The road to the hospital also didn't turn out to be anything interesting, and inside... Inside, this establishment looked just like an ordinary hospital. The same light colors, the same people injured by stupidity or in some other way, filling the reception department, young and not so young girls in lime-colored robes with embroidery behind the counter. And even two huge fireplaces wide did not stand out from the general design. Corridors went deep, there was a wide staircase up, but there was also an elevator—visible at the end of one of the corridors.
On the way to the reception, I asked father:
"Am I even scheduled for an appointment?"
"As far as I know, Healer Smethwyck is ready to receive you within a week after Hogwarts. Um," father pondered. "Yes, scheduled."
"Excellent."
Now I became the leader of our squad.
"Excuse me, Miss," I addressed a rather young witch in a lime robe who stood at the reception and didn't look busy.
"Yes, young man?"
"I need to see Healer Smethwyck for a preventive check-up."
"So..." the girl took a folder from a vertical stand for many other folders, and quickly found some entry there. "Name?"
"Hector Granger."
"Hmm... I see. Up the stairs to the second floor, room two hundred and seven. The Healer is currently conducting an examination, you will have to wait."
"Okay. Thank you very much," I smiled, eliciting a reciprocal smile from the girl.
Turning to father and sister, I pointed invitingly at the stairs.
"Well, gentlemen and ladies, let's go."
Going upstairs, we found ourselves in another hall and a couple of corridors, above each of which hung signs with numbers of rooms located in each of them. There were significantly fewer people here—literally a couple of wizards waiting for an appointment, sitting on benches near the offices. And I cannot help but note that the hospital from the inside looks noticeably more modern, minimalist and hospital-like, perhaps. There weren't even bushes in pots, or other irritants or sources of possible allergic reactions.
"We go there," Hermione nodded toward one of the corridors.
While we walked, an elderly wizard came out of room number two hundred and seven, threw a meaningless glance at us, and left. Interestingly, at the same time the sign on the office changed shade from pink to greenish. Knocking, I opened the door and entered.
"Good morning," I greeted immediately, immediately finding with my eyes a slightly stout wizard in a lime robe.
He sat at a large desk, not distinguished by special decorations and delights. Behind his back was a large window, flooding everything around with daylight scattered by a matte translucent curtain. Of the furniture here were a sofa, an armchair, a chair opposite the healer's desk, a simple bookcase, and all this was in neutral beige tones, calming and soft. The door to an unknown adjacent room was closed.
"Hmm... Good..." Smethwyck looked at me for a second, and then recognition flashed in his gaze. "Mr. Granger. Have a seat."
"Sorry, but I'm not alone here."
"Ah, I understand," Smethwyck looked at father and sister behind my back. "You come in too."
When we all entered, Smethwyck pointed to the sofa, looking at father and Hermione. They understood everything without words and sat down, and the healer offered me a chair opposite his desk.
"I must admit, Mr. Granger, I didn't recognize you immediately. You have changed strikingly since our last meeting, and changed, I must note, for the better. Potions?"
"Healthy eating and physical exercise, sir."
"Oh, an excellent method!" the healer smiled kindly. "Not everyone does this in our time, because there are much simpler ways. Naive."
"The simple path is far from always the best."
"Moreover," the healer raised his index finger. "It almost never is. Well... Allow me to refresh my memory on your case..."
Smethwyck got up from his seat and went to a card file by the window I hadn't noticed before. Quickly finding the necessary folder, he returned with it to the table, opened it, and for five minutes fluently, but clearly attentively, studied the records.
"Well," he looked up at me. "Given the circumstances of your case, I would like to conduct some tests to understand the current situation."
"Of course. What needs to be done?"
"Oh, nothing special. Given some specifics..." Smethwyck took a stack of sheets from the desk, flipped through, and took a couple out of the stack, putting the rest away. "I will ask you to complete the task on these sheets, and simultaneously apply a spell to diagnose brain activity. And generally, check the state of health."
"Okay."
"Please," he handed me the sheets.
Taking them, I couldn't help but be surprised that on one there were damn complicated problems both in Arithmancy and ordinary mathematics. On the other—translation of runes. On the third—a task to draw a given object, artistically draw. And so on, trifles. I looked at Smethwyck questioningly.
"Of course I know," he smiled. "In which disciplines you are advancing and your general level. Let me remind you, even though I didn't stand over you every day, I am your attending physician, and given the specifics of your case, observation of mental activity was a priority."
"But I didn't study Arithmancy."
"Officially. You explained that you could study it yourself. I cannot say whether you achieved anything or not—all based on your conversations with the Head of House, Madam Pomfrey, and professors in general."
"Oh, I see," such reasoning and conversations indeed took place. "That's how they watch you, and you don't even know."
"All with your parents' permission," Smethwyck smiled. "Hogwarts staff did their job, and the information is well-known. Well, my conclusions will remain only with me, with you, and your relatives. Shall we proceed?"
"Of course."
"Here is a pen, a pencil."
Smethwyck put the supplies in front of me, and stood nearby, taking out his wand.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
Smethwyck made a small movement with his wand without any words, and I felt alien magic enveloping me. Completely harmless, it created a somewhat unpleasant impression, as if you are being closely watched. Well, let's go...
...The testing lasted half an hour, and all this time Healer Smethwyck continuously monitored my condition. When I completed the tasks, the healer returned to the table and took out a stack of clean sheets. Pointing his wand at them, he pronounced a spell with just his lips, and the sheets began to fill with text and diagrams.
"So," he spoke while the sheets filled themselves. "What can I say..."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noted how my bored father and sister leaned forward.
"...First the good news. The state of your physical health is simply magnificent. Immunity, physical development, preparedness, presence, or rather, complete absence of pathologies, deviations, diseases... I envy even a little," Smethwyck patted his small tummy hidden behind the lime robe with a smile.
"Really completely-completely good?" father clarified.
"I will say this—a little muscle mass is missing for the ideal, but it is worth remembering that Hector is still growing, and if the diagnostics are to be believed, and there are no grounds not to believe them, then this is not yet the limit. This pleases me and discourages me a little, but that's not the point."
"And what is?" I asked.
"The point is increased brain activity. We assumed that with your recovery it would return to normal, well, or at least remain slightly above it. But no."
"Is that so bad?"
"Not quite, Mr. Granger," Smethwyck smiled. "Even on the contrary, good. But you have to understand that human physiology does not imply such activity. Magic compensates for this, and I even see traces of rapid adaptation, but I worry that this process may stop, activity will remain the same and this may affect your further development. The brain is a tricky thing. It is capable of compensating very, very much, but for something to arrive somewhere, it must decrease somewhere."
"Logical..."
"Is it dangerous?" father got worried.
"No-no. But I would recommend taking a course of Nerve Regenerator. Given the peculiarities of your magic," Smethwyck looked at me somewhat meaningfully. "The result will not keep you waiting, simultaneously avoiding the already insignificant chance of at least some negative consequences."
The healer shifted his gaze to father and sister.
"Mr. Granger, Miss Granger. Could you leave us alone? After all, there are some things between a healer and a patient that should remain strictly between them."
"Yes, of course, I understand," father nodded, getting up. "I am also a doctor, albeit in a somewhat different profile."
"Excellent," Smethwyck smiled.
Father and Hermione left the office, and Smethwyck tapped his wand on the table—a certain magical dome clearly formed around us, previously unseen by me. I assume, for confidentiality.
"I'll ask directly," Smethwyck became serious. "In your body, I diagnosed an amusing magical construction. What is it?"
"I hoped you would find it," I smiled. "Personal development. I want to become a healer in the future."
"A worthy goal," Smethwyck nodded. "I'll say right away, so that there are no fears or reservations—the secret of the healer and the patient is inviolable and our medicine rests on it. I didn't quite understand what this construct does. Understood only that it cleanses and improves the body."
"Yes, that's roughly how it works. Very deep."
"And the results are excellent," Smethwyck nodded. "Another question. Do you have frequent cases of déjà vu? Sudden associations that cannot be, or duality of perception?"
"Hmm... If I remember your first visit correctly, you said that my soul is restoring integrity."
"Yes, exactly so. Don't misunderstand. We have two patients whose recovery we have been fighting for more than a year. Their problem is also connected with the soul, so we collect all available information. Direct work with the soul is under strict ban of the International Confederation of Wizards, and even healers are forbidden to experiment. Only observe, analyze, draw conclusions. That's why I ask, because I diagnosed a slight desynchronization of aura sections."
"Aura?"
"A kind of trace of the soul on the body, a reflection in reality. If you want to become a healer, you will encounter this matter in your seventh year."
"You are right. There is a little, but I wouldn't say they are pronounced."
"Hmm... I thought so."
"Is it dangerous?"
"No," Smethwyck shook his head with a smile. "They become less frequent, and the intensity less, right?"
"Yes."
"Here is the answer—soon the soul will simply... Align, let's call it that. Generally, I recommend you look for a translation of Buddhist treatises. Magical texts, of course. They studied the issues of the cycle of life and death very closely. There are amusing practices there. Perhaps you can even remember something from past lives!" Smethwyck finished his speech enthusiastically.
"Does that happen?" I didn't even have to feign surprise.
"Of course! There are many cases. Pity, though, that these memories are too fragmentary, and one in a thousand is capable of this, maybe less."
Smethwyck shivered.
"I tried for the sake of experiment. All because of those two patients. Remembered how I, an Indian boy, was bitten by a cobra and I died from poison... Just upset. Or maybe I imagined it—the ways of magic are inscrutable. Prefer to think it was a past life. You know, at my age it inspires hope."
"Indeed," I smiled.
"And one more thing. I noticed a bracelet on your sister's hand too. My goddaughter studies at Hogwarts, a little fidget. So I am forced to listen sometimes to stories about everything-everything-everything. In general, as a healer, I could not help but feel the trace of its influence on your sister, and it is somewhat similar to the circuit that is in your body."
"Suppose."
"Oh-h..." Smethwyck sighed. "I forget that you are Muggle-born. Any secret of the patient the healer will take with him to the grave—the basis of our reputation and trust. In general, I have a business proposal for you."
"I am listening carefully."
"I've been wracking my brains for two weeks over what to give my goddaughter. And here you appear, Mr. Granger. I'll ask directly—can you make something similar?"
"I'll tell you as a future colleague," I spoke seriously. "What you found in my body, purely for me, works by no means softly and... It is a great test at first."
"I guess what processes of cleansing the body of excess can be associated with, especially at such a level. In healing there are similar things, but implemented extremely clumsily, and far from always without consequences. Your option clearly and precisely feels safe, Mr. Granger."
"Will you believe feelings?"
"You have yet to learn many nuances of diagnostic magic if you are going to become a healer or an expert in malefics. Believe me, the sensations transmitted by diagnostic spells completely convey the meaning and essence, even if they do not reveal the mechanisms themselves. Be sure that if there was at least the slightest risk that something would go wrong, I would not ask you for such a thing."
In general, I must agree with Smethwyck. The Cleansing circuit created by me based on Minor Healing is extremely cool, absolutely safe, universal, and generally—elves worked on similar things for thousands of years, and it is the basis of their health, long life, and general "ideality."
"What do you offer in return, and what guarantees of secrecy? Understand correctly—this is too important to me. Of course, I am not going to keep my developments secret forever, but I do not wish to reveal myself now either."
"Blood contract," Smethwyck nodded. "And to broaden your horizons—a finished artifact cannot be repeated without knowing the exact process of its creation."
We drew up a contract fairly quickly, and I strained my brains considerably, making it ideal, which surprised Smethwyck. Generally, the elf's experience in intrigues suggested to me that the healer is sincere completely and fully, and is a good person himself. But insurance doesn't hurt. And consent to create such a thing will help me in the future when I decide to reveal some cards, but that is a question of the future. In the end, we agreed on a thousand Galleons, which surprised me a little, and besides money, Smethwyck promised to give me amusing, according to him, literature, if I bring assurances of my knowledge of the school curriculum from Hogwarts professors.
"And doesn't it surprise you," I asked, already standing in front of the door. "That a young wizard possesses such knowledge?"
"I am no longer young," this stout and indeed elderly man leaned back. "What haven't I seen in life, and little can surprise me. Perhaps I would be much more surprised if you, Mr. Granger, did not possess any outstanding talents at all. Impossible to turn out mediocre, after your illness. That just doesn't happen. Who knows, maybe you really will become a healer, and together we will make a bunch of incredible discoveries. Although..."
Smethwyck pondered.
"If you become an artificer or someone similar, you can achieve by no means lesser heights."
"Thank you," I nodded. "All the best."
"And to you. I will wait for the owl with the parcel."
I left the hospital in a good mood, although I had to explain to father and Hermione for ten minutes that everything was fine with me, and with the healer we discussed the nuances of treatment, as well as what is needed to become a healer. The purchase of the owl and other trifles went normally, and I became the owner of a small funny owlet, joyfully absorbing droplets of life energy—a funny living lump of dust.
After Diagon Alley we went shopping for clothes. Hermione's approach to these issues pleased me very much, and shopping did not drag on—just buying everything needed, without any endless fittings and other things.
On the way home I reflected that some of my talents and capabilities were revealed. But I myself did not intend to keep them secret forever, and have repeatedly revealed something. The main thing, it seems to me, is that good people learn about them, and, as I already noted, Smethwyck is one of them.
In the evening, after dinner and socializing with the family, I sat in my room creating a bracelet with the Minor Cleansing circuit, as I call this miracle weave, similar to a bunch of grapes, only instead of berries there are complex spheres of many symbols and lines. I decided to implement this through forging with a hammer with an interchangeable head. Visualized the circuit, saturated it with magic, placed it in the head, keeping it from decay, screwed on the head, swung and hit the simple metal bracelet created by transfiguration. Ringing, sparks, all that, but with an effort of will I prevented the dissipation of magic around, and even without this my manipulations are extremely precise, unlike local wizardry, throwing this very magic in all directions and radiating like... Like I don't know what.
The bracelet was a success. Elven diagnostics confirm this. Packing it, I sent it along with the owlet, proudly bearing the name Khrustik [Crunch], and went to bed, expecting some message from the Ministry or Hogwarts half the night, saying, so and so, cast magic on holidays, tut-tut and reprimand. True, I cast in such a way that even if they fix it, they will consider it childish accidental magic, but still...
...Nothing came—with this thought I woke up and went to do my daily routine. Khrustik, it turns out, returned at night and was quietly sniffling in his house. Yes, not a cage for him, but a house—a big one, with stumps, branches, a bush, and a kennel-nest. He also brought a letter in which Smethwyck thanked me for the promptly performed work, enclosing with the letter a small pouch with undetectable extension and weight reduction—it is in it that Galleons are hidden, but I didn't check their number, simply pouring them into a pocket specially calculated for money in one of the backpack sections.
A couple of days parents, Hermione, and I just spent together—a couple of times got out to London, sat in a cafe, walked around shopping centers, buying what might be needed on the trip, and just walking. And on the fourth day of the holidays we boarded a plane to Paris. And what is surprising—I waited for this with impatience. Seemingly seen a lot already, albeit from shard memories, and little can surprise, but shard memory remains only shard memory—those memories still seem only fully immersive movies. They cannot compare with what happens here and now. And that is wonderful.
. . . . .
In a rich and beautiful manor, albeit not particularly large, the morning began with the routine familiar to everyone: house-elves prepared breakfast and set the table in the dining room; the head of the family read a fresh issue of the Prophet, sipping tea; the beautiful wife kept company with the head of the family, and concurrently husband; a blonde angel girl hardly switched from running to a step worthy of a lady, entering the dining room... And everything, it would seem, is excellent.
"Astoria, daughter," smiled the black-haired mistress of the house, Sophia Greengrass. "Do you know if Daphne will come down soon?"
"Don't know, Mom. Good morning, Father."
"Good morning," William nodded, looking out from behind the newspaper. "Maybe call your sister? Where is she anyway?"
Of course, there was nothing to worry about. However, Daphne, who was expected for breakfast, met this morning not as she was used to. Besides the fact that it began not with lazy stretches in bed, but with a rapid dash to the bathroom, the nightgown was also sweaty, and became surprisingly toxic-smelling. But after the shower, nausea also rolled over Daphne, and now she did not risk moving far from a certain white throne known to everyone, about which it is not accepted to speak in decent society.
"Damn old man..." grumbled the brunette, sitting on a stool next to this very throne, and swaying back and forth. "It will be bad, dearie, it will be bad..."
Falling silent with concentration, Daphne froze for a couple of seconds, but then began to sway back and forth again, exhaling.
"And how could I forget... Phew... That all his 'useful, dearie, very useful'... End in a similar way?"
Daphne swayed a little more on the stool.
"Damn old man, huh..." the girl continued to be indignant. "Well, nothing, I'll endure. He promises a good result..."
Only ten minutes later, when a house-elf brought a potion promoting the absorption of excess in the body and removal in a more traditional, and less radical form, did Daphne allow herself to go down to breakfast. Naturally, such a late appearance did not go without a reprimand, but this did not worry the girl—she was already imagining how in a year or two, or better right now, she would become the healthiest, and ideally also beautiful. And if she doesn't, then old man Smethwyck better run. Run and not look back, for she will definitely not forget such an awakening.
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