Behaviour Unbecoming of a Ravenclaw
1. Terry Boot
In which Terry does something impulsive.
He had no idea what he was doing here. It wasn't the first time Terry Boot had walked into this particular building, but it had always been for other reasons. But now the front desk was many steps behind him, past the group of students with their white robes and quills poised over books of parchment, past the lady with the odd green boils on her arms. The administrative offices were farther back into the building, he knew, in the general direction he was walking, but it wasn't until he'd been there for a couple of minutes that he even realised that was where he was going.
She would think he was crazy—that was almost certain. Hell, everyone would think he was crazy, including his best mate and his Mum, the only two people in the world to whom he'd even briefly mentioned this barmy idea of his. But it was hardly even an idea, or even a passing fancy; that was the problem. It was a single sentence in the book of his life so far, albeit one he'd read over several times. Still, he'd not researched it, nor had Terry intended to ever take action.
Yes, everyone would be right—it was crazy.
His feet were still moving, though, and he was so focused on his destination that he nearly ran down a man in hospital robes who seemed oblivious to the fact that his arse was showing. He merely gave Terry a pleasant greeting and wandered farther down the hall, murmuring to himself as he went. Terry briefly considered hunting down someone, because surely this man needed some assistance, but a Mediwitch came running past him only a moment later, calling, "Mr. Morton, please!" in a frantic voice, so he thought it was probably handled.
St. Mungo's was a rather terrifying place sometimes. He'd thought so as a child, when he'd spent many days over the course of several years in the Magical Bugs ward with bout after bout of severe Myringa Septus. Adolescence cured him of most of those childhood fears, but the war had nearly put it right back into him, when the Battle of Hogwarts ended both in Voldemort's defeat and a two-month stint at St. Mungo's for him.
The pain had faded, mostly, but he still had the scars. No, it wasn't even that the pain had faded, but that he'd learned to deal with it over the years. Sometimes it was more intense than he cared to mention, and others he hardly noticed it. And though he wasn't actually scared of it any longer, the hospital still wasn't his favourite place to visit these days. It usually meant either his six-month check-up or that he was having a particular problem, and neither was enjoyable. He was rather used to the place, though. Maybe he was destined to it. Or doomed, as Professor Trelawney probably would have said.
Which only lent itself to the theory that he was crazy. Maybe he should have headed to the Janus Thickey Ward instead.
Running a hand through his hair—it had gotten too long, and if he'd had any idea he'd be coming today, he would have gotten it cut first—Terry strode past a bewildered-looking secretary and straight into the office. Belatedly, he realised he was still wearing his work robes. They were rather casual, but at least it wasn't Friday, when they were allowed to come in their denims and jumpers. He smoothed them down, a bit self-consciously, and cleared his throat.
Healer Cross looked surprised to see him, but she immediately smiled, setting down the text she'd been reading and carefully marking her place. "Terry! Well, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
"It…has," he said, nodding. He hadn't realised that he was out of breath before. How fast had been walking?
"Would you like to sit down and tell me what brings you here today? You've not been having any problems, have you?" The slightest creases appeared at the corners of her mouth. She was still smiling, trying not to show her concern on her face, but her voice gave her away, like it always did. "Your bi-yearly isn't for another couple of months, but if you're concerned…."
"No, no, I'm fine," Terry said, though he did sit down, taking a moment to catch his breath. He ran his hand through his hair again, really wishing he'd gotten a trim this past weekend. "Great, actually. Nothing more than some minor aches lately. The new potions have helped a lot. Besides, I thought you'd handed my case off to Healer Russell?"
"Well, yes, I have. My new duties are keeping me quite busy. But if you'd needed me…." She trailed off, looking rather befuddled, but she smiled all the same. "Then what can I do for you, Terry? I've run out of guesses, I'm afraid."
"Well, actually, it's your new duties I wanted to talk to you about."
Healer Cross folded her hands on her desk but said nothing, only giving him time to continue. Terry's mouth felt dry, and it was suddenly clear to him exactly how much he hadn't prepared for this moment. It wasn't like him to wander into this conversation, wasn't like him to just leave for his lunch break—from his highly respected, proudly earned position in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, one that he would be crazy to give up—and end up at the hospital with some half-formed idea rolling around in his head. He was a Ravenclaw. He'd gotten five Outstandings on his NEWTs, after they'd finally let the students whose educations had been affected by the war go back and take them. He always calculated his steps, always asked a million questions, always did the research before he ever acted.
He was also, strangely and suddenly, more sure of this than he'd been about anything in a long time.
Terry leaned forward in an almost conspiratorial pose. "Healer Cross, I'd—I'd like to apply to your Healer trainee program. To begin immediately."