A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!
Chapter Ten: Full Cups of Distress
After the interesting trip to Edinburgh to meet Sherlock's family for Christmas, John hoped for a few days of quiet. But as soon as they returned to London, John felt an onslaught of chills and fevers. The next day John woke up with a full blown strep throat—or flu, or pneumonia, John couldn't tell which. The last place John had been ill was at Camp Bastion, where she contracted HA-MRSA post-surgery. Though the sickness levels of the two events couldn't be compared, at least at Camp Bastion John had people who took care of patients. At 221B this was dubious—not when Mrs. Hudson was away.
John was weighing the pros and cons of getting out of bed when Sherlock's silhouette appeared at the door.
Normal husbands, John supposed, would perhaps try to be helpful (and two to one fail miserably). Where Sherlock was concerned, John fell back to normal operating procedure: observe subject's behaviour and reserve judgment.
"Strep throat," Sherlock said at the threshold, confirming John's initial suspicions.
John half-expected Sherlock to return to whatever that was occupying his mind after he made his diagnosis. But he didn't. It was rather eerie, receiving his full attention as an interesting corpse would.
"You really don't expect anything, do you?" said Sherlock. "Not resignation, just a statement of fact. Interesting."
Sherlock noiselessly padded into the room and knelt next to the bed. John refrained from warning him about infections. Sherlock never liked it when someone told him what he already knew. Probably.
"Of course I know," Sherlock groused. "The bacteria are probably incubating already."
John was going to snort, but went into a coughing and sneezing fit instead. Sherlock smothered it with the ugly red pyjama top lying at the foot of the bed. Then he rested his chin on John's forehead, the lips almost touching.
"Thirty-nine degrees Celsius give or take two points," he said.
"And you can tell that just by touch," John rasped.
"Obviously," said Sherlock, as arrogant as usual.
John swallowed the instinctive quip. Thinking was too difficult. It felt like coarse ropes were tightening its hold around her throat. A dull ache pounded just behind the eyes. John started nodding off without meaning to.
A thick straw poked at John's lips. John sipped whatever liquid was offered. It was warm and tasted of honey, cinnamon, ginger and milk.
"Wrong," Sherlock muttered without his usual rancour.
"I didn't say anything," John whispered.
"You were thinking about the cinnamon and ginger and decided it was Masala Chai. You're wrong. It's curried pumpkin soup, watered and filtered to a fluid consistency."
John briefly wondered how Sherlock got the curried pumpkin soup, but then decided not to bother. It was tasty and soothing. That was good enough. Meanwhile, Sherlock shifted his position. His mobile beeped quietly. Buttons were pressed. John watched through one bleary eye Sherlock in his fourth most frequent pose— that of poring over his phone.
"Harry thanks you for the gift, particularly the novels," Sherlock intoned, pitching his voice just so that when used on certain clients, made them go weak on the knees or just plain sleepy. "He's off to interview the suspects. He will record everything for my perusal later." A pause, "It might take them the better part of two weeks, considering his class schedules and that of the teachers. The excuse of wanting to become a Healer is working extremely well."
"Might come back to haunt him later," John said in between coughs.
"Perhaps," Sherlock said. "He's certainly showing all the instincts of a good a detective."
John smiled at the pride in Sherlock's voice.
"You should train him."
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"You tell me," said John. "So have you figured it out, yet?"
"I know who and what to expect," said Sherlock. "The question is how to nudge Harry to the right direction."
"Don't nudge him too fast," John mumbled. "Harry might start skirting around the culprit and draw attention."
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "It would never go that far. Harry may not have a credible poker face yet, but he knows to keep his cards to himself."
"Mmmm," John murmured, not convinced. Harry was no Sherlock, for which John was grateful, yet for anyone to be good at their field, a certain amount of absorption and tunnel vision was expected, but tunnel vision was a dangerous blind spot for detectives to have. John hoped Harry's partners in investigation would have enough sense to start watching Harry's back if he showed any signs of rushing headlong into an investigation, tossing important things like caution and safety to the wind like Sherlock still did despite the innumerable times he almost got himself killed or worse as he did so.
"He's too cautious," Sherlock complained. "There's no reason for him to dither. Why isn't he going straight to likelier suspects?"
Yes, John decided, it was very a good thing Harry was no Sherlock.
-oo00oo-
"Are you sure you want to do this, Harry?" Ron asked. "We could wait until Hermione gets back."
Harry nodded as he rubbed his tired eyes. Ever since Dumbledore warned him the dangers of the Mirror of Erised, Harry kept his invisibility cloak folded and hidden on the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he could delete the memories of what he saw in the mirror as easily, but he couldn't. He started having nightmares. Over and over again if he wasn't seeing his parents vanish in a flash of green light, he was reliving the day he and John almost died. He needed a distraction, something that would take his mind completely off of the mirror, and besides Quidditch, he couldn't think of a better way to distract himself than continuing their investigation of the thief — namely interviewing the teachers.
"We need to do them anyway, and Professor Flitwick said he was available," Harry said. "We'll put Hermione on the line so she doesn't miss anything."
Hermione was a bit upset when Harry told her what they were going to do, but agreed it was probably the best use of time.
"I wish I was there," she complained. "It's just not the same."
"It's just Flitwick," Ron assured her. "Anyway, you can talk to him later."
They met Professor Flitwick at his office. He offered Ron and Harry sparkling cider and Peppermint Toads as he settled into his chair which was stacked with several large cushions so he could see over his desk.
"So, how can I help you?" asked Professor Flitwick.
Harry was prepared this time. "I'm interested in becoming a healer, professor, and I heard for that I needed to be very good at Charms. I just wanted to know more about the specifics."
"Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall told me about this," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. "Healing is a very old and noble profession Mr. Potter, and Charms feature a large part of it. But I should first mention the duties of a wizard healer and a Muggle one is very different."
Harry listened in rapt attention as Professor Flitwick described the different ailments wizards and witches suffered via badly cast charms—sprouting wings, vomiting slugs, oozing slime, heads clanging like bells, and growing horns.
"So it's not just cuts, tick bites, and pneumonia," Harry remarked.
"Indeed, no," squeaked Professor Flitwick. "Wizards and witches are more resistant against diseases and accidental injuries than Muggles, but we are not exempt from them. We also have our own diseases and maladies."
"Like dragon-pox and scrofungulus," said Ron.
"I guess jinxes and curses take large part of it too," said Harry.
Harry then asked about wizard surgery. Both Flitwick and Ron were appalled at the very idea, Ron actually calling surgeons nutters who cut people up. Harry felt offended in behalf of John, but refrained from saying so during the interview. As for things like diabetes, cardiac defects, cancer, hepatitis and genetic disorders, Professor Flitwick didn't know much—in fact, he confessed to never have heard the terms DNA and chromosomes. But that was fine. Harry didn't care if wizards in general or Flitwick in particular were up-to-date on Muggle medical research. It was all ground work to lead up to the questions he needed to ask.
"A bit off-topic, but how long have you been teaching Charms, professor?" Harry asked.
"Over forty years now," squeaked Professor Flitwick.
"So you must know the other professors really well."
"One could say so," said Professor Flitwick, "I've seen colleagues come and go, and the students I've taught become teachers themselves."
"What do think about Professor Quirrell? I mean, Professor McGonagall told me Defence Against the Dark Arts is another requirement and I understand that, but he seems so … new."
Give people the opportunity to gossip, Sherlock had instructed. Nothing reveals a person's character more than when you ask what he or she think of the weakest and the most gossip-worthy. Harry, Ron and Hermione agreed no one was a bigger gossip fodder without the fear of retaliation than Quirrell, hence the question. They also decided to ask the question in the middle of the interview to reduce the probability of the teachers remembering them asking it. At any rate, they figured it was worth the try.
"I would be patient," squeaked Professor Flitwick. "Professor Quirrell was brilliant, articulate and diligent as a student, and remained so when he was first appointed as our Muggle Studies professor. He took a year off to gain first-hand experience to prepare for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but I'm afraid he was … not quite prepared for the experience itself."
"Yes sir," said Harry.
Hermione quickly moved on to the inevitable questions about the Charms O.W.L.s (Ordinary Wizard Levels) and N.E.W.T.s (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests). Harry made a mental note to think about final projects for his N.E.W.T. classes before he asked how the Study of Ancient Runes or Arithmancy was related to healing.
"There is no direct relation," Professor Flitwick answered. "But I do recommend them as these courses will serve to demonstrate your academic curiosity, your ability to handle advance instruction and think in abstract terms. These are quite necessary to set yourself apart from the regular medic to the truly talented Healer."
"What about extra-curricular activities?" Harry asked (this was one of the questions John compiled for him 'to make it sound like he really thought this medical thing through').
"Oh, those help too," Professor Flitwick said, sounding a bit mischievous. "May I suggest the Charms Club?"
"You don't happen to be the tutor, do you?" Harry grinned.
"As a matter of fact, I am!" Professor Flitwick said, laughing. "If I may say so, it's an excellent place to test and experiment charms that tickle your fancy, but didn't manage to find its place in the classroom."
Harry considered this. "So if I wanted to, say, make a three dimensional map of Hogwarts…"
"The Charms Club would be the place to go!" said Professor Flitwick. "Creating a floor plan of Hogwarts is actually a pet project of the Charms Club, though the unfortunately the trend is by the time a student knows enough about the castle to make a useable map, a map is no longer needed."
"That's not true," said Harry. "You can always lend it to a firstie. They'd probably appreciate it a lot."
"They would indeed," said Professor Flitwick, beaming. "Do you have any other questions?"
Harry and Ron shook their heads. They thanked Professor Flitwick for his time (and the Peppermint Toads, which Ron had finish devouring over the course of the interview) and took their leave, but not before Harry promised to look into the Charms Club.
"That was certainly informative!" said Hermione over the phone. "We're definitely going to check out Charms Club later, it sounds very interesting!"
"We're interviewing suspects, Hermione," Ron reminded her.
"That doesn't mean we can't think of other things!" Hermione protested, before moving on rather quickly, "So who are we going to interview next?"
"Professor Kettleburn or Professor Trelawney, I think," said Harry.
"I doubt it's Kettleburn," said Ron, "Charlie told me about him, and he doesn't sound like the 'planner and opportunist' Sherlock was talking about."
"Why? What is he like?"
"Well, there's this story he provided a worm for a school production of A Fountain of Fair Fortune, only it was an engorged Ashwinder, and it exploded half-way through the play and set the Great Hall on fire…"
-oo00oo-
"So Potter interviewed you, too, Silvanus?"
That was the first question tossed into the staffroom during the first afternoon tea break since the term started. Professor Kettleburn puffed out his chest.
"Of course he did!" boomed Kettleburn. "No healer can go without a thorough knowledge of Magical Beasts! Potter definitely has the right idea!"
Severus sneered in his corner where he was grinding coffee beans while his colleagues cooed over Potter's latest antics. They sounded like besotted idiots, the whole lot of them.
"I think I should rethink my retirement, now that I know Potter is definitely interested in taking Care of Magical Creatures!" Kettleburn went on.
"But you've been preparing for retirement for the last decade!" Flitwick exclaimed.
Kettleburn stomped his two peg legs. "I'll just get a couple of assistants and go part-time. I'm not missing this!"
"You're going to need them," Severus muttered. "I can only think one student more troublesome than Potter and its Longbottom."
"Pah! You say that to everyone but a handful of your Slytherins, Snape!"
"On your head, then."
Severus knew what kind of explicit gesture Kettleburn wanted to form with the three articulated digits of his clamp (but which were charmed not to) when he said: "On yours!"
"Did Potter ask you about Quirinus?" asked Professor McGonagall. Severus twitched at the mention of Quirrell. "He seemed a bit worried about him when he talked to me."
"Nope," said Kettleburn.
"He did to me," squeaked Flitwick. "I told him to be patient."
"Quirinus is going to have a nervous breakdown before the end of second term, at the rate he's going," said Sprout, shaking her head. "His trembling is getting worse with each passing month."
Severus paused over his new cafetiere as his colleagues worried over Quirrell. He could bet his life it was no coincidence Potter was inquiring Quirrell of all people when he was going about 'interviewing' the teachers. He could also bet all the money in Gringotts that the person(s) who gave the aforementioned cafetiere as a Christmas gift to him—a novel occurrence that left Severus reeling for five full seconds—was the reason behind the questions.
Severus pulled out his second Christmas gift—a mobile phone that had the words 'Blessed by St. John Watson' engraved on the back— from his inner robe pocket as he carefully spooned coffee grinds into his cafetiere. Muggles definitely had the right idea when they invented mobile phones and text messages. He just couldn't understand why they didn't arrange the buttons in alphabetical order when they manufactured them.
Using your child to flush out the culprit? Dear me, Watson, dear me.
He got his reply within a minute.
Not my idea. Sherlock's idea of training Harry. Am too sick to stop him.
Severus raised an eyebrow.
Cold?
Strep throat. Took amoxicillin. Will be back to normal in a week.
Severus sneered at the Muggle's idea of fast turnover.
Will send pepper-up potion via owl post. effects instant, but makes taker smoking in the ears for hours afterwards.
Thanks :) Harry as village witch doctor now actually sounds like a really good idea.
btw Sherlock says perish the thought of directly interfering with next Q game. Says acting suspiciously now is useless.
I have no idea what he means, so don't ask me.
Severus stowed the phone back inside his robes after reading the last message. He felt distinctly troubled. How did Sherlock Holmes know he was planning to referee the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match? He shared the idea to no one, not even Dumbledore. Severus pondered the facts as he poured hot water over the coffee grinds. The only sources of information Sherlock Holmes had were Potter and Watson. Potter would have nothing good or useful to say about him — his actions in Potions class and the Gryffindor-Slytherin match made sure of that. Watson knew for a fact he was a sworn enemy of James Potter, therefore had no love for his son Harry Potter. How then did Holmes figure out Severus would think to referee the next match? It made no sense.
I need to confront the man, Severus decided as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He'd seen neither head nor hair of Sherlock Holmes these past four months, which was odd considering he was visiting 221B every week and Holmes lived there, too. It was possible his absence had some relation to the current conundrum. The question was how.
"I must say, I definitely like the smell of coffee," said Flitwick, sniffing appreciatively.
"May I try a sip, Severus?" asked Madam Pomfrey.
"Just a moment, it's still brewing," said Severus. He pressed the plunger down ever so slowly. "There."
He filled Madam Pomfrey's teacup. She hesitated over the rich brown liquid.
"I think I'll try it with cream and sugar first," she said.
"If you must," Severus huffed.
"So when is Harry going to interview you, Poppy?" asked McGonagall.
"Harry hasn't asked me for an interview, but then he doesn't need to, does he?" said Madam Pomfrey. "I'm sure he'll ask another slew of questions this coming Sunday."
"Ah, so he's already been picking your brains," said McGonagall, smiling.
"A new question every week!" Pomfrey confirmed, "I'm going to miss them soon," she added.
"So the healing regimen is finally over? That's wonderful!" said Flitwick, actually clapping.
"Just two more weeks, and he'll be done," Pomfrey said. Then she sighed. "I wish he was treated earlier. The ruptured eardrums I could mend, and the potion Severus brewed for the traumatized GI tract worked wonders, but scar tissue from internal bleeding and toxic smoke inhalation…" she shook her head. "I'm afraid he'll never be perfectly well."
Severus left the staffroom soon after that. He told himself he wasn't fleeing because he wasn't.
He really, really wasn't.
-oo00oo-
"Harry, I really think you should go to the hospital wing," said Hermione.
Ron, Hermione and Harry were in a small landing in North Tower. Harry sat leaning against a wall, knees to his chest. There was an scary rattling sound in his breathing, and he was clutching his forehead. Despite all this, Harry shook his head.
"Just give me a minute," he wheezed.
Ron and Hermione looked at each other helplessly. Harry hadn't been in the best of health since start of term. He kept having migraines and nosebleeds randomly. Just yesterday he had a massive nosebleed in the middle of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and had to go to the hospital wing because it wouldn't stop. Though Madam Pomfrey gave him a note, Harry still showed up for Potions and endured a two torturous hours of Snape. To top it off, he insisted on joining the interview with Professor Sybil Trelawney.
"It's not that I don't trust you two," said Harry. "But I need to be there to ask the healer-prep questions."
The trek to North Tower, where the divination classroom was located, had taken them well over thirty minutes. They only managed to find it at all through the dubious help of one Sir Cardogan. As they wandered around an unfamiliar corridor that had one lonely painting featuring a stretch of grass and a fat dapple-grey pony grazing, a short, squat knight in a suit of armour with grass stains on his knees clanked in.
"Aha!" he yelled upon seeing Harry, Ron and Hermione. "What villains are these that trespass upon my private lands? Come to scorn at my fall perchance? Draw, you knaves, you dogs!"
They watched in astonishment as the knight drew his sword and swung it around violently. The sword was too big for him, however, and before long he overbalanced and fell face-first to the grass. After a beat, he seized his sword and used it push himself upright, but that made the sword sink deeply into the grass. Though he tried to pull the sword out with all his might, it just wouldn't budge. At length he flopped back down on the grass, and lifted his visor to mop his sweaty face.
"Um, you don't happen to know how to get to the North Tower, do you?" Harry had asked.
The knight's demeanour instantly changed.
"A quest!" he shouted, clanking to his feet. "Follow me, good friends, and we shall find our goal or perish trying!" He gave his sword a fruitless tug, failed to mount his pony (again), gave up, and cried, "On foot then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!"
He ran off. They hurried after him, following the sound of his armour. Here and there they spotted him running ahead in a picture. After spotting him in a picture of women in crinolines hanging on the wall of a narrow spiral staircase, they climbed the tightly spiralling steps, huffing and puffing, until they saw the knight pop his head into a painting of some sinister looking monks.
"Farewell!" he cried. "Farewell, my comrade-in-arms! If you ever have need of a noble heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cardogan!"
"Yeah, we'll call you if ever need someone mental," Ron muttered as soon as Sir Cardogan disappeared.
They found a tiny landing at the end. There were no doors, but there was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on the ceiling. But before they could approach the trapdoor, Harry semi-collapsed to a sit, wheezing. Hermione took one look at his chalk-white face and insisted he go to the hospital wing. Harry refused. Ron and Hermione knew there was no use trying to change his mind when he used that tone so they just waited, wishing Harry would stop being so bloody stubborn.
"…I'm okay now," said Harry at length. He was still too pale, but at least his breathing sounded normal.
They took a step towards the trapdoor. It suddenly opened and a silvery ladder descended to their feet.
"After you," said Hermione, nudging Ron. So Ron climbed the ladder first and emerged into the strangest classroom he'd ever seen. There were twenty or so circular tables stuffed inside, all surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs. A dim, crimson light lit the whole place. It was stiflingly warm, and the fire burning under the crammed mantelpiece gave out a sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large copper kettle. All the curtains of the windows were closed, and the many lamps had dark red scarves draped over them. Shelves ran across the walls, and they were full of crystal balls, many packs of playing cards, dusty feathers, stubs of candles, and a huge array of tea cups.
"Do you see her?" Harry asked when he appeared at Ron's shoulder, right after Hermione.
Just then a soft, misty voice came from the shadows.
"Welcome," it said. "It's good to see you in the physical world at last."
Professor Trelawney entered into the firelight. Ron immediately noticed she was painfully thin, and her glasses magnified her eyes several times its natural size. She was wearing long emerald earrings, and a gauzy spangled shawl his Mum wouldn't be caught dead wearing. Numerous chains and beads hung on her spindly neck, and the arm and hand that gestured them to sit was encrusted with bangles and rings.
"Welcome children," said Professor Trelawney, who seated herself on a winged armchair next the fire. "I am Professor Trelawney, the teacher of the most difficult of magic arts, Divination. You may not have seen me before. I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner Eye."
Ron, Harry and Hermione had nothing to say to this extraordinary pronouncement. Professor Trelawney delicately rearranged her shawl and continued:
"Though I applaud your early interest, I must warn you from the outset if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I'll be able to teach you. Books can only take you so far in this field…"
Hermione started at the news that books wouldn't help. Ron and Harry shared a grin.
"Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs, smells and sudden vanishings, are yet to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future. It is a Gift granted to few. You, boy," Professor Trelawney suddenly directed her enormous, glittering eyes at Harry. "Is your mother well?"
Harry darted his eyes left and right before saying. "Er, I think so."
"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," said Professor Trelawney before going on placidly, "Here you will learn the many branches of Divination such as reading tea leaves, palmistry and Crystal balls. Unfortunately, by the time you take my class, an unexpected danger will arise, and many who could've taken this class will not be able to."
A tense silence followed those words. Professor Trelawney appeared to be unaware of this, and glided over to a shelf that had a large silver teapot.
"Before you go, I must give you a glimpse of your future through tea leaves," she said.
She took a pink patterned teacup from a shelf and sat back down in her armchair. She filled the cup with tea, drained in slowly, and swilled the dregs around the cup three times with her left hand. Afterwards she turned the cup upside down on its saucer, and waited until the last of the tea drained away before turning the cup upright again.
"What do you see?" she said quietly, holding up the cup to their direction.
They peered inside.
"A bowler hat?" said Ron, tilting his head sideways.
"Maybe an acorn," said Harry, very dubiously.
"Just soggy brown tea leaves," Hermione said flatly.
Professor Trelawney surveyed Hermione reprovingly, before staring into the teacup herself.
"The falcon … my dears, you have a deadly enemy."
"Like who?" Hermione demanded. They all started at her. "Everyone has enemies, but if you don't know who it is, there's no point in knowing."
Professor Trelawney chose not to reply. She lowered her huge eyes to the cup again the continued to turn it.
"The club … an attack. My, my, this is not a happy cup. Also the skull … danger in your paths, my dears…"
Professor Trelawney gave the cup a final turn. Suddenly she gasped, and screamed. She sunk back into the armchair, eyes closed. A glittering hand shakily put the cup on a table, and then clutched at her heart.
"Oh this is terrible … no it's kinder not to say … no … don't ask me…"
"What, what is it?" said Harry, leaning closer.
Professor Trelawney's huge eyes opened dramatically.
"My dear," she whispered. "There was the Grim."
Ron felt his stomach lurch in horror. Harry and Hermione, on the other hand, looked clueless.
"What's a Grim?" Harry asked.
"The Grim, my dear, the Grim!" cried Professor Trelawney, who looked shocked Harry didn't understand. "The giant, spectral dog that haunts churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen—the worst of omens—the omen of Death!"
Silence reigned for third time. Harry stared at Professor Trelawney, wide-eyed. As terrified as he was, Ron couldn't help but notice Harry didn't seem to be all that afraid.
"Thank you for time we bothered you long enough!" said Harry in rush. He stood up from his pouf and headed for the exit. Ron and Hermione quickly followed. They barely heard Professor Trelawney's trembling voice biding them farewell as the trapdoor shut behind them. Harry didn't stop until he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase. Once he got there, he pulled out his phone.
"What are you doing?" Ron asked.
"Testing," said Harry simply.
He pressed one on the speed dial. After a couple of rings, John's voice said: "Hello."
"Hi John," said Harry. "Are you okay?"
"Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be?" asked John, sounding puzzled.
Harry let out a sigh of relief.
"Nothing. Me, Ron and Hermione just interviewed the divinations teacher and she said … well, she predicted that you may not be alright."
"Divinations? What, like fortune-telling?"
"She was reading tea leaves."
"Are you serious?" said John incredulously. "They actually teach you that kind of stuff?"
"It's an elective," Hermione said.
"I can't believe this," John muttered. "Okay, listen you three: Don't touch this stuff. I'm not magical, I know, but trust me. Trying to predict the future with fortune-telling will do you no good."
"But Trelawney saw a Grim in the teacup!" Ron protested. "If she really saw a Grim, that's bad… My—my Uncle Bilius saw one and—and he died twenty-four hours later!"
"Coincidence," said Hermione airily.
Ron felt infuriated at her dismissive attitude. "You don't know what you're talking about! Grims scare the living daylights out of most wizards!"
"There you are, then," said Hermione in a superior tone. "A wizard sees a Grim and dies of fright. The Grim isn't an omen, then, it's a cause of death! As long as you're not stupid enough to actually believe you're going to kick the bucket, you're fine!"
Ron opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. Then he looked at Harry in mute appeal. Harry shrugged.
"What I want to know is if Professor Trelawney really has the Inner Eye or whatever, then why didn't she know the real reason why we're interviewing her? I mean, wouldn't she be offended that we think she's a thief?"
There was a moment of blank silence. Then the four of them laughed uproariously.
"You're right!" cried Ron. "I totally forgot about that!"
"So she's a fraud!" said Hermione triumphantly. "I knew it!"
"She's likely honestly deluded," John said. "Anyway, if the stuff actually works, and your teacher can really see the future, then she wouldn't be teaching young, impressionable students how to read tea leaves. She'll put her money where her mouth is, and play the market. Or work as a government-sponsored seer. No politician worth their salt is going to let a real Seer loose."
"So that's that," said Harry after they said goodbye to John. "I think we can cross off Professor Trelawney. She's no planner and opportunist. Drama queen, yeah, but not a planner."
They laughed again.
"At least it wasn't complete waste," said Hermione. "Now I know better than to sign up for Divination."
"Yeah, sounds like a waste of time in a teacup," said Ron. "No wonder Flitwick and McGonagall were going on about Study of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Kettleburn's a nutter and Trelawney's a fraud. Doesn't leave much else, now, does it?"
"There's always Muggle Studies," said Harry. "Too bad me and Hermione are Muggle-raised…"
"Wouldn't it be fascinating to study Muggles from a wizard's point of view?" said Hermione earnestly.
"Maybe. Let me know if you do," said Ron. "I'm beat. Want to go visit Blippy?"
Harry and Hermione looked like they were going to agree, but their expressions froze mid-way. Ron felt a chill run down his spine as he slowly turned around. Sure enough, Snape was looking down his hooked-nose at the three of them. His eyes were narrow and full of suspicion. After holding them fossilized for several beats, Snape strode off without a word.
"He's following us everywhere!" Harry hissed as Hermione shakily let out the breath she was holding. "Doesn't he have a life of his own?"
"What life?" muttered Ron angrily, "Why can't he be the thief, eh? It would've made our lives so much simpler!"
-oo00oo-
Terry Boot paused for a moment when he saw three of his Hufflepuff classmates approach the hospital wing. Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan, and Hannah Abbott all turned to his direction and looked surprised.
"Hello, Terry, what are you doing here?" asked Justin.
"Visiting Harry," Terry replied. "I heard he was taken to the hospital wing again."
"How do you know him?" asked Ernie. A fair question, as Gryffindors and Ravenclaws had very limited chances of interaction, having no shared classes, and Terry wasn't Muggle-born.
"Well, I met him at Sunday chapel back in September," said Terry. "I told him my Dad's a Muggle, and Harry offered to lend me his phone if I ever wanted to call home. We've been friends since then."
Justin and Ernie nodded in understanding.
"Sounds like something he'd do," said Ernie solemnly. "I got to know him through Justin. Harry and Justin met at Diagon Alley and then we started playing cricket together."
"We meet every Tuesday so I can call my mother," said Justin. "We do Herbology homework together afterwards."
"I wonder how his guardians are coping with the phone bill. It must be huge," said Terry, lips twitching.
"I asked about it, actually," said Justin. "He said: 'it's okay. Mycroft is paying.'"
"Who's Mycroft?"
"He didn't say," said Hannah. "But he had this funny look on his face when he said the name. We think he's Harry's eccentric Uncle or something like that."
They entered the hospital wing. The first thing they saw was Madam Pomfrey raging at a burly upper-classman boy wearing scarlet and gold Quidditch robes.
"—and no more than three times a week! Do you hear me, Wood?! No more than THREE!" she bellowed.
Wood bowed his head, his expression both mulish and remorseful. A few paces behind him, the Weasley twins, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were hovering around a bed.
"How is Harry?" Justin asked.
"Still out cold," said Ron grimly. Terry looked over and saw Harry lying on the bed. He was still wearing his scarlet Quidditch robes and appeared to be sleeping. Except there were flecks of dried blood around his nostrils and mouth, and he was as pale as parchment.
"What happened?" Hannah asked tremulously.
"He had a nosebleed today," said one of the twins, "During practice, out of nowhere. Oliver told him to just fly it off, but Harry was having migraines too. It was so bad he actually blacked out."
That moment Harry woke up. "wahwuhappened?"
"You blacked out, mate," said the twin from earlier. "Madam Pomfrey says Oliver's been over-training you."
"No he wasn't," Harry protested.
"He was, actually," said the other twin. "No more than an hour of Quidditch practice a day for you; matron's orders."
Harry looked he wanted to argue, but then he just sighed. "Still on the team at least," he muttered.
"Yep," the other twin grinned. "Sorry, Harry, you're not off the hook."
Harry sunk into the pillows and rubbed his right eye. For a moment, Terry thought Harry had two black eyes, but then he realized those were actually dark circles. Then Harry noticed him staring.
"Oh, Terry, sorry, I missed our meeting didn't I?"
"You didn't, actually," said Terry wryly. "And I wouldn't have minded if you did. You look like a holiday would do you good."
Harry smiled sheepishly.
The first years all gathered around Harry's bed. Justin, Ernie and Hannah brought fruit, biscuits and bottles of pumpkin juice, and offered it to everyone. They were just getting started on what promised to be a good get-together of friends when Madam Pomfrey finished raking Oliver Wood over the coals and stormed over.
"This boy need rest, he just had a severe EIA attack! Out! OUT!"
They all fled from the hospital wing, leaving poor Harry to recover alone. They would've each gone their separate ways, but then Hermione stopped short.
"Oh no," she said as she frantically patted her robe pockets. "Harry's phone! I can't find it!"
"I thought you picked it up from the stands!" said Ron.
"I thought so too," wailed Hermione, now digging into her robe sleeves. "I must have dropped it!"
Justin, Ernie and Hannah offered to help. Terry tagged along.
They hurried over to the Quidditch pitch. On their way, they met three Slytherin first years, a blond boy with a pointy chin and two gigantic and thuggish looking boys. The blond boy sneered at them.
"Off to take care of Master Potter's things, Weasley?"
Justin and Ernie grabbed hold of Ron before he could dive at him. The blond boy swaggered away, malicious glee painted all over his face. Terry felt a horrible foreboding fill his stomach when he saw that expression.
"Let me at him," Ron growled as he tried to break free. "I had enough, I don't care, I'm going to kill Malfoy if it's the last thing I do…!"
The boys dragged Ron to the Quidditch Pitch, the girls leading the way. As soon as they reached the stands, Hannah let out a loud gasp. Hermione had both hands over her mouth and her eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Oh, no," Hermione whispered. "That evil, that foul … how dare he—"
Terry looked reluctantly down and saw the burnt, smoking remains of Harry's phone.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Sorry, dear readers. I couldn't get this chapter out earlier due to a combination of work and school. It's like having two fulltime jobs right now.
Cafetiere: known as French Press to Americans and coffer plungers in other places.
EIA: Exercise Induced Asthma