The morning sun was bright and strong by the time Fred and Matilda ventured downstairs. The pub was deserted, thankfully, and the pair made their way to the fireplace. A tall goblet full of glittering powder stood on the mantel, and Fred reached in for a handful. Tossing the powder into the fire, the welcome green flames were warm after the chill of the night before. "After you, Matilda," he said with a little bow.
She nodded and stepped into the fireplace with his assistance. "St. Mungo's!" she said aloud, and vanished in a flash of flame. A moment later Fred stepped after her, and as the green flames tickled his skin, he reflected that he was very glad to be rid of the Stoker's Den.
He stepped out of the fireplace and found himself behind Matilda. Directly ahead was a sign that said "Welcome to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries", and beneath it was the Welcome Desk. Thankfully, it was so early in the morning there was practically no one there.
The Welcome Witch smiled at Fred--after George had been admitted, Fred's constant visits had put him on a first-name basis with most everyone in the hospital. "Mr. Weasley. What a pleasant surprise. Are you visiting?"
"Checking in, Meredith," he said with a shake of the head, and indicating Matilda.
Meredith's eyebrows lifted, but she handed Matilda a clipboard with a sheet of parchment attached to it and a Self-Inking Quill. Reaching into a box under her desk, she handed Fred a small glass vial. "Since she seems to be rather weak, if we could get a statement from you instead, Mr. Weasley, with everything you know about her injuries..."
Fred nodded and touched the tip of his wand to his temple. Concentrating hard on everything Charlie had told him about the strange Dragon Pox, he pulled the wand away and noted with interest the silver strands clinging to the tip. He'd never seen thought before. With one finger he popped open the lid of the vial and slowly lowered the thought in. He handed it to Meredith as Matilda handed back her clipboard. Meredith scanned the parchment as she attached Fred's vial with a Sticking Charm. Nodding, she reached into another box and pulled out a small, lime-green paper airplane, labeled with some letters Fred couldn't see to read. "Just one moment," she told them, and sailed the airplane down one of the halls.
A moment later, a young woman in Healer robes (though with a patch that proclaimed her a Trainee) with a long plait down her back came down the hallway. She stopped short when she saw Fred and Matilda, and she smiled hugely. "Matilda! Matilda Wardley!" Rushing forward, she gave her a quick hug then stepped back--apparently she knew the properties of Matilda's condition. "And, hello, Fred."
"Hi, Susan," he said with a brief smile. Susan Bones, former Hufflepuff (and apparently, friend of Matilda), was one of the Healers assigned to the long-term resident ward. "Do you know which ward we're in?"
"The Chauncey Oldridge ward, number 27." With an arm around Matilda's shoulders, Susan steered her up two flights of stairs and down a long, polished hallway to a ward with a gold #27 engraved on it.
Several Healers stood inside, consulting a small basin full of swirling, liquid silver. A tall man with greying hair turned around as the three came in. Susan led Matilda to the far end of the ward and helped her lie down, and Fred would have followed if the tall Healer hadn't stepped in front of him.
"Ah, Mr. Weasley. I'm Healer Bristol."
Fred smiled briefly, casting a glance over the man's shoulder to see if Matilda was all right. Susan was mixing her up a potion, chattering all the while. "Nice to meet you."
"Take a walk with me, Mr. Weasley." The man had a deep voice that brooked no argument, and Fred suspiciously followed him out of the ward. Once the door had closed behind him, the man put his hands behind his back and spoke very directly. "Well, I'll be perfectly honest with you, sir. Your friend is dying."
Fred nodded shortly. "And...?"
The man looked reflective, his eyes straying up to the crystal globes that lit the hallways. "We looked at the memory you gave us, and there was no doubt that we've seen this before. It's a much more severe variety of Dragon Pox, that attacks the lungs. It gradually begins to take over all space needed for breathing until eventually there's nothing left to breathe with." He spoke in a clinically detached manner, apparently immune to the expression of horror on Fred's face. "We can give her potions to help her breathe while she's still got something left, but there's no cure for this. Judging from how far along she is right now, I'd say that she's got two weeks."
Fred stared at him. "There's no cure?" he asked faintly, feeling a sinking, hollow feeling in his chest. "No...there has to be one... What about all the other Keepers, what about my brother?"
"This is a hospital, sir. I'd appreciate it if you didn't shout."
Fred shook his head, anger overcoming despair. "There has to be something you can do!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley. Miss Wardley is a hopeless case." With a curt nod, he turned and went back inside the ward.
Staring after him for a long moment, Fred felt a dreadful urge to break something welling up inside of him. There was suddenly a loud shattering noise, and Fred jumped and looked up. Two of the crystal bubbles had broken, and after the initial satisfaction, Fred slowly grew ashamed of himself. Wandless magic. Bloody curse. Drawing his wand, he muttered, "Reparo," and watched the pieces fly back together.
"You know," a clipped and polished voice said from behind him, "you could seek the advice of the legendary Healer."
Fred whirled and found himself staring at a painting of an aristocratic Healer. "Who?"
"Hippocrates, of course." The man took off the monocle clenched in one eye and polished it on his robes. Lifting it to his eye again, he frowned at Fred. "I say, you're looking a bit seedy."
"Shut up," he said automatically. He couldn't stand people like this. "How do I find Hippocrates?"
"Well, he's dead, you know. He has a portrait."
"Where...is...it?" Fred said slowly, trying to rein in the anger he still felt at the Healer's words.
The man looked pensive. "I don't know. There used to be a medieval Healer whose portrait hung in this hallway. I didn't believe most of what he said--it was complete rot--but he believed very strongly in the legend of Hippocrates' Portrait." He gazed closely at Fred. "There's a riddle. I'll give it to you.
"I sing of a tale worthy of myth and legend,
Few who doubted were later enlightened.
I tell the story of how St. Mungo came to be,
An apparition that Bonham had come to see.
"Grecian wizard of the past was this great man,
Through him Mungo Bonham's vision hath began.
When the hospital was built, Hippocrates' ghost was at peace.
Bondage upon his soul, this world hath finally release.
"A portrait of this ghost is all we have now,
One summer night is all that nature would allow.
A night he'll come to share his boundless knowledge,
The only time when this ghostly portrait gain earthly passage.
"Alas, we know the time but ne'er the place ...
Place whence the Healer's presence be grace.
Many-a-claim from those who saw and were helped,
Many-a-patients his healing presence hath been felt.
"And that's the story." The Healer's eyebrows lifted, and he gazed at Fred with a slight twinkle in his eye.
Fred's mind was whirling. The Great Healer himself, Hippocrates...the man was legend incarnate. Many of his remedies had been lost to time...
He might know a cure.
A small light of hope had begun to shine through the knot of despair in his chest. I'll find the portrait. I'll do it. Turning back to the strange Healer, Fred opened his mouth, but swallowed the words he was about to say when he discovered that the man had gone.
The ward was quiet, and Matilda and Susan its only occupants when Fred reentered with a new feeling of determination. Crossing to her bedside, he found that there was a small table set up beside it with a small cauldron, a mortar and pestle, some other tools, and an array of plants. From the look on Matilda's face, he could tell that Susan was telling her the bad news, and when the injured woman's eyes flicked to him, he knew she was begging him to change the subject. "What's all this?" he asked in a lighter tone, indicating the table and ingredients set up.
"I need to make a paste for these burns," Susan told him, indicating the burns on Matilda's arms and legs. Standing up from where she'd been sitting, she smoothed the front of her robes and moved to the table. Just then, a hassled-looking woman stuck her head in. "Sue, you'd better come quick, we need all the hands we can get--"
"What's happened?" Susan asked anxiously as she crossed to the door.
"Massive explosion at the Exploding Snap factory--fifty-four injuries, and twenty Muggles, to boot--"
Everyone winced. Susan cast an agonized glance between Matilda and the ingredients for the paste. "Helen, these are really serious burns, they need immediate attention--"
"You go," Fred said quickly. "I experimented in joke products for years; trust me, I know how to make a burn salve."
Susan cast him a grateful look, and she and her fellow Healer headed hurriedly down to the first floor.
"That's terrible," Matilda said gravely. "Fifty-four injuries...and those poor Muggles..."
Fred nodded as he examined the ingredients. Some of the plants there he wasn't familiar with, but he recognized all the ones he used to make his own salves out of. Tapping the small pile of fuel underneath the cauldron half-full of water, he set it to heating. Picking up the mortar and pestle, he examined the plants and selected a few flowers of St. John's Wort. Beginning to grind the yellowish flowers, he said in a casual tone, "My dad would probably be thrilled to see the Muggles. I'll bet he'd hurt himself on purpose just so he could come in."
Matilda chuckled weakly. She was quiet as Fred poured the crushed flowers into the glass bowl that stood beside the cauldron and selected a bit of dried chamomile. After a few moments, she said quietly, "Did Healer Bristol tell you?"
Fred paused in his grinding for a moment. "Yes."
"And?"
"I refuse to believe that there isn't a cure." Picking up his pestle again, he began to grind furiously. "Not for you, not for the others, and not for Charlie. There is a cure, and I'm going to find it."
"You'll travel the whole world in two weeks?"
"If I have to." Adding the powdery chamomile to the bowl, he picked up a knife and began to chop a stem of aloe. Then he stopped and looked at Matilda. He didn't want to give her false hope, but years of living with the events surrounding Harry Potter, he was almost certain that anything was possible. "'Til...one of the Healer portraits told me about a legend they have here."
Her eyes brightened slightly. "What about?"
"There's a riddle...I don't remember all the words...but it says that there's a portrait of Hippocrates that will appear on one night in summer, and he'll share his knowledge." He took a breath. "I believe it."
"You're going to follow a myth? Fred, you don't know where, or even when, to look."
"I'll find out." He added the chopped aloe to the bowl and picked a few more stems and leaves to slice. "I promise." He added the ingredients to the simmering cauldron, and then a drop of pixie honey to thicken it. Picking up a netted strainer from the table, he covered the pot and drained the water. With a tap he chilled the water, and then dropped the strained mixture in it. A moment later, he put the lump of paste into a bowl and handed it to Matilda.
She was staring at him. "A myth?" she repeated.
He sighed. "It's better than no hope at all."
It was late that night when Fred slipped out of the ward (Susan had kindly let him stay with Matilda). Since Hippocrates would only appear at night, he decided to start that very evening.
St. Mungo's was spooky at night. Most of the Healers had gone; only a skeleton crew remained for the night watch. The crystal globes had all turned off, except for one to illuminate each staircase. Fred was a little chilled as he descended to the ground floor, thinking that the logical place to start. Every now and then, a strange noise would echo down the hallway, and Fred would whirl around, trying to dissect the darkness, but to no avail.
It was almost half an hour later when Fred began to feel like someone was following him. It was an unpleasant sensation that he had developed during the war, but a handy one. Occasionally he would catch a strange echo, and turn to look, but only shadows would be behind him. Fred was no fool; he knew about Invisibility Cloaks, but there was no reason for anyone to be following him. There was no reason for anyone to be sneaking around St. Mungo's after hours, in fact--well, except for Fred himself.
There was another echo, and Fred drew his wand. It was comforting to have the wood clenched in his hand.
Suddenly, he heard a low mutter behind him, and before he could whirl around his mind went blank. A peaceful feeling swept over him, erasing all his aches and weariness. It was a wonderfully blank feeling, and familiar somehow. Don't move, a voice said in the back of his mind, and Fred was only too happy to comply.
Drop your wand, said the voice.
Fred's hand began to relax, but suddenly another voice spoke up--the voice of an instinct, ingrained into him through two years of war: Never lose your wand. No, I can't drop my wand. I need it.
Drop it, now.
The voice spoke a little stronger. No, I need my wand...I won't drop it.
Do it!
No, thanks, the voice said confidently.
DROP IT!
"NO!" The spell broke with a crack, and Fred whirled with wand raised. "Stupefy!
The spell shot harmlessly away down the empty hallway, hitting no one.
Fred, hand clenched around his wand, stood frozen, panting with sudden adrenaline, but it was useless. The hallway was deserted.
He was still on edge from the mysterious Imperius Curse when he returned to the second floor in his search. From the position of the shadows near the window, he'd been looking for an hour and a half. It was nearly midnight. With a nervous sigh, he moved towards the stairwell, resigned to continue his search on the third floor.
"You seem to be suffering from a case of spattergroit, my good sirrah."
Fred whirled, wand outstretched, but it was only a portrait hanging behind him, a few feet away from the stairwell. "What?" he asked bluntly.
"The unsightly blemishes across your face," the man elaborated. "Surely a case of spattergroit."
"They're freckles, you obsolete prat," Fred said through clenched teeth. "I'm looking for legends, not asking for unwarranted and ancient diagnoses, all right?" He was short-tempered and irritable, and again, he knew that he was being rude but didn't care. "Keep your mouth shut."
The man sniffed as Fred began to walk away. "I'll be sure to tell Hippocrates that the rude young man doesn't deserve his attention."
Fred froze. "Hippocrates?"
"Yes. I was sympathetic to your case, at first, but since you 'don't need ancient diagnoses,' I'll just go to Hippocrates and tell him that."
He spun and stared, mouth agape. "Hippocrates will be here? Tonight? And you know where?"
The Healer tugged at his collar. "I do."
"Tell me," Fred begged. "Please."
"I thought you didn't want my help," the man said lightly.
"Listen," Fred began hotly, then stopped. The man wouldn't tell him like this, he realized. The man probably wouldn't tell him at all, given the circumstances. He had to trick him into it. Thank God I'm a Weasley. Fred closed his mouth and thought for a second. "You're right. I don't want your help," he said after a moment.
The man frowned. "You were begging."
"Yeah, but why would I want the opinions of an old, obsolete dingbat? My problems are more modern," Fred scoffed. "My brain's newer, it works faster than yours. I can figure it out on my own."
The portrait gave an indignant quiver. "Listen, you boorish ape. I was curing disease before your ancestors came out of the trees. I, an 'obsolete dingbat,' know more than you ever will."
"I don't think so," Fred continued to goad him. "I don't think you know anything. You're a quack, that's all. Spattergroit? Doesn't exist. You made it up so it would sound like you had an opinion."
"I certainly do have an opinion!" the man fumed. "And my opinion is that you are an ungrateful little fool who doesn't have a chance at finding the legendary Hippocrates. You're far too stupid."
"You're the stupid one if you can't see genius when it's staring you in the face," Fred laughed scornfully. "I'll find Hippocrates, and I won't need your help."
"You most certainly will!" the man practically screamed, his face a mottled red.
Fred rolled his eyes and began to descend the staircase. "I'll be down on the ground floor, waiting for Hippocrates. I'll give him your regards."
"He's not on the ground floor, he's on the fourth!"
Fred's head snapped up, and he broke into a wide grin. "Thank you," he said with genuine sincerity, smiling at the man who had suddenly paled in astonishment.
The portrait suddenly broke into rueful laughter. "I've been had. My wife always said that my temper would get the best of me. You're clever, young man."
"But not nearly as clever as Hippocrates, I hope." Fred looked up the staircase and took a deep breath. The fourth floor. By George. Giving the old Healer another grateful nod, Fred started back up the staircase, hoping he wouldn't be too late.
"Wait, young man." The old healer looked resigned. "My name is Mungo Bonham."
Fred stopped and stared. "Mungo Bonham?...The real Mungo Bonham?"
"Indeed." The man smiled. "Hippocrates appeared to me many years ago, and instructed me how to build the hospital." He looked down the hallway. "I died from Dragon Pox, years ago; they hung my portrait in this hallway to commemorate. I was a recluse in life, to be honest, and I'm glad I'm not on the ground floor. Dilys is a face all the public knows, she's better for it."
He sighed and continued. "Each year, Hippocrates and I meet to have a little chat. I always know where he'll be."
Fred stepped forward eagerly. "Can you tell me?"
Mungo shook his head. "Alas, I cannot. I have to keep with an oath made with him that I would never directly reveal his position."
Fred groaned.
"Yet I see your great need and understand," Mungo added gently. "After all, a Healer's task is to help find cures and you're in need of him." The man thought for a moment. "If you can answer my question, I'll point you to the right direction." He straightened and asked lightly, "Would you prefer a 'mind game' or a 'game of chance'?"
Staring, Fred leaned back against the opposite wall. "What are the rules?"
"A mind game is a riddle. A game of chance is luck. However, if you are wrong on either, there will be a consequence before you can try again."
That "consequence" didn't sound good to Fred, but neither did trusting lives to luck, either. His mother would never forgive him if he got it wrong, and he wasn't sure that he'd forgive himself, either. He wasn't one of the smartest people in the world, but he was clever.
Back to the wall, he sank down and sat cross-legged on the floor opposite Mungo, steeling himself. "I'll take the riddle."