If Roger's first impression of Diagon Alley was one of mind-bending magic and its terrifying potential, then his impression of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was astonishing in an entirely different way.
At St. Mungo's, he witnessed an overwhelming array of bizarre injuries. The first floor housed the Department of Artefact Accidents; the second, the Department of Creature-Induced Injuries; the third, the Department of Magical Bugs and Infections; the fourth, the Department of Potion and Plant Poisoning; and the fifth, the Department of Spell Damage. Each was filled with wizards and witches who had landed themselves in the hospital through magical mishaps or reckless experimentation.
There were also those who had suffered from accidents beyond their control. Faces twisted by misplaced transfiguration, limbs mechanized beyond recognition, lava seeping from wounds, and bodies riddled with parasites unknown to modern magic. Yet, those who bore no visible injuries often had it worse—shattered minds, broken souls, curses of unspeakable torment. Roger had imagined many horrors, but some afflictions here defied even his wildest speculations.
Yet, witnessing this—seeing the pioneering, often self-destructive nature of wizards—only reaffirmed that he had come to the right place. If these healers could mend such devastating ailments, then his own predicament would surely be a simple fix.
And he was right.
The healer's diagnosis of Roger's condition was straightforward: surgery on the first day, observation on the second, and discharge on the third.
Clang. Clang.
The sharp sound of metal striking metal echoed as Roger flicked his fingers. Seven jagged fragments, slick with blood, clattered against the metal tray.
Bullet fragments.
Even with his ability to sense danger, the chaos of war had left its mark. Some of the shrapnel had embedded too deep into his flesh over time; others were lodged perilously close to arteries or vital organs, making removal by Muggle methods too risky. So, he had come to this hospital—where magic defied the limitations of modern medicine.
Each fragment told a story.
The first had been in his arm long before he took possession of this body. The second, in his calf, courtesy of a stray bullet when he had first arrived in this world, disoriented and desperate. The third, in his abdomen, had nearly ended him—he had bled uncontrollably, saved only by the last bit of medicine a local Kuwaiti had given him. It was in that moment, teetering between life and death, that his magic had surged for the first time, awakening his ability to sense impending danger.
The fourth came when his powers were still unstable. A misstep while scavenging for supplies had left him vulnerable to another stray shot. The fifth, after he had learned to trust his ability, had been a cruel lesson: foresight alone wasn't enough if the body was too weak to respond. That bullet had shattered his arrogance.
The sixth—he could have dodged, but he hadn't. He had chosen to save a child, taking the bullet willingly. A calculated risk, one that had not been fatal.
The seventh… the seventh had taught him the true fickleness of the human heart.
Roger stared at the fragments for a long moment, then exhaled. He retrieved seven small plastic bags—the kind used for passport photos—carefully placing each bullet fragment inside and marking them with serial numbers.
Magic was everywhere, woven into the fabric of existence. Ritual magic, in particular, thrived on connections—on significance. Voldemort's resurrection had been a prime example: the unintentional sacrifice of a father's bone, the willing offering of a servant's flesh, the forcibly taken blood of an enemy. Every act, every object, carried meaning.
And these bullets? These nearly fatal wounds? They held meaning too.
Some had nearly killed him. Others had altered his mindset, reshaped his path. Each bore an extraordinary occult significance. Roger would not discard them. He believed in being prepared—always. There was no telling when such things might prove useful.
With the bullets stored away, Roger turned his attention to his belongings. He traveled light: only a few books. Surgery on day one, observation on day two, discharge on day three—he refused to waste a single moment.
Bag in hand, he descended to the first floor of St. Mungo's to settle his bill.
The procedure that had taken Muggle doctors aback, that had posed grave risks to modern medicine, had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience to the healers here. As simple as cupping in a bathhouse—cut open the flesh, extract the shrapnel, apply dittany and blood-replenishing potions, done.
The cost? Nearly negligible.
Roger exhaled, content.
And then—
"Hmm?"
Though far from the battlefield, his instincts as a Seer remained sharp.
As Roger made the final payment, something caught his attention. He sensed someone staring at him. Turning toward the source of his perception, he saw an elderly woman and a young boy who appeared a bit vacant. The one who was staring at him was the child, roughly his age.
The combination of their appearance, the location, and the boy's demeanor... Roger quickly pieced together the identity of the other party.
Neville Longbottom—often jestingly referred to as the "Sword Saint of Gryffindor" by many. His parents, victims of the Death Eaters' cruel use of the Unforgivable Curses, had been driven to madness and had been confined to St. Mungo's for nearly a decade. They remained in a state of near-constant instability, unable to recover fully.
The reason the three Unforgivable Curses are deemed unforgivable is their inherent malice. There is no counter-curse. Once cast, they leave permanent damage… at least, for now.
The boy's apparent dullness could be attributed to the Forgetfulness Charm placed on him as a child. It was a cruel spell used to erase the memories of the traumatic experience when he and his parents were captured by Death Eaters when he was only a toddler, and it left lasting effects.
After confirming that the child posed no immediate threat, Roger gave a brief, polite smile and nodded in acknowledgment before looking away. Although he recognized Neville, Roger had no intention of forging any connection.
What Roger sought was not companionship, but eternal life—an endless span of time and the boundless possibilities it would bring. The pursuit of that goal was his sole focus, and he had little interest in distractions that might hinder his race against time.
However…
While Roger Virgil was undeniably talented and capable, he was not without his flaws. One such flaw was his occasional difficulty understanding how others viewed him. Naturally indifferent to the opinions of those around him, he was often oblivious to the impact of his actions on others.
It was only after much reflection that he realized how his casual remarks had deeply affected Professor McGonagall. Similarly, he hadn't noticed the palpable fear many witches and wizards displayed when they encountered him at the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't until it was pointed out to him that he fully grasped the extent of his influence.
At that moment, as he turned to leave, Roger overlooked something important.
The powerful are often drawn into the center of fate's whirlwind. Even when they don't wish to be involved, the currents of destiny will find them.
In a world where immense power belongs to the few, a simple gesture from one such individual can stir a storm of fate, affecting countless lives in ways they cannot foresee.
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