25 December 1995, Christmas Day
In the evening, Hippocrates cursed himself for picking up another shift. This was just his luck; Abigail would go into labor on Christmas Day. The hospital honestly wasn't that busy, given it was the holiday, but he'd spent a good hour telling Augustus Pye off. Who used stitches to counteract snake venom? Augustus had tried to hide it from him, and this was the fool's first mistake. Hippocrates eventually found out everything.
He was a Muggle. Yes, Hippocrates knew what stitches were. In fact, and he'd confessed this to Augustus, Hippocrates, afraid of his father's wrath after an accident, Hippocrates had once stolen a suture kit from a local Muggle hospital and sown his own skin back together. The uneven scar on his wrist served as a reminder of his hack job.
Ruthie broke the news to him after tapping on the closed door of the sleeping quarters. Hippocrates wasn't going to have a shouting match over a patient in a ward. When she kept knocking, Hippocrates raised a finger, putting his rant on pause, daring Augustus to flee from him. Augustus shrank back.
He unlocked the door and yanked it open. He practically shouted at her, realizing too late Ruthie only delivered a message. "What is it?"
Ruthie raised an eyebrow, silently telling him to check that haughty attitude at the door.
"Sorry," mumbled Hippocrates, running a hand through his hair.
"She told me not to bother you because you were in back-to-back procedures. Healer Smethwyck came in about three hours ago. They're about three minutes apart. She's doing fine."
"The contractions?" Hippocrates pointed at Augustus, hoping he wouldn't cross the line. He gave a direct order. "You lay off those Muggle remedies. Go check Mr. Weasley because you aren't leaving his side till we've solved this, you hear me? You apologize profusely to Mrs. Weasley because I don't care if you have to grovel. If we're landed with a lawsuit for this, I swear, Mr. Stitches, I will nail your ass to the wall. You won't see the inside of this hospital for three months."
"Three months?" Augustus raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and backed off when Hippocrates hissed at him. He changed to a friendly, casual tone, squeezing out of the door and dashing towards the Dai Llwellyn ward. "Congratulations on the baby, sir."
"The baby's coming fast," said Ruthie, quickening her pace and Hippocrates ran after her. Although she was a head matron, she saw Hippocrates as an equal. When they reached the private room, Hippocrates heard wife screaming, followed shortly by a newborn's cry. Ruthie knocked on the door before they entered the room. "Your husband's hard to track down."
"I missed another one," said Hippocrates apologetically, striding over to Abbey. He brushed her sweaty dark hair out of her face as the matrons took the baby off to the side. The baby definitely had a healthy set of lungs. A minute passed. "How's her stats?"
"Healers make the worst patients," grumbled Ruthie, walking over to wash her hands and help the younger matron.
Abbey reached up and wrapped her long fingers around Hippocrates's wrist. "Shut up."
"It is a she. You lost your bet, Hippocrates." Minutes later, Ruthie, holding the newborn to her chest and came back to place her in Abbey's arms. She reeled off stats. "She's a pretty one. Christmas is shot, though."
"Doesn't matter. She's the best Christmas gift ever," said Abbey softly, her eyes on the child. She waved to the other matrons and thanked them as they left. Hippocrates, tired despite the slow day, sat down and groaned when she punched him in the arm. "It took you seven minutes to get here? What's that about? I think you plan these things."
"I was coming. You said continue work as normal because patients come first." He kissed her and bent to press his lips to the baby's forehead. "I love you. She's beautiful. You're beautiful. We make beautiful girls."
"And lose money in the process. That's twenty-five Galleons. I'll collect later, shall I?" Ruthie read over the clipboard.
There was a loud beeping noise that sounded far off in the distance. Hippocrates had heard it before, yet he couldn't quite place his finger on is source.
Abbey coughed, spitting blood onto the white sheets. She gasped for air, her wheezing long and painful.
"Abbey." Alarmed, Hippocrates got to his feet. His hands were sweaty. He yelled at Ruthie, the chief matron on the floor. "What the hell are you doing? Do something!"
Ruthie, still reading her clipboard, spoke in a flat tone. She seemed intent on filling out her paperwork. Abbey's wound ripped open and blood spilled everywhere. "I can't do anything. What are you calling her?"
"I ... I don't know ...". Hippocrates searched desperately for packing supplies. The baby vanished from Abbey's arms. She grabbed his wrist again, strangely calm as her face drained of color. Hippocrates, surprised by the dampness on his face, realized he was crying silent tears. He turned to Abbey for help, desperate. The soaked pads spilled onto the floor. "I can't ... I can't stop it. What do I do? Abigail!"
"Relax." Despite her deep wound, her severed throat, Abbey spoke normally. This wasn't right. Her face was deathly pale, and her bloody hand shook as he brushed it against his skin. "I'm not here, Hippocrates. Wake up, darling. Wake up!"
Hippocrates opened his eyes. He was drenched in a cold sweat; Hippocrates felt his damp face and stared at the ceiling. His undershirt clung to his skin. He was in the sleeping quarters lying on an uncomfortable cot. And he was quite alone.
28 December 1995
Three days later, they put his wife and his unborn child in the ground, and Hippocrates wasn't here. He'd gotten his girls ready for the service by dressing them in identical plain black dresses before he handed them off to Ruthie. Hippocrates couldn't face anyone. Hell, he couldn't even go into his own master bedroom. Work made sense. Life at the hospital made sense, so he headed there.
Mary, the lady with the mysterious bite, had finally fessed up. Hippocrates didn't know and he didn't care. She'd gotten discharged and left the hospital. After hours of research in the concealed medical library, Hippocrates had finally found what he'd been looking for for days. Augustus basically flew solo, handling Hippocrates's two remaining cases. He immediately placed an Owl Order and received his antidote from some Healer in the Middle East.
"And now we wait," said Hippocrates.
Hippocrates dropped his syringe in the wastebasket and peeled off a layer of Arthur Weasley's bandages, cautious as ever. There was a stack of bandages on the bedside cabinet ready to go if necessary. He mentioned casually if this didn't work, he'd just tossed a lot of gold down the drain. Arthur Weasley laughed. Augustus Pye took off the bandages after a half hour, tossed them in the wastebasket, and threw his hands up in the air.
"That's it?" Arthur grinned at Hippocrates, waiting for an answer. He closed his dressing gown. "It's not that I don't trust you, Healer Smethwyck, but we've been down this road before."
"You're cured." The smile didn't reach Hippocrates's eyes. He tapped his quill on the clipboard, thinking. He wanted the whole stitches incident thing to go away, for he didn't want nor need a stain on his record. It was easier to do this without Mrs. Weasley. He handed the clipboard and quill to Mr. Weasley. He lowered his voice, although there was little chance of him being overheard. "This is just a statement saying you agreed to the stitches procedure. You agree we are not responsible for any unforeseen consequences ...that sort of thing."
Arthur signed willingly, looking ashamed, and glanced fretfully at the ward door as if he expected his furious wife to come striding up the ward.
"No more Muggle remedies, okay?" Hippocrates fluffed his pillows and added the paperwork to the file. "I want you to stay overnight for observation. A precaution. Mr. Stitches will keep you company."
Augustus groaned, but he gave no complaint.
Arthur called after him as he turned to check on Michael. "Healer Smethwyck?"
Hippocrates stopped, handing Augustus Mr. Weasley's clipboard.
Mr. Weasley took his time before he said, "I'm sorry about your wife. I had a few conversations with her when I got bored, you know, she was lovely."
Hippocrates gave a curt nod and walked over to Michael. The young man wasn't alone; someone sat at his bedside.
The story got covered in the Daily Prophet as "an unfortunate accident". The writers of the newspaper claimed, and Hippocrates wasn't entirely sure why because Abbey had been a world renowned Healer with her lycanthropy research, Abigail Smethwyck had died due to complications in childbirth. One Healer, and Hippocrates didn't know who this was, had claimed to be on the scene and assured the public, for Caspar Downey had been quoted saying, "They'd done everything they could." Although he himself had given that recycled line to hundreds of families over the years, Hippocrates found he'd despised that saying.
Curious, Hippocrates checked the file. Michael Gallagher had dropped the Joe Doe routine, yet getting information out of him was still like pulling teeth. Hippocrates Smethwyck was no dentist. As he approached, he he laughed softly to himself, thinking he should've known, for he recognized the fellow by the back of his head.
Hippocrates met Remus Lupin when he when he was fifteen. It was difficult to actually define their relationship. After some incident involving some schoolboy prank going horribly wrong, Remus's father, Lyall, had put his foot down and slammed the pavement looking for answers. Lyall, a mellow man, usually didn't let things get to him. Hippocrates remembered a terrified man wandering into the hospital because Lyall had almost walked right out. Hippocrates, a Healer first off his training, had followed the man out of the hospital.
After a lot of talking down, Lyall agreed to a drink. They spent the entire afternoon discussing things in a pub. Hippocrates sat there and listened for a while. He'd blown off his double shift, something he'd rarely ever done in his career, and handed it off to another Healer, claiming he had food poisoning. Hippocrates got the entire spiel. For one thing, he thought the kid was beyond fortunate to be accepted into Hogwarts. When the afternoon was over, they agreed to meet again for another chat, and things got easier from there.
Hippocrates left that first afternoon with an idea planted into his head. Not all werewolves were bad people. They were indeed human beings. That summer, he met with Lyall's son, and he started crafting a plan for those who wanted help within the magical community. He wouldn't run awful, excruciating experiments on them like lab rats. He created a network. Hippocrates, and later his wife and a handful of mother Healers, worked to keep werewolves heads above water. They helped them find reasonable living conditions and minimum wage jobs. Werewolves couldn't hold careers given their reputation. They could, however, with a little help, get by. Hippocrates called his pet project the Lexington Noir Project. Before Professor Dumbledore offered Remus a post as the Defense the Dark Arts teacher two years ago, (and Hippocrates had absolutely nothing to do with that), Remus had worked as a dishwasher at a Muggle restaurant.
Remus might have held simple jobs through his life and jumped from place to place, but you would not know at first glance this kid, this young man, permanently lived below the poverty line. He was well educated and could probably run circles around Muggle students who attended prestigious universities. He knew a lot about Boggarts, and ghosts, and defensive spells, though this was due to his father. He read things like Shakespeare and Proust for fun, and he understood a little psychology, too.
"You don't call, and you don't write, but whatever, you know." Hippocrates clapped Remus on the shoulder and embraced Remus when he got to his feet. Remus pointed out, as always, that a telephone would be useless to both of them. Hippocrates shrugged, releasing him. He switched to a stern look and his weak telling off voice, hoping pouring on the guilt. "I send you an owl, I send you loads of them, and nothing comes back for weeks. You could be ill. You could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere for all I know, but do I get anything? Anything at all. No! Why bother?"
Remus grimaced. "I've forgotten how good you were at this guilty conscience bit."
"I've got more," said Hippocrates, frowning when his mind went blank. "No, actually, I'm out."
Remus crossed his arms, giving Hippocrates what he wanted to hear. "I will write you, all right? I promise."
"You're like a good girlfriend, Remus," said Hippocrates, checking Michael's records. Remus sat back down. Smiling at Michael, Hippocrates added, "and we've through this over and over again. I'm like broken record. Remus always returns because they pretty ones always come crawling back."
Remus rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
"What's a record?" Michael asked, setting aside his paper. Hippocrates, who knew for a fact Michael had a Muggle father, closed his clipboard and feigned disappointment. "It was a joke, sir."
"You two are jokers." Shaking his head, he walked off.
Hippocrates found a wheelchair in the corner and parked it by the bed before he waved his wand and conjured things he'd forgotten at home. Both Remus and Michael wore comfortable Muggle clothing. Though they were both wizards, they could have blended easily into the Muggle community. As it was closer to the full moon, though it was still a few days off, both men certainly looked ill. Michael resembled death, so Hippocrates guessed he'd lose his appetite before his first transformation. Micheal got into the wheelchair and took the parcels, a brown paper bag, and a green gift bag Hippocrates offered him. Hippocrates didn't forget the blanket at the foot of his bed.
They went outside. Hippocrates needed a break from the hustle and bustle, and Michael could use the fresh air. It was starting to drizzle and promised to be a rainy day.
"Don't you have other charges?" Michael sighed when Hippocrates handed him the light blanket, but he took it all the same.
"Don't you have a coat?" Firing a question back at him, Hippocrates flicked his wand again and caught his own black mackintosh and waited until Michael pulled it on. It was too big. "You'll catch your death out here."
"Did Abbey ever tell you you're a good mother?" Michael exchanged looks with Remus. Remus leaned against the the side of the dilapidated department store, grinning. Hippocrates smacked Michael upside the head. "Ouch. What was that for?"
"Not to worry, Michael. That means he likes you." Remus put his hands in his coat pockets. "He buys you presents."
"Speaking of which," said Hippocrates, taking the bags and parcels from Michael and dividing them up. Remus got the green bag and one of the rectangular parcels. Hippocrates opened Michael's bag and handed its contents over. "Homemade chicken noodle soup, leftover French bread, and Saltine crackers for you. Tuck in."
"Not hungry," mumbled Michael, turning green again.
"You haven't eaten since lunch yesterday." Hippocrates frowned. He'd returned home to check in on his girls and made soup to have something to do with his hands. It was his grandmother's recipe. At least Michael wasn't throwing his trays at the matrons and orderlies anymore, for Ruthie had put a stop to that really quickly. He didn't even bother with pretending to be upset anymore because this truly angered him. He knelt down on the pavement and opened the tall cylindrical container. "Do you want me to force feed you like I do my two year old when she's ill. You are not going to starve yourself! This took hours!"
"I don't want it." Michael crossed his arms, defiant.
"Michael," said Remus softly.
"Oh, yeah, well I don't give a damn what you want. Abbey ..." Hippocrates stopped after he said his wife's name because it hurt too much. It hurt to breathe. Michael handed the open container back to Michael and walked off.
"Hippocrates!" Remus called after him and followed him down the street. They passed Muggle shops. Remus slowed down and walked beside him. He lowered his voice, sympathetic and firm. "He never wanted this to happen. Michael told me the other day he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"He's running out of time," said Hippocrates. "What about what I want? I want my wife back! I can't even do a ponytail right."
"I'm sorry?" Remus lost him.
"Abbey does this high ponytail thing. Cecilia told me I do it all wrong, and she did Maisie's hair. They both look like homeless people because Maisie's got this big lump on top of the ponytail ...and the nanny fixed it." Hippocrates knew it sounded completely stupid. And he'd forgotten the imaginary friends New Year's tea party thing, too. He showed Remus his pretty pink fingernails. He'd meant to read his girls a bedtime story and somehow ended up as a hostage at a salon. "Look at this."
"Yes, I noticed earlier, but I wasn't going to say anything. It's not your shade, Healer Smethwyck." Remus walked into a Muggle shop and came back with a bag of cheap mini chocolate-covered pastries. "You still eat these?"
"Thanks." Hippocrates took the bag and opened it. He took three. In truth, Abbey preferred these because she had a sweet tooth. He didn't deprive his kids of sweets or anything like that. He just didn't touch the stuff. Remus watched him, a bemused expression on his face, and Hippocrates ate one and deposited the others into the bag. "It's like eating sugar, like literally eating sugar. That's vile."
Remus apologized, picking up on his mistake too late. "Oh, you're the health nut. You know, if people wanted to mess you up, they'd have an interesting way going about it. You want me to take those?"
Hippocrates shook his head, for he'd give them to the girls. He clutched the bag and gestured at the one in Remus's hand. Hippocrates had meant to give it to him on Christmas Eve. Remus found two Christmas tins of chocolate fudge and chocolate chip biscuits, his usual gift, and a small box filled with sealed containers of Wolfsbane Potion. He didn't ask what it what it was. He ripped open a red envelope and read through a Christmas card. He started crying after reading the first couple lines.
Hippocrates turned away from him as they went back towards St. Mungo's and concentrated on the old mannequin.
The card was written in Abbey's hand.
Hippocrates let him collect himself and cleared his throat, getting down to business because he desperately needed to think of something else. "I lost my funding for the Lexington Noir Project."
Remus, wiping his eyes, nodded. It took him a moment to process this. "All of it?"
"Every damn thing," said Hippocrates. He'd actually been expecting this what with Delores Umbridge's new sanctions against werewolves. He scratched his chin. "I'll appeal, of course, for it's my case study. Probably won't go anywhere."
Remus jerked his head towards Michael, driving the point home.
"Yeah, I know. Damn it." Hippocrates slammed his fist into his open hand. Delores Umbridge's stroke of whatever it was, her drafted anti-werewolf legislation made the Lexington Noir Project almost nonexistent. He found it extremely difficult to find and create loopholes. "I really, really hate that woman."
"Me, too," said Remus, cutting himself short. Hippocrates stopped, taken aback, because he'd expected a rant on this woman. He, Hippocrates, had never heard Remus go off, but Abbey had said it was truly something. Remus, thinking it over as he walked over and handed Michael his handkerchief, gave him the edited version. "If she'd been attacked, or it was someone she knew, I'd understand. Of course, if she 'd been attacked, I would hope she'd die."
"Remus Lupin!" The reaction surprised him, though Hippocrates couldn't help being on same page. He nodded at Michael, who chowed down on the soup. "It's good stuff, isn't it? And you were hungry. Want some more? I bought some for lunch. Got a whole soup pot at home if you want some tomorrow."
"Thanks," said Michael.
He took the other one when Hippocrates conjured it. Michael and Remus had only known each other for a few days and met each other a couple times, and they got on quite well. They exchanged small talk, nothing really, as Hippocrates stood back and let the magic happen. Remus got him to talk, whether he knew it or not, as Hippocrates filled in stuff in his head. Michael had two brothers. He'd gotten in a fight in a pub and a werewolf had laid in wait to get its target. Michael swore this werewolf was a hired hitman because he'd never seen him in his life.
"He left you in a dumpster to die," said Hippocrates, certain he had heard this spiel before.
He was all lectured out for the day and wanted Michael to here this. Abbey appealed to the truth, so he didn't want to hide anything from Micael, either. It was easier to rip off the bandage. Abbey sugar coated nothing. When Cecilia had complained about the prospect of another baby sister, Abbey told her to suck it up and act like a proper big sister. At five, Cecilia might not have known it, but her mother gave her her first life lesson.
"If you give up," said Remus, taking over for Hippocrates,"and you want to crawl in a ditch and die, that's your business. I know we're strangers, Micheal, but if you give up ... if you give now, I swear to God, I will never forgive you."
Michael made a face, probably thinking about telling him off. He sat there and shifted in the wheelchair after he finished his seconds. Hippocrates waved his wand and the containers disappeared; they got stored in his locker. Hippocrates was shocked Remus went this far. Werewolves, the ones who couldn't handle the change, did bleed to death. Hippocrates had seen a lot in his time at the hospital. Sending a werewolf home or out on the street after the first transformation was downright scary.
Hippocrates couldn't back down. He lived in fear, as he played that scene with Greyback in his mind all the time. Had it really only been four days? If he walked away right now, he would be abandoning everything he stood for. The last twenty years had to mean something. His wife's death, his child's death had to mean something.
Michael's voice shook uncontrollably. "Wh-why do you care? I'm only one person, and this isn't going to get any better. I don't matter. Once you discharge me, that's it. What if I don't want to figure it out?"
"Michael," said Remus, no doubt feeling like he'd taken one step forward and three steps back. He spoke evenly. "You didn't know Abigail like I did. She and this man, Hippocrates Smethwyck, have risked everything for me and for others. I would be nothing without them."
"Abbey died for you," said Hippocrates quietly, regaining his confidence. Michael stared at him, confused. Hippocrates wished to keep this short and sweet because he couldn't talk about his wife for long without losing it. He placed his hands on the handles of the wheelchair and spun him back towards the hospital. Abbey was not going to let Fenrir Greyback enter the Dai Llwellyn ward. "Michael, you were John Doe. You've got a choice to make here, mate."
The mannequin in the ugly green pinafore beckoned they forward with a finger. Remus went first. Hippocrates placed a hand on Michael's shoulder as they passed through the shimmering glass.