Chapter 1290 Aiden Selwyn

After two consecutive days of immersing himself in lengthy and complex medical records, Vincent has gained a considerable understanding of the injury classification system and medical record writing standards of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Illnesses.

He repeatedly compared several cases from five to eight years ago. These patients had very complex injuries, and he noticed a detail: whenever the most critical treatment process was reached, the detailed records would suddenly become brief and routine, lacking regular daily or weekly records.

This is unusual. For injuries like this, where even the diagnosis is unclear, the treatment process should be full of trial and error. How can a patient be cured without a long period of observation?

This lack of record-keeping is more like a summary recorded afterward, or someone deliberately simplified the process.

And most importantly, the attending therapists who did not keep detailed records of the treatment process were all the same person.

“Intern,” Scrimgeour asked the young therapist who was helping to categorize medical records nearby, without looking up, “would cases like this, involving the corruption of an unknown curse, usually be recorded so briefly during the middle to late stages of treatment?”

The intern therapist leaned over to take a look, then frowned: "Hmm...it's indeed not very common."

The scholar pointed to the signature at the bottom of the file, which read the name of the attending therapist. "Where is this Aiden Selwyn? I need to speak with him."

The intern therapist looked troubled. "Director Scrinker, it seems that therapist Selwin resigned two or three years ago. I'm not entirely sure about the specifics."

After all, they were just interns, and asking them more wouldn't yield any useful clues.

However, the surname Serwin sounds familiar. It seems to be one of the twenty-eight pure-blood families that have always kept a low profile.

Scrimgeour tapped the signature on the file hard. "Retrieve all files where Aiden Selwyn was the primary therapist or a major participant, between three and eight years ago."

The intern therapist didn't dare to slack off and quickly returned to the small room with a thick stack of files.

Scrimgeour flipped through the pages expressionlessly.

In documenting complete cases, Aiden Selwyn demonstrated remarkable talent, and many of the complex injuries he treated ultimately yielded results far exceeding expectations.

His treatment notes were logically rigorous, his attitude towards patients was professional and responsible, and his application of spells and potions was full of creativity. He was undoubtedly a rising star in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries at the time.

But behind the glamorous facade, Selwin occasionally made careless mistakes, omitting a great deal of the treatment process and even keeping his notes extremely brief.

After comparing these unusual files, Scrimgeour discovered that they had something in common: the patients' injuries were all rare and difficult-to-diagnose conditions with no clear cause or even any precedent.

Scrimgeour rested his chin on one hand, his index finger pressed against his cheek, lost in thought.

A highly talented and noble-born therapist undoubtedly possesses the ability to solve the most challenging problems, but why would he omit detailed records of the treatment process in certain specific cases?

Is it to protect certain unique treatment methods that exist only within pure-blood families and cannot be made public?

Or is it because some unconventional or even taboo methods were used during the treatment?

Or perhaps these patients and their symptoms are somehow connected to him?

His treatments were truly effective. He may be a somewhat eccentric but impeccable genius. The gaps in his records could be interpreted as a privilege of genius or protection of certain proprietary techniques.

But whatever the reason, Scrimgeour needs to investigate Selwyn thoroughly.

Just then, there was a rapid knocking on the door.

This time, it wasn't Percy who came, but a displeased Senior Undersecretary of Magic.

He produced a document stamped with the Minister's office seal. "Director Scrimgeour, the Minister orders you to immediately cease all activities at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Damages and return to the Ministry of Magic to report to him in person! This is an official order!"

Scrimgeour slowly raised his head, his cold gaze sweeping over the document before returning to the densely packed medical records in front of him.

“Tell Fudge that I have investigated the key parts. If he insists that I go back to listen to his empty instructions about public opinion and face, no problem. But he will be responsible for all the consequences.”

Scrimgeour's tone was calm, yet extremely intimidating.

The senior deputy minister's face paled; he clearly hadn't expected such a strong response.

He opened his mouth, but didn't dare repeat the order. He just clutched the document tightly and slunk out of the small room.

The intern therapist held her breath, gaining a completely new understanding of the Auror office manager's domineering nature.

In the British Ministry of Magic… no, in the entire British magical world, apart from Dumbledore and Wayne, only Scrimgeour dared to disregard Fudge's orders.

Under the adoring gaze of the intern therapist, Scrinker strode out of the small room.

Ministry of Magic.

Scrimgeour's arrival immediately caused a minor commotion. A rumor had been circulating in the ministry that he had repeatedly ignored Fudge's orders and would probably be "on vacation" again soon.

Scrimgeour chose to ignore all the gazes that came from curiosity, awe, or schadenfreude.

He stepped into the elevator and headed straight for the Auror office on the second floor.

Just as he was heading to the Auror's private archives, a tall, composed figure blocked his way.

“Rufus,” Kingsley said, his gaze scrutinizing, “you haven’t called a single meeting since you were reinstated. Everyone is waiting for your plans for the Gringotts incident and the direction of the manhunt for Vincent Wayne.”

“Yes, Director.” Tonks, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with the documents on the table, stood up and walked over. “Everyone else is clueless, but you keep running around. Do you suspect that there’s someone among us—”

"Tonks!" Kingsley shouted. "The situation is serious now, stop making jokes like this."

Scrimgeour glanced at Tonks, who was pursing his lips, and then looked at Kingsley, whose face was serious.

Interesting, she actually came to test him.

Given the precedents, it's understandable to suspect he's a fake.

“The premise of deployment is knowing what the opponent really wants to do.” Scrimgeour’s tone was somewhat impatient. “Fudge and those newspapers outside just want to catch a ‘dark king riding a dragon’ to complete their mission, but Wayne is not a dragon in a fairy tale, and we are not heroes with protagonist auras.”

He looked sharply at Kingsley. "Shakel, you're experienced enough to understand what I mean."

Kingsley met his gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded. "I understand, Director. Please feel free to ask if you need assistance."

He stepped aside to make way.

Tonks seemed relieved. "Alright... as long as you know what you're doing, Director. Just be careful."

……

……