At St. Mungo's, it was an ordinary day. Some healers were bustling about, laden with regular duties as others were in the break room, blowing on hot Styrofoam cups of coffee or tea, whichever your preference. Ah, the goodness of coffee with melted Styrofoam. As usual, I was on time for work, my lime-green healer's robes pristine. At some point during my fifth year, I had decided I wanted to be a healer, or maybe do experimental spell work for the Ministry.
It was in the afternoon when the call sounded. "General Serious Damage healers, to the Emergency Room!" Healers have areas of specialty, just like Muggle doctors. You wouldn't think that there would be an emergency room in a wizarding hospital, but I suppose all hospitals are the same. Since I was one of the one being summoned, I performed an about-face and started running at full speed. When they announce emergency room, it has to be serious. I wasn't worrying about anyone in my path, since everyone not called knows to stand to the sides. Common procedure, you can't have dozens of people Apparating into one room. As it turned out, I was only a few corridors away, on my way to see one of my regulars.
This was my first summon, but I wasn't worried, even as I entered the room. I was the first one there, besides the escorting healers.
"Carlotta, start calling," ordered a senior healer as I walked toward the patient. I think his name is Nadslen. As I got closer, I noticed that the patient's body sported burns and the clothes were charred. The normal skin was pale and freckled. The body was tall and angular, the head crowned with a shock of flaming red hair. I walked ever closer, a lump forming in my throat. I desperately hoped it wasn't who I thought it was, that it was just my paranoia talking. The war was over, Harry had killed Voldemort. There were still Death Eaters running about, my mind pointed out. People had started to arrive, but I only vaguely noticed.
My feet carried me closer. My unwilling eyes found the face. That familiar face, blue eyes staring at something that I couldn't see, at somewhere I couldn't reach. Familiar freckles, dotted in that familiar pattern, stark against the deathly pale skin. Familiar lips, soft lips, the lips that I had kissed in empty classrooms. Red hair that was so nice to run my fingers through. An unfamiliar gash, marring the skin of his forehead and the dribbled blood down his face. A strangled croak escaped my throat.
"What was that, Hermione?" questioned Nadslen sharply. It felt as though I had gone on auto pilot, like Robo Hermione pushed its way through me and taken over. My body cleared its throat, like I was a detached spirit, watching from beyond.
"I can properly identify the body and notify the parents later. There is no need to call them now." My voice even sounded mechanical and overly grammatical, even for me.
"As you well know, it is standard to have the parents identify the body. Others are only a backup," he stated primly.
"Procedure can go to hell as far as I am concerned. Let me identify the body." I guess that my robot wouldn't let me have emotion. Not to mention ignored my normal restriction of language. My theory is I have a sufficient vocabulary to express myself so swearing is unnecessary. I don't think that he'd ever heard me say 'hell' before. I would have laughed at the shocked look on his face, but I wasn't in a position to laugh.
Carlotta had stopped calling. I think she recognized how upset I was. It was either female intuition or that she had a heart. I don't like to speak ill of my colleagues, but Nadslen struck me as a bit insensitive. Maybe that's what happens to you when you see so many dead people and families stricken with grief all the time, that the only way to live is to harden your heart. I don't really want to become a heartless creature, but it might be easier if I didn't have one right now.
"All right. Just this once, on conditions that you inform the parents and friends," he allowed, sounding as though it was wreaking damage on his very being. I saw that look Carlotta gave him.
"Subject Ronald Billius Weasley, sixth son of Molly and Arthur Weasley, aged twenty. Identifier Hermione Granger, close friend." I think my voice shook. I can't really tell. The room seemed to grow smaller and the people bigger, squeezing them closer together. I'm pretty sure I'm frozen, because it sure seems like it. My eyes are still focused on that hideous gash. I can feel tears streaming down my face and I remember that the last time I cried was when we broke up because it wasn't working out, even though we both agreed and how I hate crying in public, even if it was only Harry and Ron. Especially if it was Harry and Ron.
I didn't want them to think I was weak, not ever. They were my first real friends, and the first people to accept me. I was afraid that they would abandon me, just like my so-called friends in my elementary school. Even after they showed me time and time again, I was still afraid. Everyone thought I was so perfect. Miss Perfect, Miss Know-It-All, she always aces tests and she's always at the top of the class. I'm not deaf; I heard the rumors and bad mouthing behind my back. I was always bright, I'll admit, maybe a prodigy, but why do you think I studied so much? True, I would be the first to say that I'm a perfectionist, but I don't like to make things purposely hard for myself.
"Snap out of it, Granger, you have a job to do," a very familiar voice punctured my state of... shock, you could say. Only one person called me Granger.
"I do, don't I, Malfoy?" I agreed. I don't feel like a fight. Not now.
A/N: This is my first angsty type fic. Short, I know. I'm not exactly renowned for my long chapters. Reviews are, of course welcome. Please, don't think about sparing my feelings if it's absolutely horrible. If you think somebody's OOC, let me know. So, in summary, be as harsh as you need and detailed as you want.