As a medical practitioner, the potentials of magical healing astounded me. Even simple potions can change the body in ways modern science deems impossible. And yet, despite the depths of this mystic medicine, the field remains strangely medieval in many aspects. Surgery, for instance, is looked down upon as a barbaric, muggle practice.
Magical Britain seems defined by such dichotomies. In some respects, their Arts have elevated them far beyond muggles. In other ways, they have somehow side-stepped our most rudimentary concepts.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
-oOo-
Rubeus Hagrid was the first groundskeeper in Hogwart's history, and why the school needed a groundskeeper at all was still a valid question that cropped up from time to time. Ancient wards kept the grass to appropriate lengths, maintained footpaths, and repressed encroachment by the Forbidden Forest, so what was the point?
Luckily for Hagrid, any man who stood over eight feet tall was bound to find himself useful from time to time. Being a half-giant notched his handiness even higher, especially in the eyes of a certain Potion's Master. Every so often Severus Snape would siphon a few vials of the gargantuan groundskeeper's blood. In fact, it was entirely likely that Snape was the only man at Hogwarts who truly appreciated Hagrid's presence.
Other people simply didn't realize how expensive fresh giant's blood was. When he brewed any potion calling for pure giant blood, it was far more cost effective to substitute half-giant blood, and simply double the amount called for.
When Snape looked at Hagrid, he saw more than an emotional man with rustic speech patterns. He saw a fleshy bag filled with an ever-fresh potion ingredient.
Oblivious to his vaunted status in the eyes of the potion brewer, Hagrid began the final leg of his daily rounds. Just a quick walk along the Forest perimeter, see that the wards were up and running (as they had been since the day of their casting), and then he'd have a spot of tea.
He was nearly at the forest's end, and had decided that chamomile with a twist of pumpkin would be perfect on such a warm day, when he came upon a grisly scene.
A man lay face down on the immaculate lawn, just outside the forest edge, and he wasn't wearing wizard robes. The person was dressed up like a muggle, of all things. As Hagrid drew near, he could smell the tang of blood.
"Blow me down," he whispered. Hagrid knelt down and gently turned the person over.
The mystery man was cut to ribbons, and barely breathing. Through tears in the clothes, Hagrid saw swollen, green-tinged veins. Ignoring the mess that smeared onto his clothes, Hagrid scooped the battered man into his arms and ran to the castle.
-oOo-
Madam Pomfrey was reorganizing her tincture stocks when the infirmary doors were nearly knocked off their hinges. The healer turned in annoyance.
Standing in the doorway was Hagrid, covered in sweat and clutching what looked like a bloody mess of rags. Pomfrey drew her wand on reflex, and moved to the nearest cot. "Here," she said, already casting diagnostic spells on the bundle between Hagrid's arms.
"Might be acromantula poisoning," said Hagrid, laying the man onto the mattress. The sheets were instantly soaked. "He was laying on the forest edge. Don't know how long."
Pomfrey's eyes narrowed. Her diagnostic spell was not sending good news. She'd have to be quick. A wave of her wand caused a small army of vials and syringes to fly from cabinets around the room. They hovered around the healer like balloons, and she pulled a syringe from the air. A quick scourgify on the man's arm, and she injected him. Her other hand snatched another vial.
"Inform the headmaster we have an unknown in critical. Possibly muggle."
-oOo-
"Chocolate chuckle. Chocolate chuckle, now move it!"
The gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office hopped to the side and warily watched the half-giant. When a man covered in whipcord muscle towers over you like a mountain and fairly drips sweat and blood, you move.
Hagrid took the stairs three at a time, and reached Dumbledore's office door in a heartbeat. He knocked carefully, mindful of his strength, and only left a few knuckle-shaped dents in the wood.
"Come in."
Upon Hagrid's blood-soaked appearance, Dumbledore calmly rose. The only sign he was anything other than perfectly at ease was a slight thinning of the lips.
"What's happened?"
"Was doing my rounds, sir, and I found a man by the forest edge. Madam Pomfrey's looking at him now. It's critical, she says."
Albus strode to the door and Hagrid followed close behind, never pausing his speech. "Looked like the spiders got him, along with who knows what else. Thing is, professor, me and Pomfrey think he might be a muggle."
Hagrid, despite his massive stride, suddenly found it rather difficult to keep up.
-oOo-
Far away from major medical emergencies, Harry Potter was trying his utmost not to sneeze. A futile endeavor, considering the Owlery's condition. Dust, down, and feathers floated thick through the air.
After his talk with Professor Quirrell, Harry found himself wanting to hear again from his father. The two men were eerily similar to him, like two sides of the same coin.
With a flick of the pen, his letter was complete. Harry tied the parchment to Hedwig's leg and gave the owl a pat on the head.
"To Sherlock Holmes." Hedwig stayed in place. "Please?"
Hedwig rose into the air, only land again in front of the owlery entrance. She pecked twice at the door.
Mystified, Harry walked over and opened the door. Hedwig flew a few yards down the castle hallway and perched on a suit of armor. She looked back and impatiently hooted.
Following Hedwig through Hogwart's hallways was a curious experience, but Harry was more confused than worried. Until she entered the castle's east wing.
Facts, he reminded himself, Wait for the facts.
Hogwart's east wing held the infirmary.
-oOo-
Madam Pomfrey watched the headmaster from the corner of her eye. As soon as he'd swept into the infirmary and laid eyes on her latest patient, Dumbledore paled and sat down. Now he was steadily working his way through a bag of lemon drops.
Dumbledore paused in his candy binge, and looked sharply at her. "Will he make it?"
"He seems stable," replied Pomfrey, "Excluding poison, most of the damage was fairly superficial."
Dumbledore nodded and pocketed his candy bag. "Have you tested his magical core?"
The healer nodded.
"And?"
"Zero point two. Even squibs don't test that low. I don't know what to say, Albus, but this man's a muggle." Madam Pomfrey began to wring her hands. "I'm keeping him under stasis for now, but what do we do? Should I call for the Ministry? Send for Obliviators?"
"Calm yourself," said Dumbledore, "Here, have a Lemon Drop, and sit." He stood, maneuvered the mildly protesting healer to his chair, and gently pushed her down. "There we go. You did a good thing Poppy. A very good thing. And don't worry about Obliviators, this man is not a threat to the Secrecy Statutes."
"You know him?"
Dumbledore gestured toward the patient with a sigh. "I wish it were under better circumstances, but allow me to introduce Harry Potter's guardian, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Before Madam Pomfrey could respond, the conversation was interrupted by a flurry of white feathers. The healer watched in bewilderment as a large snowy owl settled on Sherlock's bed railing.
She angrily waved at it. "Go on, you! Off!"
The owl swiveled its head and fixed her with a glare. Pomfrey glared right back.
Dumbledore turned the infirmary entrance, and was wholly unsurprised at who stood there.
Harry Potter walked slowly, moving with a mechanical precision that spoke of careful control. He approached the bedside without a word, and stared at Sherlock's still form.
"Condition?" he asked.
Pomfrey wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "He'll be fine. It was touch and go for a second, but he's stable now. He just under stasis."
"In fact," said Dumbledore, "We were just about to bring him out of it, weren't we, Poppy?"
Madam Pomphrey nodded, and wove her wand in a complex pattern above the patient. "Finite Incantatem."
Sherlock stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. "Where?" he slurred. His head turned, and his eyes fell on Harry Potter.
"Harry?" asked Holmes, voice slowly gaining strength. "I missed you, Harry."
Wrong
A strange look passed over Harry's face, there and gone, like a cloud flitting over the moon. "Likewise...father."
Sherlock looked back to the ceiling. "Please headmaster, a moment alone with Harry?"
"Of course," said Dumbledore, "It's good to have you back, Mr. Holmes." The headmaster turned and motioned for Poppy to follow him into the infirmary office. Sherlock tracked their movement across the room before turning back to Harry.
"Come here, son." Sherlock spread his arms in an inviting hug.
Wrong
"I shouldn't. The healer thinks you could still be contagious."
"Ah," Sherlock nodded in understanding, "Later then."
"Of course, later." Another strange look flashed in Harry's eyes. "Now that I know you'll be alright," He glanced down guiltily, "What I mean is, my next class starts soon, and-"
Sherlock chuckled weakly. "I was a student once, you know. Go. We can catch up tonight."
Harry gave a curt nod and slowly walked to the infirmary doors. He gave a wave to Sherlock and quietly slipped from the room.
Then he ran.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Students turned to watch the Boy Who Lived tear through the hallways. Before long he burst through a familiar door.
"Professor!"
Professor Quirrell looked up from his desk, and carefully laid aside a quill. "Mr. Potter, that door is an antique."
Harry strode to the professor's desk, and Quirrell noted a small muscle tick in the boy's jaw.
"Problem?" asked Quirrell.
"My father's in the infirmary."
"...And?"
"And something's wrong with him."
"So I surmised."
"Not like that!" Harry snapped. The professor frowned, and Harry took a deep, calming breath. "He's not right. His personality is all wrong."
"How?"
"He tried to hug me," said Harry, as if that explained everything. Quirrell's look clearly said it did not.
"Sherlock Holmes does not hug," clarified Harry.
Quirrell shrugged. "It's not unusual to see personality tweaks in hospital patients. Even so, I don't understand what you expect me to do about."
"Could look at him? After classes today?"
"Mr. Potter, I'm a Defense Professor, not a registered healer."
"I know that. I just...please, sir? Just a quick look?"
Quirrell pinched the bridge of his nose. The things he did for emotional first-years. "Fine. I'll swing by the infirmary after dinner. Six o'clock."