---

---

The hospital was known as a cacophony of noise and bustle, but Ambrose’s hard rubber soles echoed in a way that made even him feel self-conscious. He tried his best to step softly as he navigated the empty walkways, his light robes swaying in gentle motion as he ghosted his way through the third floor. The Healer-in-Training had forgone any illumination spells, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible once the day workers had taken their leave.

His body protested the unusual work hours, but Ambrose allowed his eyes to wander in an attempt to ignore his fatigue; he had taken an extra shift as a courtesy to a coworker, unthinking of the actual effort it would require. It was as if the sunset had drained the life from Saint Mungo's itself, suffocating what little color it had under a blanket of shadow. Occasionally, he met eyes with a sleepless patient through the darkness, but it was far beyond the time for friendly chatter and offering of comforts. He could only show a weary smile to any waking patient as he crept the floor, momentarily relieved of anything to do.

Certain beds caught his eye and latched onto a deeper part of Ambrose’s mind. When he had taken up a hospice job, the thought of helping those in need had briefly caught his interest. The slow pace of his first job quickly let him down, but now, here he was, working overtime with what seemed like endless waves of patients— was he happy now? Some beds had been vacated in the best of ways. Ambrose saw many pull through in the recent tragedy, especially recently, reunited with their concerned family. Many others, however, were not so fortunate. Those were the beds that Ambrose lingered on.

He had arrived to the aftermath of the explosion. Even now, he remembered the victims, some crushed, others gashed, all with coughs and oozing burns. Ailments he had healed before, but together, in such quantity… He still dreamt of burns, sometimes, and gaping wounds. He always awoke feeling cold and unsettled. More recently, however, he dreamt of the dead. People suffering, pleading, but unable to be saved.

Ambrose crossed his arms, allowing himself to become distracted by a ray of light near his feet. He had worked here for a month, now. A single month. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. Would this get any better? His willingness was being wrung from him, bit by bit, with each passing day.

Would he change? The question occurred to Ambrose with a tinge of fear. He looked out over the floor, thinking of the healers that he passed. Had Healer-in-charge Elliot always been so scary? Had Healer Deville always been so cruel? Had Healer Hollingbury always been so cold?

Were they once like him, all fresh-faced smiles?

Ambrose tightened his stance as he considered that. Had this job warped them? Would this job warp him? Nothing had changed with the patients, but he suddenly didn’t want to look at them anymore. Ambrose turned around, looking up at the source of the earlier light. The dark was not something Ambrose feared, but the crack of light, leaking from one of the office doors, was enticing. It was selfish to hope that someone else was here so late, but at the thought of company, he stepped towards the door.

Hollingbury himself, according to the plaque; speak of the devil. Why was he not at home? Ambrose pursed his lips as he wondered if "A. Hollingbury, Healer" had anyone to go home to. He didn’t wear a wedding band, Ambrose had noticed. Then again, many healers didn’t. It was hard to say.

Ambrose lingered outside, unsure if the man had time to spare, if he was here so late. What were the odds that he was both free, and feeling sociable at this hour of the morning? Given what Ambrose had seen of the healer, the chances of either happening at all, let alone concurrently, seemed nil. Still, even if just for a moment, perhaps Ambrose could get his attention? The knowledge of his presence made the trainee feel a bit more at-ease, as other people often did.

As lightly as he could, Ambrose rapped a knuckle against the ajar door before carefully pushing it open. He invited himself to perch in the doorway.

“Healer Hollingbury?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the floor, any louder wasn’t necessary, “are you busy?”

Arcturus started awake from another impromptu nap at the knock, as if someone had jolted him with a bit of lightning from a spell. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose to get rid of the horrible sticky, heavy sensation that made him feel his eyeballs had just been boiled in sand and glue. The back of his neck ached from how he'd been sleeping; he massaged it gingerly as he pulled himself up from his slouch to a more dignified sitting position.

"Come in," he said, still somewhat groggy. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, grimacing at how tired he physically felt. He was quite thankful that they were reaching what seemed to be the end of all the healers' troubles of late - there were still things like following up prescriptions, chasing down those discharged patients and treating them, but otherwise it seemed to be clearing up.

He was so utterly tired and was looking forward to sleeping normally the next day-- night. It felt like he'd been sleeping badly for a month, and not just because of how exhausting the work had been for the past week. Horrible dreams of hope against hope and that hope being stamped or shattered in a dozen, no, a million ways - Elixa was getting a large share of catapult nightmares of late, and he'd profusely apologise for that every time he accidentally woke her up.

What was he doing? What had he been doing? He checked the skull. It had become a useful alternative to a pinboard for him, though the skull's empty sockets were now being regularly covered in pieces of paper stuck to its cranium with adhesive charms. He'd written "Try making cure?" on one piece. Arcturus stared at it, and then shook his head.

Movement caught his eye from his door. His brain was finally catching up. He looked up at the healer-in-training he'd never seen before until just this week, a little too tiredly for his liking but still at least attentive. One hand went down his drawers to find the small bottle of Awakening Potion he kept around for times like this. "Yes?" He tried to recall the young man's name, failed repeatedly and then gave up. "What can I do for you?"

‘What can I do for you?’ It was such a simple, expected question. And yet, somehow—maybe it was that particular combination of words—Ambrose hadn’t been expecting it. If Hollingbury had asked anything else, then Ambrose could have answered, but that specific pleantry had tripped him up somehow. ‘What can I do for you?’…well. He gave a roll of his shoulders in a tired shrug, slipping his hands into his robe pockets.

“Nothing,” the sheepish look on Ambrose’s face showed he was fully aware of how asinine he sounded. Regardless, he had already let himself in.

“I saw your light on,” the healer seemed somewhat disoriented, Ambrose noted, as he appraised his surroundings, as if suddenly seeing them. “Were you asleep? Sorry, am I interrupting?” He dropped his eyes to Healer Hollingbury's desk, politely giving the man a moment to readjust.

Other people’s desks were always fascinating. You could learn a lot about someone by their desk, and Ambrose, too, noticed the skull. Was it real? Was that a note on it? He wished he could examine it, but, alas, Ambrose had not come to visit Hollingbury's desk ornaments. The trainee redirected his eyes to the healer's with a gentle smile. Tired, but genuine.

“I guess... I just wanted to see how you were doing, with everything that’s been happening.” He watched Hollingbury’s movements, unsure what he was doing with his hands.

“Do you need anything? I mean, can I do anything for you?” Ambrose asked, again looking to the healer’s face. He looked much like the others: dark-eyed, seemingly vacant. It was a look that Ambrose was still not used to; it made him want to tuck his coworkers into a bed and do their work for them, if only he could.

The young man's question made Arcturus chuckle a little despite his tiredness. "People don't usually come into my office to ask if they can do anything for me, it's usually the other way round." His hand came up, setting the little bottle of Awakening Potion on his desk. "You weren't interrupting. I shouldn't be sleeping."

The healer got to his feet. "Would you like some tea...? I'm sorry, I haven't caught your name. You're new, aren't you? I don't usually talk to healers outside of my floor unless it's urgent, or references to other floors. I heard about the patient, Schlagenweit, was it?" He paused in getting mugs out of a cupboard. "Wow, I can remember that name but I can't remember yours. My memory is shot."

There was something about the younger man's accent that he realised was not native British, but Arcturus wasn't really concerned with that. The hospital had its fair share of non-British coworkers, and as long as they all shared their responsibilities in the workplace and did what they were supposed to do he had no qualms about them. Either way, he felt some sympathy for him - overall the recent incidents would have no doubt given him a rough start to his healing career.

Ambrose almost protested—actually, it’s almost two am, maybe you should be sleeping—but Hollingbury’s sudden rise from his seat caught him by surprise. A smile spread across his face at the offer. Tea? How delightfully British.

“Sure—it’s Ambrose,” he stepped forward and extended a hand to shake, suddenly remembering that most people here used last names, “Ambrose Darrion. I transferred here about a month ago, and I’m only temporary on this floor, as of about a week ago.” At the mention of his patient, Ambrose’s attitude dampened slightly. The healer was much chattier than he’d been expecting, however, much to Ambrose's enjoyment, regardless of topic. He gave an appropriate hum of confirmation.

“Jacoba,” he nodded, unsure if that story was still making rounds, or if that was simply how Hollingbury knew him. Either way, it wasn’t excellent for his image, especially coming from a superior. The realization of that was sobering. He had hoped to begin on better terms.

“You heard about that, too?” he asked, taking a seat in the guest chair. “Seems like everyone has. I hope you didn’t hear anything too bad…?” He tried to keep his tone light, but he was genuinely curious. Ambrose took Hollingbury’s distraction as an opportunity to look over the desk again. ’Try making cure?’

Healer Hollingbury (Ambrose assumed) had nice handwriting. It made Ambrose think of his mother. What was that phrase she always used to say? Ah: ’Bad handwriting should be regarded as a sign of an imperfect education.’ That, and, ’A man is no more civilized than his handwriting.’ The phrases had stuck with him simply due to repetition, though he couldn’t say he was a believer of either. Most of the best minds he’d ever met had the writing of a hexed quill. Hollingbury’s writing was neat, but not the elegant penmanship of someone who had been made to actively practice it. Even from where he sat, Ambrose could see the uneven spacing of—a gentle noise from the Healer’s activities drew Ambrose’s attention, and he looked over as he straightened his posture.

The fatigue had snuck up on him, and he’d fallen into the lull of a distraction—what had he been saying? Now wasn’t the time to critique Hollingbury’s handwriting (in fact, there probably would never be a good time for that). He’d been saying…. Right. Anyway, Jacoba’s death had been unfortunate for everyone involved.

“I’m still not sure what the popular opinion is, about what happened,” he said, appropriately back on topic. He had fond memories of his mother's ridiculous antics, but that faded into a somber quietness as Ambrose forced himself back into the present.

"Of course I heard. It's been the hospital gossip for the past few days. Healers gossip better than sparrows sitting on a washing line." Arcturus let the kettle boil. Technically he wasn't supposed to use the stove in his office for tea - it was for potion-brewing on the dot - but it couldn't necessarily be expected of him to follow that when no one was checking up on him. There were worse reasons to brew potions. Contaminated remedies was one.

"Gossip doesn't have to be a popular opinion, but it seems that there's some shared discussion about Deville's behaviour. And yours." He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, as he looked towards Darrion. "I don't partake in gossip myself, though at moderate levels it's a healthy means of communication and making sure we're not all hermits stuck in our offices. Like me." The good-natured self-deprecation was accompanied by a wave of his hand. "I just listen. So, a temp, huh? Just doing a few shifts on the floor to get an idea of where you'd like to work? Or have you already decided?"

The kettle whistled just then. Arcturus, still slightly not awake, jumped a bit before shutting off the stove. "How has it been for you, working in the hospital?" he asked calmly, measuring the hot water into the two mugs. "Are things across the pond different? I've always wondered."

Gossip. ’Gossip doesn't have to be a popular opinion, but it seems that there's some shared discussion about Deville's behaviour. And yours.’ Ambrose winced visibly, despite Hollingbury’s gaze. Hearsay was a silent killer, he was always told. ’And yours’ …Shoot. He gave a strained huff of a laugh.

“Unfortunately, popular opinion is often stronger than the truth. Especially coming from the head of this floor. If she says anything bad about some new trainee, who’s going to believe anything I say? All I can do is trust her to be kind,” he said. Despite trying to keep his tone light, the truth of the matter was hard to overshadow. It didn’t keep Ambrose from trying.

He watched the man pour the hot water, trying to piece together a complete answer through all the questions. Ambrose loved questions.

“Well, I was reassigned to this floor because of all the patients,” he began, “It wasn’t really my choice. I’m not… Great… with Potions and stuff.” He smiled, despite himself. “The ‘Potioner’ gene didn’t get me,[1] and Healer Deville didn’t waste any time figuring that out.” He couldn’t even be bitter. She was right, and kudos to her for doing her job. Clearly, it was one Ambrose couldn’t do. He knew it well, but that didn’t mean he would take her berating…

“Oh, I’ll take the tea however you do,” he added, realizing Hollingbury was maybe going to ask, “I’m not well-versed on tea, either,” he added with a small smile. His lack of British-esque knowledge was something he could be berated about. Unfortunately, the small quip at his uncultured self could only last so long, and Ambrose soon reeled himself back on-topic.

“I don’t know, though,” he recollected his thoughts, “wandwork comes a lot easier to me. More introspective, less… details and orders and facts, if that makes sense. You feel what you’re doing, not memorize it. It’s a different sort of thought…” Would that make sense to anyone but him? Let alone a groggy-looking professional potioner?

“So, no, I’m not really here by my own choosing. I think I could handle any floor but this, one, but…” Ambrose gave a light laugh, “this is where I was put, so.”

Finally, he met Hollingbury’s eyes with a definite intent.

“My time here has been about as good as it can be, in that situation.” Though he had a bit of a smile, his eyes mentioned sadder thoughts. “A lot of the people here are great, but I…” he licked his lip, unsure if this conversation was getting too personal, “I’m not really sure I fit in.” He straightened his posture, casual and composed, at least in body.

“Overseas, yeah, things are a bit different. The hospital I worked at was a lot slower-paced, it didn’t matter what you were or weren’t good at, as long as you were good—really good—at something. Me, I was good at spells.” Ambrose didn’t even notice he had begun to stare at the ’Try making cure?’

“I can heal stuff. Bones, lacerations, bruising, bleeding… My mentor there was teaching me a method he used for curing concussions when I was transferred." he stroked his finger along the arm of his chair, still looking at the note. "It was cool, it involved healing bleeding around the brain. Real delicate, but totally effective. He taught me a lot of stuff about internal bleeding. That was sort of his ‘thing.’ He realized through some muggle studies that internal bleeding caused a lot of other problems… so his research involved a lot of trying to modify Episkey and Frendo Subvenio and Staima for internal damage, not surface wounds—“ Ambrose stopped abruptly, realizing he was way, way off topic. How long had he been staring at the skull? He checked his watch. How long had he been rambling? He rubbed an eye.

“Sorry, I’m tired,” he sighed. “But, yeah. More muggle stuff. Less generalized knowledge, more ‘niche’ doctors.” Ambrose stared at Healer Holligbury. What in Merlin’s name was he supposed to be talking about? Ambrose was sure he hadn't been asked about anything he’d just said. What had he been asked about? Ambrose rubbed his hands on his face again, making a noise some cross between a laugh and a groan.

“I… Forgot your original question. Uh, hospitals... Yeah. Things here are... fine. Just. Not what I was taught to do, and so, so busy...”

1.	The Darrions are notorious potioners, with some even being suppliers for St. Mungo's. This is probably common knowledge and/or easy assumption.

Darrion's talking poured like a river freed from the restraints of a dam. Arcturus knew when it was coming all too well, so after putting the mug down in front of Darrion he stood back, added two drops of Awakening Potion to his own tea and drank, all without any change of expression or even batting an eye at this.

Despite how late it was and being aware that not everyone could stay up at such an ungodly hour, the potion was enough to knock back some energy into his head. Therefore everything he heard from Darrion was clear as crystal. He wasn't sure if the young man meant to ramble, but in any case he wasn't going to stop it. Everyone needed a good ramble once in a while, it had been a stressful week and he wasn't surprised.

He listened the whole time, only moving to take his wand out to tap the mug with it, cooling his tea down to drinkable. Then he folded his arms, mug still held, and watched the young man with a slight tilt of his head, patiently. The way he moved, spoke - there was a lot of behaviour he could relate, mostly to his younger years in the hospital. The conversation with Deville must have taken a toll on him, along with some culture shock as well.

“I… Forgot your original question. Uh, hospitals... Yeah. Things here are... fine. Just. Not what I was taught to do, and so, so busy...”

Seems Darrion's ramble was ending. When he was done, there was a silence so quiet that a pin would've clanged. Arcturus took his time to take a long drink from his tea, his eyes almost closed as he enjoyed the drink. It was a small comfort on a cold night. He finally set the mug down behind him on the counter he was leaning on, got off the counter and picked up the vial of Awakening Potion from his desk. He uncorked it and poised it over Darrion's tea. "Awakening Potion? It'll help you keep going through the night. Two drops."

Once that was over with, he settled back against the counter. "If my opinion is of any worth, then, Deville was fairly stressed out by this event. We all were, and that's not our fault." He shrugged. "The hospital isn't this busy, in fact, you just happened to arrive with some unfortunate timing. I can assure you we're fairly slow on most days. But, anyway..."

He made himself comfortable against the counter. "I think you're doing well enough here. You've kept up despite all the difficulties, and you've done what you were asked to do. I think that in this situation you made your stand by keeping up professional behaviour towards patients and caring for them. Who'd believe anything you'd say? Well, I don't know about anyone else, but I do." Arcturus brushed away a stray strand of hair tickling his cheek and scratched the itch.

"You're new. Once upon a time, so was I. I worked on several floors before figuring out what I wanted to do. Wandwork is where my skills lie, but over time I just grew to like potioneering. If you ignore the accidental intoxication and having to dive behind a bench on occasion, it brings some risk and excitement in an otherwise sedate life. I find myself enjoying that.

"But does that mean you have to?" Arcturus made a gesture that clearly indicated his answer. "If you don't feel comfortable with the Potions floor, you're welcome to switch and find your own footing. That's what I did, and I tried Artefacts Accidents myself too. And if I may dare say, wandwork like yours is more than welcome here. Creature Injuries has a need for that.

"I can't speak for Muggle stuff or the hospital's idea of it, but I feel that as long as it helps and doesn't hinder, Head Healer Elliot wouldn't object. My personal research focuses on blood being an indicator of illnesses as well as letting me know what the patient's consumed. Gawmdrey doesn't think much of it and he's more senior than me, but I prefer to do it anyway. Haven't been stopped yet." Arcturus picked up his mug and downed the rest of the tea.

"If you really feel healing's not your thing though, don't push it. Don't spend your life doing what you think you're meant to do rather than doing what you want to do." The healer gave Darrion an encouraging look, or what he thought was one. Hopefully it was one. "This wasn't exactly what I wanted to do, but it gave me a way to do what I want to do, so I took it. As much as I rant about patients and coworkers at the end of the day, I wouldn't give this job up for all the galleons in the world." He smiled.

"If what you say about popular opinion is true, then I think a lot of people in the hospital are on your side. And trust me when I say that there's no such thing as a potioneering gene. It's a skill that needs to be learned. If you're not passionate about it, no hard feelings, you're probably destined for something else." The healer held up his hands, fingers splayed, in an exaggerated shrug. "Is that worth anything to you?"

The silence bit at Ambrose, and he found himself again examining the skull, unable to look at Hollingbury. The silence was painful, but nothing Ambrose wasn’t used to. A silence following something he said. A that-was-far-too-many-words silence. He understood. Healer Hollingbury probably had not been anticipating anything more than a courtesy visit; nor did he probably want anything more than that.

Ambrose’s eyes snapped over to the healer at the sound of his voice, much closer than he had anticipated. When had he moved? Ambrose hadn’t even heard him—

“Sure, thank you,” the words came to him before he had fully processed the question. Awakening potion? Was that how the Healer managed to stay so late? That didn’t feel right to Ambrose, but he had no objections to the offer. This was an unusual shift for him, it made sense that he was struggling, but Hollingbury… Should Ambrose have been concerned? He hoped the Healer didn’t do this often.

That thought was pushed to the wayside as Hollingbury spoke. Ambrose sipped the tea, cooled more than it should have been. Some part of him wondered why the Healer hadn’t just made coffee.

The trainee was attentive, watching Hollingbury with many smiles, some more forced than others. The praise earned more genuine smiles, of course. With all that had been happening lately, it seemed Ambrose had been more underfoot than helpful. As selfish and childish as it sounded, metaphorical pats to the head did more for him than he cared to admit.

“I don’t blame Deville at all for what she's said,” Ambrose said quietly, moving the mug from his lips, “I know she’s right. I guess I’m just used to people being a bit more… gentle…” he winced. Speaking of sounding childish.

What he wanted to say, was that he was sure it was unprofessional to tell a trainee to leave the critical thinking to those who have the competence. He meant, there was no way she should have been able to blame a patient’s death on him, right in front of the distraught family, and then leave him alone with the aftermath. Deville rarely did anything but hiss, snarl, and snap at him, and that was what he meant.

Ambrose was so sure it wasn't right of her, and that he had plenty of room to be upset, but…

“I mean, I don’t expect anyone to baby me or anything, but she…”

He pulled his teeth over his bottom lip as he considered the situation. His eyes flitted to the other man’s. Healer Hollingbury had told Ambrose that he didn’t gossip, and Ambrose took his word without a doubt… But Ambrose knew what it was like to be gossiped about. He couldn’t do that to her, not even in these empty halls.

“I mean, she’s right. You’re right. I don’t blame her for being stressed,” His lip pulled into a smile for a moment. “It’ll get better. I’m sure she’s nice, when people aren’t getting in her way…”

It wasn’t right of her, Ambrose knew… but how could he look at someone so busy, with so many expectations on her, and tell her she needed to be kinder to some ickle softy trainee, who she never seemed to stop tripping over? Wasn't he just whining? Waaahh, not fair, busy Healer-in-Charge has better things to do than play Mommy with some clueless Trainee! He tapped his fingertips against the mug in thought. Welcome to the real world, he supposed.

“I’m glad the hospital’s not always this busy, then," Ambrose said idly. For her sake, and his.

He took another sip of tea, his attention suddenly renewed and back to Healer Hollingbury. He was smiling once again, having freight-hopped to an entirely new train of thought. There were few things worse than realizing you were wrong, but that wasn't this Healer's problem to deal with.

“Thanks… For all of this, really. I appreciate your thoughts."

Still, his brow furrowed. Hollingbury had mapped out his entire future before him, making his hardest life turns sound like nothing that a little practice couldn’t help decide. While Ambrose was sure the healer was right, that was easy for someone already at their destination to say. That advice was daunting to someone who had already taken some wrong turns. Or, in Ambrose's case, it was nearly irrelevant to someone currently clinging to the map's edge, trying to consult his compass with one hand and flip a coin with the other.

People here were so passionate about what they did. Ambrose had always assumed that healers were born as healers; they always knew, they were sure... Which only made him feel even more like an outsider when he thought about how he hadn't chosen this career, at all. At the mention that this wasn't exactly what Hollingbury had wanted to do, Ambrose perked up somewhat.

"What did you want to do?" Ambrose asked gently, trying not to pry, but earnestly interested. He looked up to Hollingbury, both literally and figuratively, even if the man was completely unaware of the latter.

"And what made you switch to healing? And stick with it?"

There was something about Darrion's behaviour that made Arcturus feel somewhat uncertain if his advice was genuinely taking root. Of course, it was optional and the healer would never think himself infallible to any extent, or his advice a shining beacon of light through the storm, but it wasn't that he was sensing. It was more of self-doubt. And Arcturus, one of self-doubt's most frequent patrons, sometimes could see the signs of it in others.

Well, if Darrion didn't voice his concerns fully, he wasn't going to jump to conclusions. He hadn't spent over a decade as a healer to assume without solid evidence.

"We don't expect to baby you, no," he said. "But we do prefer credit where credit's due. And if I'll be honest, even under stress a healer should remain professional at all times, including not putting out their stress on the nearest non-patient target. Patients look up to us as an authority with knowledge and skills that'll take them years they don't have to help others. If we so much as flap the slightest, the trust of the patients and their families is going to go first. I'm not going to say I didn't screw up with that in my earlier years, but it's something we should all strive to achieve and practise."

"What did you want to do? And what made you switch to healing? And stick with it?"

"I didn't know what I wanted to do," Arcturus replied simply. Well that is true even if you did want to work in the Ministry because it was the vaguest idea of 'where' and 'what', not so much the ambition.

It took him a moment to realise he hadn't answered the latter part of Darrion's questions. "Personal event in my life," he said, as he had rehearsed it hundreds of times in his head. There were some things you didn't touch. "During a major event that ripped up the British wizarding world over a decade ago. I'll be frank with you, I didn't think I could handle this career when I started." Too stressful, too busy, people are ungrateful, your work goes unnoticed, treat someone and discharge them and then rinse and repeat til the days become a blur...endless. "But I found what I needed out of it, eventually."

Arcturus shrugged. "But that's my story. I can't speak for you. I just can only hope that you find out what's best for you." Anxiety finally kicked in here; the healer assumed an apprehensive and somewhat apologetic expression. "Does that help? I'm not going to shout or scold you if you have doubts. It's normal, and I wouldn't be surprised if you do. I'll admit that I've put those years behind me and I don't remember much about my thought processes and feelings then," and good thing too, shutting them out lets me function and remember the past is the past, "so my advice might not...be very reassuring. Please do let me know."

“Yeah, it does help.” He said quickly, noticing the other’s seeming distress. Ambrose made sure he had a reassuring smile, unsure what had caused the other’s discomfort, but hoping to relieve it anyway. Was it him? Even the thought of that had him speaking before he realized it:

“Sorry, I’m tired, I hope I don’t seem disinterested.” Ambrose was always attentive and smiling (or so he’d been told), but he was only just now feeling the effects of the potion. It was hard to say if he’d been as attentive as he normally might be.

“Really, thanks for this.” He took a sip of his tea to force himself into silence, and, resultantly, to regroup. He considered all that had been said and hummed as he chose his words.

“As for doubt…Well, I… This isn’t what I wanted to do, either, but there isn’t really anything I do want to do.” A familiar story, no doubt. The way he gazed at the Healer was a tangible enough 'just like you,' even if it hadn't been said.

He could only assume that the ‘major event’ in Healer Hollingbury’s story was the Wizarding War—“Why healing, though? Of all things?” the sudden topic backtrack came from Ambrose before he had thought it through, surprising even him.

“Sorry. I mean…” Well, what could he say in his defense? He had no excuse, and he wasn’t even sorry. In that case, since he couldn’t gracefully step over the topic, he might as well plow through it:

“But, especially if you weren’t sure you could do it? When did things start getting better? And… how?” He sat up in his seat and was quick to meet Hollingbury’s eye, but he knew that being an enthralled audience didn’t justify his prying.

“Sorry for all this, the personal questions and all,” that he could be sorry about, “it’s just,” Ambrose debated for a moment, paused in a pensive look towards the Healer. Healer Hollingbury seemed to keep his conversation quite superficial, and that was likely a cue for Ambrose to do the same. Yet, he felt compelled to explain himself. A polite smile returned to his face, though his brow still gathered apologetically.

“I guess you could say that I‘m just starting, and I’m not sure if I can handle this career, either,” to quote the man’s own words, “It’s not that it’s too hard, but it’s...” Swirling the contents of his nearly-empty mug suddenly became an important distraction. Draining? Not specific enough. Haunting? Too pretentious. He pursed his lips and tried a different approach:

“Well, with everything that’s been happening, it’s just that,” at the last moment, Ambrose seemed to change his mind about what he was saying, “it gets to me, I guess.” Dreams, feelings, and thoughts; but he opted to stop short before Healer Hollingbury ended up with a dictionary’s worth of unmanly vocabulary. Ambrose gave an unsure smile to the other man.

“Do you know what I mean? Did you have to deal with that?”

Curiosity was something Arcturus was rather fond of - naturally, seeing as it was something Hollingburys practically came with from birth - but not necessarily requiring truthful answers immediately. Besides, Darrion had more things on his mind than a history lesson on his superior, and the healer wasn't interested in going there. Late nights and a lack of sleep worsened his perception to those memories.

"I do, and I did." The healer took a sip from his mug. "All I can say is that sooner or later you'll have to figure out if it's your thing or not. I can't tell you when, or gauge you on that ability, not at the moment. It's something that you'll have to figure out for yourself. It's tough, but if you voice your concerns some of us will try and help you as best as we can."

Arcturus looked into his mug momentarily. "Why healing? I just wanted to help people. Still do. Probably will always want to. That is the vaguest thing I knew then. For me, this job is as rewarding as it is despite the stress and the people, but I don't expect you to feel the same. I didn't, once upon a time." He drank the remaining tea in his mug. Though the Awakening Potion had refreshed him, his neck still ached. The chair in the office wasn't meant to be comfortable, and he would hardly think of lying down on the bed normally reserved for patients in his office.

"It must be hard, living alone here without any familiar face to ask help from," he said gently, setting his mug down. His eyes never left the young man's face. "What made you travel all the way here? I don't know much about the States, I hear they do things quite differently over there, which would make being here a drastic change to get adjusted to in your life. How long have you been living in England?"

Ambrose nodded, having experienced some of the other healer’s sympathies already. Their gentle concern was reassuring, and Ambrose was glad that this impromptu visit had become much of the same. Part of him had expected Hollingbury to turn him away, citing an ’I’m busy,’ or an, ’I was just leaving.’

Why healing? To help people, of course, and Ambrose had to smile a bit at that. How noble. He wished he could say the same, but his parents had pushed in down this path for the prestige. Still, the back of his thoughts ran in circles as he tried to process. So, Hollingbury was unsure of this career, too, until he found something to keep him going? That made sense, but as Ambrose shuffled through his mind, he could think of nothing that might help him. Hollingbury had his own research, perhaps Ambrose could do the same…

’ Your job right now is grunt work. You observe and take notes and do the dirty work.’

He pursed his lips at Deville’s words. Would he really need to tough it out for a year, or more, before he could find his own ‘something’ to keep him going? Was it a bad sign that he felt he needed a 'something' to 'keep him going'? Suddenly, Ambrose lifted his eyes, raising his brows in acknowledgement of the Healer’s words. A small smile joined his face at the mention of his home.

“I moved here for this job, actually. I was working at a smaller hospital back in the States, but I was transferred here after the Explosion. So, I’ve been here—in London, too—for about a month, now.”

He debated, trying to read the atmosphere for how deep of an answer Hollingbury wanted. Finishing his tea, he re-adjusted his legs and swept a fold from his pantleg.

“It is different,” he finally said, “I’m from New York, so this place is like a whole 'nother world.” Literally, like something out of a book; all cobblestone and brick, and wizards in cloaks and funny hats. Ambrose had always thought that the hats were a myth. It was a shame they weren't...

“It is sort of scary, trying to scrape a whole new way of life together, but I don’t think too much about that. I think something like that just takes time, so I’ve been keeping myself busy.”

Bar-hopping and being a tourist were hardly uncommon activities, but that probably wasn’t what Hollingbury wanted to hear about.

“This is my first time really being away from home.”

Ambrose admitted that with a distant smile.

"Maybe moving across an ocean is a pretty big first step, though. I don't know. I guess it does get a little lonely, just at night. I couldn't bring a lot with me, so my apartment is pretty empty." Gently, he placed the mug down. "It doesn't feel like home, yet."

Wasn't that part of the fun, though? Ambrose smiled, genuinely.

"But, I guess that's life. Had to happen some time, right? Unless I wanted to be living with my parents forever." A cautious look to the Healer felt necessary, "No offence if you do, or anything." Somehow, he couldn't picture the man living at home with mommy and daddy. Or, maybe he could... Well, anyway.

"Have you always lived here? Or did you need to do this, too?"

"Born and bred Londoner. But I know little about my own city." Arc raised his mug as if toasting Darrion. "Good, you get out more often than I do. That's a start. Healers-in-training do have a bit more freedom than the healers, though that's because it's much like being an independent student rather than a full-time professional. I don't miss those years, though."

He looked at the young man. "Still hard, though. Especially you coming all the way here, to a country that's rebuilding-- trying to rebuild in the wake of a war. We're all in it. Not sure how deep it goes, don't ask me."

Arcturus remained quiet for a moment. "Well, after what happened I doubt people will stay angry at you for long. I'm sure there are others, like me, who feel you did nothing wrong, or it was an honest mistake. Just move on, I guess. That's the best advice in this situation." He shrugged.

"Anyone giving you trouble over this lately?" he asked, out of curiosity. "Apart from the gossip. It'll die down soon enough, once something juicier comes along - and this is a hospital, something juicier will come along, as much as I wish it wouldn't."