Thursday, October 1 2009
Noon

You had to knock before going into the Hospital Hut.  Who knows what you might walk in on otherwise? A second year puking his guts out, a seventh year getting her nose put back on - it was just better to knock.  Figaro rapped his knuckles against the large, heavy wooden door. 

Knock Knock

Strange and interesting smells were always wafting in and about the hut - incense? Baking? Potions? Poultices? Poultry?  However, Figaro did know one creature inside the hut and on the mend: John Kingside.  He was a boy in Figaro's year but in Gryffindor House.   Athletic, confident, a do-goodly Gryffindor through-and-through.  Fig liked him well enough, and so he hadn't been sorry to have been tapped to drop in on him with some Charms study work.  Johnny had been laid up for weeks in the hut, the sorry bloke.  Something about re-growing bones. 

Shame for Gryffindor, though - great player like John likely out for the season and a match coming up on the 9th? He might need a Cheering Charm or two.

Perched atop the rickety rooftop of Tulojow's medical hut - Kingside scoffed when others referred to the grandeur, two-tiered, multi-roomed cabin as a hut - was none other than shiny, popular Gryffindor Chaser extraordinaire, John Kingside! Wearing a sullen and off-put scowl, Kingside was hardly in his typical beacon-of-charisma-and-white-hot-friendliness mood. Then again, why should he be? Certainly, his summer had gone well - and the term had started innocuously enough - but nothing had gone quite his way since arriving for his sixth year at Hogwarts.

Literally three days past the start of the school year, Kingside - despite his excellent and semi-revered prowess with a broomstick - had managed to blunder his way into a massive airborne collision with another player. While he was not quick to assign blame to others, he felt, in this particularly situation, thoroughly vindicated in cursing that particular second year's name. His broom, intact, had carried him gracefully to the ground - whereupon he promptly shattered both legs and his right arm.

Taken straightaway to the hospital wing - and, later on, the "hut" for further intensive care - Kingside had been in considerable pain. Easily the most excruciating pain of his short life, and - possibly - more pain than some witches and wizards managed to endure in a lifetime. Since a young age, however, Kingside had been adept at maintaining a surly poker face - and no matter how his bones jutted at irregular angles, pierced the surface of his skin, or seared his nerves with absolute agony, John Kingside maintained his cool. Not that it was worth much in the long run; he had still been laid out for a good portion of the first term - nearing in on Halloween, now, they were! - and the first Quidditch match of the season was due to start in a few short weeks.

As Kingside sat, leaning against the roof of the hut, he assessed his physical condition; his right arm was still neatly tucked into a sling and sorer than one would imagine possible, but usable with care - and likely to heal fairly rapidly. His legs were both in working order, no longer in need of any form of brace or sustainment, though stiff as all hell. He was still dinged up his fair share, but dammit, he wasn't going to play bloody rugby, now was he? Before week's end, if Miss Tulojow hadn't let him leave, he'd simply have to make her! This was, of course, a laughable prospect. He could no sooner force the healing witch's hand than he could reverse time and prevent his accident - but he was going to be the Gryffindor team captain! He was the first string Chaser! Now, he had missed weeks of practice, and might not even play in the season opener - who was to say they'd let him play at all?

Kingside rubbed his lightly stubbled jaw, fuming, staring out at the grounds with a mingled wave of anger, envy, anxiety, and indignation; his attention, so diverted, was spared to no other.

With an oomph and a thump and a creak, the cabin's front door handle jiggled briefly, lay motionless, then finally rotated a full turn and freed the bolt from the latch.  A single, thin grey finger hooked around the door's edge and drew it slowly open, revealing a stack of folded towels balanced precariously on two thin, outstretched hands.  The stack of towels was taller than the little elf's torso, obscuring everything from the elf's knees up. 

The elf leaned her head just far enough to the side to peer at the Hufflepuff from around the towels before straightening up and, subsequently, disappearing from view.  "It's the slug one, miss!" the elf called through the cabin, turning and teetering across the main room with her laundry burden.  "No burps!  He breaths!  He walks!

The elf reached the door between the main room and kitchen, pirouetted clumsily on one foot until she could push her way, small elfish toosh first, through the swinging door.  "The miss be right with you!" the elf called to the Hufflepuff just as the door swung closed again. 

Only a few moments passed before Tulojow stepped through the doorway and, after a quick initial glance over Figaro came to the conclusion Pippy, the house elf's, initial assessment was correct: the lad seemed conscious and free from panic and the binds of hexes. 

"The bearer of academic gifts?" Tulojow asked, a slight grin on her face as she nodded towards the schoolwork tucked under Figaro's arm.  "Or, have you heard the rumors of berry cobbler?"

The slug one!?  "Hey!"  They were still calling him that? C'mon![1]  It had been over a year and he had kind of hoped people would have forgotten about that.  But he grinned as the house elf disappeared; he wasn't all that sore about it anymore.  It was ages ago.

Stepping inside, it was always nice to see Healer Nagde.  She was nice and there was always food.  She wasn't nice like some other Professors could be, trying to be hip and rad and chummy.  She was a badass ex-Auror who just happened to be friendly and bake cobblers.

"Food?" He walked in a little ways and set down the stack of books on an empty chair, and started to head towards where the kitchen was. 

"It's just John's Charms," he explained.  It was pretty routine.  "Something due by Tuesday, I think.  Or Thursday.  Forgot, you said there was cobbler?"

Figaro was 17 and had a reputation for being a bit of a terror, but his parents were strict and raised him right.  He wouldn't touch the food unless it was offered to him, especially with someone he liked like Madam Nagde.

"Where is he, anyway?"

1.	September 1, 2009: Atticus Pennyapple hexed Figaro, and Tulojow fixed him up.  And that was the second time...

"Ignore Pippy," Tulojow offered the young Hufflepuff with an amused grin.  "She's got a remarkable memory but, how shall I put this, has taken to the speedy and slightly impersonal side of healing a bit too well." 

Most that knew Tulojow, especially in any professional capacity, knew that she could rarely be described as clinical in her approach to healing.  There were many who questioned her decision to remain in the cabin, even after the original hospital wing had been repaired.  But, the cold, clinical environments of traditional hospital settings had never appealed to her - and had never seemed the most conducive to healing. 

In such a respect, the little, task-oriented house elf had proven to be a nice offset to Tulojow's personality. 

"Always.  Take a seat," Tulojow confirmed the presence of food and led the way into the kitchen, gesturing towards the well-weathered wooden table.  "Pippy!  Can you go fetch John from the roof!" Tulojow called up the stairs to the second floor.  The older woman busied herself with pulling the cast iron dutch oven from the antique wood-burning oven and set it on the edge of the hearth to cool. 

Overhead, they could hear the pattering of tiny feet and a sudden pop.  A moment later, the house elf appeared on the rooftop next to Kingside, gesturing with a finger in a 'come hither' motion.  "Mr. Kingside is to come downstairs now.  The Miss requests it.  Will you find your own way or should Pippy help you down?"

Kingside was startled - nearly managed to hurl himself off of the roof, in fact - when the diminutive little house elf apparated into existence next to Kingside, a loud crack breaking the stillness of the immediate grounds. "Bloody hell," Kingside shot back, righting himself carefully, so as to avoid tumbling off of the roof - and, of course, damaging Tulojow's property. That would be both rude and counterproductive to the process of improving his health. "A' can manage on me own, thanks," Kingside finally said, frowning at Pippy.

With a gentle slide down to the skirting of the roof, Kingside managed to lower himself by one burly arm over the edge of the roof and slip over the railing with his own momentum, landing with a dull thud on the porch outside. Rotating his neck a bit to work out the stiffness, he casually strolled into the front room of the hut, glancing from Tulojow to Figaro.

"Charms, 'eh?" he remarked with a frown, eyes drifting to his slung up arm. "Thanks, then," he said, halfheartedly. Without Quidditch and regular socialization, this year's average amount of homework seemed mountainous - Kingside was certain that, should he be required to scrawl one more damned essay on one more piece of parchment, his head might actually explode - which would be a rather disgusting mess for Tulojow to clean up.

Fig happily sat at the table and made himself at home while the elf got John.  Figaro heard the cracks of the house elf's Apparitions, and the thumps of John coming down from the roof.  The roof?

Figaro watched the athletic lad come back in.  He didn't look injured, save for the sling, he looked hard and sturdy as usual. 

"No worries," he told him.  "There's food."  Figaro nodded at the steaming stonewear dish cooling by the hearth as if it was thanks enough for the easy task of dropping off John's homework.  Food made it well worth the trip.

"So, you still dead, then?  Hufflepuff House wants to wish you a long and boring recovery, preferably immobile.  At least until after the 20th..."[1]   An able John Kingside was the last thing they'd need making Quidditch all difficult for them.

Figaro stood up and took it upon himself to be a good lad and fetch a few plates from the shelf, and then a couple of forks from the jar nearby. 

1.	Hufflepuff faces Gryffindor for the first time on November 20.  link

"If he can avoid doing anything foolish," Tulojow offered while swapping kettles over hearth fire.  "Like falling off a rooftop or getting stuck in a tree, he should be plenty healed for the next game." 

Of course, how any of them would fair during the game was always a mystery.  Quidditch, alone, kept many a Healer busy.  Tulojow could only get them to the start of the game; after that, it was up to them. 

The freshly mixed elixir swapped out for the pot of chili, Tulojow turned her attention to setting the still-warm cobbler and a fresh pot of tea on the table.  The plates had already found their way to the table. 

"When's the Charms work due?" Tulojow asked.  Best to know such things up front, before the two sixth years got too distracted from the mundane.

Seating himself at the table with no small amount of glumness, Kingside frowned at the question Figaro posed; while it was clearly good natured, it certainly injected a fair bit of anxiety and annoyance into the young Chaser.  "Ye', well --" Kingside wound up to reply, but was cut short by the healer.

He should be plenty healed for the next game.

A broad grin broke out across Kingside's face, though he had the decorum not to leap atop the table and whoop for joy - nonetheless, he'd be able to play Quidditch! Given the state of his arm - and, of course, the overall severity of the injuries concerned - the boy had been a might worried that his amateur Quidditch career was over for this year! What else was there to look forward to? Classes? Pfah.

"So - food, aye?" he inquired, glancing around somewhat hopefully.

"Tuesday or Thursday, can't remember," Fig supplied obediently, if not precisely.

But Figaro winced at the prognosis that John would live to tell the tale and get aboard a broomstick once again.  "Hell, we're doomed!  Professor Nagde, do us a favor? Find something else wrong with him. Shouldn't be too hard.  Check the head region..."

Fig was standing at his chair now, to more easily run a knife through the gooey backed concoction of crumblies, fruit and sugar.  He cut the cobbler into generous portions and slid a steaming piece onto his plate.  He was kidding with John, but more boldly than he might if the sturdy lad was completely knitted.  Not that Figaro was above a tease - Fig had quickly gained notoriety as the most hopeless Quidditch player to ever put forth any effort.  It could sting for a fan as avid as he, but he seemed to take it in stride.  Hufflepuff was good at that.

"If you don't break it again," Tulojow reiterated, gesturing towards the Gryffindor with a paring knife she'd just retrieved from a drawer.  His shift in demeanor had the same swift eagerness of one who couldn't wait to throw themselves headlong into the fight, again, ignoring all risks as they did. 

"Do so, and you might find it takes twice as long to heal next time."  Not for any actual legitimate reason but to artificially lengthen the amount of time the young man was whole. 

The Healer made a note of the due date so as to remind the Gryffindor if he was still under her care as Tuesday (or Thursday) drew near.  A grin flickered across her face as she returned to the table, though, and sat down at the head of it with a large bowl of field pie pods to shuck. 

The woman grinned at the Hufflepuff's quip but refrained from commenting.  Chances were, the Gyffindor would be plenty able to defend himself and his team.