If Roger's first impression of Diagon Alley was the terrifying nature of mind-distorting magic, then his impression of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was astonishment of a different kind.
At St. Mungo's, he saw all sorts of bizarre injuries. The hospital's first floor housed the Artifact Accidents Department, the third floor dealt with magical diseases, the fourth floor handled potion and plant poisoning, and the fifth floor specialized in spell damage. Many of the patients had ended up here due to magical experiments gone wrong.
Others had been admitted due to various unexpected accidents.
Some had grown elephant trunks on their faces, some had partially turned into machines, others had molten lava seeping from their limbs, and some were riddled with countless unknown parasites, their bodies covered in festering wounds.
The ones without visible wounds often suffered even worse fates—memories scrambled, souls shattered, cursed beyond comprehension, and injuries Roger hadn't even imagined before.
After witnessing the wizards' adventurous spirit, their self-destructive tendencies, and the sheer danger of the magical world, Roger was certain that he had come to the right place.
If even these seemingly unsolvable cases could be healed by the hospital's mediwizards, then his own minor issues should be nothing to worry about.
And, as expected, the healers diagnosed his condition quickly: a surgery on the same day, a single night of observation, and discharge on the third day.
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Clang. Clang.
The sound of metal colliding echoed as Roger fidgeted with the small fragments between his fingers.
Seven bullet shards, stained with traces of blood, scraped against the metal tray.
Even with his ability to sense danger to some extent, Roger hadn't escaped unscathed in the chaos of war.
Some of these bullet fragments had been lodged in his body for so long that they had fused with his flesh. Others were too close to vital organs and arteries, making their removal through modern medical procedures too risky—potentially causing more harm than good. That was why Roger had come to this magical hospital, which specialized in treating all sorts of bizarre injuries.
The first fragment came from his arm—it had been embedded in the original owner's body before Roger's soul took over.
The second was from his lower leg, a wound inflicted when he had first arrived in this world and was blindly running for his life, struck by a stray bullet.
The third, from his abdomen, had nearly killed him. He had been bleeding uncontrollably and was only saved by a Kuwaiti local who used the last of his medical supplies on him.
It was during this brush with death that Roger's magic first surged violently, granting him the ability to foresee crises related to himself.
The fourth bullet hit him when his newfound ability was still unstable—he had been scavenging for supplies and was struck by another stray bullet.
The fifth came when he had mistakenly believed himself to be invincible. He had thought he was destined for greatness, only to learn a painful lesson.
Sometimes, even if you can foresee danger, your body may still be too weak to avoid it completely.
This bullet shattered Roger's arrogance.
The sixth bullet—he could have dodged it, but he had deliberately taken the hit to save a child.
That one had been calculated. It wouldn't be fatal.
But the seventh… the seventh taught Roger the fickleness of human nature.
Staring at the bullet fragments, Roger remained silent for a moment before pulling himself out of his turbulent memories.
He retrieved seven small plastic bags, the kind typically used to store ID photos, and carefully placed each bullet fragment inside. With a black marker, he labeled them with numbers.
Magic was everywhere.
Whenever something became entangled in cause and effect, it could gain a unique mystical significance.
Take Voldemort's resurrection ritual, for example. The ritual required his father's bone—unknowingly given, his servant's flesh—willingly sacrificed, and his enemy Harry's blood—forcefully taken.
It was a classic example of ritual magic harnessing causal relationships to amplify its power.
Ritual magic in this world was incredibly potent and went far beyond resurrection. Even the advanced form of Transfiguration—Animagus transformation—involved ritualistic elements.
The first step alone required holding a mandrake leaf in one's mouth for an entire month without swallowing it. Then, during a full moon, the leaf had to be brewed into a potion, followed by completing the rest of the steps during a thunderstorm.
Many powerful rituals required rare and specific materials.
Some of these bullets had nearly killed Roger. Others had brought about profound changes in his mind. They all carried significant mystical weight.
Roger wasn't the type to waste valuable resources.
He lived by a simple principle: "It's always wise to prepare in advance."
Unless absolutely necessary, he rarely fought battles he wasn't ready for.
Once he had stored away the bullet fragments, Roger began packing his belongings.
He hadn't brought much—just a few books.
With the surgery on the first day, a single night of observation on the second, and discharge on the third, he had no intention of wasting a single day.
Grabbing his bag, he made his way to the reception desk on the first floor of St. Mungo's to settle his bill.
Roger's operation might have been tricky for a Muggle hospital, but for the healers at St. Mungo's, it was child's play—no more complex than cupping therapy.
A simple cut to extract the bullet, a few doses of dittany and blood-replenishing potions, and it was done.
The cost? Practically nothing.
"Hmm?"
Although Roger had been away from the battlefield for a while, his instincts as a Seer remained sharp.
As he was paying his bill, he suddenly sensed a gaze fixed on him.
Following the sensation, he saw an elderly woman and a boy with a slightly vacant expression.
The one staring at him was the boy, who seemed to be around the same age as Roger.
This pairing, this location, and those features…
Roger quickly pieced together the boy's identity.
Neville Longbottom.
Often jokingly referred to as the "Gryffindor Sword Saint" by others.
His parents had been tortured into insanity by Death Eaters using the Cruciatus Curse. They had been confined in St. Mungo's for nearly a decade without recovery.
The Unforgivable Curses were named so for a reason—there was no counter-curse. Once afflicted, there was no cure. At least, not yet.
Neville's vacant look wasn't just natural dullness—it was the lingering effect of a memory charm placed on him as a child, meant to erase his traumatic past of being captured alongside his parents.
Confirming that the boy wasn't a threat, Roger gave him a small, polite smile and nodded in greeting before turning away.
Though he recognized Neville, he had no intention of getting involved.
Roger's goal was immortality—an eternity of endless possibilities.
He had no time to waste on distractions.
However…
Roger Virgil was a man of talent and foresight, but that didn't mean he was without flaws.
One of his biggest weaknesses was his lack of awareness of how others perceived him.
He never paid much attention to how his words or actions impacted others unless it was blatantly pointed out to him.
Just like how he hadn't realized the waves he had stirred in Professor McGonagall's mind with a few casual remarks.
And just like how he hadn't fully grasped the level of fear he had instilled in the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron.
So, as he turned to leave, he failed to notice one crucial thing—
The strong are destined to become the center of fate's storm.
As one of the very few truly powerful Seers in the entire wizarding world, he could not avoid certain things.
Even if he didn't want to interfere, fate would come knocking.
And in a world where power determined destiny, a mere wave of a strong individual's hand could unleash a storm that reshaped countless lives.
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