“Yes. You know, Minerva, we’ve been observing the Longbottoms for ten years now, trying to cure them. We’ve learned a lot, made great progress—it’s a pity it’s been useless so far. One of our colleagues’ theories suggested that their severe dementia stemmed from damage and disintegration of the soul, with the body’s resources and magic—even with external support—too feeble to halt or reverse it. In their case, the theory didn’t hold, but here it does.”

  “Wait, but does a soul exist? Can it be destroyed?” Hermione interjected, seizing a pause in the conversation. Catching her parents’ gazes, she blushed faintly and ducked her head. “Sorry…”

  “Nothing, nothing—a good question,” Smethwick replied. “The soul’s properties are still debated, with many theories floating around. Some liken it to an endless pudding—slice and divide it as you please. Others see it as an onion—layered, with an indivisible core deep inside. Each theory has evidence, yet some clash, making consensus impossible. Still, broadly speaking, yes, the soul exists and can be split. The one constant across all theories is the link between soul, body, and mind—the mental triad. Tug one, and the other two shift. In Hector’s case, all the triad’s resources are focused on repairing his soul. But he’s sorely lacking something.”

  A dramatic pause hung in the air as everyone awaited the rest.

  “Hector lacks magic,” Smethwick continued. “Magic, as energy, flows from the triad’s interplay. Without one part, there’s no magic. Given his soul’s condition, his magic is weak.”

  “It was enough to land him on the Hogwarts list—no outliers,” Minerva noted.

  “True, which means the boy’s mind and body are exceptionally strong, partly offsetting the soul’s damage,” Smethwick said. “Think of it like building a sandcastle. You’ve got hands, desire, and sand, but dry, loose sand won’t hold—you need water. Magic’s his water. He doesn’t have enough, so the process has dragged on.”

  “How’s that even possible?” Robert asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. Emma leaned against the wall, lost in thought, while Hermione listened intently, soaking up this unfamiliar knowledge.

  “Are you familiar with stillbirth?” Smethwick asked.

  Nods of recognition answered him, and he pressed on.

  “Beyond fetal development issues, in rare cases, the soul’s to blame. It might be rejected by the body, decay and abandon it—lots of possibilities, though such instances are scattered across centuries. Something like that happened to Hector, but something halted the decay, and now he’s recovering.”

  “So, what do we do?” Robert pressed.

  “Place him in a stronger magical environment and give him a course of strengthening and stimulating potions,” Smethwick advised. “Even now, he’d manage on his own by fifteen, maybe a bit later—he’s past the worst. With our help, he could recover in a year, give or take.”

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  “And where do we find this magical environment?” Emma asked, stepping away from the wall.

  “Minerva,” Smethwick said, turning to the professor, “talk to Albus.”

  “You want to put him in the Hogwarts hospital wing?” McGonagall asked.

  “Yes. At St. Mungo’s, we’d need an artificial background—expensive,” he explained. “Poppy’ll give him better care than we could. She’s got just a few patients; we’ve got a whole hospital. The potions are simple—anyone can brew them, and the ingredients cost a couple of Sickles.”

  That settled it. Professor McGonagall spent about half an hour briefing the parents of the two young wizards on the magical world’s quirks, Hogwarts’ study specifics, and its subjects—including general education ones. Only after answering the oft-repeated questions of Muggle-born parents, as if from a script, did she take Hermione shopping for school. Smethwick had already left for the hospital, poring over diagnostic data with colleagues to double-check the treatment plan, while Hector, for no apparent reason, scribbled a chaotic flurry of symbols and multidimensional shapes across a few sheets of paper.

  The next evening, a tall, gray-bearded man in a purple robe adorned with runes and symbols visited the Grangers’ home briefly. He introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. His mission was straightforward: transport Hector to the castle. Hogwarts rules typically barred non-staff from staying over summer holidays, but medical cases were an exception.

  Moving Hector was simple enough. The adults deemed traditional methods—train, fireplace, or otherwise—too risky or cumbersome. So, Dumbledore opted for his phoenix, Fawkes, whose gentle Apparition wouldn’t strain the wizard or cause discomfort. It was perfectly safe, delivering Hector straight to the hospital wing. Personal items like clothes, albums, notebooks, and a mobile writing board would follow separately.

  ---

  Time marched on relentlessly. September 1st rolled in, bringing new students to Hogwarts, the castle abuzz with Harry Potter’s arrival in Gryffindor. First classes, first tastes of practical magic, first triumphs and flops. On Halloween, a troll breached the castle, but no one died—Potter and the younger Weasley, in a burst of heroism, saved Hermione from the beast. Everyone was relieved, save for Slytherin’s Dean.

  Christmas, holidays, more school, Easter break—and now exam time loomed. In a dungeon beneath a Forbidden Corridor room on the third floor, a heroic clash unfolded: Potter versus Voldemort’s spirit, possessing the dim, power-hungry Professor Quirrell.

  All this time, a young man with vacant blue eyes occupied a private room in the Hogwarts hospital wing. He surfaced from his contemplative haze far more often than at home. Only the Headmaster and Mediwitch Poppy Pomfrey knew that once a month, Hector Granger’s parents and Healer Smethwick visited via fireplace. You’d expect his sister too, but Hermione was too swept up in friends, studies, and adventures to remember him. She buried her relief at not having to tend to him deep within herself.

  Summer holidays sent the children home, leaving Hector Granger as the sole minor at Hogwarts. He took potions brewed by Severus Snape, a renowned Potions Master in England and beyond, on the healers’ firm advice against removal—fearing regression. The Grangers visited regularly.

  Yet August, September, and October passed without them. First, they took a long holiday in France with Hermione, then toured resorts and sights. Like her, they felt a mix of relief at shedding Hector’s burden and guilt for abandoning him. But good things grow familiar fast, and at Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey—a skilled healer—kept a vigilant watch.

  Christmas returned, but fewer students stayed this time, gripped by fear of the unknown Heir of Slytherin. One petrified student and the caretaker’s cat already lay in the hospital wing.

  Time dragged on, attacks multiplied, and panic swelled. Now Hermione joined the hospital wing’s roster, alongside a Hogwarts ghost. Thorough checks confirmed no lives were at risk. Still, many found it odd that Dumbledore, the Headmaster, did nothing—either he knew something, or he guessed.

  ---

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