Still Delicate

Disaster

"C'mon, get your bag," I tell Aidan, "Work's going to be hectic today, I don't have time to listen to your whinging."

*

I wasn't wrong about work being hectic. As soon as I step through the door, it's complete pandemonium. Patients are being rushed here and there on stretchers, while Healers are running around like headless chickens. The so called walking-wounded are sitting on plastic chairs, waiting to be seen. It seems like there are a lot more than thirty people injured.

"Rose, thank Merlin," Gladys gasps as soon as she sees me, "Have you heard?"

"Yes, I heard on the radio," I tell her, looking around. There's a woman with one leg, screeching in pain on a stretcher. "I didn't think it was as bad as all this –"

"It's worse," she says, "The wands are still going off. There's been another explosion just a few minutes ago. Apparently it hit the Apothecary." This isn't good. I can't even imagine the amount of damage an uncontrolled spell could do in the Apothecary. Heaven knows how many explosive potions they have in there. "The Ministry have sent Aurors and everything to see if the wands were tampered with, but it looks like some fool just didn't take enough care designing the blasted things. There's been a few different buildings hit. Anyway," she shakes herself, "You're needed on the fourth floor."

"Me?" I ask, confused. I can't imagine what use I'll be in a crisis. Excuse me, may I file your severed leg?

"Yes, it's all hands on deck today," says Gladys, "Linda's helping out with the burn victims and Hazel's trying to contact families."

I rush up to the fourth floor, the Spell Damage ward. It's absolute chaos. There aren't nearly enough beds for everyone. There are blankets laid out on the floor and those with the least amount of injuries are on them. Nobody takes any notice of me, so I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing.

"Excuse me, could you help me with something?" some asks, grabbing my shoulder. I spin around, to find myself face-to-face with Healer Kennedy. What I'd give to trade places with that nose-less man in bed three right now.

"Eh, yes, of course," I splutter, still completely embarrassed to be in the presence of the man who heard me talk about his arse in such a lustful way. I follow him down to the bed closest to the window. There is a woman, clutching her stomach and groaning in pain. Her face is covered in blood, and there is a deep gash running down her arm.

"What's your name?" Healer Kennedy asks me. I'd feel taken aback that he doesn't know my name after two years if there wasn't a crisis going on.

"Rose Weasley, Sir," I tell him.

"Call me Damien," he says, "Rose, this is Helen," he nods at the woman, "Now, when I count to three, she's going to take her hands off her stomach and you're going to put yours there instead, alright?"

"M-me?" I ask, "You do realise I'm just a receptionist, don't you?"

"Rose, look at me," he says firmly. I look into his eyes. This really isn't helping. "You can do this. I'll talk you through everything, alright?"

"B-but, can't you just use magic –"

"No, I need a pair of hands for this. There are things magic can't do, and I need you to apply the right amount of pressure. Right, on the count of three Helen you're going to lift up your arms."

I brace myself.

"One..."

Deep breath, Rose. You can do this.

"Two..."

It's just a bit of blood.

"Three!"