A/N: Here's the first of several companion pieces to my larger story, Auror Commander. Prior reading is not required but definitely recommended. Enjoy!
ECHO ALPHA
an Auror Commander story
—
My name is Sarah Jones.
I am in my second year of residence as a Healer at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Today starts off as an ordinary day. I am handed a clipboard with a sheath of parchment by my supervisor.
"Clinic duty," he says gruffly.
I sigh, and make my way to the reception area. Clinic duty means dealing with the stupid shit. Children sticking Every-Flavoured Beans up their noses. Wizards telling bad lies about how they got that rash. Young witches, all convinced they'll just die if a pimple doesn't disappear from their face immediately.
And so my morning goes.
I diagnose two cases of the common cold - "Just because Muggles get it too it doesn't mean your child is a Squib, madam." ('although you might be,' I add under my breath) - and refer two more to the Accidental Spell Damage ward.
One of the Welcome Witches at the front desk is handing me a new patient file when a pealing bell rings throughout the reception area. Startled, she whips around, scrambling for a two-way mirror with a red frame.
I hear the words that come out of the mirror as the witch's face goes white.
"Echo Alpha. Echo Alpha. This is not a drill."
Echo Alpha.
On our first day of training, each Healer is given a list of code words to memorise. They're nicknamed the Echo Orders, because when sounded, everyone in the hospital hears them. Echo Alpha is at the top of the list, and what it stands for is very simple:
Emergency: Aurors.
The pealing bell is still sounding as the Welcome Witch speaks into the intercom:
"Echo Alpha, Echo Alpha, incoming. All hands. I repeat, Echo Alpha, all hands."
I know what to do, and where I should be to offer the most assistance. We train for this on our second day.
And then chaos descends on the quiet waiting room as a squadron of red and black-robed figures materialise out of thin air.
I hate to admit it, but I find myself somewhat awestruck at the sight. The Healing profession is a noble and well-respected occupation in the wizarding world. We carry ourselves with a certain pride and confidence. But even the most senior Healer loses his swagger when an Auror enters the room.
Even as I react to their arrival, the Aurors are already moving. Four walk to separate corners of the room and start casting defensive wards. Two more support a third to the front desk. He has a long gash down his front and raking claw marks that run from his forehead to his neck. One of his feet dangles uselessly from his leg. Someone - or something - has taken a bite out of his ankle.
Another Auror limps over with her arm in a makeshift sling. A sharp cut runs across her forehead, and her blonde hair is congealed with blood.
And in the middle of the group stands another, cradling a young woman in his arms. He is not a tall man, but somehow, he is heads and shoulders above the rest of them. His presence electrifies the room. Grime and blood cover his face, but he is still instantly recognisable. After all, he is the most famous wizard in the world.
Harry Potter.
The Auror Commander.
The woman he carries wears Auror robes, but seems no older than twenty. Her face is an ashen grey, and she seems as fragile as a rag doll. Harry's hand is pressed against her waist, covering a gaping wound that is gushing blood. I conjure a handful of magical gauze and press it to the wound as my fellow Healers summon a stretcher and place her on it. Another rushes up with a ladle of potion and tips it down her throat as the Auror Commander supports her head.
He fixes me with a stare that bores right through me, as if he can see into my very soul. I feel as if my entire lifetime is an open book to him. He speaks. It is not a request. It is a Command.
"Save her."
That is all he says, before stalking away. And for the next sixteen hours, that is what I do. I will not leave her side, even when my supervisor tells me to take a break, even though I am the most junior Healer in the room by about thirty years. I feel compelled, inexplicably so, to do as much as is humanly possible for this woman. I learn she is a trainee, and my peculiar affinity for her only increases.
Only when I am too exhausted to stand do I leave the operating room, and crash into one of the cots in the Healer dormitories.
The next three days are touch and go for the Auror, and her life hangs by a thread. The gaping wound in her stomach only closes after two senior warlocks dispel the malicious curse magic infecting the wound, but it is impossible to tell how much damage the magic has already done, and whether or not her internal organs will survive the trauma.
The Auror Commander visits twice in this time, watching the proceedings with his eagle stare. He is very, very different from the laughing, seemingly carefree man I saw in the pictures of his wedding to Ginny Weasley, splashed across a special edition of Witch Weekly some months ago.
I watch as a another Auror trainee gives him a sharp salute, then hands him a sheet of parchment in a red folder. The Commander peruses it quickly, a small frown creasing his expression as he hands the file back. He delivers a short order, and the younger man nods, before departing with another salute.
I am given the impression that the Aurors would follow their Commander to the very depths of Hell itself. I am also given the impression that if that was the case, it wouldn't be the Commander's first visit.
The young Auror trainee wakes the next day. Her condition is improving, but she has a long road to recovery. We are still not aware of the complete extent of her injuries, or the long-term effects. One thing is certain, however. The MLE will not clear her for field duty for eighteen months at least. To an Auror trainee, it might as well be a death sentence. The Auror Office has no use for someone in her condition. With a good reference and a full recovery, she may become a Hitwitch. But she is an Auror no more.
The Auror Commander delivers the news to her personally. It's painful to watch as he destroys her dreams with a few short, quiet sentences. Tears well in her eyes as he stands and bids her goodbye, with a hand on her shoulder and genuine sympathy on his face.
She should hate him, hate the fact that all her hard work, years of study and training have been rendered pointless because he will not take her back. But she can't. She knows that he is responsible for saving her life, that he broke his own cover in a vicious firefight to rescue her, as all manner of destruction rained down upon him.
As he leaves, he gives me an almost imperceptible nod of recognition.
On my very next shift, my supervisor hands me a new clipboard.
"Fourth floor, Jones. Report to Healer Booke. You've earned it."
—
The End.