitating charts, carrying potions, and ushering nervous patients toward their wards.
At the reception desk, the ever-frazzled witch behind the counter was currently arguing with a wizard holding a teapot that kept trying to bite him. The quills floating beside her scratched frantically on parchment as she tried to keep up.
Mum led us toward the marble staircase. The moment we started climbing, the building's cacophony began to unfold in layers.
The first floor — Creature-Induced Injuries — was pure chaos: hissing, growling, and one poor healer wrestling with a man whose arm had turned completely reptilian.
The second floor — Magical Bugs — had its doors sealed tight. Through the enchanted barrier, I could hear faint croaking sounds. Someone inside was coughing up frogs again.
The third floor — Poisoning Department —smelled of crushed bezoars and strong antidotes, and then finally, the fourth — Spell Damage. The air here was calmer, quieter, but tinged with something solemn. The kind of quiet you associate with people waiting for miracles.
Mum stopped before a familiar corridor — the one leading to the Janus Thickey Ward, home to long-term residents who had forgotten what normal life felt like. We passed the door, walking to a smaller cabin tucked away at the end of the hall.
When Mum opened the door, the sight hit me like a weight to the chest.
Two beds stood side by side, pale light falling through the window across them. Frank and Alice Longbottom lay there — still, fragile, faces lined with torment and time.
Beside me, Neville inhaled sharply. I placed a hand on his shoulder — just enough to ground him. He looked at me, eyes glistening but resolute, and gave a small nod.
"They're ready," Mum said softly. "I've placed them under sleeping spells so the procedure can go smoothly." She met my eyes and gave the faintest nod. "Do what you came to do."
I swallowed and drew my wand — the familiar maple shaft thrumming in my grip. Normally, I'd go wandless, but this wasn't the time to waste even an ounce of energy. Neville did the same, his knuckles white around the handle.
We stepped forward, Neville to his mother's side, me to Frank's.
Together, we whispered, "Restaurare Corpus."
Golden light poured from our wands, washing over the Longbottoms like liquid sunlight. The glow pulsed gently, peeling away the scars of time and suffering. Wrinkles softened, sunken cheeks filled, color returned to their skin. Even their breathing steadied — quiet, peaceful, strong.
When the spell faded, they looked as though the last decade had been nothing more than a bad dream. A sleeping couple in their thirties — not two victims lost to madness.
Neville sagged, his shoulders trembling, sweat beading along his brow. I watched him carefully. "You okay?"
He didn't look away from them. His voice, though tired, carried a steel edge. "Yeah. Let's keep going."
I nodded and raised my wand again. The next spell wasn't one most healers dared to touch. Spirit Magic — the kind of power that worked beyond flesh and bone, deep in the soul.
We spoke in unison again. "Reparare Spiritum."
This time, a silvery-blue light bloomed from our wands, filling the room with a serene, moonlit glow. It shimmered like water — calm, reflective, infinite. The air thickened, humming with something ancient. I felt it pulse through me — the faint ache of sorrow, the whisper of pain being slowly rewritten into peace.
When the light finally dimmed, the world seemed quieter somehow. Softer. Whole.
Neville staggered again, breathing hard. I stepped toward him, but he lifted a hand — not now, that look said. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, and gave me a shaky smile. I nodded.
Then he turned to his mother and whispered the final spell.
"Rennervate."
Alice Longbottom stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, pupils focusing on the ceiling above. She blinked, confused. Then she turned her head, saw her husband lying motionless beside her — and for an instant, I could almost see the memory flash behind her eyes. Pain, screams, Death Eaters. The Cruciatus.
"Frank?" she rasped, voice hoarse. "Frank, can you hear me?"
"Alice," Mum said gently, stepping closer.
Alice turned towards her, eyes narrowing as recognition flickered. "Miranda?"
Mum smiled warmly. "It's alright, Alice. You're safe. You're at St Mungo's."
Relief softened Alice's features. "Frank?" she asked again, looking anxiously at her husband.
"He'll be fine, Mrs. Longbottom," I said softly. "So will you. Thanks to your son."
Her gaze shifted to me, puzzled — then to Neville.
And in that heartbeat, everything stopped.
"Neville?" she whispered.
Neville's composure shattered. Tears streamed freely as he leaned forward and said, voice trembling, "Hi, Mum."
She reached out with shaking hands, and he caught them — then she pulled him close, holding him like she never meant to let go.
I felt my throat tighten. Quietly, I raised my wand and turned to Frank.
"Rennervate."
Frank Longbottom's eyelids fluttered, his eyes focusing slowly. The first sound he heard was his wife crying softly into their son's shoulder.
"Alice?" he whispered.
She turned instantly, tears shining. "Frank! Look—look who it is! It's Neville! Our baby boy!"
Frank blinked, struggling to process it — then his breath caught. "Neville?"
Neville stepped between the beds, his smile wobbly but radiant. "Dad."
"My son!" Frank exclaimed, pulling him into a fierce embrace. Alice joined them, arms wrapping around both.
For a long while, no one spoke. Only quiet sobs and the kind of silence that feels sacred.
I blinked away a tear of my own, glancing at Mum. Her eyes were shining too, pride and relief softening her face.
Then —
The door opened.
"Miranda," came a brisk, elderly voice. "Nurse Stout said I would find you here. What exactly—"
Augusta Longbottom froze. Her walking stick clattered to the floor.
Her gaze locked on the impossible — her son and daughter-in-law awake, sitting upright, embracing their grown son.
"Frank?" she whispered, voice trembling.
Frank turned toward her with tears streaming freely. "Mama."
Her composure crumbled. "My boy!" she cried, rushing forward, cupping his face in her hands before pressing kisses to his forehead. Then she turned to Alice, hugging her fiercely. "My dear Alice!"
Mum and I exchanged a smile. Without a word, she stepped out to give them space. I lingered for a moment longer at the doorway, watching the Longbottoms — a family whole again after twelve long years.
Neville looked up then. His eyes met mine — full of gratitude so raw and deep it said more than words ever could.
I smiled back and nodded once before quietly following Mum out, leaving them to the joy they had long been denied.
It was the kind of miracle you don't just witness.
You feel it — deep in your bones.
---
9th May 1994
Hogwarts Grounds – Afternoon
The late spring sun bathed the Hogwarts grounds in a warm, golden haze. The air was filled with the hum of life—buzzing insects, the distant calls of birds, and the faint, melodic chatter of merfolk from the lake. It was the kind of day that made you forget that danger ever existed. Almost.
Hagrid and I stepped out of his cabin, our boots crunching softly over the grass. He was humming cheerfully to himself, swinging that absurd pink umbrella like it was a walking stick.
"Thanks for helping me with this, Hagrid," I said, adjusting the strap of my satchel.
"Don't mention it, Ben," he replied, waving a hand the size of a small table. "After what yeh did for the Longbottoms, this is the least I can do. I dunno if yeh know, but Frank and Alice were old friends o' mine. Tragic, what happened to 'em." His voice softened. "At least now they'll get to spend the rest of their lives in peace."
I smiled faintly. "I'm just glad Neville got his family back."
Hagrid gave me a sidelong grin. "You've got a good heart, Ben." He paused, squinting into the shadowed treeline of the Forbidden Forest. "But I gotta warn yeh, they don't usually trust blokes. They'll bolt before yeh can take a step closer."
"That's alright," I said, trying not to sound too smug. "I've got something special up my sleeve—or should I say, in my satchel." I patted the bag meaningfully.
Hagrid raised an eyebrow but didn't ask. "Right then," he rumbled. "Let's see if that trick o' yours works."
We entered the forest. The air turned cooler, thicker, heavy with the scent of moss, loam, and something ancient. Shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy in golden lances, painting shifting mosaics on the ground. The deeper we went, the quieter it became—no birds, no rustling, just the rhythm of our boots on damp earth and the occasional snap of a twig.
After several minutes, we reached a small clearing where sunlight pooled like liquid gold. And there—grazing in tranquil silence—was a family of unicorns.
Two adults, coats so white they shimmered like moonlight made solid. Their golden hooves gleamed when they moved. Near them stood a silver-hued colt, less than four years old, still hornless. Beside it, a golden foal so small it looked like it had been born from sunlight itself.
Hagrid extended a hand to halt me. "Stay back fer now," he whispered. "Lemme do the introducin'."
I nodded. He stepped forward with the kind of gentleness that always surprised me in someone so large. The unicorns raised their heads, nostrils flaring—but when they recognised him, their tension melted away.
"That's right, lovely ones," Hagrid murmured, voice low and warm. "It's jus' me. Got a friend with me today. He won't harm yeh, promise." He reached out and stroked the nearest unicorn's mane, which rippled like liquid silver under his hand.
He glanced over his shoulder. "Alright, Ben—nice and slow."
I stepped forward, careful and deliberate. Immediately, the unicorns tensed. The silver colt gave a nervous snort and pawed the ground.
"Easy now," Hagrid warned softly. "Told yeh—they don't take kindly to blokes."
I smiled slightly. I had expected that. Which was why I had come prepared.
From my satchel, I drew out a few carefully wrapped pieces of lembas bread—the Elven waybread given to me by Legolas and Tauriel. As soon as I unwrapped them, their scent filled the clearing: sweet, bright, impossibly pure. It was a fragrance untouched by this world—by its pollution, its decay, or its cynicism.
The unicorns froze. Then, one by one, their heads lifted, nostrils flaring as curiosity bloomed in place of fear.
The golden foal moved first, stepping forward on delicate hooves, eyes wide and luminous. I crouched low, offering the lembas on an open palm. The foal sniffed once, then took a tiny, cautious bite. Its ears twitched. It took another, more confident one.
The silver colt followed, then the two adults. I fed each a small piece, my movements calm and unhurried. Their trust came gradually, like dawn breaking through fog.
Then the leader—the largest unicorn—lifted its head and met my gaze.
Its eyes were old. Not in the mortal sense, but in the way of ancient rivers and moonlight that had seen centuries pass. I didn't speak aloud. Instead, I let my thoughts flow outward, reaching for its mind in images rather than words.
I showed it what I had seen in another world—the frozen wastes of the North of Westeros, the endless army of the undead marching, the Night King leading them with eyes of blue fire. I showed my intent: a ritual meant to stop that darkness, but one that could claim my life unless balanced by the purest essence of healing—unicorn blood.
And I made clear: the blood must be given willingly. Never taken.
For a long moment, silence held the clearing. The leader's gaze probed mine, deep and still as starlight. Then, with quiet grace, it lifted one shining foreleg.
I bowed deeply. "Thank you," I whispered.
Drawing my wand, I murmured, "Diffindo," making a small, shallow cut along its leg. Silver-blue blood, faintly glowing, flowed into the crystal vial I held ready. When it was full, I sealed it and immediately healed the wound with a soft "Episkey." The skin closed without a scar.
The unicorn snorted gently, serene and unafraid.
I stepped back, bowing once more to each of them. "May your light never fade," I said quietly.
Behind me, Hagrid exhaled in amazement. "Well, I'll be," he muttered. "Never seen that happen before."
We made our way back through the forest in comfortable silence. The unicorns stayed in the clearing, bathed in sunlight as if the forest itself honored their grace.
At the forest's edge, I turned back one last time. The leader stood still, silver mane rippling softly in the breeze.
And for just a heartbeat—it nodded.
---
The Shire, Middle-Earth
Six months after Ben's departure
The evening had settled gently over Hobbiton, washing the hills in soft gold and lavender. The sky shimmered like brushed silk, streaked with fading rose. Smoke curled lazily from round chimneys, and fireflies danced among the gardens. At Bag End, the windows glowed with a warm, welcoming light.
Inside, Bilbo Baggins hummed tunelessly as he laid out his supper—a most un-Hobbitlike affair, yet one he had grown rather fond of since Benjamin Carter's visit. Upon his plate sat a perfectly grilled cheeseburger, its juices glistening invitingly beneath a cloak of melted cheese, flanked by a proud mound of golden fries dusted with rosemary and salt.
Bilbo's mouth watered. "Well," he murmured, rubbing his hands together, "if this isn't proof that other worlds have their merits, I don't know what is." He adjusted his napkin, lifted the burger in both hands, and smiled. "To adventures—unexpected and otherwise."
He took a deep breath and—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
Bilbo froze mid-bite, expression souring like milk in the sun. "Oh, bother," he muttered, lowering the burger with the air of a martyr. "Can a hobbit not have his supper in peace?"
He hopped down from his chair, adjusting his waistcoat as he shuffled toward the door. The bell rang again—sharper, more insistent.
"Yes, yes! I'm coming!" he barked. "Honestly, the nerve of some folk—"
He swung the door open.
No one stood there. The lane was empty. The evening breeze whispered softly through the grass, carrying only the scent of lilacs and freshly turned earth. Bilbo blinked, leaned forward, and squinted into the twilight.
And then—
A low, guttural growl drifted up from below.
Bilbo looked down.
Standing hunched on the doorstep, pale and bony, with wide eyes glinting like twin moons and a mouth full of too many teeth—was Gollum.
Bilbo's heart dropped into his furry feet. "Oh... oh dear."
"Thief!" Gollum shrieked, launching himself at the hobbit with terrifying speed. Bilbo yelped as he was knocked flat onto his back, the wind whooshing from his lungs.
"Where is it, where is it, where is it?!" Gollum hissed, shaking Bilbo by the collar. "The precious, the precious, the thief has it!"
"G-Gollum! Stop that! Let go of me!" Bilbo squeaked, trying to push him off. "It's gone! The Ring—it's gone!"
"Lies! Filthy, tricksy hobbit lies!" Gollum snarled, pawing frantically at Bilbo's pockets, searching, muttering, growling. "Where is it, where did it hide it, we wants it back!"
"I'm telling you the truth!" Bilbo gasped, trying to regain his breath. "The Ring was destroyed—thrown into the fires of Mount Doom! My friends and I—well, mostly Ben—made sure of it!"
Gollum froze mid-motion, staring at him as though he'd been struck. His hands trembled. "D-destroyed?" he croaked. "No... no, no, no..."
His knees buckled, and he let out a long, pitiful wail, rocking back and forth. "Gone... all gone... our precious..."
The sound echoed through the quiet night, and Bilbo winced. For a long moment, there was only the sound of Gollum's weeping—and then, the creature's nose twitched. He sniffed once. Then again.
His head jerked toward the open door. "What... what is that smell?"
"Oh, no," Bilbo muttered, realizing too late.
With the agility of a greased ferret, Gollum scuttled past him into the kitchen. His eyes grew impossibly wide at the sight of the steaming cheeseburger waiting on the plate.
"The food!" he cried, pointing a trembling finger at it. "It tricked us before, yes it did! It gave us fishes and meats and sweet bread—then stole our precious!"
"What? No, no! That wasn't me!" Bilbo protested, hands raised. "That was Ben! Benjamin Carter! Tall chap, very magical, hard to miss!"
Gollum blinked, momentarily thrown. "But... but it was the hobbit who stole our precious," he said, voice trembling between anger and confusion.
Bilbo grimaced. "Well... yes, technically... but that was months ago!"
Gollum's expression hardened—or as much as a face like his could. "Then the thief must pay," he said solemnly. "Pay by feeding Gollum forever. Yes. The thief cooks, and we eats. Fair, fair!"
Bilbo's jaw dropped. "Forever?!"
"For as long as we says," Gollum replied, already clambering into a chair. He seized the cheeseburger in both hands, his face lighting up with savage delight. "Mmmm... juicy... melty... precious food..."
And before Bilbo could muster another word of protest, Gollum devoured the entire burger in three bites, crumbs scattering across the table.
Bilbo stared, somewhere between horror and despair. "Well," he muttered, poking at the remaining fries, "at least with that chest full of gold from Erebor, I can afford to feed a mad cave creature for the rest of my days."
Gollum let out a satisfied burp and licked his fingers with exaggerated relish. "We likes the thief's cooking," he said cheerfully. "Tomorrow, thief makes fish. Lots of fish."
Bilbo groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
"Next time," he muttered, "I'm locking the door."