1:25am

Ugh. She hated hospitals. The determination not to go and be whiney had ceased during the last couple of hours, as had the reluctance to touch anything. With a pale face, cheeks slightly discoloured by anger or pain or fever, Fiona leaned heavily against the counter of the reception. Her hair fell in messy waves over her shoulders, tips drenched in blood, mud and sand. The same blood that, slowly but steadily, trickled down from a couple of gashes between her left collarbone and her shoulder.

It was her weak spot, it always had been. Every time she got harmed, it would almost exclusively be her left side. She had tried to train herself, gaining a higher focus to prevent it from happening, but it never changed anything.
“Bleeding again,” Dama had tutted under her breath, scanning her boss from head to toe, ”Always bleeding.”
She might have been right. Fiona had a weird tendency to throw herself into danger beyond reason. Sometimes, she’d be fine. Most of the time, she wasn’t. Succeed, though, did she always. That was what it made so difficult to stop. So difficult to not do what she loved no matter the pain. This time, on the other hand, she had to admit her plans had a major flaw. This time, she could have just asked Felix for advice before jumping into a dragon’s den. Literally. “This time, you go to St. Mungo’s,” Dama had said, “this rug is new and I am too old for all this mess. Do you know you have an entire branch of hazel in your hair?” Fiona hadn’t, but who cared. She felt so sick. The dragon had tossed her a little and she could have sworn she had heard a rib or two crack.

Shifting her weight from one muddy, forest green boot to another, she groaned. The movement made her gag with pain, a flush of blood following. “Listen, “Fiona said for the zillionst time, “just owl him, okay? He will come. Healer Marren won’t mind.” No, he would be furious. Furious she had first finished her job, then stopped by the office where she had argued with Dama for almost an hour and now refused to be seen by any other healers but Jason. “Please, we have so many other capable healers on duty, if you just…”
Fiona straightened up, readjusting against the counter as if she were to jump over it. “I have no interest in over-excited healers-in-training who find injuries super-exciting and chat my ear off while practicing their limited medical improvisation skills on me, thank you. You don’t settle for an over excited chihuahua puppy when you’re out for the full-grown wolf, sweety.”
Ah, maybe now she was mean. Or maybe she wasn’t. Her desire to being overly fussed about was beyond negative numbers. A clean, quick stop over, back to the office and then home to shower, that was all she wanted right now. “Isn’t there no one around who is capable of handling an owl or just give me some lame desinfectant and a band aid, so I can do it myself?”
Unreasonable, Fiona. Unreasonable. Again a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over, but this time she had just enough time to grab the closest trash can. Retching drily, she just managed to sink to her knees, hugging the trash can like a drunk party girl.

“Madam, please…” The welcome witch at the desk had her usual look of barely masked frustration as she rose from her seat and looked over the desk at the witch clutching the bin and retching. Her poor hidden frustration turned into unhidden distaste as she pulled a face and looked away. Unfortunately, the witch made eye contact with the Head Healer who was coming down the corridor in her emerald and gold trimmed robes.

“Problem?” Storm asked calmly. She looked tired, worn from a long day. But then one of her creature injuries healers had been unable to attend for their night shift. With no time to source a replacement, Miranda had stayed on, only adding to a long week of too many hours within the confines of St Mungo’s hospital. As such, she was tetchy and not exactly eager to demonstrate a glowing model of bedside manner.

“She is refusing to see anyone other than Healer Marren, Head Healer.”
“Ridiculous.” Was she his newest lover or something equally daft? Miranda made her way over to the bin and the witch hugging it and covered in blood.

“Madam.” Withdrawing her wand from her robe pocket, the witch crouched down and pressed her lips together in disapproval. “We need to get you to a treatment room. Can you stand?”