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In the East over London the stars faded above lines of black silhouetted tower blocks. Steeples and skyscrapers unmoving, set over a backdrop gradually sliding through the spectrum, turning from inky black to an oily green hue, reflecting in the river.

As the minutes ticked by, the horizon warmed, oranges and yellow notes picking out detail tens of miles away. Flocks of starlings swooped, pitching and twisting in morning air, never sleeping in a city of artificial daylight. Pinpricks of light from lamps below their dance flickered beneath a pink sky, the impending summer morning extinguishing lamps. Flat clouds skimmed the fading horizon, running from the rising sun.

Far below, the roads became busier, chains of white headlights queuing at traffic lights at junctions. The familiar rattle and clatter of a train squealing and scraping over points interrupted at regular intervals, snaking over a bridge between warehouses and offices fast asleep.

The smell was ever London. Charcoal, exhaust fumes, urine and damp dirt. The stench faded over time to those living there, but on a morning it was fresh, as clear as every time he returned from an absence to the grimy metropolis.

The breeze carried it all up to the top of the hospital, nipping at his face, tugging at his hair like an impatient child. He filled his lungs with it, and closed his eyes, hands gripping the concrete and lichen to either side of him on the edge. There had been no sleep, and even now with the darkness behind his eyelids, his mind played out the scene again and his stomach churned.

Exhaling cool air which reached the bottom of his lungs and baptised him once again in the city's unrelenting religion, he forced his tired eyes open to study the scene before him, and below him.



In the darkened tearoom, she studied her reflection in the window looking West. The sky was already streaking with colour, though she was looking the wrong way for a sunrise.

The owl had tapped at the bedroom window in Diagon Alley with urgency, scratching at the paintwork and hooting impatiently. Three words, scratched on the back of a prescription slip, with familiar handwriting. I need you.

Two mice for the persistent owl, one hurried floo trip, and she had been on her way, but the sender of the note was nowhere to be found. Instead, she found others who mentioned he had been there, the muddled behaviour, and that he had vanished in amongst all the commotion. When she heard why, her words caught in her mouth, and she wasted their time no further.

The dull thud of a door opening behind her sent Elixa spinning on her heel amongst the mismatched tables to see who it was. The familiar face of Abigail behind the counter was a welcome interruption.

Her query in return as to whether Elixa had been out back led them both to somewhere she had never been in St Mungo's, scrambling up a very dark and narrow staircase, up a short ladder with a bent rung, and out into the morning air above them. The sky was on fire with the rising sun, and London was waking up.

A place to have a smoke and get away from the bustle of the tearoom, Abigail had explained as they climbed. Though a few of the healers who enjoyed a smoke knew of it too, it wasn't well known to the St Mungo's staff. Although Head Healer Elliot enjoyed a smoke, those before her, might have had different opinions.

The door to the stairs had been left ajar, it stuck unless you knew how to pull it to, and Abigail's sharp eyes had noticed on arriving at work very early. What with twins to contend with, Elixa did not doubt that the squib had eyes in the back of her head too. She owed the woman a debt of gratitude.

"I got your note," she spoke, exhaling shakily. Her legs cautiously sunk her to the ground close by, not confident enough to sling her legs over the side beside him, to dangle her feet in midair so far up. She didn't trust the edge, it was safer back here, and if he was contemplating the drop, safer she hauled him back.



The squeak of the trapdoor above the ladder behind him did not cause him to turn his head from the view before him. There was nowhere to go from here, other than down, and however eventful the night past had been, it was not a route he wanted to consider.
 
One set of footsteps across the roof behind him, six paces, short legs. There had been two and muffled voices on the ladder, but he hadn't recognised it. As she sank down behind him, the pungent smell of London was joined by the scent of sage, something he associated with one friend in particular. A Diagon Alley flat bathroom with home brewed shampoo and a squeaky window that overlooked the yard of the seer's parlour below. It brought forward images of a burning fire in a little living room, chatter over cooking dinner in the kitchen, laughter, and an all familiar armchair belonging to an absent friend who was once closer.

Exhaustion, confusion, shock and at a loss of what to do or how to make things better, Johann's eyes pricked with tears, ashamed. As her arms encircled him tightly he missed her words, and sobbed violently, the cacophony in his head back with vengeance, and for all his exhaustion he could not sleep.