Days had passed, and Sirius showed no real improvement. He remained utterly lost in his own mind, staring vacantly at nothing, a shadow of the man he once was. Andromeda had taken leave from her work to stay with him, determined to help where she could. Sirius had been staying in her home, far from the oppressive shadows of Grimmauld Place. Despite the warmer, more welcoming environment, his condition showed little sign of progress.
Before she devoted herself to Sirius' care, Andromeda had arranged something for Harry—a way to keep him occupied and away from the weight of constant worry.
"Harry," she'd said firmly, placing her hands on his shoulders, "you can't spend every minute here, fretting over Sirius. It'll tear you apart. There's no shame in needing space to breathe—and I've found just the thing for you."
Her solution had been a work placement at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It was something Harry hadn't expected, but now, on his second day there, he found himself surprisingly engaged by the experience.
---
The hospital hummed with activity as Harry walked through its halls, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He couldn't help but compare what he was learning here to the bits of Muggle medicine he'd picked up over the years. The differences were striking. In the magical world, the focus was on potions and spells, tools of precision that worked wonders—but it wasn't perfect.
Healers moved swiftly from patient to patient, wands in hand, murmuring incantations. Potions brewed in cauldrons emitted a kaleidoscope of fumes and colors, and enchanted diagnostic devices floated in the air, charting patients' conditions in glowing runes. It was extraordinary to witness, yet Harry couldn't help but think of the Muggle methods he'd seen on television or read about—machines beeping, doctors in scrubs using their hands to carefully stitch a wound or monitor a heartbeat.
"Fascinating," Harry murmured to himself as he observed a healer conjure a gentle stream of golden light to repair a torn ligament.
---
Later that day, Harry found himself walking to the Spell Damage Ward. His heart sank as he reached a familiar room—the Longbottoms. He hadn't been here in years, and yet nothing had changed.
Alice Longbottom sat by the window, staring out with an absent smile. She held a piece of paper in her hands, folding and unfolding it like a child playing with a toy. There was something heartbreakingly innocent about her movements, as though her mind had frozen in time, unable to grasp the horrors of the past.
"Alice," Harry said softly, his voice catching in his throat. She didn't respond, didn't even turn to look at him. She remained lost in her world, her fingers smoothing the edges of the paper over and over again.
Frank Longbottom lay in a nearby bed, his body a testament to the cruelty he had endured. The healer who had accompanied Harry explained in a somber tone, "Every bone in his body was shattered during their torture. We've repaired them magically, but… it's not the same. His body is fragile now, and his paralysis is irreversible."
Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. "And his mind?" he asked hesitantly.
The healer shook her head. "The Cruciatus Curse leaves scars no magic can heal. His mind… well, it's like a shattered mirror. We can't piece it back together."
---
Harry's chest tightened as he stepped closer to Frank. The man's eyes were open, but they were empty, devoid of recognition or awareness. Harry reached out, his hand trembling, and gently touched Frank's arm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though he wasn't sure why. Sorry that this had happened, sorry that he couldn't do more, sorry that the world had allowed such evil to exist.
As he stood there, watching the broken remnants of two people who had once been so strong, Harry felt a surge of determination. "There has to be a way," he thought. "There has to be something we're missing. Magic can do so much—why can't it fix this?"
He thought back to Sirius, to the silence that had consumed him, to the vacant stares and the heaviness in his heart. The magical world was extraordinary, but it was flawed. Mind healing was still a field full of gaps, and Harry was beginning to understand just how vast those gaps were.
"I'm going to learn," Harry thought resolutely. "I'm going to find a way to help people like Sirius, like the Longbottoms. There has to be more to this. There has to be hope."
And with that, he left the ward, his heart heavy but his resolve unshaken. There was work to be done, and Harry Potter was never one to back down from a challenge.
As Harry was about to return to his shift , he stopped in his tracks. There, stood Severus Snape. Of all the people Harry expected to see at the hospital, Snape was the last on his list.
His first instinct was to avoid the man entirely. After all, Snape wasn't exactly someone Harry enjoyed talking to. But curiosity lingered. Why was the Potions Master here? Harry hesitated, glancing around the hall as though debating whether to walk away or approach him.
Over the holidays, Harry had done some digging into Snape's past. The man was a brilliant potion-maker, one of the youngest professors to ever teach at Hogwarts, What stuck out the most, though, was a detail in his mother's will—she had trusted Severus Snape enough to name him as someone responsible for Harry's welfare.
That revelation had changed things. Harry had noticed that by the end of his second year and the start of his third, Snape's behavior toward him had shifted. The biting remarks and venomous glares weren't as frequent, replaced instead by a quiet indifference. It was almost as though Snape had decided it wasn't worth the energy to feud with Lily's son.
Still, the memory of their earlier interactions lingered. In Harry's first year, Snape had been like a coiled viper, always ready to strike. But when Harry mentioned knowing about Snape's friendship with Lily, it was as though the man's resolve to antagonize him had crumbled.
---
Harry took a deep breath. He wasn't a Gryffindor—he'd been sorted into Ravenclaw—but the Sorting Hat had said he possessed the courage of a Gryffindor when it placed him in his house. Maybe now was the time to prove it. Summoning all his courage, Harry stepped forward and called out:
"Professor Snape."
Snape turned, his expression flickering from surprise to a carefully controlled blankness. His dark eyes regarded Harry, sharp and calculating, as though weighing whether this encounter was worth his time.
"Potter," Snape said curtly, his tone clipped as always.
Harry hesitated. The man's presence was as intimidating as ever, but he pressed on. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Neither was I expecting to encounter you, Potter. "
Harry swallowed his irritation. He'd expected as much from Snape. "I had a question," he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Snape crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. "A question? About what, pray tell?"
Harry hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, "Did you know my mum named you in her will?"
For a moment, Snape's mask slipped. His expression froze, and Harry saw something flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe even pain. The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"No," Snape said after a long pause, his voice quieter than usual. "I wasn't aware."
Harry frowned, frustration evident on his face. "Dumbledore knew. He found out after Sirius' trial, but it's not surprising he didn't tell you. The man did everything to destroy my parents' will. So, it's only natural he'd keep quiet about what happened during both Sirius' trial and his own trail ."
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly at the bitterness in Harry's tone. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed the boy's antipathy toward the headmaster, but the depth of it always caught him off guard. This wasn't James Potter's blind loyalty or awe for Dumbledore. This was something else entirely.
"Dumbledore," Harry continued, his voice steady but biting, "never tells people what they actually need to know, does he?"
Snape tilted his head, studying the boy in front of him. Harry Potter was nothing like his father. He wasn't arrogant or brash, nor did he idolize Dumbledore. Instead, the boy seemed cautious, sharp, and strangely disillusioned for someone so young.
Snape didn't respond immediately. Instead, he watched as Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze before finally saying, "Why do you care, Potter?"
Harry squared his shoulders. "Because I thought you should know. She trusted you enough to put you in her will. That's important."
Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. There was a storm brewing behind his eyes, but he kept his composure. "I see," he said at last, his voice cold and detached.
Feeling the tension rise, Harry decided it was best to leave. He'd said what he needed to. "I'll let you get back to whatever you're here for," he said, turning to walk away.
Snape watched him go, his thoughts a tangled mess. He hadn't known about Lily's trust, and the revelation unsettled him more than he cared to admit. But what lingered most was the strange hostility Harry held for Dumbledore.
"That boy," Snape thought, his mind racing. "He's more perceptive than I gave him credit for. And far more dangerous to Dumbledore's plans than the old man realizes."
As Harry arrived at the trauma center, one of the healers, a tall, stern-looking woman, waved him over. "Potter, we could use your help here," she called, motioning for him to join. It was only his second day at the magical hospital, but Harry had already gained significant experience through months of volunteering at a Muggle hospital. His time there had given him a solid foundation in medical procedures, and it didn't take long for the healers at the magical hospital to recognize just how quickly he picked up on the magical techniques they used.
Though Harry hadn't yet studied healing magic formally, his time in the Muggle hospital had allowed him to hone his practical skills. The healers could tell his natural talent leaned heavily toward magical healing, and they were beginning to trust him with more complex tasks.
As Harry stepped closer, the healer handed him a small vial containing a shimmering, silvery liquid. "We need to heal a broken wrist, but it's not as simple as a regular bone-mending charm," she explained. "This one was caused by a cursed object. We need to stabilize the magic before anything else."
Harry nodded, recalling what he'd learned about enchanted injuries. Although he was only 13, his time volunteering in the Muggle hospital had taught him the importance of patience and precision, and those lessons translated well into the magical world. He quickly recited the incantation for stabilizing the magic in the broken bones, working carefully to ensure the spell would take hold.
"You're getting better at this, Potter," the healer said, watching him with a mix of admiration and approval. "Your magical aura is perfectly attuned to healing spells. With a bit more training, you could make a fine healer someday."
Harry felt a small swell of pride at the praise. Although he was still so young, he knew this was the path he wanted to follow. The work he was doing here made him feel like he was part of something important. And with every task, his confidence grew. He was determined to learn as much as he could, to combine both his Muggle and magical medical knowledge, and one day, be able to help others in ways most people couldn't.
The week passed in much the same way, with Harry becoming more involved in various tasks at the magical hospital. Some healers trusted him more than others; some only showed him their methods, while others let him participate, give advice, or guided him through the theoretical side of healing magic.
Harry felt a sense of purpose every day, and he could tell he was growing in skill and confidence. The healers were beginning to treat him less like a novice and more like someone who had potential, which only encouraged Harry to push himself further.
Sirius was improving, though very slowly. Remus came to visit him regularly at Andromeda's house, but Harry found it difficult to speak to him. Every time Remus entered the room, Harry could feel the tension build, like an invisible wall between them. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that the conversation he wasn't ready to have loomed over them.
One evening, as Harry was sitting near the fireplace, working on a bit of magical theory, he overheard a conversation between Remus and Sirius in the next room. Their voices were low, but Harry could still make out bits and pieces.
"I'm sorry, Pads," Remus said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I wish I could've done more."
"You've done enough, Moony," Sirius replied, his voice hoarse but filled with a quiet, affectionate tone. "You always do."
Harry felt a pang in his chest, a mix of confusion and something deeper that he didn't want to acknowledge. He couldn't help but think of the way they spoke to each other, the tenderness in their voices, the familiarity in their words. It was more than friendship, Harry realized. There was something there, something unsaid between them. He couldn't place it exactly, but it was unmistakable.
As Harry listened, Remus said something else, quieter this time. "I never should've let it get this far, Sirius. I should've protected you. I should've been there more."
Sirius' response was a mere whisper, but Harry could hear the softness in his tone. "Don't blame yourself, Moony. It's all in the past now."
Harry's thoughts swirled. The way they spoke to each other—there was no denying it. It was more than just old friends checking in on one another. They had a history, something Harry didn't fully understand. And in that moment, he realized that maybe there had always been something between them—something neither of them had been able to fully act on, but something undeniable all the same.
But could that be it? Could they have ever been more than just friends? Harry wondered, uncertainty gnawing at him. His mind drifted, imagining a time when the two of them might have been together, if only things had been different. Maybe if the war hadn't torn everything apart, or if the world had been kinder to them, they could have had something more. But Harry wasn't sure if that was even possible. It seemed like the world always got in the way, pushing them back into the shadows.
Remus seemed to have his own regrets, his voice heavy with guilt whenever he spoke to Sirius. Harry had caught him trying to speak to him more than once. Remus had tried reaching out, tried offering apologies, but Harry couldn't help but wonder if it was just a way to make amends for the past—if he was truly trying to reconcile, or if there was something more buried beneath those words. Sometimes, Remus would look at Harry with an expression that wasn't quite pity, but more like... longing, as if he were waiting for Harry to say something, to break the silence. But Harry couldn't bring himself to speak, to ask Remus what he meant, what he wanted to say.
"Harry," Remus said one evening, his voice careful, like he was treading lightly, afraid to cross a line. "We need to talk."
Harry stiffened, unable to meet his eyes. "About what?"
"You know what," Remus replied, though he didn't push further. "I just want you to know that... I never meant to hurt you. I care about you, Harry. You're important to me."
It was the first time in weeks that Remus had directly addressed him, and yet Harry couldn't bring himself to respond. All he could think about was the way Remus had looked at him during those final months before the war, the way he'd distanced himself, never explaining why. There were so many things left unsaid between them, and Harry didn't know if he was ready to hear any of them.
Instead, Harry simply nodded, offering a tight smile. "I know."
Later that night, Harry sat alone in his room, thinking about Remus and Sirius. The moments between them seemed to be filled with something more than just the lingering shadows of old friendship. There was a connection, an unspoken understanding, that Harry couldn't quite comprehend. Maybe Remus had always cared for Sirius in a way that Harry couldn't see, or maybe it was the kind of love that only existed in a world of impossibilities.
Maybe Remus and Sirius had always wanted something more, but the timing had never been right. Maybe they had kept their feelings hidden, out of fear or because of the world they lived in. Or maybe—just maybe—they'd never been able to go further than that, stuck in a cycle of 'what-ifs.'
Harry didn't know. All he could do was watch from the outside, trying to understand something that he wasn't sure could ever be fully explained.
He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts, but deep down, he knew he wasn't ready to let go of the questions. Not yet.
The resentment still lingered, and Harry wasn't sure if he could ever forgive him. He had to admit, though, that the venom inside him wasn't healthy.
He knew, His thoughts drifted back to that moment Asha had once said, that the person who clung to the past was the one who got hurt, not the ones responsible.
Her voice had been soothing and sharp, as always, when she spoke to him in Parseltongue.
"You're still holding onto it, aren't you?" Asha's words had slid into his mind, like silk. Her emerald scales had glimmered faintly in the low light of the room as she coiled closer to him, the soft sound of her movements bringing him a sense of calm.
"I don't know how to let go," Harry had whispered, speaking in Parseltongue, without even thinking about it. "I can't forget what Remus did, what he didn't do. I can't just forget it."
Asha's voice had softened, but there had been a firmness to it, a tone that always got his attention. "You don't have to forget," she had hissed. "But you're letting it destroy you more than it should. You cling to the past like venom, and it's poisoning you from the inside."
Frustration had surged through him, and he had clenched his fists. "I can't forgive him," Harry had snapped. "Not after all this. He was supposed to be someone I could trust. He wasn't there. He left me in the dark."
Asha's voice had grown softer, her words winding around him like a gentle breeze. "Humans are flawed, Harry. Remus made mistakes, yes. But are you going to let that control you forever? Are you going to let it tear you apart?"
Just as Harry had been about to respond, Kavi's golden eyes had appeared from the shadows, his low hiss filling the room. Kavi had always had a steady, unshakable voice, and Harry had found himself listening, even when he didn't want to.
"Asha is right, Harry," Kavi's voice had been calm, cutting through the tension. "You're letting the past kill you slowly. It's changing you, making you harder than you're meant to be."
Harry had felt his chest tighten at Kavi's words. The weight of their presence, of their truth, had made him want to shut down. "I don't want to hear it," he had snapped, his voice rising. "I don't want to know why he did what he did. Not now. Maybe never."
But Kavi's eyes had softened, and his voice had remained steady. "You can't keep running from the truth, Harry. You don't have to forgive him all at once, but you have to face it. If you don't, you'll keep going in circles, and it will tear you apart."
The memory of that moment had stayed with Harry, even now. He remembered the weight of their words, their presence pressing into him like a physical force. He had looked down at his hands, his fingers curled into fists, feeling the frustration bubbling inside him. "I can't forgive him," he had thought. "I can't forget what he did."
Asha's voice had cut through the silence again, her words comforting and sharp. "You don't have to forget, Harry," she had hissed. "But let him explain. Let yourself heal. Otherwise, this venom will only grow."
The memory of her words echoed in Harry's mind, even now, as he sat alone in the room. The battle inside him raged on. He knew they were right—Asha and Kavi always seemed to know the truths he wasn't ready to face. But he wasn't ready to hear them yet. He wasn't ready to face the past, to let Remus explain.
Not then, not yet.
But one day, Harry knew, he would have to face it. The poison he held onto would only fester and grow if he didn't. And though he couldn't forgive Remus now, perhaps, in time, he could find a way to let go of the venom that still poisoned his heart.
As Christmas approached, things seemed to get quieter. The Tonks family wouldn't be celebrating this year. Andromeda had too much work, and Ted was also caught up with things. Dora, who Harry had gotten along with surprisingly well, was busy with her Auror training and was more focused on impressing her superiors than on the holiday.
Sirius, of course, wasn't in any condition to celebrate. His mind was still lost, and he didn't have the energy for any festive cheer. So, Harry spent Christmas Eve at the magical hospital, working late into the night. When the clock struck midnight, he decided to visit the Longbottoms' house. The scene there was still difficult—Alice and Frank Longbottom were no different than when he had last seen them. Their minds were broken, and their bodies, though healed, remained fragile.
Neville, despite the heartache, still came by to see them, even though neither of his parents could recognize him. Harry saw him sitting by his mother's side, his hand resting gently on her arm. Neville looked up as Harry entered, forcing a small smile. "It's good you're here, Harry," Neville said softly, his voice carrying the weariness of someone who had seen far too much pain.
Harry nodded, walking over to sit beside him. "How are they today?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Neville sighed, his gaze never leaving his mother. "Same as always," he replied. "Mum's still... well, she doesn't know who I am. I talk to her every day, but I don't know if she hears me. It's hard, but... I'll never stop coming."
Harry placed a hand on Neville's shoulder. "I get it," he said, his voice low. "It's... it's just not fair, Neville."
Neville looked at Harry, his eyes tired but resolute. "Life's not fair, Harry. But it doesn't mean we stop trying, right?"
Harry was about to reply when Alice's grandmother, who had been sitting quietly by the fireplace, spoke up in a soft, gravelly voice. "Neville's right," she said, her gaze warm. "None of this is fair, but we make the best of it. You've been a good friend to him, Harry. Thank you for that."
Harry offered a small smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm just here for him," he said quietly.
Neville's grandmother nodded, her smile filled with quiet gratitude. "You've been here for him, for all of us. Don't underestimate the power of that. Sometimes, just being here is enough."
Harry sat silently for a moment, processing the weight of her words. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It felt like they were all simply sharing the burden of what they couldn't change.
As the night went on, the house was quiet, save for the occasional murmurs from Alice or Frank. Neville never stopped sitting with them, though neither of them reacted. Harry knew how hard that must have been, but Neville's dedication was undeniable. Harry couldn't help but admire him for it.
After a while, Neville stood up and walked over to his father's side, gently placing a hand on Frank's chest. "Dad," he said softly, though he knew Frank wouldn't hear him. "I hope... I hope you're still in there, somewhere."
Harry watched, feeling a lump form in his throat. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.
But Neville wasn't giving up. He couldn't.
"Neville," Harry said after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think... I think your parents would be proud of you, you know?"
Neville glanced over at Harry, a small, sad smile crossing his face. "You think so?"
"Yeah," Harry replied, his own voice rough with emotion. "You've kept going. Even when it's hard. You're doing the best you can, and that matters."
Neville seemed to appreciate the words, and for a moment, Harry saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Thanks, Harry," Neville said quietly. "I don't think I could do this without... you know, people who care."
The words hit Harry hard. He didn't know if Neville had truly understood what he was saying, but the sentiment wasn't lost on Harry. Sometimes, the smallest gestures made the biggest impact.
As the clock ticked toward the early hours of Christmas morning, Harry remained with Neville and his grandmother, feeling a sense of peace in their quiet companionship. It wasn't the Christmas he had imagined, but it was one he wouldn't soon forget.
Harry had reluctantly said his goodbyes to the Longbottoms, leaving Neville and his family to their own quiet Christmas. He had stayed in the hospital overnight, not venturing outside at all. The Longbottoms' parents were still in a deep, nearly unreachable state, but Harry had spent some time with Neville and his grandmother, trying to offer support even though his heart was heavy. Neville's grandmother had thanked him softly for being there for Neville, and Harry had tried to offer a reassuring smile, though his mind was far from calm.
The healer in charge had told him that, due to the holiday and fewer staff available, his shift would be extended well past the usual hours. He was to stay on until 7 a.m., giving him a rare chance to learn more from the experienced healers who had already noticed his knack for magical healing. They were starting to let him participate more directly, seeing something in him that Harry hadn't fully understood himself yet.
"You're lucky tonight," the healer had said. "Most of us took the day off, but this is a good chance for you to experience what it's really like when things are hectic. We need all the help we can get."
It was a long shift, but Harry didn't mind. The hospital was quieter than usual on Christmas, and most people had gone home to celebrate with their families. But Harry wasn't there to celebrate. He was there to learn.
His thoughts occasionally drifted to his family, to Christmases past, but he pushed them away. He was here now, in this space between life and death, between healing and injury, where he could focus on something that made sense to him. The work was hard, but it grounded him.
Throughout the night, Harry worked alongside healers, taking on different tasks, from applying healing potions to casting delicate charms for pain relief and recovery. He was still learning, but every moment felt like progress.
As the shift wound down and the morning began to edge closer, Harry was both physically and mentally drained. He received a few more words of praise from the healer in charge, then headed to the small room they'd provided for him. He could finally rest, even though his mind was still buzzing with everything he had seen and done. He hadn't had time for Christmas, not in the way he'd imagined, but perhaps that was just part of his journey—learning, growing, and finding his place in the world of magical healing.
As Harry returned to Andromeda's house the next morning, the silence of the early hours clung to him. He had barely stepped through the door when he noticed something odd. In the living room, Sirius and Remus were sprawled out on the couch, completely absorbed in each other. Sirius was smiling in a way Harry hadn't seen in a long time—a real, joyful expression that seemed to light up his entire face. Remus, on the other hand, was gazing at Sirius with an intensity of love that took Harry by surprise. It was so deep, so pure, that it shocked him.
The sight caught him off guard, and for a moment, he stood frozen in the doorway, unsure of how to react. He had never seen Remus look at anyone like that before, let alone Sirius. The way they were entwined on the couch, so completely lost in each other.
Harry's heart tightened, and as he watched them for a moment longer, he found his thoughts racing. It felt like a quiet, unspoken truth was unfolding before him, a truth he hadn't been ready to face. He had always assumed that Remus was simply too busy, too wrapped up in his own grief after the Potters' deaths, to reach out to him. But now, seeing the way Remus was looking at Sirius, something in Harry's chest softened. Maybe he had been too harsh. Maybe there was more to the story than he had let himself believe.
And perhaps he had misunderstood why Remus hadn't contacted him after the Potters' deaths. He had always felt the sting of abandonment, the loneliness of being left behind by the people he thought he could trust, but now he wondered if Remus's silence was borne of something else entirely. Could it be that, in his own way, Remus had been grieving too?
A rush of conflicting emotions filled Harry. Part of him still felt hurt, still carried the weight of that betrayal, but another part—the part that was growing, maturing—was starting to see things differently. Maybe Remus had his reasons. Maybe the wounds ran deeper than Harry had realized.
As the two men on the couch shifted slightly, still wrapped up in their quiet moment together, Harry made a decision. Perhaps it was time to let go of the anger, the resentment that had been building in him for so long. Maybe it was time to forgive, or at least allow Remus the benefit of the doubt. He wasn't sure how it would look, or when he would be ready to fully let go, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of hope that healing was possible—not just for Sirius and Remus, but for himself as well.
He took a deep breath and quietly made his way further into the house, careful not to disturb them. For now, he would let it be. But somewhere deep down, Harry knew that this moment, this small shift in his heart, would be the start of something new—something that might lead to understanding and, eventually, forgiveness.