Brand New Day

Two years into the war, the Ministry of Magic made a special war time decree that led to a special edition of the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler. Angelina was in the middle of treating a child for severe burns when the decree was announced on the Wireless. By the time she made it to the third floor staff room of St. Mungo's, the papers had already arrived.

Decree #2039 screamed both headlines, photographs of the Minister looking quite stern and authoritative under them.

"Under the new decree, all public Ministry buildings, schools, and hospitals, will be designated as neutral areas. Any act of terrorism or violence directly related to the war perpetrated on these properties will be seen as an act of sedition against the entire Wizarding World. Anyone caught committing these acts will be tried for treason. The punishment will be death," the Prophet read.

"These are troubling times," the Minister was quoted as saying. "But we must have some sort of foundation, some calm in this sea of chaos. We must take steps to ensure our world's survival. Both sides have agreed to this and so it shall be."

Meetings were called at the hospital. Angelina sat in the back at one such meeting, listening apprehensively.

The new rules for the hospital were as followed: no staff member could act on behalf of any faction during their shifts; all personal feelings were to be put aside in order to maintain a stable working environment. The Aurors were no longer to be alerted when a suspected Death Eater entered the hospital. He or she was to be treated and then released.

When the meeting was over Angelina didn't know whether or not to walk out the door and never come back. She hadn't studied and trained all these years for this. She'd become a healer because she'd known there would be no shortage of those willing to fight, but there would be of those who were qualified to make sure those fighters stayed alive.

The thought of healing a Death Eater made her ill. How could she put up with using her magic, something so intricately a part of her, to help someone who would rather see her dead than touch her? Troubling times, indeed.

---

A week after the decree, the patient population of St. Mungo's doubled. Most of the combatants in the war had not wanted to take the chance in coming to hospital. The Aurors and members of the Militia were afraid of unmasked Death Eaters and the Death Eaters and their sympathizers were aware that they would be arrested upon admittance. Before the decree, the hospital's main patients were children, the elderly, squibs, and those who refused to or could not fight. They would be called the innocent when the war was over. Angelina stayed for them.

The new patients caused a reorganization of the hospital. The ground floor was for emergencies, the first for the Death Eaters, the second for the bystanders, the third for the Aurors and Militia and the fourth for the mentally ill. The fifth floor remained the visitor's area, but the shop was closed. There was nothing to sell and even if there was, no one had enough money to spend on silly trinkets. No patient or visitor was allowed to leave their designated floor without an escort. The reorganization made sure that the brunt of the violence took place in the emergency ward where it could be contained.

---

Two months after the decree, Diagon Alley was attacked. Angelina lost her flat, as did many of her co-workers. The hospital opened up the lower floors where the cellar and old potions laboratory were located and converted them into dormitories. The moment Angelina stepped into the dark musty room designated to her, she knew it would be something like home for quite some time.

It took only a few months for the dormitories to fill, as the number of attacks increased. Most of St. Mungo's staff now lived in the hospital and some had even brought their families. A small community had developed, complete with a school and neighbourly activities. They could only see the sun in paintings and from windows that were not really there.

---

So it was that Angelina saw the war through the thousands of bodies that came into the emergency ward. Some were twisted at odd angles, others burned down to the bone. Her horror quickly gave way to action, until all there was was movement. A patient came in with a severely discoloured arm and instantly she knew to ask for antiseptic and blood replacement potion as she quickly sorted through the library of her mind for the best severing charm.

---

The emergency ward was always loud, but it was louder when Angelina began her shift one day. She'd forgotten what day it was during her trip on the lift. The ward reverberated with the normal groans of pain and curses being hurled. The spells were harmless, as all patients' wands were taken away as soon as they entered the hospital. There were also the usual derogatory remarks, but at one end of the ward the remarks were louder, meaner than usual.

"I don't want her near me. I won't have a disgusting mudblood touching me!"

Angelina knew the voice immediately. Flint. He sat on one of the many beds, clutching a wound on his chest, sneering at the healer beside him. She was new and had only finished her apprenticeship in Ireland a week earlier. The fighting had not reached a fever pitch there yet. This girl still knew how to weep and show emotion, as she was doing now. She hadn't learned anything yet. Angelina remembered her from Hogwarts. She was a Hufflepuff. She would've made a good healer in normal times, but nothing about these times were normal.

"Go take a break. I'll take over," Angelina said to the young girl, who immediately ran off sobbing.

"Look, another mudblood," Flint scowled. "I'm not letting you touch me, Johnson. The whole point of me coming here was so I could get well, not so I'd be contaminated."

She'd always hated Flint. His arrogance annoyed her. It didn't befit someone as ugly as him. At Hogwarts, she'd hated him because he'd hated her, now she hated him because there was nothing else she could feel for him.

"Flint, if you don't shut up—"

"What are you going to do?" he interrupted, laughing. "You can't touch me. You can't touch any of us."

The punch came hard and fast. Flint had barely finished speaking when Angelina's fist connected with his jaw. For months she'd had to contain her anger, her worry, her joy, to be able to do her work. She'd kept them all bottled in a glass jar, able to look at them, but unable to reach them for the time being. The sound of her fist against Flint's face coincided with a small crack in the glass. She would repair it later. Angelina smiled at Flint's look of utter shock and disbelief. The ward became still.

"If you don't shut up I'll do that again," Angelina said.

"You bloody cow!" Flint roared, taking his hand from his wound to touch his face.

Without thinking, Angelina jabbed two fingers into the bleeding opening. Flint howled.

"You listen to me, Flint. You don't get to come in here and make demands. You will be treated by whoever is available. You don't have any authority in here."

"But the decree," someone choked out.

Angelina turned to face the ward, keeping pressure on Flint's wound. "The decree says that I can't harm any of you on behalf of any faction in the war. I'm not doing that. I'm acting on behalf of myself. You're annoying me, making my job difficult. None of you have the right to do that. We run this place, not you. You really think anyone's going to care if one of you ends up dead. This is a war, people die. Nobody's going to come in here and investigate. We're neutral, which means nobody has any authority over us. We can do whatever the hell we want.

Angelina smirked, "Now, I don't ever want to hear the word mudblood or anything like it. You can groan and moan all you want, but if you cross the line none of are going to hesitate to leave you to die. You're not that important."

The ward was still silent when Angelina took her fingers out of Flint's wound. The Death Eaters looked on, horrified, as she took up a towel and casually wiped away the blood from her skin.

"Finally someone's taking charge around here," one of the healers muttered.

Angelina smiled, turning back to Flint. "You're bleeding all over my floor." She noticed. "I guess we're going to have to do something about that."

---

Angelina was not reprimanded. She was given the difficult patients, who quickly learned to control themselves in her presence. She was promoted in a few months to head of the emergency ward. The new position allowed her to make some of the changes she'd always wanted to. Instead of forcing potions down patents' throats she thought it would be easier to use Muggle syringes and IVs. Having a store of Muggle medicines was less expensive and easier to come by. Angelina estimated that in a year it would be unlikely they would be able to get ingredients for the most basic potions.

---

Another faceless day in the emergency ward, or so Angelina thought it would be until she spotted the bright ginger hair contrasting with the cold white of the hospital pillow. Fred had immediately been diagnosed with a common disease found during wartime. It was treated easily, but if no medication was administered it led to fever, deterioration of magic, and finally death.

Angelina assigned Fred's healer to another patient and took over.

"Well, I really must be in Death Eater hell," he said.

"You've heard about my reputation." Angelina went to the medicine trolley to prepare an injection, a mixture of a Muggle sedative and wormwood extract.

"Yeah, I've heard of you. We all have out there. There are three people the Death Eaters fear, Dumbledore, Harry, and you."

"I'm glad." She held up the syringe, testing it.

Fred sat up, glaring at her. "You're not going to stick me with that, are you? What happened to potions?"

"This is an alternative."

"Well, I don't want to be poked."

"Too bad." Angelina pulled away the sheets and stuck the needle into his thigh.

"You bloody cow!" Fred narrowed his eyes at her, cursing under his breath.

Angelina laughed. "I've been called worse."

"Sadistic…" Fred slurred, his eyes drooping.

Angelina watched as the sedative took effect. She'd watched many of her schoolmates die. She'd held their hands as they deliriously called her sister, mother, lover, friend or shouted at her, calling her a whore, slut, bitch, cow, because she couldn't help them. She hadn't known any of them. She'd passed them in the halls, had classes with them, but she hadn't known them, not like she'd known Fred, George, Katie, Lee, Alicia, and Oliver. They'd been a group, true friends. Angelina had been glad when she'd learned that Lee, Oliver, and Alicia had died in battle. She was glad they hadn't come to the hospital, glad that she hadn't seen them die. She wouldn't have been able to do her work afterwards.

Seeing Fred meant that whatever luck she'd had had run out. He wasn't dying now, but who knew about the next visit. If a patient didn't die in St. Mungo's, chances were that he'd be returning soon to do just that.

---

She visited him the next day on the third floor.

"You've not come to poke me again, have you?" he asked. "I'll hex you good if you try."

"With what wand?"

"I didn't say I was going to hex you now."

"Looking forward to a brighter day, I see." She picked up his chart. He was doing well. He'd only been in the first stages of the disease. Two more days and he'd be released.

"So what's going on in the wonderful world outside? We hear all sorts of things. We don't really now what's the truth."

Fred sighed. "We meet, we fight, people die. It all gets kind of boring after a while."

"So it's at a stalemate."

"Has been for months. Something's going to happen, though. Both sides are getting frustrated."

Angelina shrugged. She'd only asked to start a conversation not because she cared. There was nothing for her outside St. Mungo's except bodies that needed to be treated. Their prejudice and violence no longer concerned her.

Angelina sat on the edge of the bed, looking blankly at the white walls in front of her. There was a time when she didn't feel like this, when she'd actually felt something. She shook her head slightly, as if to shake away the thought. There was nothing to be done now.

She became aware of Fred's hand on her arm. He was saying something. "I've heard that most of the staff lives on the lower floors. Is that true?" He was whispering.

"Yes. It's better that way."

"Are you allowed visitors?"

"Yes. Anyone's welcome as long as they follow the rules."

"Can I visit you sometime?"

Angelina smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Yes."

---

Angelina wouldn't have dared to say that she was in love with Fred. She had been years ago when they were optimistic children who could believe in and hope for something like romantic love. There was no place for that kind of love in a war. It made people vulnerable. It left them open to unimaginable pain, the sort that couldn't be cured with a potion, pill, or even time.

When she and Fred met, she walked a fine line. It was not purely sex nor was it lovemaking. It was something that could not be named or defined, something outside of reality.

They talked about everything except the war: Quidditch, the hospital, things they'd read. Angelina missed him slightly when he had to stay away for long periods of time. She wished she didn't miss him at all.

---

The thing, the big thing Fred told her would happen, did. Angelina was called into the emergency ward in the middle of the night, only an hour after she'd finished her previous shift. A large battle had taken place at Diagon Alley. It had ended when the fighters realized the wards that kept the street hidden from Muggle London were failing. Chaos reigned. Some ran, others stayed to revive the wards. When they were stable, both sides wordlessly left the place. The war had suddenly become more complicated.

The emergency ward had more patients than healers. Some patients still had their wands; curses were being thrown back and forth. Blood made the floor slippery.

Angelina looked around the ward. Half of the patients were going to die. It was best not to waste time and magic on them.

Order found its way back to the ward by noon the next day. Satisfied no one else was going to die, Angelina left. She didn't want to go back to her room. Many bodies had been taken to the boiler room for cremation. The lower floors would smell of death and ashes.

"Angelina."

She was halfway down the hall when she heard her name called. Exhaustion fooled her into believing it was Fred. The hair was the same, the stocky build too, but Fred didn't have an old scar running along his left cheek. George, then.

"It's been a while," she said, not caring for small talk but not knowing what else to say.

George nodded. "Look, Fred told me that you two were…He told me about you two and…" His voice was cracking. His eyes were becoming wet.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

George nodded, the tears falling freely. Angelina wanted him to leave. She was disgusted by his display of emotion.

"I'm sorry." He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. "You're the first person I've told. Everyone else is at Hogwarts and—"

"I understand. Thanks for telling me." Angelina's voice was cold, firm. She refused to apologize for it. It was the proper tone to use. She hadn't been in love with Fred. There was no reason for her to mourn for him. He'd been a friend once, but never again.

Angelina didn't cry for Fred. Not that day or the day after that. She went back to work for two weeks, getting back to her old routine of work and sleep. Three weeks after Fred's death, the tears finally came, but they were not for him. She hadn't known she was pregnant until she'd miscarried.

---

George visited her during Christmas. Angelina knew it was Christmas because the children on the lower floors had put up garlands and a Christmas tree. There would be no gifts this year, only promises.

"Am I interrupting anything?" George asked, coming into her room.

"No. I hadn't planned anything for the evening."

The room was small with little furniture. Fred sat on the chair at Angelina's desk while she sat on the bed.

"Why have you come?"

"I wanted to see you," he replied.

"Why?"

George shrugged.

Angelina didn't feel like talking and she could sense that neither did George. If he hadn't come to talk then what did he want? She didn't have anything to give him, not comfort, wisdom or understanding. It was probably best he leave.

She was about to suggest he do so when she caught him looking at her. It reminded her of Fred. At times, he would look at her as if they were somewhere else and in some other time. He would look at her as if he could love her and for a moment she believed she could love him as well.

One glance. It led to an understanding and then an entangling of their limbs on the cold floor.

It was less than love, less than what she'd had with Fred. The frantic push and pull of their movements spelled out a search as both sought after something that was not there.

Angelina hated to look at George. She still thought of Fred when she saw him. It was no different when he kissed and held her. He was a substitute. Did he know that? He couldn't have. No self-respecting person would attach themselves to someone who didn't see them. However, this was no relationship and self-respect was one of those funny things that seemed to disappear at the height of war and tended to reappear in loftier times.

Lying beside George one night, Angelina caught him looking at her again. She knew now why he came to her. She was a substitute as well.

---

After the fourth morning, Angelina knew. She should've seen it coming; change was in the air. Something was going on outside.

The fifth morning she opted to have lie-in. She didn't hear or see the revolution break down the hospital doors. The Aurors and Militia entered, running to the emergency ward and first floor to make arrests. The war was over.

A knock at her door. Angelina opened it to a hallway of smiling children and crying adults. Fireworks were going off. George's face was grim.

"It's over," he said.

"Alright." Angelina went back to her bed. "That's good."

"Then why doesn't it feel good. I mean—"

"George, I'm pregnant." If she hadn't said it she knew she never would.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant," she repeated slowly. "It's yours."

"Oh," he said, leaning against the wall for support.

Outside the room, Angelina could hear laughter and the popping of a cork. Where had they found champagne? She looked over at George. She couldn't tell what he was feeling.

"So what do we do?" he asked. Panic was surfacing in his voice. "I don't…I can't…" He shook his head. "This is too much."

"I never said I expected anything from you. I just wanted you to know."

George furrowed his brows. "What are you going to do?"

Angelina shrugged. "It's a brand new day," she replied flatly. It was an answer in her mind.

end