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The Starlord - Chapter - 45
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 16:31:59 +0000 UTCThe moment Harry stepped into Frank Longbottom’s mindscape, he knew this was going to be far more difficult than Alice’s.
The air itself felt heavier here—thick with shadows, distorted voices echoing and looping endlessly, fragments of screams and laughter melding together into a nightmarish chorus. The ground was fractured like broken glass, reflecting memories out of order: pieces of Frank’s Auror days, fragments of his childhood, shards of torture flashing again and again like lightning.
Harry clenched his fists. This… this is worse than Alice. His entire soul’s been shaken apart.
He pushed deeper, remembering what he had done for Alice. First step—remove the Cruciatus curse echoes. Harry raised his hand and willed the Force forward. The shards of red lightning—memories of pain—were ripped away from the ground and sky and dissolved into nothingness. Slowly, the cacophony softened, though the silence that followed was unnerving.
Harry walked across a corridor that looked like a prison, broken bars everywhere, chains scattered along the floor. He finally found Frank behind a cell door, crouched on the ground, rocking back and forth. His hair was disheveled, his eyes clouded, yet when he looked up at Harry, there was a spark of recognition.
“James?” Frank croaked, his voice hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken for years.
Harry felt his throat tighten. He looked so frail.
“No, Mr. Longbottom. Not James,” Harry said gently. “I’m Harry. James’ son.”
Frank blinked, confused. His eyes narrowed. “But… you look like him. And—those eyes. Lily’s eyes.”
Harry knelt down, smiling faintly. “That’s what everyone says. It’s been thirteen years, Mr. Longbottom. You’ve been trapped here all this time.”
Frank’s lips trembled. “Thirteen years…” His hand shook as he tried to stand. “Neville. My boy—he was just a baby…”
Harry’s chest tightened. “Not anymore. He’s grown now. He’s waiting for you. But I need you to let me help fix this place. Your memories are broken, scattered. We have to put them back together.”
Frank’s prison dissolved as Harry willed it so, and the fragments of memories floated around them like drifting stars. Some were cracked, others incomplete, and many were jumbled.
Harry guided Frank with his voice.
“Start with your earliest memories. Childhood, school. Place them on the left. Then the Auror years. Then your family—Alice, Neville. Put them in order. Piece by piece.”
Frank’s hands trembled, but he obeyed. He touched a floating shard and a memory projected—Frank, a young Gryffindor, laughing with friends in the common room. He placed it on the far left. Another shard—his Auror graduation—placed next. Slowly, painfully, the shattered life began to reassemble.
Harry helped, sorting through shards, discarding fragments of torture that tried to seep back in. When Frank struggled, Harry steadied his hands, forcing the Force into the cracks, sealing memories whole.
It felt like hours, days, maybe years, but Harry didn’t stop. He knew time worked differently here.
Finally, the last shard settled into place. Frank stood straighter now, his eyes clearer. He looked at Harry with gratitude, tears welling in his eyes.
“You look exactly like James,” Frank said firmly this time. “And you saved Alice. You saved me.”
Harry nodded. “Your wife and your son are waiting. You need to wake up, Mr. Longbottom. They’ve waited long enough.”
Frank’s face softened with a smile Harry had never seen before, but one that Neville deserved to see.
“Take me to them.”
The mindscape dissolved, and Harry opened his eyes in the hospital room. Sweat poured down his face. His hands shook from the strain. But he saw it—Frank Longbottom gasping, his eyes focusing, truly focusing, for the first time in thirteen years.
“Harry…” Neville whispered from the other side of the barrier.
Harry lifted the Force barrier, and Neville rushed across the room, nearly tripping, to throw himself into his father’s arms.
“Dad!” Neville cried, clutching him desperately.
Frank blinked, overwhelmed, but wrapped his arms around his son. “Neville… my boy… so tall now…”
Alice hurried to their side, tears streaming down her face as she held her husband and son. " I am so happy you are alright, my love,” she whispered.
Harry quietly stepped back, watching the reunion with a strange mixture of pride and sadness. This was Neville’s moment, not his.
Frank finally looked over Neville’s shoulder at Harry.
“Thank you, Harry. For giving me back my family.”
Harry swallowed hard. “No thanks needed. Just… live, Mr. Longbottom. For Neville. For your wife.”
The banging on the door had been going on for so long that Neville’s nerves were frayed. Harry, still deep in Frank Longbottom’s mindscape, hadn’t noticed until he finally pulled free. The barrier he had woven around himself blocked sound entirely.
When Harry blinked back into reality, his eyes immediately found Neville’s anxious face.
“They’ve been at it for ages,” Neville explained in a rushed whisper. “Pounding on the door, shouting—Mum panicked. She thought it was Death Eaters again. I—I had to calm her down, tell her it wasn’t another attack.”
Alice clung to Neville’s arm, trembling. Her eyes darted toward the door as if expecting it to burst open any second.
Harry rose slowly, steadying his breathing. “They’re scared. They don’t understand what’s happening. But we’ll show them.”
Before Harry could remove the locking spell, the wall itself groaned. There was a sharp crack, then an earth-shattering boom as the stone shattered inward. Dust and debris flew like shrapnel, threatening to crush everyone inside.
But Harry’s instincts took over—his hand shot up, and an invisible barrier flared into existence. Every stone, every shard of wood slammed against the unseen wall and fell harmlessly to the floor.
Alice gasped, shielding her face. Neville pulled her closer, his heart pounding. Frank, still shaky but aware, braced himself with one arm around Alice’s shoulders.
Through the gaping hole in the wall, a squad of Aurors stormed in, wands raised. Their robes whipped in the surge of magic as their boots crunched on rubble.
“Step away from the Longbottoms!” one barked.
Another snapped, “Drop your wands!”
Harry didn’t even blink. With a subtle flick of his fingers, every wand in the room jerked violently from its owner’s grip and spun through the air, clattering into a neat pile at Harry’s feet.
Gasps erupted. The Aurors froze in disbelief, staring at their empty hands.
The dust still hung thick, choking the air, but Harry raised his other hand and swept it aside. The cloud spun into a tight spiral and vanished out the hole, leaving the room clear.
Now, every eye could see clearly: Harry and Neville standing protectively in front of Frank and Alice, the Longbottoms alive in a way no one had seen in thirteen years.
In the doorway stood Augusta Longbottom, her usually stern face slack with shock. Her hat had slipped sideways, her cane trembling in her hand.
Her gaze locked on Frank. “Merlin’s beard…” she whispered, voice breaking. “Frank?”
“Mum?” Frank rasped, his voice rough but steady.
Alice clutched Neville’s hand tighter. “Augusta…”
The old witch’s cane clattered to the floor as she stumbled forward. Tears filled her eyes. “My boy… my brave boy…” She threw her arms around Frank, then Alice, holding them as though afraid they would vanish.
Neville was caught in the middle, sobbing into his mother’s shoulder.
For a long moment, the Aurors, Healers, and even Augusta herself could only stare in stunned silence.
Finally, one of the Aurors recovered, suspicion sharpening his tone. “This… this shouldn’t be possible. Thirteen years incurable, and suddenly—this? What kind of magic is this?”
Another snarled, “Maybe it’s dark magic. Potter—what did you do?”
Harry’s voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “Thirteen years, and none of you couldn’t lift a finger. I did in hours what you never could and you accuse me of using dark magic?.”
The lights flickered faintly with the weight of his words. The Aurors flinched, unease crawling up their spines.
Augusta pulled back from her son and daughter-in-law, her eyes blazing now. She turned to face the Aurors, her cane once again firm in her grip.
“You dare,” she said, her voice sharp as a whip, “to accuse him after what you’ve just seen? He gave me back my son. He gave Neville back his parents. He gave this family hope.”
She planted her cane with a crack against the floor. “And if any of you so much as suggest he used dark magic, you’ll answer to me—and to House Longbottom.”
The Aurors shifted uneasily. Even the Healers lowered their eyes. Augusta Longbottom, matriarch of one of the most ancient and respected families, was not someone to challenge lightly.
Harry bent down and, with a casual flick of his hand, sent the pile of wands back to their owners. They flew neatly into startled grips.
“Keep your toys,” Harry said coldly. “I don’t need them.”
Then he turned to Neville. “They’re yours now. Your parents. Your family. My part here is done.”
Neville’s throat tightened. “But, Harry—”
Harry offered him a faint smile. “Be with them. They need you more than me.”
Without another word, Harry strode toward the broken wall. The Force bent subtly around him, and though the Aurors twitched, none dared to stop him.
Behind him, Alice’s laughter—bright, alive—rang out for the first time in years. Frank’s voice followed, steady and strong. Augusta’s sobs of joy filled the room.
Harry didn’t look back.
The next morning, all of Hogwarts was buzzing before breakfast even began. The owls flooded into the Great Hall in swarms so thick that it was as though the ceiling itself had cracked open. Letters, parcels, and newspapers rained down onto tables.
Harry barely had time to grab a piece of toast when the Daily Prophet slammed down in front of him, delivered by a large tawny owl. Neville was already pale before he even unfolded the paper. Hermione leaned over his shoulder, her eyes scanning quickly.
There, splashed across the entire front page, was a headline in bold black ink:
“HARRY POTTER HEALS THE LONGBOTTOMS”
Beneath it was an old moving photograph of Alice and Frank Longbottom standing upright, holding Neville between them, both smiling.
The article described in vivid detail how Harry had “somehow” undone the permanent damage of the Cruciatus Curse—a feat that St. Mungo’s had long declared impossible. The tone of the piece was conflicted: awe and fear intertwined.
The reaction at the Gryffindor table was instant and loud.
“Blimey, Harry!” Ron gasped. “You—you cured them?”
Dean leaned closer, grinning. “You’re practically a legend now. Do you have any idea what this means?”
But Lavender whispered nervously to Parvati, “No normal wizard can just do that. What if he’s… dangerous?”
Across the hall, the Slytherins were muttering furiously. Pansy Parkinson pointed at the paper and hissed, “See? He’s not natural. He’s meddling with dark powers, I know it.” Malfoy smirked but said nothing; for once, he seemed more unsettled than mocking.
Neville, red-faced but glowing with joy. “They’re… they’re back. That’s all that matters.”
Before Harry could answer anyone, a flood of owls descended directly on him. Letters piled in front of his plate, tumbling over each other until the stack nearly reached his chest. Some were scented with perfume, others sealed with the wax of noble houses.
Hermione helped him sort them, scanning the envelopes. “Harry, these are—look, that one’s from Italy… that one from Germany… Merlin, even the French Ministry has written!”
Neville opened one at random and read aloud in disbelief: “To Mr. Potter, congratulations on achieving what no Healer could. We implore you to visit our family member at St. Mungo’s—” He cut off, swallowing. “Harry, they’re begging for your help.”
Harry frowned. “I didn’t do it to become anyone’s Healer. I just… did it for Neville.”
But more letters came. Congratulations from grateful witches and wizards. Desperate pleas from families with relatives in long-term care. Some were threatening—demanding that Harry “share his secrets” or “stop meddling in divine matters.”
By mid-morning, owls from the Ministry itself arrived. One bore the crest of the Wizengamot. Another carried the seal of the Minister of Magic.
Hermione carefully opened the Minister’s letter. She read aloud in a flat voice:
“Mr. Potter, the Ministry of Magic formally congratulates you on the unprecedented restoration of Frank and Alice Longbottom. We recognize this as a great service to wizarding Britain. You will be considered for the Order of Merlin, Second Class. The Minister himself extends his wish to meet with you in person.”
Harry snorted. “The same Ministry that tried accused me of cheating a week ago?”
Neville’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t care when my parents rotted for thirteen years. Now they want to use you.”
Harry leaned back, ignoring the pile of letters still spilling onto the floor. “I knew this would happen. People don’t want truth, they want miracles handed to them. And the Ministry—” he let out a dark laugh, “—they’ll spin this however it suits them.”
Hermione looked worried. “Harry, you’ve become… something bigger now. To some, a savior. To others, a threat. You need to be careful. The Prophet already twisted the story, and you know they’ll keep doing it.”
Harry’s eyes flickered with a quiet shadow. “I didn’t heal them for glory. I didn’t heal them for the Ministry. I healed them because Neville deserved his parents back. That’s all.”
Neville reached across the table, gripping Harry’s arm tightly. “And for that, I’ll never forget what you did. Ever.”
Later that day, an official delegation from St. Mungo’s arrived at Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey escorted them in, looking nervous. The delegation’s leader, a sharp-eyed witch in emerald robes, spoke directly to Harry:
“Mr. Potter, on behalf of the hospital, we congratulate you. But we must also request that you reveal how you accomplished this feat. There are hundreds of patients in long-term care who could benefit. Entire wards of victims, waiting.”
Her voice was hopeful, but her eyes were suspicious, probing.
Harry stood calmly. “And if I say no?”
The witch faltered. “No? But—but surely—”
“I told you,” Harry said evenly, “I didn’t do it for recognition. I don’t have time to heal your world. If you think I’ll parade myself through every ward like a trained animal, you’re mistaken.”
Gasps erupted among the watching professors and students.
But Harry wasn’t finished. “If you want to cure them—then learn. Work harder. Stop waiting for miracles from children.”
That night, Harry sat by the Gryffindor fire. The letters were stacked high beside him, glowing in the light. He rubbed his temples, overwhelmed.
Susan Bones entered quietly, clutching a Prophet. She hesitated, then said softly, “Harry… my aunt asked if you’d consider visiting the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She says she doesn’t know what you did, but she knows you didn’t do it with dark magic. She… she believes in you.”
Harry gave her a tired look. “I don’t need belief. I need them all to leave me alone.”
Hermione and Neville sat close, silent but firm. They knew Harry was bearing the weight of an entire world’s expectations—and for Harry Potter, that was a burden he never wanted.
Comments
Catherine Colin
Wait how was Susan able to get into the Gryff common room?
