How Does Your Garden Grow?

Chapter 1: The After-Hours Alchemist

"Severus Snape. I'm here to see the patient..." he glanced down at the scrap of parchment on which he had scribbled in loopy cursive, "...Miss Tobita." Glancing to the side, he saw that the waiting room was relatively empty, except for an old witch who seemed to have oversized duck feet and a wizard who was sneezing out grape jelly.

"Right," said the blonde witch sitting behind the St. Mungo's Inquiries desk. She checked a list that was clamped to a lurid neon green clipboard, and ignored the Potion master's impatient boot-tapping. The blonde witch leisurely blew a bubble of her Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and let it float up to the ceiling before answering his query.

"Miss Tobita's on the Ground Floor, fourth door on the left, Bollox Arcadia ward."

Snape didn't bother to thank her. Turning on his heel and smartly striding down the hallway, his black cape fluttered slightly behind him, giving anyone who saw him the impression of an extremely irritated bat.

Above the door to the Bollox Arcadia ward was a portrait of the wizard after whom the room had been named. Arcadia was an eccentric-looking wizard in a beret who seemed to be walking an invisible tightrope over a pit of chimeras. The tiny brass plaque on the picture frame read: Bollox Arcadia, 1929-1962. Magical daredevil extraordinaire. Snape did not even pause at the picture, but opened the door without ceremony and went in.

Unfortunately, no one was in the room, but Snape easily saw where the Tobita girl had been sleeping; next to the second bed on the right were two flower arrangements in which daisies figured prominently. Get-well cards, many embellished with the Ravenclaw eagle, shouted enthusiastic phrases and changed colors when it suited them. On the bed, with its yellow-striped sheets, recently tucked in, a stuffed green giraffe lolled its head to one side lazily against the pillow. A Muggle toy, Snape realized, after it did not move or greet him with a syrupy "Will you be my friend?" For that he was thankful.

Professor Snape idly paced for a few minutes, wondering where the devil everyone was. It had been late last night when he had received Professor Flitwick's urgent owl- St. Mungo's soon as you can- need your expertise. Snape liked to think of himself as an expert at potions, but he was willing to reconsider if it meant receiving cryptic messages from faculty members in the wee hours of the morning. A slight tic began to develop as Snape's resentment increased- if people were going to rouse him out of bed, at least let them have the decency to appear at their own clandestine summonings!

Out of boredom, he began inspecting the other things at the girl's bedside, trying to get a vague idea of who the Tobita girl was. She had to be one of his students, he knew- it was just that he was probably distracted from noticing her by the insolent Gryffindor first-years who shared her class with the Ravenclaws. He ground his teeth, remembering their audacity- how proud, how honored they were to be in the same house as the Golden Boy, Harry Potter. They always lorded it over the other first years, especially the Slytherins, bragging and boasting.

The girl's schoolbag lay open on the bed, its contents spilled out over the blankets. Amidst the normal quills, erasers, and textbooks, Snape caught sight of something very novel- a Muggle notebook. Apparently, the Tobita girl didn't take notes on parchment rolls, like the other students. Had to be a Muggle-born then. The notebook itself had a sugary illustration of a flying horse leaping over a rainbow. Professor Snape felt the urge to vomit.

Below the horrible winged horse and rainbow, though, was lettering in a neat block-style hand: Potions. Against his better judgement, Snape edged next to the bed and cautiously lifted the notebook open with one finger, revealing the last entry. It was Tuesday's lesson, a Forgetfulness Potion. Neatly, in tiny handwriting, she had copied Snape's instructions word for word. Here and there, a line flashed bright yellow from Spellighter. He caught a brief line:

"Add stewed horned slugs to mixture; drain. Mash pickled eel livers, stir in slowly..." His attention turned to the bottom of the page, where the girl had scribbled hastily, "Check cross-ref. to Remembrance Potion- ingredients related?"

The sound of a commotion outside the doors to the ward caused Snape to shut the notebook and spring back from the bed guiltily. Well, not exactly. Former Death Eaters don't exactly spring. He glided backwards more rapidly than normal.

"IF MY DAUGHTER HAS BEEN HARMED IN ANY WAY, YOU CAN REST ASSURED THAT I WILL BE TELEPHONING MY LAWYERS ABOUT THIS!"

Three persons entered: a St. Mungo's Healer, wheeling a cart with something on it, covered by a sheet; a Japanese Muggle in a business suit, glaring around as if he wished to throttle everyone present; and a very harried-looking Professor Flitwick. The Healer said something he probably meant to be encouraging, but this did not assuage the enraged businessman.

The Japanese Muggle swelled up like a frog before exploding, "IF SHE IS IN ANY WAY HARMED..." he followed with a list of various retaliations that he would take; he would call his lawyers, he would sue Hogwarts, he would sue the Ministry of Magic, he would expose their 'secret society' for what it was to the Muggle press.

Snape idly wondered whether the Muggle was ignorant or just stupid. If he knew anything about the magical world, he wouldn't be making such idiotic threats. If he so much as tried to telephone a lawyer or reporter, and Obliviator squad would be there before he finished dialing. If the man valued his memory, he'd sit down and shut up.

Still, this was exactly the example of what Snape considered the very volatile postion Hogwarts had been placed in; although it had never occured, there was still the potential for a disgruntled Muggle parent to let something slip. To Snape, it was too risky, but Albus Dumbledore obviously thought otherwise.

"...AND YOU'LL SEE IF I DON'T!" roared the Muggle as he wrapped up his portrayal of the dire consequences should his precious gift from above be in any way traumatized from the recent ordeal.

"Sir, if you'll just come with me, I'm her Head of House, I'll explain everything..." Professor Flitwick said in his squeaky voice, which was shooting up several octaves the more nervous he became. He drew the man aside and began calming both himself and the Muggle down as best as possible.

Professor Snape sidled up beside the Healer, and frowned at the contraption laying on top of the cart. It appeared to be several shafts of fiberglass contrived so at a joint the lower portion could bend almost 180 degrees up towards the upper portion of the device. On the top was an array of clawlike fixtures, gleaming from recent sterilization. There were also many bits of wire trailing like the roots of some metallic flower, smelling slightly burnt from their cauterized ends. At the bottom was an arrangement of even more intricate fiberglass, steel, and wires, all criss-crossing and lumped here and there like bundles. It dawned on him so suddenly he was surprised he hadn't noticed before.

"It's an arm." He hissed this, with a tone of extreme disgust.

The Healer was no less repulsed. "The things Muggles do to their children. We had to actually cut this off from her. Cut it off!" He looked horrorstruck, his face shaded a bit green at the memory, complimenting his lime-colored robes. "Barbarians..." he whispered, shaking his head and touching the horrible arm gingerly as if it was cursed.

Apparently, the Muggle saw what was on the cart, and rushed over, resuming his state of apoplexy. "Do you have any idea how much this instrument cost? The years of research, the painstaking experimentation, the difficult procedures my daughter had to go through? Now look what you've done! Cut it off!"

Snape, finding the man's raving growing tiresome, let his fingers idly to the deep pocket inside his robes where he kept his wand. A simple Sleeping Charm would do. The Healer, noticing his movement, stayed his hand. "Can't let you do that. No magic inside a residence ward."

The Muggle man was momentarily derailed by the word 'magic', but to his credit, did not back down. "OH? SO YOU WERE GOING TO BEWITCH ME, EH?" he thundered. Such a large voice for such a short man. "WELL, HAVE AT ME, THEN! GIVE ME YOUR BEST!"

The Potions professor coughed slightly. "Mr. Tobita, I presume? I am Emi's Potions instructor...I can assure you that whatever medical attention your daughter requires, our Healers will provide treatment far outstripping any Muggle medicine available." 'Hardly deserves the title 'medicine', really,' Snape added mentally. "If you, however, feel the need for anything to...calm you down, I'd highly suggest that you take advantage of the oppurtunity to do so." Snape's icy voice hovered between politeness and command. There was only so much he could put up with from self-indulgent Muggles.

"Oh, I've always enjoyed Carmen, but have you ever heard Rusalka?"

Albus Dumbledore's voice cut everyone, even Mr. Tobita, off in the middle of their arguments. The old headmaster entered the doors gently leading a small girl, who was sitting on a poufy armchair that was floating nonchalantly along midair. Behind Dumbledore and Emi, Arthur Weasley followed, clutching several heavy-looking books and looking as if he wanted to be terribly excited but had to restrain himself.

"Y-yes, my mother performed it at the conservatory in Prague, and-" The girl trailed off in the middle of her sentence when she saw the scene inside the hospital room: her father shouting his head off at two of her professors.

Mr. Tobita practically Apparated himself, he was at his daughter's side so quickly. "Emi! You're okay, you're all right!" Emi pinked around her cheekbones as her father began to crane his neck and inspect her for damages, as if she was an especially delicate piece of machinery.

The bandaged stump on her right side arrested Tobita's attention. He gave a half-scream, and began to swear in Japanese. Dumbledore raised his hand slowly. "If I may..." he said quietly. Mr. Tobita stopped cursing audibly, but continued to make gasping motions like a landed fish.

"You're daughter is quite all right, Mr. Tobita. If we could let Emi sleep, I'd like to explain everything to you out in the hall."

***

Shutting the door to the ward behind him, Dumbledore turned to face the other men. Mr. Tobita was still in a simmering rage, while Flitwick had a sick-looking expression. Snape looked downright cranky (which wasn't exactly a change). The only man who seemed the least bit cheerful was Arthur Weasley, whose face was masked with eager interest.

Dumbledore got right to the point.

"Emi Tobita came to Hogwarts this September. Her family has no history of magical ability, and therefore could not know of the special- er, circumstances at Hogwarts regarding certain frequencies that Muggles use to operate machinery."

This failed to bring a look of complete understanding to anyone's face.

"Mr. Tobita, Emi was born with a malformed left arm, was she not?" Tobita gave the barest of nods in response.

"Well, as I understand it, the limb became infected, and under the principles of Muggle medicine, it was amputated..."

Snape 'tsk'ed under his breath, and muttered derisively, "Muggles!" Arthur Weasley seemed to equally be repulsed and intrigued.

"But you, Mr. Tobita, contracted your own company to fashion a device for your daughter that would replace the arm." In his excitement, Mr. Weasley broke in:

"Yes, I've heard about those before, the whatchamacallits- orbotic arms and things like that."

"Robotic, Arthur," Dumbledore corrected softly. "A robotic arm was constructed, and Mr. Tobita enlisted the most skilled Muggle surgeons in the task of grafting it to her shoulder. When she arrived within the boundaries of the magical field that surrounds Hogwarts, the device ceased to function. Although I am not quite sure as to the details of the workings, I am certain-"

Mr. Tobita injected himself into the conversation. "The Nanda scientists devised the arm so that it would be operated by the electric impulses of the brain through an advanced wiring system. Reaction times were about one-half that of normal human movement, so of course, it wasn't perfect."

"And- the skin?" Snape asked delicately.

"We tried to use a skin graft, but the artificial arm rejected it. Luckily, we were developing a new biohazard suit for the U.S. military, which utilized a new type of rubber-plastic compound that simulated human skin. Modified slightly, it is an exact replica." Mr. Tobita glared up at Snape. "I can't believe I've just revealed classified information to a...a...school teacher."

"Say that again," Snape said dangerously. His nostrils flared widely.

Dumbledore coughed impatiently. "This is really getting us nowhere, gentlemen. The important thing is, I do not intend to leave Miss Tobita in her current condition. I believe any blame lies with me," he said, here gazing at Mr. Tobita unflinchingly, "for not informing her parents about the special circumstances of our world."

"Sometimes we forget about all the things Muggles don't know," Arthur philosophized.

Snape sighed heavily in exasperation. "Headmaster, the girl has my utmost sympathies, but if I may please ask, why was it necessary to summon me at this hour of night? The situation is certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly an emergency."

"Sorry about that, Severus," Flitwick said, looking sheepish. "When Emi showed me her condition- she actually peeled back the skin, because I didn't believe her at first- I sent an urgent owl to Madame Pomfrey, but she's on a weekend holiday in Kenya, so it'll be at least another day before I get a reply. You were the second person I thought of, to be on hand in case something went terribly wrong."

Professor Snape concentrated hard on Bollox Arcadia's portrait to avoid saying a few choice words to Professor Flitwick.

"I don't suppose you know how to regrow arms, Professor? Or reattaching ones that are worth more than your yearly salary?" Tobita said sarcastically. Biting back his tongue, Snape wondered why he ever got into teaching in the first place. The love of children? Not particularly, no. Certainly not the joy of dealing with parents.

"No, I wouldn't. Madame Pomfrey would be your best bet, but I'm surprised that the Healers haven't done anything to remedy-"

The green-robed Healer came out of the double doors, shaking his head sympathetically. "Sleeping now," he said, gesturing with a jerk of his head over his shoulder. "Well, Headmaster, Professors, sirs, the good news is there's no infection or lingering after-effects. We haven't had to perform surgery in a while, but luckily Wheatley's a Muggle-born, so he knew the basic idea."

"Can't you just dose her with Skele-Gro?" Snape groused.

"Skele-Gro," the Healer said patiently, as if addressing a child, "restores what was lost. It acts upon the substance that Muggles refer to as DNA. Since Miss Tobita's arm was born malformed, any limb that we restore magically would be..." he searched for a delicate term, "...ah, unusable to her, since her genes themselves are damaged." He paused. "Really, Wheatley's the one who explained it all to me, fascinating subject, genetics...I believe he's writing a research paper, fascinating how close Muggles have come to understanding- of course, their symbology is primitive-"

Arthur juggled one of the books on his elbow while keeping the other open. "Couldn't Mr. Tobita's scientists fashion a new orbotic apparatus that we could bewitch? I think, given the circumstances, the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office would be inclined to extend a special permit-"

"I doubt, given your track record, Arthur, that the Ministry would approve," Snape said, frowning. "The Anglia escapade still weighs heavily in their minds- though you can't really be held responsible for Potter's grandstanding."

"I suppose you're right," Mr. Weasley said. From their work in the Order, he had long since learned to simply ignore Snape's vendetta against Harry. "I'll still look into it. Meanwhile, I shall have to take my leave of you all. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tobita," he said, shaking the man's hand and no doubt biting back a hundred questions about 'orbotics'. As he shook Snape's hand, he bent over and whispered, "Molly's making stuffed mushrooms tomorrow night."

Though he gave no reply, a muscle in Professor Snape's cheek twitched. Much as he hated social gatherings, he had a weakness for stuffed mushrooms. Perhaps he would make an appearance.

After Mr. Weasley left, Professor Flitwick led Mr. Tobita into the ward to see his daughter. Dumbledore regarded Snape with a sideways look. He was thoughtfully rubbing the bridge of his nose with one long finger.

Snape, for what seemed like the hundredth time, suppressed a groan of dismay. "Sir, something tells me you've got an idea of what's to be done."

"An inkling, perhaps," Dumbledore said noncomittally. "Though this problem lies outside of my range of expertise. It will certainly- if it succeeds, mind you- be quite a breakthrough in your field."

"Enough to get me published, you think?" Though his face didn't show it, there was an undercurrent of eagerness to Snape's tone.

"Perhaps. But you can't do it alone. I believe you will need to consult with another teacher on this issue. Professor Sprout should help you shed some light on it." The headmaster seemed to know more than he was letting on.

Snape was a bit relieved. Of all of his colleagues (besides Dumbledore), the one that he got along the most amicably with was the short Herbology witch. This was not a fact known to most of the school, being that Professor Sprout was a warm, friendly Hufflepuff, and he was- well, a nasty, antisocial Slytherin. But nonetheless, he had often sought out Sprout for collaborations on experimental potions. Her knowledge of the field was unmatched. In fact, he had heard it on good authority that she had turned down a lucrative position as a Ministry herbologist to teach at Hogwarts. Yes, it would not be a horrible thing. He really did prefer research to teaching, and this certainly was revolutionary. The problem was- how?

The potions master couldn't stop himself from yawning. 'Ah, well, we'll begin tomorrow,' he thought. He exited St. Mungo's, cape aflutter.