A/N: This is written for the Honeydukes Competition, category Chocolate Frogs (write about someone on a Chocolate Frog Card), for the Creatures Of Hogwarts Competition, category Basilisk (write about someone who's unable to face something) and for the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, category Nosebleed Nougat (write about someone escaping doing something by faking an illness).

All throughout his life, Mungo Bonham had known that there was something special about him. Though it was not in a good way. No matter what he did or where he was, illness always knew how to find him. Or, that was what he told himself, for Mungo was your stereotypical hypochondriac. If he as much as coughed, he knew it had to be Black Cat Flu so he stuffed himself with antidotes. A runny nose of course was the result of Scrofungulus and aching muscles were definitely the first stages of Vanishing Sickness. As a child, he'd suffered some bad cases of Mumblemumbs and as an adult he'd once had the Dragon Pox, resulting in a face that still had a greenish hint to it.

Due to the lack of appropriate ailments and ointments, Mungo had grown quite adept with potions and herbology and his shelves were always stacked with bottles and flasks in all sorts, shapes and sizes. This had however also come to the attention of the villagers of Mould-On-The-Wold, who sought him out whenever they needed a cure for influenza or because one of their cows wouldn't give birth. He made quite a decent amount of money of it and once he had enough, he immediately relocated to the relative animosity of London's streets. He set up a small apothecary and for a while he was as content as he could be (despite the number of times he had to use his own products).

One day, a knock on his door awoke from his mid-afternoon doze.

"Who is it?" he asked with a shaky voice and quickly took a gulp of Lavenderextrait, known to balm the vocal cords.

"That doesn't matter man, open up!" a voice outside barked – one of the first signs of Caninitis, Mungo thought – and the person banged on the door again. "Hurry up, my friend is covered in purple pustules and he needs an ailment now!"

Spattergroit, Mungo thought, immediately recognising the sypmtoms. Highly contagious and with his weak health, it might just be the end of him.

"I, I can't!" he replied.

"Are you a Healer or what?!"

"I've got a bad case of the Black Cat Flu, I'm sorry. I can't go out for a week. I really am sorry, but you'll have to ask elsewhere," he squeaked.

The man groaned loudly, but eventually, Mungo heard his footsteps disappear and he sighed in relief. He had managed to get out of that rather well, hadn't he? But now he had mentioned the Black Cat Flu, he noticed that his throat was a little sore and he was afraid that he might accidentally have been right – it was very plausible that he indeed had the Black Cat Flu. He shuffled towards his cabinet and took out a large red pastille. He really did not feel well at all. Hmm, perhaps he'd better go to bed, just in case…

A bone-splitting scream from outside made him jump.

"Merlin's beard, what is going on out there?" Mungo muttered to himself. "It sounds like they're skinning a pig, alive." He glanced out of his window and noticed a man perish and another man standing by, shouting: "Somebody do something!"

He recognised the man's barking voice and his curiosity was peeked. The screams were not in the slightest symptoms of Spattergroit. People with Spattergroit would moan and growl, but not scream. So perhaps it was not Spattergroit after all? A part of him wanted to find out what was really wrong with the man, so that he could see if he had an effective antidote, but another part of him – the more self-preserving part – told him to mind his own business. It could still be contagious, after all.

Outside, the screams subsided and Mungo had seen enough people die to know that this man wasn't going to stand up anymore.

That night, as he went to bed, Mungo was plagued by a new disease: the nasty feelings of guilt and remorse ate away at him and the words of the barking man kept echoing in his mind, preventing him from sleep: "Are you a Healer or what?"

He was a Healer, right? Then hadn't it been his duty to help the unfortunate citizen? He twisted and turned his bed and when the sun rose the next morning, his sheets were soaked in sweat.

For once, his first instinct wasn't to grab a pot of cool-inducing ointment nor to drink a soothing potion. He even forgot to have breakfast. No, Mungo was pacing up and down his living room, wondering if he wasn't obliged to use his healing powers to really help people, whatever illness they suffered from?

In the afternoon, his decision was made. He went on a stroll around the quarter and noticed that a lot of people were looking rather pale. It worried him. If this was some kind of infectious disease, he might catch it too. He quickly took a puff of Clean Air Spray and bravely walked on. Mungo quickly ventured back to his apotchecary, determined to transform it into a Healer's practice. That was more difficult than it sounded though. Sure, switching the sign above the door of the apothecary from Mungo's Medicines to Mungo's Hospital above the door had been easy – one flick of a wand and it had been done. He had decided on Mungo's Hospital rather than Mungo's Healer's Practice, because Mungo's Hospital had a more serious ring to it, meaning it would only attract those that really needed his time and knowledge. But apart from the shelves and shelves of ointments, ailments and potions, it still looked more like an apothecary than a hospital.

"It needs beds," Mungo thought, critically glancing around his hospital. "Isn't that what hospitals have, beds? Beds and a treating room."

The only way to have that, was to magically enlarge the building, and non-healing spells had never really been his forte. Eventually, with the help of some wizard acquaintances, he managed to get it done.

It started out as a small hospital, but word of his healing abilities quickly spread, and soon he found himself forced to call upon his acquaintances again to enlarge the hospital a second time. Three and a half years into business, this process had been repeated two more times and Mungo was now the boss of three assistant-Healers, that he each trained to meet with his high standards.

The hospital took up so much of his time, that he no longer sought to remedy every cough or every aching muscle he had, and he found that in not taking that many remedies, antidotes and medicines, he actually felt better than he had before. This resulted in him rethinking the way they treated their patients at Mungo's Hospital and he revolutionalised what was know about Healing.

Ten years into business not only people from London knew where to find the hospital. The building had been enlarged to host a new wing and they even had to create a second floor. The team now consisted of Mungo, five Head-Healers – each specialist in their own category of diseases; ten Assistant-Healers – two with every Head-Healer – and numerous nurses and infirmiers.

Outside, it still looked like a shabby place, but inside the hospital bustled with activity. Mungo was proud of what he had achieved in the years past and he knew he had made the right decision, all those years ago.

When Mungo died almost fifty years later, only a couple of days before he would celebrate his hundredth birthday, all of the wizarding community knew where to go when one was in case of medical assistance. His death was grieved and the staff renamed the hospital to St Mungo's Hospital, to commemorate him for all the good work he had done. Until this day, it has kept that name and until today, wizards from all over the country visit the hospital located in a shabby, abandoned shop in London, for a diversity of reasons, but all with one purpose: to get better.