Lemon Grass and Sleep

A SHIFT AT ST. MUNGO'S

It was a brisk Tuesday morning and the clock showed five minutes past the time I was supposed to be gone for St. Mungo's. As I raced around the kitchen, struggling to pull my robe on, I heard a scratching from the window. An unfamiliar owl perched on the windowsill outside, its curious eyes staring into the flat as I walked over to receive it. Perhaps Hermione had used a different one from the owlery, or something.

I pulled it open quickly, giving the owl a hasty thank you before shutting it back, not even bothering to read the address before tossing it on the coffee table and snatching up some floo powder.

"St. Mungo's," I quickly hissed at the fireplace, tossing down the powder and feeling the dust of the floo network clog up my nose as I appeared in the break room fireplace.

The stark whiteness of the hospital greeted me, and I rushed to punch in my card before walking down to my station, the third floor.

"Late again, Soot?" Frankie teased me as I passed by the fourth floor, a woman holding onto her arm tightly.

"It's a Tuesday," I pointed out, rushing to the end of the hall for the opposite stairwell.

"Thomas Soot," Daffodil, my trainer scolded as I finally approached the hall for poisonings, "This tardiness cannot be excused."

"It's a Tuesday, sir," I hung my head.

"Oh, well, that's to be expected," he nodded his head in understanding, "You and your hexes."

It was a well known fact at this point that I was a mess on Tuesdays, and I expected no difficult tasks would be assigned to me today for fear of them backfiring miserably.

"Go and vanish the waste from all the chamber pots and receptacles," Daffodil instructed, waving me onto the rest of the hall as he entered into a patient's room.

Brantley Daffodil had worked here for decades, I'm sure he must be well over a hundred at this point, and was one hell of a healer. He'd been assigned to the Magical Bugs ward for longer than I'd probably been alive, with one glance he could diagnose an illness and conjure up a fix for it before the patient could blink.

He is simply spectacular.

"Good morning, Thomas," Cindy called from down the hall, "Vanishing waste, again?"

"Yes, you?"

"Refilling," she smiled, "Let me know if you need some help."

"Likewise," I responded, before getting down to work.

It wasn't a pleasant thing to do, going around and vanishing people's vomit and chamber pots, but it was rather necessary--especially in a hospital. And I was lucky enough that only some rooms had them at all, and most of them were empty today.

"The Dark Lord makes work for idle hands," Daffodil warned as he passed me standing in the hall, "Have you finished?"

"Yes, sir," I warily responded.

"Go help Cinderella with folding," he gestured down the hall to our floor's laundry room. "And then go to the black room to see the results on Mr. Fiddlesticks tests, report back to me."

"Of course," I quickly walked away, always feeling awkward when such a grouchy old guy loomed over me.

Cindy was waiting there in her powder blue robe, wand moving back and forth fluidly as towels folded themselves and bed sheets danced into tubs of water. I almost didn't want to bother her, she looked more than at peace and happy with her task at hand.

"Hello, Cindy, Daffodil sent me."

"Oh, marvelous, come and fold these." She moved back from the towels, showing that there was a much larger pile than I had seen.

As we got down to a rhythm, with Cindy scrubbing everything dutifully before sending them into the drying rollers, I would fold and insert them into the proper storage cubby for each resident. Plush, white fabrics and smooth sheets flew through the air and spun along the route we'd created.

"Have you read the Daily Prophet recently?" Cindy made idle conversation, tapping her foot to a tune I didn't know.

"No, I don't read it."

"Oh, well, Dumbledore's army has apparently gone into hiding. Shocking, I'll say, that some people can still support him. Too many scandals have been dug up for me to think he's a good man."

"Mm," I pursed my lips out of her sight, not wanting to be rude. "Did you not go to Hogwarts?"

"No, I went to Beauxbatons as an exchange student," she mumbled, "Not sure how I feel about Hogwarts. Did you?"

"Yes, I did," I replied, trying my best not to sound too sour.

"Oh, did you ever meet Harry Potter? Seems like a crazy guy to go to the same school with."

"He's alright." Where was she going with this? Cindy'd never brought any of this up before--then again, we'd hardly had to be in the same room as each other before. She was also only just an apprentice healer, doing menial tasks just like me.

"I've heard he's secretly Dumbledore's grandson, and that's why he's got special treatment as this 'chosen one'. Have you heard about that?"

"Err," I muttered, "No, who said that?"

"The Daily Prophet," she happily replied.

"Oh." I couldn't help but be annoyed, even though I was trying my best to be cordial. Deep down, I could understand that Cindy hadn't had another source aside from the Daily Prophet--it made sense that she believed all this drivel. But knowing what I did, it just seemed so stupid.

"But all that's been in the papers recently have been these Death Eater attacks," she sent more linens my way, "Awfully dreadful, I'll tell you. Apparently some people have also started to go missing."

"What's that all about?" I questioned, much more interested in this sort of topic. "Have they been close to London?"

"Oh, dreadfully close," she waved her arm, "Makes me wonder if I should look for work somewhere else."

I bit my lip silently, Death Eater attacks? I hadn't heard anything about that, then again, we tossed out every single Daily Prophet that was left on our door step. Hermione hadn't mentioned anything about them, either, which made me wonder if they were aware.

"Have any prominent families been attacked? Seems like the type of thing I'd have heard about."

"Mm, I don't think so." That was a bit relieving, the Weasleys were an old wizarding family--so it seemed in the meantime they were safe.

The rest of the shift was equally tiring, just manual labor or tasks that the more advanced healers couldn't be bothered with. Noting symptoms, admitting patients, cleaning up messes--all the typical stuff. But Cindy's mention of the Death Eater attacks bothered me, and I couldn't help but feel nervous that their movements were getting more and more brazen.

Voldemort was getting ballsy, sending Death Eaters around to get publicity and turn the fear of him into a household occurrence. I was entering the shop before I realized, still knee deep in worries and anxieties about the attacks--perhaps I would take a gander at the next Daily Prophet before we burned it.

"Thomas, did you not see this letter?" Glinda called out as I entered the flat, holding up the envelope from this morning. "It's for you."

"Oh, I thought it was from Hermione," and for the first time, I looked at the front of it.

The top left corner read something I hadn't expected in the slightest. The return address reading two names: Halla and Jeremy Gallagher, 6572 Mary Lane.