Reparations

i

Expect the unexpected.

That's what the tutor had told them, the very first day of Healer training, along with the not-very-confidence-inspiring assurance that no amount of reading, testing and training could prepare them for the actual experience of working with real-live patients. After only six days as a qualified trainee Healer at St Mungo's, Harry can't help but suspect the tutor was underplaying this somewhat.

Certainly, he never expected to spend a good portion of his day preventing the crafty old witch in bed four from liberating the chocolate cake from the tray of her sleeping neighbour.

"Mrs Derrida," he calls, watching the plump witch freeze, hand outstretched. "What did I tell you about the cake?"

"Er...that it's delicious and I really should have a slice?" she attempts, blinking hopefully at Harry. "That Rosemary isn't going to eat hers and it shouldn't go to waste?"

Harry sighs and fights down a smile. He crosses the room in three long strides and levitates Rosemary's cake onto her bedside stand with a careless flick of his wand, putting it well out of the reach of Mrs Derrida.

"That sounds like me. Do you really think that Nurse Midgen just spent twenty minutes cleaning your blood for you to start on the sugar again?" he prods.

"Hmph," mutters Mrs Derrida, looking suitably cowed.

"Exactly," he says, picking up her chart and examining it. "If you behave yourself, you should be ok to go home in a couple of days."

"And then what shall I do without you, Healer Potter?" the old lady asks, fluttering spidery lashes against lined cheeks.

The novelty of the address hasn't quite worn off yet, and in spite of himself, Harry smiles widely as the warm feeling of accomplishment floods his veins.

"I'm sure you'll cope, Mrs Derrida."

Flirting with octogenarian patients is childishly easy; he only wishes he could extend the skill to someone a little closer to his own age. Not that Harry has any time for that. Healing is more of a lifestyle than an occupation, and that shows no sign of letting up just because the studying portion of his training is over. It was of little surprise when he discovered that most relationships seemed to be formed within the hospital.

'If he didn't work here, we'd never see each other,' admitted the quiet-but-kind Nurse Midgen on Harry's first day, as she pointed out her Healer boyfriend. He vaguely remembers her from Hogwarts, and has to concede that he's stuck to her just a little over the past week. He thinks it's the relief of finding someone who doesn't stare at his scar or walk on eggshells around him as though he might spontaneously combust at any given moment.

Leaning back against the reassuringly solid support of the nurses' station, he takes a moment to stare out at the bustling sea of people; patients, visitors and staff. The lime-green of Healers and soft blue of nurses a refreshing contrast against the stark, clinical backdrop. It's hour ten of a sixteen hour shift, but despite the exhaustion, Harry can't quite quell the surge of warm satisfaction that comes only with the feeling of knowing that he's exactly where he's supposed to be. Finally.

It's over five years since the War ended, though sometimes it seems like much longer. Once the dust had settled, literally and figuratively, time had seemed to ratchet up into a frenzy and rush by quite without Harry's permission. Having spent half of his life narrowly avoiding his own horrible death and simultaneously waiting to bring about someone else's, the fall of Voldemort had left Harry at somewhat of a loss. He was not, as some tried to insinuate, depressed, merely directionless.