Explaining the frantic situation to Tom, the aged, amiable owner of the Leaky Cauldron, required little effort. Hagrid's sheer panic and visible distress were enough. Cradling Tierra, who maintained her rigid posture and frighteningly pale complexion, Hagrid bounded out of the pub like an agitated grizzly bear escaping a trap.
Lying in the immense, secure embrace of the half-giant, Tierra experienced a strange pang of guilt. The raw, uncomplicated concern radiating from Hagrid was genuine; he was genuinely distressed, convinced he had poisoned or violently injured an innocent child.
This deception is a necessary cost, she rationalized, a small lie to secure a greater, more dangerous truth. She forced herself to shiver lightly, pressing her face against the rough leather of his jacket.
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was founded by Mungo Bonham in the late 16th or early 17th century and serves as the wizarding world's primary—and arguably only—large-scale comprehensive magical medical facility.
Its logo, a stark combination of a crossed bone and a staff, spoke more to a battlefield medic than a modern clinic.
The entrance, much like Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, was discreetly hidden, requiring a specific ritual to pass. Hagrid stopped before the window of an abandoned, mundane department store, staring at a display featuring a grotesque, perpetually grinning dummy of a sickly-looking baby.
Hagrid muttered his explanation to the doll. The repulsive plastic figure suddenly waggled its hand—a bizarre, silent acknowledgment. Hagrid took a deep breath, strode forward, and simply walked through the glass window.
They materialized instantly inside a vast, well-lit hall. The atmosphere was antiseptic and strangely serene, a stark contrast to the chaos of Diagon Alley.
A plump, blonde witch at the reception desk looked up, her expression immediately shifting from professional detachment to maternal alarm. "Welcome to St. Mungo's! How can we assist you? Oh, you poor dear little thing, what on earth has happened?"
The witch immediately noticed Tierra, who was curled up small and tight in Hagrid's arms. The witch extended a reassuring hand, carefully touching Tierra's forehead—it felt alarmingly warm—and then squeezed her frail wrist.
"I... I don't know what it was," Hagrid stammered incoherently, his voice thick with anxiety. "I just took her shopping, and she suddenly clutched her stomach, and then... this awful, freezing cold agony overtook her. We rode the Gringotts minecart earlier, and we had those Lemon Cockroach Balls, and Dragon Sausage... I don't know..."
The witch didn't wait for him to finish the chaotic inventory. She cast a swift, silent diagnostic charm with her wand, a thin jet of purple light briefly touching Tierra's chest. Her eyes widened fractionally.
"Quickly, you need to get her up to Dr. Melego's clinic on the third floor," the witch ordered, her voice now sharp and decisive. "It presents precisely like a Goblin-Plague exposure."
"Merlin's beard, the Plague!" Hagrid groaned, his shock visible. "Oh, my poor child, how in the world did you contract the Goblin-Plague?" He took the stairs three at a time, his huge stride eating up the distance, arriving at Dr. Melego's office door in a matter of seconds.
Dr. Melego, a middle-aged wizard with a perpetually harried expression and thinning gray hair, was clearly forewarned by the reception witch's internal communication. As Hagrid burst in carrying Tierra, the Doctor was already reaching toward a high, labeled reagent shelf. He grabbed two identical vials of potion, a liquid the color of pale strawberry milk.
"Fortunately, we are well-stocked," Dr. Melego declared, his tone entirely impersonal and professional. "Rats often bite wizards in the lower tunnels, an unavoidable hazard. Here. You administer one dose to the patient immediately, and you drink the other, just in case."
He offered the vials. "When she wakes up, have her wait in the corridor outside for precisely half an hour, no less. If you feel fine after that period, you may leave. We shall bill your expenses directly to the Hogwarts Bursar Account, correct?"
"Yes, sir, Hogwarts, absolutely," Hagrid managed, already stuffing his own vial into his pocket. He gently propped Tierra up against his massive body and uncorked the potion meant for her.
"One more swallow now—" Hagrid coaxed, his huge hand supporting the back of her head.
The potion, which smelled faintly of mint and crystallized sugar, was poured into Tierra's mouth. Despite her feigned illness, Tierra's consciousness was heightened by her natural, internal control and the residual effects of the Heris Potion she had secretly consumed before entering Diagon Alley. She easily swallowed the sickly-sweet red liquid.
The potion tasted unnerving—it was a rapid, aggressive antidote. Within seconds, Tierra felt the artificial coldness receding, replaced by a forced, synthetic warmth. The symptoms she had created began to genuinely diminish as the hospital's powerful medicine acted on her system.
Seeing Tierra's forced color return and the spasm leave her body, Hagrid let out a shuddering sigh of relief. He laid her gently down on a soft, overstuffed cotton sofa outside the clinic door, carefully removing his massive, fur-lined coat to drape it over her small frame.
"Ton—" Hagrid began, preparing to settle down and take his own potion as directed.
Tierra, who was supposed to be sinking into a deep, feverish sleep, murmured softly. It was a small, perfectly timed sound of distress. She turned her body, tucking her small hand into Hagrid's jacket in a gesture of pathetic yearning for warmth.
In that subtle movement, her hand snagged a fold of the leather.
A small, dirty paper bag, wrapped in brown packaging—the one containing the Philosopher's Stone—slipped silently out of Hagrid's inner shirt pocket and rolled onto the floor, coming to rest directly against the carved mahogany leg of the sofa.
"Merlin's beard, NO!" Hagrid whispered, his voice an explosion of panicked disbelief. His massive hand shot forward like a palm-leaf fan, dwarfing the small package as he instantly snatched the paper bundle from the floor.
Tierra, despite her eyes being mostly closed, registered the entire event. A perfect drop. Hagrid's paranoia was instantaneous and total. He looked around wildly, his gaze searching the empty corridor with frantic intensity, before he breathed a loud, ragged sigh of relief.
He then shoved the brown paper parcel deep, deep into the inner recesses of his leather jacket, pressing it against his heart with a possessive urgency. He then drank his own preventative potion in one nervous gulp, as if purging his system of the stress.
The brief exchange was everything Tierra needed: confirmation that the Stone was still with Hagrid and a clear display of the half-giant's profound anxiety regarding the object's security.
Tierra's recovery was, by design, faster than expected. In less than ten minutes, her alarming fever dropped, and the pale, bloodless color of her skin returned to a more normal tone.
Hagrid, however, was not easily swayed; he diligently followed Dr. Melego's instruction, remaining for the full half-hour period. Only after Dr. Melego performed a secondary diagnostic charm—which came back clean—did Hagrid feel comfortable leaving St. Mungo's.
"I am so terribly sorry, Hagrid," Tierra said, sitting up and making her tone suitably apologetic, as if she had just spoiled a pleasant afternoon outing. "I'm genuinely sorry for causing such trouble."
"Nonsense, little Tierra, not a word of it," Hagrid chuckled, his relief immense. He puffed out his massive chest, swelling with the pride of a gamekeeper who had successfully protected his ward.
"You are a Hogwarts student. It is my absolute duty as Gamekeeper to ensure the safety of every single student. I handled it. No thanks needed."
"Well, then, a celebratory drink," Hagrid added, already marching toward the exit. "I hope our little Harry hasn't been waiting for us long."
Hagrid's pace was still brisk, making Tierra almost half-walk, half-run just to keep up with his enormous strides. Hagrid, focused on returning to Harry and dismissing the afternoon's trauma, failed to notice anything unusual as they passed through a large, open public square teeming with indifferent white pigeons.
In a fraction of a second, as Hagrid's body momentarily blocked her from the view of passersby, Tierra's small, cold hand executed a lightning-fast motion. She quickly dropped a black, silk-thin object onto the ground near a foraging pigeon.
The object was a Mandrake Root Hair Worm, an incredibly rare and potent parasitic organism she had cultivated using residual magical energy from the orphanage. It was a necessary ingredient—not for the Hydra Reagent, but for an entirely different, darker spell.
The white pigeon, thinking the dark strand was an easy meal, instantly devoured the worm.
The effect was horrifyingly immediate and absolute. The bird's wings twitched once, violently, and its whole body began to spasm in a rapid, convulsive seizure. Within seconds, the pigeon's body became rigidly stiff, and it collapsed entirely, dead, without making a single sound. Tierra did not look back. The entire incident was over, leaving no trace but one motionless bird in a flurry of dozens.
The efficacy is 100% at this stage, Tierra confirmed internally, her heart beating a cold, steady rhythm. The plague scare, the ride, the rush—all of it had been the necessary cover for this single, crucial biological experiment and ingredient harvest.
Meanwhile, Harry sat awkwardly among the adults in the dimly lit, cozy interior of the Leaky Cauldron.
After receiving his wand from Mr. Ollivander—a profound, dizzying experience that left him feeling strangely electrified—Harry had dutifully returned to the pub. He had bought a small bag of non-writhing sweets and settled onto a high, uncomfortable stool at the bar, exactly as Hagrid had instructed.
As Harry expected, his entrance immediately caused a ripple of whispers and stares. If Hagrid hadn't specifically instructed Tom, the bar owner, to manage the situation, Harry would have likely been mobbed.
Despite Tom's efforts, several eccentric-looking wizards had gravitated toward Harry's section of the bar, staring at him with a burning, proprietary intensity that made Harry feel profoundly exposed, like a fresh, delicious cut of meat on a butcher's block.
The most unnerving of these onlookers was undoubtedly Professor Quirrell, the stuttering, nervous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor from Hogwarts.
Quirrell sat quietly at a nearby table, constantly fidgeting with the heavy, purple turban wrapped around his head. Every time Harry glanced in his direction, he felt a strange, cold pull—as if the man were mentally calculating his every move, every breath. Harry couldn't shake the unnerving feeling that he was about to be swallowed whole by the man's gaze. Yet, every time Harry met his eyes, Quirrell would offer a shy, almost apologetic smile, his face twitching slightly, before returning to his quiet cup of sherry.
Harry was just checking the antique clock above the bar for the tenth time when he heard a familiar, booming voice and the immediate hush that always followed Hagrid's entry.
"Oh my God, Hagrid! Tierra! Are you alright? Are you truly well?" Harry jumped off the high stool, scrambling to reach the entrance.
"I am fine now, Harry," Tierra said, offering a genuine, if weary, expression of relief. "I sincerely apologize for the delay. I'm sorry I worried you and made Hagrid rush about like that."
"Ah, Tiera, I told you there was no need to apologize," Hagrid interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "But the Doctor never quite settled the cause. What did you think it was, in the end?"
Tierra shrugged, forcing an air of common ignorance. "Hmm... probably what I suspect. That dirty mouse that bit me when I was emptying the refuse bin the other day," she said, nodding toward the general direction of her former orphanage. "I didn't think much of it then. I didn't expect to catch something so serious."
It is entirely reasonable for a neglected child with no medical education to be ignorant of a rat bite's danger, she thought. The lie is watertight.
"Brilliant," Hagrid declared, rubbing his hands together with renewed vigor. "Then you, Tierra, need to go to Ollivander's Wand Shop this afternoon! After you've selected your wands, we shall proceed to Eeyore's Owl Shop and purchase two magnificent, reliable boys an owl. You know, owls are particularly useful for keeping mice at bay."
Hagrid then consulted his pocket watch. "But now... let's get some sustenance. We've barely eaten this morning. You must be famished."
Harry and Tierra both instinctively touched their flat, empty stomachs. After the sheer terror of the minecart and the strange, intense afternoon, a good, solid lunch was exactly what they needed before facing the ultimate magical initiation: the wand.
This journey to the vault and the hospital has secured your finances and given you a crucial opening for your first magical experiment. The next step is a monumental one—the selection of your wand.