Frey couldn't find anyone to help and didn't know who to trust for assistance.
It was only after Lys couldn't hold on anymore and collapsed against his shoulder that she said to go to St. Mungo's.
Finally, Frey used the broom he always carried to lift Professor Snape and his sister.
Dementors dispatched by the Dark Lord to Hogsmeade still lingered. Frey could only grip his wand in his left hand casting the Patronus Charm while controlling the broom with his right.
A huge, fluffy Pygmy Puff's silvery form crouched on Gabon's head, accompanying the three as they charged through the gradually gathering circle of Dementors.
Nearly every floor of St. Mungo's was occupied by the Spell Damage ward.
In that instant when the Dark Lord thought he'd successfully killed Harry Potter—that he'd won—wizards outside the school who'd received news rushed into Hogwarts for their resistance and struggle.
In just that brief time, countless people were injured, not to mention those students hurt in the earlier castle defense battle.
More troublesome than the massive number of casualties was that most injured had some degree of Dark Magic damage or mixed curse injuries. After all, on the battlefield, those casting spells might not even know what their wands were releasing.
This meant short-term treatment could only maintain their lives but couldn't heal them back to health.
Accumulated patients and their families gathered here, making St. Mungo's chaotic with too many people at this moment.
A strange, joyfully mournful atmosphere permeated the crowd.
At this time, Snape lay in a private room, slowly regaining consciousness.
He felt severe pain in his abdominal organs and tightness around his neck. Warily, he opened his eyes to a thin slit, scanning his surroundings.
Before he could confirm any information, a cold magical voice came from above his head:
"Chief Physician, your patient Mr. Snape appears to be regaining consciousness. Please bring Aurors to confirm."
Snape hissed softly, unclear about the current situation. He moved his hand slightly—chains lay across it. His eye twitched.
If his memory was correct, the last thing he'd seen before losing consciousness should have been Starlys. Had her brain been completely scrambled by the Cruciatus Curse?
She'd actually sent him, a Death Eater traitor, to St. Mungo's!
His racing thoughts made his breathing considerably heavier, and each breath brought organ pain like being ground by sharp stone fragments.
He was alive, not dead...
Snape's mouth corners suddenly straightened slightly from their downward droop. He didn't know what happened after he lost consciousness, but he knew that if the Dark Lord still held overwhelming power, Starlys wouldn't have sent him to St. Mungo's even if she'd thrown his corpse in wasteland.
She wasn't smart, but she wasn't stupid either.
So... were things really as he thought?
Snape thought he'd get an answer quickly, but after the magical voice above his head announced four times, that so-called chief physician still hadn't appeared.
Still weak, he soon fell back into darkness.
Snape was being ignored on his St. Mungo's hospital bed.
But at this time, Lys—whom he was mentally criticizing—lay in the adjacent room, her arm being studied by that bald chief physician...
"I... can't treat this..."
After lengthy research and consultation, the chief physician and the various department doctors who'd found time to help all frowned and shook their heads, indicating they couldn't treat it.
They couldn't understand it. They'd only seen alchemical limb and flesh replacements, but they'd never seen a wizard directly create something alchemical—or whatever this was—using their own living body. And this arm...
They exchanged glances. New injuries, old injuries, various levels and layers of damage overlapping, even mutually restraining each other... Cutting it off and regrowing a new one might have higher chances than healing it.
But limb regeneration, with current technology, had side effects far too severe—far worse than maintaining the status quo.
"Can't treat it... really can't treat it..."
Hearing the doctors' conclusion, Frey quickly helped Lys put on the armor's arm section.
The rugged scars on that gray-white arm, the faded Dark Mark, and strange magical patterns were covered by the shining silver armored arm.
Frey pulled out his sleeve and wiped away his fingerprints from it twice.
According to Professor McGonagall, this armor's existence was beyond historical record.
Even a Ravenclaw ghost was certain this had appeared in the castle during the Founders' era, which also proved just how ancient and pure the goblin silver materials used to create this armor truly were.
And goblin silver materials... the more ancient, the more magical their existence.
So among currently known methods, only this armored arm had obvious suppressive effects on the damage caused by those curses mixed with Lys's own magic.
Though the doctors couldn't provide a cure for Lys, they roughly explained measures that might benefit her condition.
That bald doctor, after treating Noah last time, had delved deeper into research about soul injuries. The materials a St. Mungo's doctor could find were more targeted than Lys's resources. He gave Lys some more advanced suggestions:
Including—sleep, and maintaining good spirits.
After those doctors finally left, Lys pulled Frey's robe corner to lock the door before forcing herself into light sleep for a while.
Frey held his wand while reading a newspaper, not daring to make the slightest sound or movement.
Because any slight movement of his robes would definitely make Lys open her eyes and try to raise her wand.
It had been like this for days.
Actually, when Frey used his broom to bring Snape and Lys to St. Mungo's, he hadn't thought his sister had any problems.
After all, Gabon's super-heavy weight had been carried all the way back by Lys, and when she'd first found him, she could still help drag the unconscious Headmaster Snape.
But from the moment Lys lay on this bed, she'd almost never stood up or lain flat again.
Only when a doctor poured half a bottle of Skele-Gro down Lys's throat did Frey realize her ribs were actually fractured...
Only when those doctors said they couldn't treat her...
Only when he now saw the Daily Prophet's report...
Did he realize his Sis had really gone to fight the Dark Lord.
Glancing at Gabon sprawled at the bedside, Frey pressed his lips together.
It seemed the strategy of using Gabon to stop Sis's impulsiveness didn't work... Not about status or anything, mainly because it couldn't talk... Next time he'd still have to follow along himself...
He carefully avoided the section reporting on Lys, folded the newspaper, and tucked it into his satchel, hugging his wand while staring intently at the room's door.
His every movement completely ignored the two awkward Aurors outside the room.
Even radiating subtle wariness.
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