"Get me some bloodroot, stat!" Healer Susan Bones shouted for the third time. "What's the holdup?" She began to pinch together oozing wounds with one hand while waving her wand with the other.
An orderly, Gregory Goyle, floated a second comatose patient through the doors of the Creature Induced Injuries ward. "Had to sort out if these were bites or not. Not." He looked at the patient. "No, scratches, like the other. There's still one more to come up. They haven't caught the dugbog yet."
"No, where's Weasley?" Susan fused the gash from ankle to thigh that had rendered her patient unconscious.
He grunted. "Dunno."
She looked up. Weasley was the hospital's best nurse, and she needed the bloodroot five minutes ago. Even though she had been able to fuse some of the patient's wounds, she needed the bloodroot to keep her patient from going into shock. She'd never lost a patient. She was determined that today wouldn't be the first time.
Goyle plodded around the bed, stopping next to Susan, and leaned over her shoulder.
"What?" she snapped.
"He's going to seize." Goyle placed a thick hand on the mattress on either side of the patient.
Susan jumped back. Goyle might move slowly, but he had a sixth sense about the injured and when it actually worked, it was never wrong. As if to confirm, the patient's back arched and he began to writhe on the bed, safe from rolling off due to Goyle's human barrier. Left with nothing to do, Susan paced back and forth until the redhead she was waiting for walked in the door.
"Weasley. About time. Bloodroot?"
"Here." Ron Weasley gave up the vial and bent over, one hand on a knee and the other pressed against his side. "We were...out. Had...to...run down the...street."
"We were out?" Her brow wrinkled and she uncorked the vial. Turning her attention back to the dugbog bite, she attempted to pour some of the infusion into her patient's mouth. "Goyle, can you hold his head still?"
With Goyle's hand on his forehead, the patient's wriggling quelled enough for Susan to spill some of the bloodroot across his mouth. As soon as the potion reached his lips, the wounded man relaxed.
"Thanks," Susan said without looking up.
"I'll head back downstairs, then, until we figure out who is who with that broom crash." Ron shook his head. "Tangled up mess, that is."
"Ron, wait." Susan paused while Goyle pawed through her patient's clothes for identification and left. She lowered her voice. "We were out? Are there missing supplies again?"
Ron poked his head out into the corridor, checking in both directions before closing the door. "Just the bloodroot, but I'll go and look again." Worry crossed his face. "I can't think what anyone would want it for. We're running low on a lot of things. Have you heard from Neville?"
"No." Susan turned to look out the window. Neville had gone to Brazil weeks ago to search out a Harmony Palm. They were rumored to be restorative, especially for memories--not to mention that their leaves, brewed as a tea, were a strong sedative. As hospital apothecary, Neville was responsible for researching and locating new magical plants for the treatment of wizards. However, as hospital apothecary, he was also responsible for keeping the dispensary well-stocked. The staff of St. Mungo's had been covering for him as long as they could but sooner or later an administrator was bound to notice that he was on a perpetual vacation.
At the very least, the administration might refuse him any more time off to take a honeymoon next year, Susan mused, twisting the engagement ring on her finger. If he ever comes back. Stop thinking that. He'll come back. He promised.
"Well," Ron said slowly, "I'm sure he's just been...delayed somewhere. Delayed. Maybe wizarding travel is slow, and Neville's not the type to mix with Muggles so much. And you know how he gets when he's after something. Doesn't give up easily, that one." Ron laid a hand on her shoulder awkwardly before heading out of the room.
Susan heaved a weary sigh and trudged back toward the dugbog bites. Both of the patients she attended here in the Dai Llewellyn ward had their eyes closed and their breathing was normal. With the bleeding stopped, Susan stepped back to survey her handiwork. If not for the delayed pain one had after a dugbog wound, it might be pleasant to switch roles and be in a hospital bed for a change, waited on hand and foot by doctors and nurses who could provide the fine care St. Mungo's boasted.
So fine, in fact, that Susan had been on her feet for the last twenty-three hours. Maybe she could rest for just a moment in one of the empty beds. She'd just lay down for a minute to rest her muscles, and her eyelids were the most overused muscles of all....
Downstairs, Ron Weasley was only a few hours into his first shift of the week and already his industrial lime-green scrub robes were splattered with all manner of fluids, some bodily, some not.
"Erm, I think that's your leg...this one's his. No, no, don't Apparate now! You'll only make things worse." Ron poked his wand between tangled limbs. The Beater from the Wimbourne Wasps had his arm clean through the chest of Puddlemere United's Keeper. They'd crashed just when one or both of them had tried to Apparate to get out of the way, as far as Ron could piece together from the bits of story that weren't oaths (his vocabulary was growing with each passing minute), and the splinching that had resulted was spectacular.
This was a job for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Except it wasn't exactly an accident. Ron scratched his head. Didn't somebody owe him a favor? Maybe he could send them up to Spell Damage. After all, the problem had happened while they were on brooms, but that wasn't the cause. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that he probably held the greater balance of I.O.Us. He decided to work this out himself.
"You bloody fool! I want a real Healer!" the Beater yelled, brandishing his bat. Ron hadn't been able to get it away from him--he'd held onto it as if it were a safety blanket.
The Keeper let out a howl of rage as the bat caught him across the back of the head. "You're the bloody fool! Put that thing down before I shove it sideways up your--"
"I am a real Healer!" Ron added at the top of his lungs, which stopped the argument. He nearly cracked a grin. They were finally distracted.
"No, you're not. You're a nurse," the Beater growled. "You've got your name right there on your robes and it says nurse underneath. You can't fool me. I want the finest care. I demand the finest care!"
The Keeper agreed, sort of. "I deserve the finest care, too!" He snatched the bat right out of the Beater's hand and grunted: "Let's get him."
They jumped off the gurney in tandem with the skill and grace that is to be expected of Quidditch players. In other words, they fell from the gurney, but their athletic prowess did keep them from being hurt more than a little. Also, in the flight to the floor, they became so preoccupied with protecting their own that they managed to separate themselves without more need for magic.
They might have been rivals on the Quidditch field, but they were on the same side as they chased Ron Weasley up and down the halls of the Artifact Accidents department.
Muriel Hopkirk, St. Mungo's Welcome Witch, often had something to say. When she did, everybody heard it. That is to say: they heard it, processed the information, and put it to good use, if they had half a brain. This hospital was hers. Her family had helped found the hospital four hundred years ago, and a Hopkirk had been on staff ever since.
Everyone knew that St. Mungo's couldn't function without her--or so she told herself each and every day. She did so because everyone else, being preoccupied, forgot. Muriel found it most effective when the ritual was performed first thing upon arrival for a shift. She would drape her robes artfully over the rolling chair behind the Inquiries Desk and take out a hand mirror. "You," she usually said to herself, "are the reason for living, and you keep the patients alive." Then, she would go over her thickly-applied lipstick once again, making sure that the red lines were on the exact edges of her lips. It was absolutely unthinkable that she might have to address a visitor or patient when looking less than her best. And, after all, her smile was her best feature; it was something to bestow on the select.
She painstakingly sharpened her lipliner, careful not to let the shavings fall anywhere but directly into the bin. Studiously ignoring the queue before her desk, she raised the pencil to her lips, her breath fogging the mirror ever so slightly, and touched the tip to the corner of her mouth.
As she did, a figure careened around the corner and slammed into her desk with such force that a red mark appeared on her face connecting her mouth with her ear. "Roland Weasley," she screeched, wiping off the offending makeup and wagging a finger at him.
"Er, it's Ronald--"
"What in the name of Derwent are you doing, running in a hospital?" She was seething, and a slight hissing came from her with each intake of breath as though she were a kettle on the boil. "There are sick people here."
"Yes, I--"
"And they deserve to be treated with--" The rest of her tirade was covered by the shouting of two muddy Quidditch players who burst into the room, scattering the crowd like You-Know-Who had entered the building.
The one in the Wimbourne Wasps uniform hoisted the smaller man (in navy blue Puddlemere United robes) onto his shoulder. "D'ya see 'im, Jim?"
"There!" Jim shouted as the crowd parted. "Right there behind that fellow with the banana for a nose." There was a scuffle as the two men plowed through the patients, punctuated by cries of 'No, he went that way,' 'It's a plantain, you fool,' and simply 'Ouch!'
The crowd thinned as a part of the mass followed the chase. Muriel decided that a sense of order was necessary. "All right, queue up." She clapped her hands. Handclapping, snapping her fingers, and clearing her throat always worked when she wanted to attract attention. "You first," she said, pointing one pudgy finger at an old man who was threatening the first person in line (an equally old woman wearing a pinstriped suit under a slip) with his cane. "What's your--er, how may I direct you?"
"It's me wife," he said in the strident tones of one who needs an ear trumpet. "I told 'er if she didn't get that wand of 'ers fixed, it'd backfire--she's kept it all this time, not Gryffindor enough to get a new one--and sure enough, I rolled over it in me sleep and it backfired." The old man's hand shook as he fumbled with his belt. "Lost a buttock, I did. See?"
Muriel leaned back slightly. "Yes, I see. One instead of two. Down the hall and to your left, but you'd best pull your trousers back up if you don't want to trip. Next?"
Ron slammed open the door to the roof of St. Mungo's, gasping for breath. He'd run the whole way up from the ground floor, and he couldn't tell if the Quidditch twins were still after him; the pounding of his pulse was too loud. "Should've... ah... kept... huh... huh... huh... in better shape."
He stumbled over to the edge, bracing his arms on the low wall that ran around. If this continued, he wouldn't need to train for Cannons tryouts next year. For a moment, he indulged in the fantasy. Orange--no, ginger-colored robes, double C's emblazoned under the shooting cannonball. "Arg," he said to himself, chuckling softly. He'd be a pirate and a Quidditch player all in one. If only he could figure out how X marked the spot, he'd be rich, too.
A soft mist began to fall, slicking the surfaces and leaving a silvery sheen over Ron's robes. If he stayed out long enough, he'd not only be missed, he'd be soaked right through. And if he was missed, it would be a sure thing that he'd be working late tonight to make up for it, and tonight was one night that he really, really didn't want to spend at St. Mungo's. With a sigh, he straightened his hair and took a final look over the side of the Purge and Dowse Ltd. building.
Before he could turn around, a loud bang startled him. He didn't have to look to know that Mr. Wimbourne and Puddlemere Jim had figured out the Unlocking Charm to get out onto the roof.
Or, rather, Ron realized that the banging sound was the door swinging far past where anyone might have opened it because he'd forgotten to put the Locking Charm on. He groaned, planting his face firmly in his palm.
"Oi! Peabrain! Don't move," Mr. Wimbourne commanded.
Ron turned around slowly, holding his hands up. "Hey, you don't want to do this." He looked over his shoulder at the drop to the ground and swallowed hard. "And I don't want to do this."
"You dirty, rotten..." Jim began (the rest of the words, which would certainly have made Hermione gasp, only made Ron duck to one side to avoid Mr. Wimbourne's ferocious bear hug). "I'm going to make you pay."
"I know you have insurance," Ron retorted as he stumbled back from Jim's impending uppercut. "All the League players do. It's in your contract. So, if you submit a claim with the proper paperwork, you won't have to worry about who will be paying for the procedures you had today."
Puddlemere Jim and Mr. Wimbourne lowered their fists and gaped at one another. Ron felt his stomach return to its proper place and began to relax a little. Yes, his experience as a Hogwarts prefect had improved his people skills. He could diffuse even the hottest argument with cool logic.
Jim and Wimbourne rounded on him. "So, you must be a spy. What team are you with? How much are they paying you?" Wimbourne grabbed a handful of Ron's robes, pulling them uncomfortably tight around the collar. "Well?" He shook Ron slightly.
"Eep." Ron grasped Wimbourne's arm as his feet were lifted off the ground and he was dangled over the side of the building. "Not-spy," he managed.
"Who's your team?" Jim bellowed.
Ron tried to draw breath. It might be his last one, but he was determined to have it. "Ca..." he wheezed. "Cannons."
"Liar!" Jim's face turned a violent shade of purple. "Nobody's team is the Cannons!"
Ron kicked as hard as he could and managed to connect with something like Jim's knee, only a little higher and to the left. Jim howled and bent over, clutching himself. "What'd you do that for?"
"Cannons," Ron gasped again.
Jim eyed Ron warily. "Reckon he might be telling the truth?"
Wimbourne studied Ron a moment before grunting. A second later, Ron was carried to the center of the flat roof and into the circle that was painted there. With a tenderness in direct contrast to the brute strength he had used to throttle Ron, Wimbourne set him down gently, almost as if her were made of glass.
"Er, sorry, then," Jim said.
Wimbourne nodded. "It wouldn't be right to pick on someone so..." He looked to his partner for help.
"Mental," Jim stated bluntly, shaking his head. "The Cannons, I ask you. Unbelievable."
Half of Ron wanted to melt in shame. Half of Ron wanted to punch the closest Quidditch player. Half of Ron wanted to punch the one a little farther away. But since he was not one and one-half persons, he settled for asking, "What have you got against the Cannons?"
"About a hundred years on top," Jim replied, and then laughed until Wimbourne's frown caused him to giggle behind his hand instead.
"If you're ever ready to support a real team, you know where to go," Wimbourne said. "The Wimbourne Wasps will be waiting. Hey, that has a nice sort of ring to it."
"Not like our team's song does."
Oh, good, Ron thought. Let them kill each other again, oh please oh please oh please. Now that his arch-nemeses of the day were absorbed in each other, he took the opportunity to step back a bit so as to be out of range of their fists.
A loud crack echoed across the rooftop.
Where two men had been, there was now one. One man with three heads and far too many limbs. "I didn't think to warn you about standing on our Apparition point. Healer Smethwyck, good to see you. Meet Jim, and, er, a Puddlemere player."
"Susan," Neville whispered in her ear. She snuggled closer to him. He felt like nothing in her arms, a ghost, a memory. "Susan."
"Wake up, Susan." She opened her eyes. Neville wasn't talking to her. Ron was. "Smethwyck's downstairs. He'll be up soon enough, and you probably don't want to be caught sleeping on the job."
Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Susan sat up and looked at her watch. "Thanks. Not a good idea, even if I was off for the last two hours."
Ron nodded. "I'm off in ten minutes, but I have the feeling that I'd be in trouble if I were caught sleeping. Unless I'd been admitted."
"You're off?" Susan asked. "Do you want to run upstairs and get something to eat?"
"Can't. Got to go."
"Ooh, a date?" Susan straightened her shirt and retied her shoes to cover her disappointment. "Who's the lucky woman?"
Ron blushed. "I'm just meeting Hermione and Harry for a drink. It's nothing."
"Have fun, then," Susan called after him as he hurried out. In no hurry herself--she had no one waiting--she headed home to cook a lonely supper for one.
Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. No money is being made and no trademark or copyright infringement is intended. New version of chapter one 9/16/03.