It's a mid-week morning, and rather unusually, I've got a bit of spare time for once. Which is why I'm currently sitting in a chintz armchair in my office, drinking coffee and idly flicking through The Healing Times, occasionally letting my mind wander elsewhere.

Fate is dealing me a rum, child-laden hand at present. Firstly, there's the primary vaccination programme. On the back of several unexpected owls of praise from various parents recently, I've been assigned not one, but two Dragon Pox vaccination clinics per fortnight. Thanks a fucking bunch, Spennymoor. I should not have done such a good job with those balloons.

Secondly, every single one of St Mungo's wards seems to have been invaded by paediatric in-patients. It feels as though I'm entertaining a creche. All I want to do is get my head down and focus on my speciality subject of pain management and anaesthesia, yet my days consist largely of transfiguring memos into dancing pygmy hippogriffs, doing terribleBabbitty-Rabbitty impressions, and making whooshing broomstick noises to get kids to take their fucking potions. My reputation is in tatters; even the Mediwatch team have started ripping the piss by demanding Beedle the Bard stories during staff-room breaks.

But, casting the juveniles aside for a moment, the other aspects of my life since *that* day, a whole one-and-a-half weeks ago, haven't exactly been plain sailing either.

Because Mum is still annoyed, Lily is still purple (she really should see a Healer about that), James is still disapproving, Dad is still backing Mum up, Josh hasn't bothered to get in touch, and even Hugo and Lucy bailed on me last Sunday.

Let down by my favourite cousin and his crup. Could life get any shittier?

At least Fable remains fully supportive of my decision. I honestly don't know what I'd do without my fiancee right now.

"Healer Potter?"

Chelsea's cheerful voice suddenly invades my thoughts, making me jump. "Your brother's here to see you," she says, popping her head around my office door. "He's hurt his hand, bless him. I know he hasn't booked an appointment, but I told him you'd be happy to examine it."

"Chelsea," I admonish sourly, "I am never free for siblings who turn up on a whim."

"Oh don't be such a misery," she laughs, her hazel eyes twinkling mischievously. "You should make more time for your family, you should; otherwise you'll end up like silly old Spennymoor." And with that, she leaves my door wide open, trots back to the front desk, and merrily tells James I'd be delighted to take a look at his injury.

It's beginning to feel as though my life has been cut into segments and auctioned off to various bidders, as I seem to have precious little control over it any more. Stifling a groan, I focus my gaze back on the journal I was perusing before Chelsea interrupted, and await my brother's intrusion.

I don't have to wait long. Within a few moments, James casually strolls into my office without bothering to knock, and drapes himself over the floral-patterned chair reserved for real patients. I survey him coldly.

"James. What do you want?"

"Such a charming welcome, dear brother, and what a joy it is to see you too. How I hate to disturb you in the middle of your busy…coffee-break, but I wondered if you'd spare a minute to take a look at my hand."

"Your hand?" I ask drily. "What's up with it? Quill allergy? Writer's strain? Too much wanking?"

"For Godric's sake, Healer, I've sustained a serious wound in the workplace and you're making light of it?"

"James, there's not a single drop of blood to be seen and you're smiling. Don't tell me you're wasting my precious time on a superficial parchment cut, for fuck's sake."

The grin slides from his face to be replaced by a sheepish expression. Guiltily, he holds out his index finger, which has the tiniest scratch across it. It's so minor, it's not even red.

I glance at it coolly. "This most definitely falls under the category of 'wasting my time', Jay."

"But Dad got injured by a quill when he was a teenager and his lesions wouldn't heal properly! What if the same fate befalls mine? What if it turns gangrenous and I can never write again?"

"Don't be such an idiot," I retort. "Dad's Defence teacher was intent on causing harm with a malevolent quill. Your writing implements don't hate you, as far as I'm aware. Although maybe they should, if what you're making them write is anywhere near as daft as the shit that's currently spewing out of your mouth."

"Merlin's festering toenail, Albus! How can you say such a thing?" James gasps, clutching his chest dramatically and sucking in his cheeks.

"Oh pack it in, Jay; you're a bloody lousy thespian. What do you really want with me?"

"Ah. Well. I've come to talk, little bro."

I lean across my desk and fix James with a steely glare. "If it's about Sunita or her kid…"

"Nope."

"So why the fuck are you here?"

"I'm here to talk about you."

"Me? What the fuck for?"

"All this swearing and animosity really doesn't suit you, you know. What's going on in your head, Al?"

"None of your business, that's what. Now go away before I call security."

"You met Sunita at Cambridge, didn't you?"

"I thought you weren't going to talk about her!" I snap. "Anyway, isn't this just common knowledge in the family now? Surprised it hasn't made the fucking Prophet yet."

"You kept it very quiet. Why didn't you say something at the time?"

"Because it was my business and nobody else's. Thought she was a muggle. What was the point in telling everyone unless it was serious? Obviously, it never was to her."

"Are you sure about that?"

Anger and frustration flares up within me. "She fucking dumped me after six months, James! She can't have been that invested! I'd never felt that way about anyone before…and she was so cold, so…so clinical when she finished with me, as though I'd meant nothing to her. Anyway, as I've already told you, it's over and I don't want to talk about it. Fuck off and leave me alone."

"Al, you need to talk about this! I'm not surprised it's still affecting you - you're one of the biggest-hearted guys I know."

I give a hollow, sarcastic laugh. "Not any more. My heart is frozen, dead and tiny these days."

"Ridiculous, bro. You're a Hufflepuff and a Healer, for fuck's sake. Caring is what you do best. Which is why I cannot comprehend this extreme reluctance to know your daughter."

"I haven't got time to care. You know I'm aiming to reach Senior Healer level by the end of this year! I have case portfolios to complete, research to do, patients to look after. On top of that, I'm getting married and have a wedding to arrange. I don't NEED a child or an ex-girlfriend complicating my already-complicated-enough life. Thanks, but no thanks."

"But she's your own kid! What's wrong with you?"

"This is none of your fucking business, Jay!"

"No it's not," he concedes after a moment, "but I'd like to help. To understand."

"You can help and understand by getting your arse out of my office," I grumble through gritted teeth. "Look. She finished it, okay? She obviously didn't want me in her life then - why should she want me in it now? And why would I want anything to do with a kid I didn't choose to have?"

"Is that your daughter's fault?"

"No, of course not. I'm not blaming it for anything. And stop referring to it as mine."

"Whether you like it or not, Al, that little girl is yours! And she's not an 'it'," James replies, scandalised. "Come on! You can do better than to talk about her like that."

"Don't just parrot what Lily said," I frown. "Still not sure why she went off on one like she did."

"It hit a bit close to home, that's why. She saw how messed up her friend was over her father issues - remember Becky, that crazy, outspoken Ravenclaw girl she was frequently hanging around with? Well, Lily was always the one to pick up the pieces every time things went tits up."

"For fuck's sake, this has got bog all to do with Lily! It's not like I'm going to run to my little sister to pick up my pieces, is it? Six weeks ago, I didn't even have any fucking pieces to pick up! Then she bloody turned up out of the blue and my perfect life gets tipped upside-down. Just wish I hadn't stopped for that drink after the match," I grunt.

"It's okay to be scared," says James gently. "It's the unknown, and you've never been one for taking huge emotional risks. I get that you're still hurt…"

"For fuck's sake, I'm NOT scared or hurt any more!" I interject defensively. "I just don't want to get involved. As you so kindly pointed out, I'm not into 'huge emotional risks'. Anyway, Fable agrees it's for the best."

"Well, of course she would," snorts James. "And whilst we're on the subject of 'huge emotional risks', what in Godric's name made you leap into an engagement with Fable? You barely know the woman."

"I know her better than you think, and frankly, our engagement is none of your fucking business, James. I don't know whyyou're so disparaging of my fiancee. She's been my rock through this, unlike some."

"You have to let us support you, Al. Mum, Dad, Lily, me - we all want to. Stop shutting us out."

"Well perhaps you can begin by demonstrating your support for my current relationship, and having a little more respect for Fable and my choices?"

James, the annoying twat that he is, ignores my perfectly valid response and pushes on relentlessly. "At least talk to Sunita. You haven't heard her side of the story yet. The two of you should air your grievances, and you should both be parenting that child."

"I don't care about Sunita's 'side of the story' and there's nothing for us to talk about. And I'm far too young to be a father," I add obstinately.

"What utter unicorn bollocks; of course you're not too young. Dad's parents were only twenty when he was born, then Dad became Teddy's godfather at seventeen! If you want an even more recent example, look at Louis. He's only a year older than you and he's got a three-year-old."

"Louis is happily married. They have a proper family. Fable and I will bring up a family when - or if - we both want to."

"Don't be an arsehole, Al," sighs James, and I can tell he's losing patience by the tone of his voice and the fact he's resorted to calling me an arsehole. Good. Maybe he'll finally fuck off now and leave me alone.

Ignoring my brother's latest insult, I begin to leaf through The Healing Times again, stopping when I reach the crossword puzzle page. Breaking out into a particularly irritating tuneless whistle, I pull a quill from my pocket and start to work my way through the easy clues.

"Al, just talk to her. Please."

"For fuck's sake, are you still here?"

"I'm staying until you give me a satisfactory reply, Albus.

Infuriated, I forcefully slam my fists against the desk. "Just go home, James, and stop bothering me. Why can't everyone just leave the past where it belongs?"

James stares at me with a strange, triumphant gleam in his eyes. To my surprise and annoyance, he suddenly whips out his notebook and frantically scribbles something down.

"Needed to make note of that line. It was a good one."

"You and your bloody notepad."

"You never know when inspiration will strike, little bro." He tucks his book back into his pocket and sighs. "I realise I'm probably flogging a dead thestral, but please; just think about it first, before you make any rash decisions and cut yourself out of your daughter's life forever, okay?"

His sincere brown eyes gaze directly into mine and I feel something akin to guilt welling up inside me. My brother has a way of making even the most hardened person feel remorseful for something that isn't remotely their fault, the bastard.

"After all, it takes two to tango," he adds softly, as though he's just used Legilimency to probe my mind.

We regard each other impassively for a moment. Of course he's right. The conceptive part of the blame is definitely mine to carry, but I wasn't involved in any decisions thereafter, and I'm just not interested in bearing the responsibility of a child I didn't decide to have.

What's so wrong about that?

At that moment, a lime-green memo flutters into my office and settles on my desk. I pick it up and read the note, then screw the small piece of parchment into a little ball and lob it in the vague direction of my waste bin, which hungrily scurries across the floor to consume it.

"Al?"

"Okay, Jay, I'll think about it," I mutter, more to appease him than anything else. "Would you mind fucking off now? Only I've got genuine patients to take care of."

"Consider me gone. So lovely to see you, little bro - we really must do this again sometime."

Unsettled by James's visit, I take a couple of minutes to compose myself before exiting my office and making my way to the fourth floor to conduct a pre-discharge examination of Mrs Marshall, as per Healer Tudorache's memo request.

"Hi Hamble, how are you feeling?"

"Oh I'm fine, dear, simply fine!" Mrs Marshall winces a little as she fidgets in bed.

Hamble Marshall, one of our oldest geriatric patients, is recovering on the Trauma ward after falling off her grandson's racing broom and breaking her pelvis in several places. The fractures have now healed but I want her pain to be under control before she is sent home. Yesterday, she was still experiencing some soreness and I see from her notes that the on-call Healer had to administer an analgesic draught at 2am.

"On a score of zero, which is no pain, to ten, which is unbearable pain, where would you assess yourself at the moment? Be honest now."

"I'd say it's about a four," replies Mrs Marshall, after a moment's thought. "Maybe a five."

"I see," I reply, frowning. "I think I'm going to delay your discharge for a couple of days and request another wand-scan. By now, your pain score really should be no greater than two. I feel like we're missing something in the diagnosis here."

"Whatever you think, dear. You're the healing expert," she replies, sinking back into her pillows and staring at the ceiling. "Where's that lovely young assistant of yours?"

"Healer Macauley, you mean? It's her day off today."

"I do like her. She's very kind," says Mrs Marshall, sinking back into her pillows. "Reminds me of my oldest great grand-daughter who I rarely see these days. She lives in Canada, you know. It's terribly cold there, or so I hear."

I smile in response as I scribble down my wand-scan request on a memo and send it off to the imaging department. Just as I'm tucking my quill back into my pocket, the emergency klaxon begins to wail.

"Code Red emergency! Code Red emergency! All available Healers to reception immediately, please."

Fuck.

I dash down the corridor, down four flights of stairs, through a set of double doors and into the main entrance hall, where it's utter pandemonium. St Mungo's hospital director Ferris Plunkett, a rarely-seen and largely ineffectual type of man, is semaphoring feebly with a clipboard in the centre of reception, whilst hospital staff and members of the public are running around him like blue-arsed billywigs.

"QUIET!" Healer Metcalfe bellows, snatching the clipboard off Plunkett in a decisive manner, leaving the director waving empty-handed arms around.

Everyone freezes and silence descends.

"We have an external Code Red emergency. Any non-urgent patients are advised to return home or seek the assistance of their local Healer service. I'm afraid waiting times will be severely compromised for the next twenty-four hours at least. Please tune in to the Wizarding Wireless Network for updates." Metcalfe pauses for a moment. "Healers Wood, Potter and Quacquarelli report to me immediately, please."

I glance at Orla as we make our way over with Ben Quacquarelli to where Everett Metcalfe is standing. His expression is grim.

"This way," he says, and we dutifully follow him along the corridor to a vacant briefing room.

"A stand has collapsed at the Tutshill Stadium during the sell-out semi-final game between the Arrows and the Tornadoes," says Metcalfe sombrely. "Possible dark magic involvement, but cause unknown at this stage. Aurors are already in attendance and are securing the scene. Latest reports from the on-site Mediwatch team are that there's one dead and two critically injured. I'll be leading the expedition and I want you three with me. Portkey leaves shortly. Any objections?"

"None at all," says Ben immediately, and Orla murmurs her assent.

"I'm in," I reply.

"Fine. Let's get out of here."

Metcalfe holds out an empty blue salt-and-vinegar crisp packet and we all place a finger on it. "Ready to leave in five - four - three - two - one."

A forceful tugging at my navel signifies departure as the portkey transports us from the briefing room to the scene. We all stumble into each other on landing, our feet catching on the tufted grass of the Tutshill grounds. People are clustering in bewildered confusion, or scuttling in panic, whilst grey-cloaked Aurors and Tutshill security staff attempt to maintain order. There's none of the usual deafening roar of a Quidditch crowd to greet our ears; the comparative silence is uncanny.

My gaze is drawn to a brownish haze, settling around the gaping hole which seems to have replaced the north end of the stadium. Struts and supports are swaying ominously and it's clear the remaining structure is unstable.

"Healer Everett Metcalfe?" A short, dark-haired woman wearing Mediwitch robes and clutching a bottle of blood-replenisher is standing in front of our boss. "I'm Chloe Woollen, Mediwatch team leader. We've collected two critical patients so far, both of whom have been brought to our makeshift emergency room." She gestures to a screened-off marquee behind her. "One unstable female, name of Marigold Hewitt, twenty-three, unconscious, multiple fractures, no previous medical history of note. One unstable male, late teens to early twenties, name and full extent of injuries unknown."

Everett turns to Orla. "You take Hewitt, I'll take the unknown male. Stabilise her for transportation, portkey her to Mungo's, then hand the patient over and return. Okay?"

Orla nods, and dashes over to the assigned emergency area.

Everett then faces Ben and I.

"Ben, Al, take up positions in the field and assess the walking wounded. Remain on standby for any further critical patients. Signal if you need assistance."

"Got it," says Ben, rolling his wand between his fingers in anticipation as we begin to head towards what remains of the stadium. "What's the estimated number of casualties?"

"About twenty to thirty," replies Mediwitch Woollen, "but there are still people trapped beneath the rubble, and we don't know exactly how many. We've tried to Revelio the collapsed area, but there's too much interference from the pitch and grounds to get an exact figure."

"Chloe?" An extremely tall, lanky Mediwizard approaches us, a bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. "You're needed over at Auror headquarters; they want to do a briefing."

"What, now?" she groans, as the Mediwizard helpfully nods in response. "Okay. I'll go. One of you two Healers can come with me and assist near the Auror base and the other can accompany Malcolm in the field."

Ben and I face each other. "Do you want to go or shall I?"

"Up to you," I reply.

"It hardly matters! Don't take all day over it," says Mediwitch Woollen rather snappishly.

"I'll stay," I say swiftly, just before Ben has a chance to reply and he glances at me ruefully. However, he quickly turns on the charm to smile politely at Mediwitch Woollen, as though there's nothing he would enjoy more than to spend a day in her company.

She doesn't smile back. Instead, she purses her lips and marches off at speed, leaving Ben to trail in her wake.

Poor Ben, but thank fuck I avoided that particular dragon. Unfortunately, the relief I experience is extremely short-lived; it disappears the moment I turn to introduce myself to the tall Mediwizard, who is looking me up and down rather disdainfully.

"I do hope you're not one of those incompetent new graduates," he says curtly. "Last time I attended an emergency and asked for Healer back-up, Mungo's sent me some hopeless young thing, fresh from school and still in nappies. Way out of her league, she was. A total liability. I had to take over and do everything myself."

"Well, I can do joined-up writing and wipe my own arse, if it helps to know that," I reply rather brusquely. Honestly, who the fuck does this arrogant bastard think he is?

To my surprise, the Mediwizard stares at me for a moment then bursts out laughing. "Oh, I like a Healer who bites back! Such bravery…or is it foolishness? Anyway, the name's Malcolm Rudge. And you are?"

"Al Potter," I reply, grasping his offered hand and giving it a shake.

"Potter? As in the Harry Potter, Saviour of the wizarding world?"

"Yes."

"So you must be son of Harry Potter?"

"Yes."

"No way."

"Way."

"Wow. What's it like having Harry Potter for a father?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Would I ask if I wasn't interested in the answer?"

At that moment, an unsteady Arrows fan with a deep forehead laceration catches my eye. Thankful for the distraction, I hurry to tend to him. "Hey mate, let's sit you down and get that wound sorted out."

It takes under a minute to heal the guy's injury and run a concussion check, but I linger before letting him continue on his way, with strict instructions not to Apparate solo for forty-eight hours and to consult his primary Healer if any concerns arise.

"Oho. So you're not just a pretty face with a famous name, I see," remarks Malcolm, who has obviously been watching the whole performance and almost seems impressed. "That was a slick bit of charm-work. Probably won't even leave a scar."

"Thanks," I shrug, before turning my attention to another injured Arrows supporter, one with a left forearm fracture and two cracked front teeth.

Meanwhile, Malcolm has become occupied with advising an elderly woman and her younger companion. As I wait for him to finish their discussion, I glance around to get the lie of the land. Which is not that straightforward when most of it is a disorganised ruin.

"Where next, do you reckon?"

"Should we take a look over there?" I suggest, pointing vaguely to a rubble-strewn area ahead, where a dust-covered man is rummaging around for something. "Seems as though that guy could use a hand."

"Good plan," he replies, as we begin to set off.

On the way, we stop to help a young woman with a bleeding knee and a man with a bruised jaw, then a teenager with a fracture dislocation shows up. I've just finished repairing his broken clavicle when the dust-covered guy approaches us, looking worried.

"Hey, mate. Are you hurt at all?" I ask, readying my wand for a quick scan.

"No, I'm fine, just a bit shaken, but I think there might be someone stuck under here," he says, gesticulating to the pile of debris behind him. "I was trying to find a way in, but I dropped my hot-dog and then I lost my wand and…"

Malcolm suddenly grabs my sleeve.

"Did you hear that?" he asks, poised like a crup that's caught a scent. "Very faint, but it sounded like someone shouting for help."

I listen carefully, but it's difficult to hear anything against the background noise of creaks and thumps.

"I heard it too," says Dusty. "There's someone under there; I'm sure of it."

"Audio," I mutter, holding my wand-tip against my right ear. The groaning of timber around me becomes unbearably loud, but now I can also make out the sound of someone yelling for assistance. The noise is definitely coming from within the debris.

"Quietus." The noise decreases in volume to a normal level. I glance at Malcolm and Dusty. "You're right. There's definitely someone trapped. Let's get them out."

"Do you think we should at least signal for Auror or rescue assistance first?"

"Probably, but this person could die before help arrives. I can't stand here and do nothing, knowing that someone needs us. It's a contradiction of my Hippocratic oath if I do."

"Well, it's not when it puts your own life in danger, and they're shouting, Al! If they're well enough to shout, surely there's enough time to organise a search team?"

"I'm sure you're aware of just how quickly situations can deteriorate."

"I know that, but…"

"Look; I'll signal for assistance. If no-one shows up within a minute, I'm going in," I reply. "I doubt there's anyone else available and we've all got to do our bit to help."

Raising my wand, I send up a red Healer alert which is almost immediately engulfed by the mass of request signals hovering above the pitch, so I send up a second, then a third. After an impatient sixty seconds in which no-one appears, I tuck my wand back into my pocket and begin to survey the wreckage for a way through.

"Are you really going to do this?"

"Well, I don't see anyone else volunteering, do you?" I prod a plank experimentally with my toe before moving it carefully, and ducking under a lopsided strut. "Time could be of the essence."

"If you can't beat them, join them," sighs Malcolm, casting a piece of timber aside and scrambling after me. "Know any good architectural spells?"

"None at all. Protego might come in useful if the thing starts to cave," I reply, picking my way through more mess and uncovering a gap, which I begin to climb through.

"I'll try and remember that," he mutters.

"Look. You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"Unfortunately, I do. Healers with a flair for heroics nearly always end up in trouble and you're a Potter; the tabloids will ruin you if you mess up, or they'll crucify me if I don't save your ass."

I just snort in response. Godric, if this all goes tits up, the Prophet will roast us alive. If we survive. It occurs to me that I'm being a little reckless. Probably something to do with my brother's thoughtless comments on risk aversion earlier today.

We begin to navigate the area, easing our way through gaps and dislodged timbers, carefully negotiating oddly-angled joists and rickety supports.

"Can anyone hear me?" I call out, hoping to narrow down the location of the shout we heard a few minutes ago.

"Yes! Yes! Oh thank Merlin!" The reply, though slightly muffled, is definitely more audible than before. "Just get me out of here!"

"We'll be with you soon," I reply, in what I hope is a reassuring tone. "How many of you are in there?"

"Just me," comes the doleful reply. "I'm trapped and my leg is agony."

"We'll try and be as quick as possible," says Malcolm. "What's your name, mate?"

"Steve. Please hurry."

It's getting darker and dustier the further we venture into the ruin. Frustratingly, we're only making slow progress, but the thought of poor Steve keeps us going. So nearly there. Hopefully it won't take long to assess and free him.

I'm so focused on working through the next layer of debris that Malcolm's shout catches me unawares.

"Shit, Al; watch out! Protego!"

There's an ear-splitting crash behind me and I lurch forwards, instinctively throwing myself away from the source of the noise. A cloud of dull dust rises up to obscure what little light I once had.

Well fuck.