Reparations

ii

"...and don't come back!" Harry laughs, shaking hands with the last of the three recovered Aurors as they prepare to leave the hospital.

"Not in a hurry, I hope!" he replies, stepping into the green flames and away.

It's been a long week. The patients, three thoroughly nice blokes he vaguely remembers from Hogwarts, have been good-natured, stoic and easy-going; but working directly alongside Tremellen every waking moment has left Harry teetering on the edge of his very last nerve. The man's brilliant, he's not denying that. But he's insufferable.

On the positive side, he's been working far too hard to spare Malfoy much head space, which can only be a good thing. Harry has seen him twice more in the canteen. Each time buying coffee, dressed in elegant Muggle attire and heading for the same part of the hospital that Harry had tracked him to following the first sighting.

Hermione's probably right, of course. It really doesn't affect his life in any way if Malfoy has gone and got himself addicted to crack, or Firewhisky, or treacle tart. His interest is just...force of habit, that's all.

"You didn't kill him," remarks Cecile from behind Harry. She sounds impressed.

"The patient? I should have hoped you'd have a little bit more faith in me than that," he rebukes, turning.

"Tremellen," she whispers, tracing a shimmering, gold star in the air with her wand, and sending it shooting towards him. "You idiot."

Harry sticks out his tongue briefly, pulling out his wand and dissolving the star in mid-air. "He doesn't like to be disagreed with," he offers. "I dare say he's not my biggest fan any more, after this week."

Cecile lifts an eyebrow doubtfully before breaking into a slow smile. "I suppose we'll find out right about now."

"What?"

Following the arc of her jerked chin, Harry's eyes fall on a smug-looking Tremellen rounding the corner, rolled up parchment clutched in one large hand.

"Our first rotations," fills in a soft female voice at Harry's side. Another trainee, Lisa something-or-other. Briefly, Harry turns to her, before her furious blush reminds him that she's one of the ones that becomes disturbingly over-awed in his presence.

"Good afternoon, Hatchlings," booms Tremellen.

"My god, that man likes the sound of his own voice," grouses Terry, having appeared from nowhere to stand at Harry's elbow.

Harry snorts. Cecile stands on his foot.

"On this very piece of parchment, are your new departments for the next month. I should not need to impress upon you the importance of these rotations, and the necessity for you to learn and absorb as much as you possibly can from the specially trained Healers and..." he pauses, wrinkling his nose disdainfully, "other...auxiliary members of our team here at St Mungo's."

"Pompous arse," mutters Cecile.

"Problem, Healer Mackenzie?"

"Absolutely not, Healer Tremellen," sings Cecile, hastily pasting on a smile.

"Good. You should all also be aware that these assignments are not random. I have taken great care to match each of you to a department and team that...befits your abilities and strengths. You will start on Monday," he finishes grandly.

With a theatrical swish of his wand, Tremellen sends the roll of parchment flying across the corridor where it immediately flattens itself out and sticks fast to the wall. For a split second, the group is motionless, before exploding suddenly in a cascade of movement and excited chatter, as eight trainee Healers race as one toward the notice.