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Quinn opened his eyes. They fluttered and tightened, stopping his dilated pupils from letting excess light in and hurting his eyes. The ceiling above was stark white, with the edges lined with an array of white MLE bathing the room with clean white light.

Quinn’s first thought as he stared above: ‘Am I in the Limbo?’ But everything was crisp and sharp, unlike when he had been to Limbo to pull Harry back, where everything seemed to be made from solidified mists and looked more like a dream-like illusion than a real place. The next thought: ‘Is this afterlife?’ Limbo was supposed to be the place between life and death— he had died and passed from the mortal realm to the afterlife— and maybe the afterlife looked like Limbo without all the swirling mists.

He had died. Died from exchanging a stabilizing control over his injury for the chance to slice Rivers’ throat. Died at the age of eighteen from fighting a war to get rid of the world from a Dark Lord. He

Was it worth it?

‘No, it was not,’ Quinn said to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He was four years old when he arrived in this world, and it had been fourteen years since then. Fourteen years of life, he had lived it to the fullest, doing what he loved, devoting every other minute of his life to magic, grateful that he had a background, the privilege that allowed him to pursue his heart’s desire. But there was always the foreknowledge gained from his previous life that dictated his life in certain ways. AID was created so he could have a handle on things inside Hogwarts. How he acted in front of many was through a lens of his previous knowledge. Invisible Vigilante, which was supposed to be only a one-time escapade, turned into something that drove his life to dangerous places. The older he got, the closer he got to the end of his limit of knowledge. . . the worse it got— he donned the mask more and more until he abandoned the unmasked part of his life, left his family, and lived a life entirely dictated by the foreknowledge.

Knowledge had always been a boon to him. But this time, it was a curse that chained him to play a part. He could’ve not bothered and walked away, but such was the curse of it all— he couldn’t turn away when he knew what the future presented.

Despite all he did. . . it wasn’t worth it.

Quinn groaned and closed his eyes when he felt them water up. He wanted to raise his hands to cover his eyes before they overflowed and tears trickled down his face, but no arm came over his face.

He opened his eyes and let the tears flow down the sides of his face. The tear-jerking feelings went away for a moment, and a frown marred his face as Quinn raised his neck to look at his right arm. It wasn’t there. His arm was missing from its place on his shoulder, and his body was wrapped in heavy gauze that had runes painted across the entire length. He turned his eyes to the other side and found that while he still had his left arm, it was also covered in gauze and had a dozen long needles sticking out from it. He had no idea what they were supposed to do, but he couldn’t move his arm or feel it.

Then his eyes went lower. His left leg hung over his body, the ankle resting on a U-shaped cushion that levitated without any support. As for his right leg, he couldn’t feel it like like his left arm and leg, but he instinctually knew that it wasn’t there like his right arm.

If it was any other person, they would suffer a panic attack seeing two of their four limbs missing— even a magical person would feel a full bout of anxiety even though they knew that magic could regrow limbs as easy as growing a mushroom in a damp and dark place. For Quinn, however, the first thought was: ‘I am alive.’

He was alive. He was sure of it. Soul moved on to the afterlife upon death. His cause of death had been a physical injury— his soul hadn’t been touched. If this was the afterlife, he was to appear with his entire body and not the mess of the condition he had died in.

“I am alive,” Quinn said to himself, savoring the sound of the words. The more he said, the better he felt, and the more his mood seemed to come out of a heavy swamp and into the free, fresh overground._.

His eyes darted across the room. It was a large room, utterly white and empty except for the cupboards and storage lined across the walls. He narrowed his and observed to find where he was, and the design of the furniture matched with a memory in his mind— it struck eight points of similarity to the furniture to when he had visited Gilderoy Lockhart in. . . St. Mungo’s.

He was in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

‘Of course,’ Quinn thought— he was mortally injured and would obviously be brought to the hospital to be mended.

He put his head back onto the pillow and swallowed down the feelings that thrashed up his throat. He breathed hard for a while and whimpered a little before he got himself back into control.

“Anyone!” Quinn shouted as loudly as he could, his voice cracking. He continued to call out until the door swung open, and a young man dressed in white entered the room, rushing towards Quinn.

“You are awake!” exclaimed the young man.

Quinn eyed the newcomer and presumed him to be a St. Mungo’s employee from the St. Mungo’s insignia patch on his chest. Quinn asked, “Where am I?”

“You’re in a private ward inside St. Mungo’s.” The young healer took out his wand and waved it over. “I’m going to ask you some questions; please answer them to your best ability. What is your name?”

“Quinn West.”

“How old are you?” “Eighteen this year.”

“What is the last thing you remember.” “. . . Closing my eyes in Hogsmeade.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” “Three— one— five.”

“How are you feeling right now?” “I feel no pain or discomfort despite missing an arm and leg.”

The young healer summoned a clipboard to him and tapped his wand over it to record information. “You seem stable,” he smiled. “I’ll be right back. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Some water and the primary healer in charge of me,” Quinn asked. He could tell the young man in front of him wasn’t in charge.

“That would be the Head Healer.”

Quinn hummed— The Head Healer of St. Mungos being his primary healer meant that his family had been informed. While it seemed obvious, there was a chance that his family wouldn’t be informed because of his identity. ‘Not like that it would matter. . . grandfather would’ve come to know anyway.’

When the door opened, a team of half a dozen people entered his room, with an elderly woman leading the group. “Good evening, Quinn. I’m Saffron Stoneheart, Head Healer of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I’m the primary healer in charge of getting you back to health.”

Quinn looked at the rest of the people and asked: “And they?”

“They’re my colleagues. One of the best minds and skilled healers St. Mungo’s has to offer. They will be observing your case and recovery.”

“I want everyone except you to be out,” Quinn said bluntly.

Stoneheart frowned, “Quinn, they’re here to—”

“I know they’re here to observe. That’s how healers learn and improve their craft. They can observe all they want, but not now. I want to talk to you alone. I will answer all the questions they have about the changes in health later— I have excellent Occlumency, I will be an excellent patient— but that is not right now.”

Stoneheart sighed and nodded to the other healers, and they walked out of the room, leaving the two alone.

Quinn started immediately. “Is the Dark Lord dead?” He wanted to know if all his effort bore fruit and that it was not all waste.

Stoneheart smiled brightly and nodded. “He is dead.”

Quinn wasn’t satisfied. “Who announced it? Did the news come from Dumbledore?”

“Not Dumbledore. Minister announced that the Dark Lord has died.”

Quinn clicked his tongue. As much as he trusted Amelia Bones’ integrity, he wanted to hear it from Dumbledore’s mouth.

“Is Dumbledore here?” Quinn asked. He didn’t believe Dumbledore got out of the fight scratch-free.

“He is. Doing much better than you are. I think we are ready to release him in a day or two.”

“I want you to send someone and say that I ask: Is he dead?” Quinn said in a no-nonsense tone. “Please don’t say anything; just go ask him. Mention my name. I want the answer as soon as possible— it will do wonders for my recovery”— or make it worse.

Stoneheart sighed and walked out of the room to return half a minute later. “You will hear from him soon,” she said.

Quinn smiled. “Thank you. How long have I been in the hospital?”

“Seven days.”

“Seven days?!” Quinn blurted with bulging eyes.

“We were surprised as well. You suffered from physical and magical fatigue, but there was no reason for you to be out for an entire week. We are running tests; we will find out soon.”

‘Must be because I overdrew from my soul,’ Quinn thought. “If it has been seven days, why am I still missing my limbs? Seven days mean substantial progress.” He knew that his missing arm and leg were not cursed injuries— he had checked their status before he had ‘died.’

“Your limbs are the least of your problems, dear Quinn,” Stoneheart sighed. “You have multiple grave internal organ injuries that need to be fixed before we move on to your arm and leg. But the biggest problem is—”

“The dark curse,” Quinn groaned his answer out.

“Yes, the dark curse. While it is no longer life-threatening by itself, it is keeping us from making quick progress on your injuries. It will take us another week or two before we can start actively healing your organs and then your limbs.”

Quinn closed his eyes and stayed silent for a while. He didn’t like the fact that he was going to be stuck in the hospital for several weeks. “What about the needles? I don’t know St. Mungo’s uses acupuncture as a method of treatment.”

“It is not acupuncture. Till yesterday, your body spasms out of control because of the dark curse. While the spasms by themselves are harmless side-effects— but combine them with your injuries, we can’t have you violently moving for obvious reasons. The needles keep the spasms at bay. You haven’t had a spasm today; you’re improving, that’s good.”

“Great,” Quinn sighed. “Now, the most important question,” he stared at her with an unblinking gaze. “Why is my magic moving without my command?” He felt his magic flowing inside his body without command, and he could tell it wasn’t his magic working on its own to sustain his body.

“Ah, about that,” Stoneheart smiled proudly. “On your second day here, your condition had worsened critically. We were always on the cusp of losing you because of the dark curse worsening your injuries. During that moment, I noticed the sheer amount of magic inside your body. So I decided to use your own magic to aid your healing. Unorthodox, yes— but it worked wonderfully. You are on a regular cycle of potions that make your magic flow as we want to heal your body—” she pointed at him “— the runes on your gauze also use your own magic to stabilize your injuries and keep them from worsening.”

Quinn was impressed. Healing was almost exclusively external. Yes, recovery depended on the body’s own immune system, but magical healing was using external power to mend the disease. Using a patient’s own magic was highly uncommon because people there was danger of what would happen if their magic ran out. But Quinn’s magic reserves were large enough that there was no danger of them running out.

The door opened, and the young healer that had first come into the room entered. He looked at Stoneheart and said, “Professor Dumbledore says. . . . He is dead for good.”

The moment Quinn heard that a few chuckles escaped him before tears streamed uncontrollably out of his eyes. He cried freely, gasped for air, the whole package. It was as he had said, hearing that Voldemort was dead from Dumbledore had lifted a dumbbell from his chest and immediately felt his magic flow smooth and better.

It took him a while to calm down, and when he did, he asked: “My family. . . are they here?”

“Someone is here every day during the visiting hours. Because of your condition, we don’t allow prolonged contact with you, so they’re only allowed to visit for a certain period.” Stoneheart looked at the back of her wrist at her watch, “I think someone should be coming soon—”

Like many perfect timings that happened in Quinn’s life, the door swung open, and the young woman with long jet black hair rushed into the room with wide, expect stone-grey eyes.

Quinn took in a deep breath, braced himself, and tried to look as healthy as he could in his condition.

“Lia,” he smiled, but his voice cracked from seeing her after such a long time.

By the end of the day, Quinn had inflamed his tear ducts from excessive crying.

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Quinn West – MC – I lost one of my balls as well if anyone was curious.

Saffon Stoneheart – Head Healer – Has been promised massive donations.

FictionOnlyReader – Author – A few conversation chapters incoming to end AMJ.

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