Reparations

ix

After a restless weekend, Harry is relieved to be back to the usual frantic pace of St Mungo's main wards, though it takes him some time to adjust; to shed his Chem Dep persona. Down here, he doesn't need eyes in the back of his head, and he has to remind himself that these patients just want his medical help and not his personal advice.

He's always preferred to be busy, but when the expected heavy patient-load is dropped on him first thing Monday morning, he finds himself thinking wistfully of sharing Draco's desk and calmly flicking through the Daily Prophet. Watching Draco drink almond-apricot mochaccino and letting him help with the crossword.

It's at that point that Harry seriously considers banging his head against the nurses' station until some kind of sense prevails. That, or perhaps drinking some of the sedative draught he's just collected for Mr Bayleaf in bed twelve. Something is surely indicated, because if he's already missing such ridiculous little things about the man after less than a day, there's little hope for his sanity in the long term.

The man who doesn't want me, he reminds himself forcefully.

"Cecile, have you seen my marbles?" Harry groans, setting down the potion bottle before temptation gets the better of him.

"Literally, or figuratively?" Cecile frowns, emerging from where she's rummaging in a box on the floor.

"Either."

"'Fraid not, Harry. Have you seen Mrs Kneasby's chart?"

Harry shakes his head.

Cecile raises a hand to her brow in a dramatic gesture. "A day for lost things, this is. What's to be done?"

Reluctantly, Harry feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and Cecile grins. "Fuck me, it smiles."

"Bugger off."

"Tremellen's coming," Terry puts in, Apparating in neatly beside Harry. "I really haven't missed this part."

"Who could possibly miss that man?" Harry wonders aloud.

Cecile coughs. "Daisy and Lisa look rather eager to see him." Harry looks, just as the man himself turns up, in time to see the two girls straighten up and smooth down their hair.

"Oh, no... that's just disturbing."

"Hello, Hatchlings," bellows Tremellen, revelling in the sound of his own voice. Something grates inside Harry's head, and he sorely misses Redrow's easy, hushed tones.

"Good morning, Healer Tremellen," comes the straggling response. Eventually.

"So. I spent a good portion of the weekend reviewing your individual evaluations on these rotations, and they are... varied, to say the least."

Tremellen pauses and pulls a sheaf of parchments from his robe pocket. A small ripple passes around the group.

"These were not written for your eyes, so do not expect any allowances to be made. However, I'm of the opinion that reading the honest opinions of another Department Head will help you to learn," Tremellen says, and Harry finds himself holding his breath. He doesn't know if he wants to know, really.

"Healer Boot," he begins, holding out Terry's report. "Not bad, although it seems one of the parents complained about you. The parent is always, always right. Remember that."

Terry takes the parchment, instinctively rubbing his bitten arm. Harry meets his murderous expression with what he hopes is a sympathetic one.

"Healer Frobisher." Tremellen turns to one of the simpering girls; Harry thinks it's Daisy.