Domorphius Slackly sprinted down a deserted side-street on a bitterly cold morning. It was still dark, the sun having not yet peeked out from behind the horizon's shoulder. His breath came out in puffs; his eyes raked the numbers on the letterboxes of the dilapidated houses floating on the thick layer of mist, which was reluctant to part with the ground.

He had never come to St. Mungo's before, and as his eyes skimmed over the never ending stream of numbers which the muggles used to mark their houses, he fought to control a rising sense of frustration. Clutching the letter in his right hand tighter, he quickened his pace.

Morph:

I know this is coming at a real late time, but I've told Norberta to not wake you. We're back at St. Mungo's, his mum's been readmitted. He came running to the Hog's Head a few hours ago and told me where he was going.

Also, we just found out Ols' been made prefect! We haven't been able to celebrate or anything obviously, but I reckon we should. Wouldn't want him being too underwhelmed by this influential position or anything right?

The watch witch says the visitor's entrance is at 93 Kent Road. I don't know what ward his mother will be transferred to, so just ask at the front desk.

See you soon.

Io

P.S: Watch out for the muggle down 25. He's got a dog the size of a bear, crazy bugger.

A vicious bark woke him out of his reverie. He snapped back, his right hand making an unconscious twitch for his wand, just in time to see a bear-like dog latch its fangs around the air where his arm had been a mere second ago. A wizened toothless old man hobbled out from behind the fence, clicking consolingly at his dog.

'Brutus', he crooned, giving the young boy ahead of him an apologetic smile, 'leave him boy, get down!'

The dog let up, reluctantly, and trotted back to his wizened owner, licking his hand profusely. The man hurriedly shoved what looked like a large strip of cured meat into the dog's mouth and patted its hind repeatedly, urging him away.

'Sorry son, don't know what's gotten into him lately', he muttered. 'Are you alright?'

'No worries, I'm well and whole.'

'Good, good.' He muttered distractedly. Morph noticed his eyes were quite unfocused and gazed out in opposite directions.

'A-are you alright, Sir…? Need any help?'

'Nah…no worries boy, he's a gentle beast tha' one. Woudn' hurt a fly he wouldn''

'Alright then, have a good day then.'

And with that, Morph resumed sprinting. But then, letting out a chuckle, he looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the number 25 was painted in peeling paint on the fence.

He had spotted the place where Io had said St Mungo's would be, but couldn't find any place that seemed like an entrance. He strode over to the display window, coated with what looked like decades of incrusted grime. Lowering himself onto his knees and putting his two hands on the window, he pressed his nose close to it, trying to look through, even as his breath frosted on the windows. He couldn't see anything inside, nor did anyone or anything address him. He noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the ugly heads swivelled it's unnaturally long neck at him, it' dislocated eyelid hanging on a thin plastic hinge. The effect was quite unnerving. Feeling foolish, he cleared his throat and started addressing the possessed plastic dummy.

'Uh, I'm here to see a friend of mine. His mum's Augusta Scant, she was readmitted earlier today.'

'Alright, please step through the glass.'

Thanking the dummy quickly, as was dictated usually by social customs- he wondered if they applied to a dummy, even one which had been possessed. He put off his mind's many tangential outbursts throughout the morning to the earliness of the hour. He stepped over the threshold and walked into a large, sanitised room filled with posters and chairs, none of which housed any people at the moment. He walked towards a counter which a witch was manning- or womanning, rather, as his woozy mind reminded him. He took in the posters warning wizards against an assortment of malpractices; dirty cauldrons: "A dirty cauldron turns a potion into a poison", non-ministry approved charms: "Use your brain, refrain!", and badly brewed potions: "If in doubt, throw it out." He leant forward to scrutinise a poster depicting a wizard shrieking in agony, the caption was in a loopy script-

'Hey sugar, I know them posters are precious and all, but you aren't just gonna stand there gawking are ya?' squelching her gum round her mouth, she cocked an eyebrow at his silence.

'You're with the Scant kid right? Go up to the 5th floor, Eileen ward, 3rd left'

'Alright thanks.'

Jogging up the stairs past the rushing St. Mungo's healers hauling wizards with weirdly distorted body parts, carrying vials of strange potions and pushing laden trolleys, he felt like an intruder, the only one not wearing a haggard expression.

Heaving a sigh as he reached the 5th floor, he realised that there had been no need to tell him the whereabouts of the ward. A few feet away, bundled under what looked like a thin overcoat, were his two closest friends; Io Sonorous and Oliver Scant. The only sound in the corridor was the steady, rumble of their separate breathing and the occasional shuffle or tug as they attempted to shift the overcoat to better shield them from the cold. He pulled out his wand, and soundlessly, a few tendrils of bluish flames flowed from its tip, which he scooped into a jar which he'd fashioned out of thin air. He sealed the lid and put the jar in their midst, so they'd all be warmed. Then, as his weariness crept up on him, he shuffled closer to the friends he hadn't seen in two weeks, slid down the wall and closed his eyes.