Hermione Granger wasn't sure what she wanted to do after Hogwarts. Having been part of the Golden Trio there were many departments vying for her attention and she decided to spend some time visiting each one to find out which fit her best.

In the past few months she'd spent time in the DMLE; the Department of Mysteries (even past the purple water cooler); the vague approximation of the executive branch for a possibility of taking over Dolores Umbridge's old position; and even the House Elf Rights committee, which seemed to be filled with starry eyed fan girls (ages 5-93) who wanted to be just like her.

Today, however, she was touring St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She was taken to the disease laboratory where they attempted to find cures for such things as dragon pox and doxy crabs. She spent time in the "most advanced potions laboratory south of Hogwarts" which just looked like a regular dungeon. She'd spent time in the emergency ward next to the giant Floo which looked like it belonged in Star Trek, not in a magical hospital.

Eventually they meandered around the back corridors into a different ward Hermione did not recognize. Most men and women were strapped to beds, but a few roamed about or sat on their beds. A few healers meandered through the beds as the patients tossed and turned, moaning and muttering slightly too low for her to hear.

Curious, the brightest witch of her generation leaned in for a listen.

"O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June," one man said before seemingly running out of energy and falling down to the bed once more.

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face," shouted a woman on the other end of the ward, looking right at Hermione. "Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm."

Feeling a bit self conscious, Hermione moved along, where another young woman looked up at her with sad eyes.

"Ye ugly, creepan, blastit wonner," the woman said honestly, the fervent dislike on the patient's face making Hermione take a half step back. "Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her, Sae fine a Lady! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body."

With that Hermione wasn't sure if she should be insulted or just continue to be confused. Her jaw set in concentration she walked up to the Healer who had given her the tour.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't catch the name when we came in," Hermione said politely. "Is it the psychiatric ward?"

"No, Miss Granger," the healer said. "This is the Burns Unit."

AN: I blame Clell for this one. He started the bad jokes and inspired me. Blame him, not me. It's all his fault.

The poems are from Robert Burns: A Red, Red Rose; Address to a Haggis; and To A Louse: On Seeing One On A Lady's Bonnet, At Church. Needless to say, I don't own any of them.