The invitation arrived a week after Pettigrew's escape. A formal letter from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, addressed to both Harry and Ariana, granting them visitation rights to see Mr. Sirius Black, who was now recuperating in a private, long-term care ward.
"He wants to see us," Harry said, his voice a mixture of nervous excitement and trepidation. He looked at Ariana. "Will you… will you come with me?"
"Of course, Harry," she said. "He is your godfather. It is important you establish this connection."
They were granted leave from the school for the afternoon, travelling to London via the Floo network from Professor McGonagall's office. St. Mungo's was a chaotic, strangely cheerful place of healing spells and bustling medi-witches. They were led to a quiet, sunlit room at the end of a long corridor.
Sitting in an armchair by the window was a man who was a shadow of the handsome, laughing figure from Harry's photo album. Twelve years in Azkaban had left their mark. Sirius Black was gaunt and pale, his dark hair lank and unkempt. His eyes, set in deep, shadowed sockets, held a haunted, restless energy. But as he saw Harry step into the room, a light ignited in those eyes, a flicker of the old, reckless joy.
"Harry," he breathed, his voice hoarse. He tried to stand, but seemed too weak.
Harry rushed forward, his own heart pounding. This was it. His godfather. The man who should have raised him.
Sirius's gaze then shifted to Ariana, who stood quietly by the door. A look of profound, humbled gratitude crossed his face. "And you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You must be Ariana Dumbledore. I… there are no words. You gave me back my life."
"You were an innocent man, Mr. Black," Ariana replied calmly. "The truth had a right to be known. This is a private family matter. I will wait outside."
She gave Harry a small, encouraging nod. This was his moment, his connection to make. She slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, leaving godfather and godson to their reunion.
As she stood in the quiet corridor, a formidable figure approached her. It was Augusta Longbottom, Neville's grandmother, her customary vulture-topped hat perched regally on her head. She had clearly been waiting.
"Miss Dumbledore," she said, her voice crisp but holding a note of deep respect. "I was hoping I might have a word."
"Of course, Madam Longbottom," Ariana replied politely.
"My Neville has been a different boy this year," Augusta stated, getting straight to the point. "His confidence, his magic… it is all because of you. First, saving him from that fall, then the matter of his wand. You saw in him a potential that I, in my grief, was too blind to see. You have my gratitude."
"Neville has great potential," Ariana affirmed. "He simply required the correct tools and encouragement."
Augusta nodded, a flicker of sad pride in her eyes. "I am here for my weekly visit," she said, her voice softening slightly. "To see my Frank and Alice. I know of your… unusual capabilities. I wondered if, perhaps, you would do an old woman the honour of accompanying me. To see them."
It was a deeply personal, vulnerable invitation. The story of the Longbottoms was a tragedy that mirrored the Potters'. They were Aurors, tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and other Death Eaters with the Cruciatus Curse. They had not died, but their minds had been irrevocably broken.
"I would be honored, Madam Longbottom," Ariana said.
She followed the old witch to the Janus Thickey Ward for permanent spell damage. The atmosphere here was hushed, a place of quiet, incurable sorrow. In a room at the very end, two figures sat in chairs, staring blankly at the walls. A man with a gentle, round face, and a woman who, even with a vacant look in her eyes, possessed a kind, soft beauty. They were Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Augusta spoke to them, her stern voice softening into a gentle murmur as she told them about Neville's progress, about his new wand, about how proud they would be. They showed no sign of recognition. Alice, however, began to absentmindedly fiddle with a Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper that her son had left for her on her last visit. It was her only connection to the world, a small, repetitive motion.
Ariana watched them, her analytical mind processing the scene. She could feel the magic around them, or rather, the lack of it. Their magical cores were intact, but their minds… their minds were shattered. She focused, using the deeper senses the Flamels had helped her awaken. She looked past the physical and into the metaphysical.
She saw that the damage was not just a blankness. It was a scar. A psychic scar left by unimaginable agony. The Cruciatus Curse, she realized, did not just cause pain; it was pain. And the memory of that absolute, all-consuming pain had burned out the neural pathways of their consciousness, leaving them trapped in a perpetual, silent echo of their own torture. The curse was gone, but the memory of the curse remained, a ghost that had hijacked their sanity.
Is it the damage, she wondered, or the memory of the damage?
Without thinking, moved by a profound, logical empathy, she stepped forward. "May I?" she asked Augusta softly.
The old witch, seeing the strange, intense light in Ariana's eyes, simply nodded.
Ariana gently placed her hand on Alice Longbottom's head. She closed her eyes. She did not try a healing spell; there was nothing physical to heal. She did not try a memory charm; that would be a crude and damaging violation. Instead, she did what she did best. She began to weave.
She reached out with her own consciousness, not with force, but with a gentle, insistent touch, like a locksmith feeling for the tumblers of a complex lock. She found the psychic scar tissue, the looping, agonizing memory of the torture. It was a knot of pure, chaotic, painful energy.
She did not try to unravel it. She did not try to fight it. She simply… detached it.
She focused her will, her Intentio a concept of pure, clean peace. She envisioned a pair of metaphysical scissors, sharp and precise. She found the threads connecting the traumatic memory to Alice's core consciousness, and with a single, silent, focused act of will, she cut them. She didn't erase the memory from existence. She simply severed its ability to be perpetually experienced. She was removing the phantom limb of an old agony.
Alice Longbottom, who had been staring blankly at the wall, blinked. Her hands, which had been fiddling with the wrapper, stilled. Her eyes, for the first time in over a decade, focused. They looked around the room, confused, and then settled on her husband.
"Frank?" she whispered, her voice a dry, unused rasp.
Augusta Longbottom let out a choked, disbelieving sob, her hand flying to her mouth.
Ariana withdrew her hand, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over her. The mental and magical effort had been immense, far greater than holding back Quirrell's curses. This was a deeper, more fundamental magic.
Alice's gaze found Ariana. There was no recognition, only a deep, dawning confusion. The last thing she truly remembered was a flash of green light and a high, cruel laugh. But the terror was gone. The endless, screaming echo in her mind was silent.
"Who…?" she began.
"It is alright," Ariana said softly, though her voice was faint. "You are safe."
She knew it wasn't a cure. The damage to their minds, the years of lost time, could never be fully recovered. But she had given them a chance. She had silenced the ghosts. She had given them back the possibility of peace.