Chapter Eight: Monstrous, Monstrous
Hagrid sighed a half-giant sized sigh. "It's 'Him-What-Must-Not-Be-Named," he said. "He called for the Death Eaters to attend on him, and poor Professor Snape, o'course, had to go."
Holmes shuddered. Death Eaters…."Tell me all," he said. He followed Hagrid downstairs to a small parlour off the Great Hall, and the two settled themselves in front of the blazing fire. A house-elf brought them a tea-cart with sandwiches and tea, and then disappeared.
An hour later, Holmes dearly regretted the loss of his pipe; it would have helped him to order his whirling mind. He addressed Hagrid: "So Snape was a Death Eater, in service to this Dark Lord," he murmured. "The Dark Lord called a meeting, and Snape was compelled to go; even though he's a Death Eater no more; he's turned his coat, and has become a spy for the Light," he said slowly. "And his arm, he was rubbing his arm before, is that how he is summoned?"
"Yes, sir," said Hagrid. "He bears the Dark Mark, and it hurts him somethin' awful when he's called, and he has to go."
"Monstrous," said Holmes. "Monstrous. I thought I had seen ultimate evil in my world, but the Great War, the criminals – they are nothing compared to the horror of this creature and his minions. With Dark Magic, as you've explained it, at his command, he could do anything – go anywhere…" He put his head in his hands. Russell…
With Snape disabled, there was nothing for it: he had to continue to solve the perplexing murder on his own. But there was more: he had defeated some of the most brilliant and noxious criminal minds of his era: could he help to vanquish this one? He poured himself a second cup of tea. "Hagrid," he said, "is there an organised effort to rid the Wizarding World of this devil?"
"Yes, you might say so," said the half-giant. "Every witch and wizard, pureblood or Muggleborn, who isn't part of his group o'demons, wants him gone. But no-one knows how to make war on him; he's so powerful. Could be, could be that the young folks, young Harry and his friends, will get the best o'him at the end."
"They're children!" protested Holmes. "To send children out to fight an insane monster and his army of devils – that's folly! What are the grown men doing?"
Hagrid looked down, dispirited. He opened his mouth to reply when a sudden flare of flames in the fireplace and a loud "Whoosh!" announced someone using the Floo network to reach the parlour. Holmes turned around, and saw, in the flames, the thin face and carrot-red hair of Sister Brigit, Madam Pomfrey's aide. Her already large eyes were enormous in her white face.
"Oh, Mister Holmes, please come at once," she said in a strained voice.
"What is it, Sister?" the detective asked, dreading her answer. "Is it Professor Snape – has he taken a turn for the worse? "
"No!" cried Sister Brigit. " "It's Madam Pomfrey. She's sick – and worse than that. She's lost her magic."
Holmes stood up. I am at a loss, he thought. "Call Headmaster Dumbledore, immediately!" he ordered. Hagrid took a handful of powder from the box on the mantelpiece, threw it into the fire, bent down and roared, "Headmaster!"
After a moment, Dumbledore's face appeared in the flames. "Yes, Hagrid?" he asked.
"Headmaster, ye'd better come quick to the hospital ward. Madam Pomfrey's lost her magic."
The old wizard's face was a study in astonishment. "I'm on my way," he said, and his image vanished. "Come on, Hagrid, we had better go there as well," said Holmes grimly. "It seems that our simple murder mystery has taken on darker overtones."
Holmes and Hagrid pounded up the staircases and burst into the hospital ward, upon a scene of chaos. Madam Pomfrey was sitting uncomfortably on a hospital bed, sneezing repeatedly into a linen handkerchief that was becoming more sodden with each sneeze. Next to her, Padma Patil, who had been in the infirmary with a Quidditch-wrenched ankle, was waving her wand, trying vainly to dry the handkerchief. Sister Agrippina, another of Madam Pomfrey's aides, cast charm after charm to cure the ailing mediwitch – to no avail. Worst of all, Madam Pomfrey herself pronounced spell after spell, between sneezes – she might have been reciting the alphabet.
Headmaster Dumbledore hastened up to her and put his arm around her shoulder. "Poppy, Poppy, my dear, what's happened? Has someone put a sneezing hex on you?"
Madam Pomfrey took one look at the kindly old wizard and burst into tears on his shoulder.
"Albus – my magic, it's gone – and I feel so strange, so hot, I ache…".
Dumbledore patted her back. He waved over Sister Brigit: "What happened, Sister?"
The red-haired aide put her hand on Madam Pomfrey's forehead. "She's burnin' up, sir, I never saw such a heat in a wizard—" she put her small oval hands side by side and passed them over Madam Pomfrey's body. "She's achin', her joints are sore an' swollen, sir. I'm tryin' to cool her a bit."
Holmes looked sharply at Sister Brigit. "Sister, can you tell if her lungs are affected?"
"Yes, yes, sir, she's got fluid in her lungs, it's a bad sort, with evil little beasties in it."
Holmes' blood ran cold, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.
Influenza.