The scene at St Mungo’s had not calmed too significantly since the attack on the Leaky Cauldron. There were lasting patients, whose symptoms refused to ebb- never a good omen. Not that three explosions at a wizarding landmark was a good omen to begin with. Things were not looking good, and Jules had spent so much time throwing herself into Healing that she had forgotten herself. Finally when she fainted while caring for one of the bloodier patients, one of the other Healers had forced her to take some time to herself to take care of her injuries. And probably her mental health.

Since the night of the explosion, Jules had been too busy to see Margo, who had been transferred to another floor. Of course her friend was a constant source of concern, occasionally pulling her from her work to stare off and wonder how the young dragon wrangler was faring. When Jules had left, the situation had been bleak. Margo had lost her hand, and even with the promise of a new one, that was never a loss that was easy to accept. Jules couldn’t fathom the concept -- her hands were a daily necessity, a career requirement.

She approached the room cautiously, then straightened her back and pulled a clipboard from the nurses’ station, just to have something to hold. Jules finally made it to Margo’s bed, though admittedly it was difficult to tell that it was Margo beneath the bandages. The burns from the explosion were slow to heal -- Jules knew this firsthand.

“So it seems your outside is going to even further resemble your inside,” Jules said as lightly as she could, “Hard and cold like metal.” Though she was a healer, Jules had always struggled with bedside manner. Were jokes appropriate in this situation? Jules much preferred to solve the puzzle and stay detached. She kept a clipboard between herself and her patients, that way, should anything happen, she didn’t have to worry about the bond she’d formed. But this was Margo, and the connection with her had come first.

Floating on the aftermath of the explosion and a heavy haze of drugs, Margo was at this weird place where she was sleeping in the middle of the day and up all night.  So, as the sun had only come up maybe an hour or two ago, she was sitting in bed feeling heavy and exhausted but no sleep.  There were burns and scars and pain… granted, the potions made all aches dull to some degree.

Instinctively, she knew she was in pain, but it didn’t feel like that.  Instead, she felt like her head was full of cotton and everything was sort of… just floating by.  The wireless had been turned off overnight and Margo just lay in the bed.  Bored. 

She hoped someone would come by soon that she could ask them to turn it on.   The idea of getting out of bed was impossible, and though Margo hated being dependent on people.  Now she was without a leg… without her hand, she couldn’t even crawl to the wireless effectively.  She’d look like a flobberworm.  It’d probably also be ore pain than it was worth. 

When, broken out of her reverie about squirming on the ground by the sound of heels clicking, there weren’t many people Margo knew who wore heels in a hospital.  Jules, however, probably always did. 

Margo snorted at her comment and  slowly shook her head.  “I’ll be one of the few people where what you see is really what you get, eh?” she retorted.  It was almost as though she wasn't bitter at all.  Almost.  “How’s your head?”

Walking over to the radio, Jules flicked it on and lowered the volume. She needed to something to get rid of her nervous energy and knew that her friend was squirming from boredom. At least with the radio, Margo could try to figure out what was going on in the world. Not that anyone could explain it, really. Acts of violence like these, where innocent bystanders were gravely injured,  rarely made very much sense.

Smiling demurely as Margo commented that her outside would match her inside, Jules nodded. “I know how important is to you to be consistent,” Jules remarked. Although they were joking, the topic was not a light one. Despite her best efforts, Jules was unable to save Margo’s hand. It had been crushed to a pulp, the bones so mangled and tendons severed so severely that even magic couldn’t save it.

Margo was tough, though, and seemed to be in relatively good spirits. Still, Jules felt at least partially responsible for the loss of Margo’s limb. Slowly, Jules put the clipboard on a nearby table, and with barrier of defense now down, she took the chair next to Marg’s bed. With regular patients Jules avoided this seat; she was their medical advisor, their Healer -- not their friend. With Margo it was very different.

“How’s your head?”

Jules had nearly forgotten that she too had been injured in the attack. That night she had been in the area, but was fortunate enough to have had enough distance on the place that she only received minor injuries. The concussion and bruised wrist she’d gotten when she fell -- the couple of burns came when she ran into the chaos to medically aid whomever might need it. "Not too bad," Jules said. "Getting better." It was strange but she felt awkward, talking about her own injuries while her friend was trapped in a hospital bed.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save it,” Jules finally said, looking down at her knees. Jules was hard on herself and constantly strove for perfection. Her failure to save Margo’s hand was eating away at her. The guilt made her stomach turn to acid, her mouth taste like rusted metal. “I really did try, Marg. You were in such a state.” Yes, at the time of the incident it was unclear whether Margo would make it or not. Her injuries were overwhelming, the blood loss significant. Really, Margo was lucky to only have lost a hand. Two of the people at the Cauldron that night had lost their lives.

Margo was glad to hear Jules’ head wasn’t bothering her too much.  At least some people deserved to get out relatively unscathed.  She knew she heard/saw other people in the hospital up and about.  She hadn’t heard about any other amputations, but then again, she didn’t really ask either.  Just a lot of eavesdropping.  She did know that at least two people had died, and that was terrible. Hell, even she had a long way to go.  Hospitals were basically homes of death.

If you didn’t die of your injuries, something else could happen and you’d end up downstairs in the basement either way, waiting for someone to confirm the stiff body was yours and then dump you in the ground.  It was a reality Margo thought about every time she was confined to a bed. 

Since Margo knew her healers on a more personal level at this point, she didn’t worry that much.  Jules was dedicated to her job, even Flynn.  He wasn’t as much of a dweeb as he had been in school and he was pleasant at least.  Seemed to also think he could make her a hand, and that would be certainly be something.  It wasn’t a bad thing, it was something Margo had already dealt with once, but she really didn’t want to listen to Jules feel bad and apologize.

Waving her good hand, albeit weakly, Margo clicked her tongue.  “You don’t have to apologize, Jules,” Margo insisted.  “It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with the process,” her eyes shifted from Jules’ sad looking face to her leg stump in the bed.  She hoped they’d get her a new prosthetic for that first so at least she could get up and out of bed… soon.  “I’d rather be the saddest pirate known to wizards, than be dead.” 

“Can you just mention to Hughes I need my hand to have super strength?” she joked, since that was easier than accepting an apology and coming to terms with everything that had happened: scars, burns, the loss of her hand.  That was much less fun than super strength.  “I’d like to be able to be the next arm wrestling champion of the world.” 

It was blatant that Margo didn’t want hear Jules’ apologies; clearly she was already over it. Or at least handling it in that special ‘Margo’ way of hers. She certainly had a gift for making the best out of a dire situation. Jules surely wouldn’t be managing her anger about the whole ordeal so well. Jules could relate to one thing, though -- the lack of pity Margo wanted. It was part of why they were friends; there was no room for excuses. Margo wasn’t going to let her missing hand hold her back, just as she hadn’t let her leg keep her from doing her dangerous job. She was already clamoring to get back. It was an attitude Jules could admire.

“I’d rather be the saddest pirate known to wizards, than be dead.”

“Your lifestyle doesn’t exactly promote that idea,” Jules retorted. She smirked and crossed her legs, listening to Margo’s request for a super-strong hand. With a nod, she said, “I’ll see what I can do. Although I’m not sure I’m keen to give up my title.” Jules looked at Margo very seriously. For a lady of such grace and ambition, Jules had a few party tricks up her sleeve. Tequila was liquid fun, and was essentially the only beverage that could make Jules break out her strong arms. She didn’t know what made them so freakishly strong; perhaps it was the adrenaline associated with the competition. When it came to winning, Jules would do pretty much anything. Hence the determination to save Margo’s hand, to do everything possible for a friend in need. It had been a race against the clock.

“How are your burns feeling?” Jules asked. Before Margo could complain about Jules babying her, she added, “The symptoms have been long-lasting among other patients. We’re working with the Ministry to figure out what the smoke could have consisted of…” Jules went through her mental rolodex of severely burned patients, none of whom were doing very well. She looked at Margo’s face and other areas of exposed skin. Most of her body was under bandages, with a soothing potion to ease the pain of the burns. “My own burns feel like what I imagine the breath of a dragon would be like.” It wasn’t pleasant, yet not so distracting that Jules couldn’t continue with her work.  "You'd know that feeling better, I imagine.'

Alright, so maybe Margo wasn’t entirely truthful.  Sometimes, rather than having to deal with all of the fallout and consequences, she could be dead.  It’d certainly be easier than spending her life in hospital beds and rehabilitation.  It’d be easier than having to deal with fake limbs and learning to move again… but she’d done it once.  She hadn’t died the first time, and it was obviously not in the plan. When she didn’t die the second time… that was probably a sign.  She was meant to be alive… for something. 

She didn’t know what, of course, since she was at this point like 50% stump.  That made her fairly useless. 

It wasn’t Jules’ fault though.  There was a lot more to it than just one healer, Margo knew that.  She couldn’t really blame her.  She wasted a lot of time blaming the healers in Romania – truth be told, experience revealed it did not bring one’s limbs back. 

The question about the burns though, she could address that.  Shrugging lamely, Margo sighed.  “I’ve been drinking potions every few hours,” she informed her, “so it’s a dull ache.  Gonna hurt like a mother when the potions run dry though, huh?” she asked with a sardonic laugh.  “I guess there’ll be firewhiskey for after that though,” she added, a wicked flash in her eyes for only a moment.  "I think I've forgotten what dragon flames feel like though," Margo admitted, "it's been a while and it'll probably be even longer until I do again." The uncertainty didn't sit well with her.  "You get used to it.  If it doesn't bother you, consider the career change.  You could walk away with as much metal as I have one day... if you're unlucky."

Since Margo had arrived at St Mungo’s she had been fed a pretty constant stream of potions. Each potion within the variety of ones she would consume on a daily basis came with its own purpose, but overall Margo was mainly being treated for pain. Jules personally ensured that Margo was drugged up to a happy place. She might not like the fogginess, but Jules wanted to make sure her friend made it through the worst part of limb loss without so much of a pang of pain.

Not that this would ever go by without a hitch. Jules felt the need to overcompensate for what she considered to be her mistake. She did not blame the explosions for taking Margo’s hand; instead Jules blame her own ineptitude. She was concussed when she had been treating her friend, cursed herself for not being at her best. It was a complicated situation and Jules had so little control over it. And when things went wrong under Jules’ lack of control, she blamed herself.

“Gonna hurt like a mother when the potions run dry, huh?”

Jules wasn’t going to lie to her friend, that was one step she would never take. “Pretty much,” Jules said briskly, keeping her face stony. She gently brushed a hand against her own burns. “It’ll be the burns and your lungs that will hurt the most. The hand…” Jules paused. There were stories of those who had lost their limbs still feeling like they were there, like a ghost. “Well, the hand isn’t there to feel any pain is it?” Jules said quickly, meaning it as a joke. As much of a joke as it could be, anyway. She was trying to keep things light but still felt the weight of her own issues with the whole ordeal.

What Margo seemed most upset about, though, was not necessarily the loss of her hand -- but the time she would have to spend away from the dragons. “I’m sure they miss their human cigar,” Jules joked, always having been skeptical about Margo’s career choice. “Personally, I’ll stick with the scary metal spikes of a great pair of heels. I do hear metal limbs are trending for the spring, though,” Jules jested pointedly.

 “I’m used to it,” Margo informed her, “the pain that is,” she clarified.  It wasn’t like there was a day that went by where she didn’t trip and fall, hurt herself in some way.  Many of the everyday bumps and bruises went unnoticed or unremarked upon because of her astounding build up of tolerance to pain.  She had to admit though, she’d much rather be imbibing a potion to dull the pain than training herself to not feel it anymore. 

At least Jules wasn’t lying to her though, she hated when people did the whole ‘it’s going to be okay’ thing.  It was a bunch of dragon shit, if one was going to be honest.  She was, for the most part, disfigured.  Sure, it wasn’t too bad on her face, but the whole body of burns thing and jacked up lungs… plus the hardware she’d continue to sport for the rest of her life. 

Shrugging, she didn’t really know how to explain the hand pain thing.  It was like her leg, especially at the beginning.  Pain all of the time; you could swear you felt it.  It was strange.  Some tricks with a mirror had helped with her leg – a Romanian healer taught her the trick.  She wondered if it would work here.  It’d probably be harder, especially to do alone.  “We’ll see.  Hopefully my brain, or what’s left it, will cooperate this time around.”  Probably the best she could muster without having to go into a long spiel about phantom limbs. 

“Aw, you act like I care about fashion, how lovely,” Margo laughed a little and shook her head – or lolled it from side to side, more realistically; too groggy to really shake.  “I’ll leave the heels to you,” she added with a smirk.  Stretching her good foot straight out, Margo pointed her toes and grunted.  She wanted to move, to be up, to be gone.  “Best guess, Deville,” she looked at her with high hopes, “and don’t lie to me -- I hate that shite: how long am I looking at being in this bed?”

“Oh Margs, don’t try to blame your brain damage on the explosions,” Jules retorted. “That you were born with.” She gave a cheeky smirk, growing more comfortable with the situation as their banter continued. Though they were a strange pairing, Margo’s friendship was dear to Jules. She had always felt they were on the same wavelength, them versus the world. Toughies. Margo certainly had more physical proof of this, not that Jules experienced any jealous emotions with regard to that. She liked her body parts just the way they were.

One of the biggest differences between Margo and Jules was their fashion sense, which Margo commented on. True, Jules had never seen Margo sport a pair of stilettos, but she imagined it must be difficult with her false leg. That was no excuse not to have style, Jules had lectured her friend many times. At Jules’ birthday party she had forced Margo to change into something more fashion-forward, just has she had done to her sister, because it was her day and for that she wanted to see her loved ones looking their best.

“Best guess, Deville,” she looked at her with high hopes, “and don’t lie to me -- I hate that shite: how long am I looking at being in this bed?”

Wincing slightly as Marg referred to Jules by her last name, Jules sighed and crossed her legs. “You know I hate that shit too.” She looked her friend in the eye and bluntly said “I’m not sure, Margo. You’re really hurt. But I’m trying to expedite the process, because I know you don’t want to be stuck here.” With a curt nod, Jules leaned back in her chair. “Besides, I don’t like you encroaching on my territory.”

“I see you’ve been catching up with my parents then, if you believe that tripe?” Margo chuckled.  Her lungs continued to hurt with the laugh, but it was easy to be self-depricating.  It made her feel normal… way more normal than laying in this bed did, that was for damn sure.  What she wouldn’t give to just lay on her own bed and do recovery there.  Hughes was her neighbor! Couldn’t he get his life together and administer her potions at home? 

She’d even leave the door unlocked for Merlin’s sake! Granted, he would probably be mad about it though, with Lizard and everything… Of course that would put a big hole in her genius plan to not have to be in public and recover in her own bloody room.  There was probably no use suggesting it, since Jules didn’t have a good answer for her.

Frowning, Margo balled her fist – almost feeling the muscles in her lost hand contract… it was the weirdest sensation, which of course, would last for what would feel like forever.  Letting out a deep breath through her nose, Margo supposed she had to accept that no one had answers yet. 

“I’ll leave as soon as I can, trust me,” she smirked.  “I know you can’t stand sharing all the attention with me, and all of my hunky visitors…” she smirked- most of them were related to her, but that wasn’t the point.  “You can have any of ‘em except Fournier.  I don’t imagine he’d be your type anyway.  Too messy and he’d scuff your precious shoes.” 

Margo glanced over the side of the bed and nodded, definitely scuff those.  Grace was not a thing in the world of dragon taming, though she supposed some of her coworkers made a case for it not-not being a thing… Spectre was surprisingly agile for a man of his height and occupation.  Maybe that’s why he didn’t have any metal limbs to speak of.  “Maybe I should nap or something?” Margo yawned and turned her head, blinking wearily at Jules.  “Sleep away some of the time.” 

Jules could relate to Margo’s woes about disappointed parents, though her mother’s problem with her had always related to appearance and little to do with substance. It was amusing to think about Celeste Deville meeting Margo, particularly now that she was missing so many limbs. The prim and proper woman wouldn’t know what to do with herself or where to begin covering up her judgment.

When the subject turned to Margo leaving the hospital and returning to work, Jules became wary. She knew that Margo’s life centered mostly around her job - and drinking. It was a lifestyle they shared, different as they were. With the injuries she’d sustained, though, Jules knew that Margo was going to have to face a decent amount of time off.

“You’re not going to be able to jump right back in with the dragons, you know,” Jules pointed out. “Don’t they sense weakness?” This was a genuine concern of Jules’, and she didn’t even mean it as an insult. Friendship meant something to Jules, apparently. Maybe the words didn’t change much, but the emotions attached to them did.

“You can have any of ‘em except Fournier. I don’t imagine he’d be your type anyway. Too messy and he’d scuff your precious shoes.”

At this Jules chortled pretentiously. “He’d only scuff my shoes if I let him,” Jules said smartly. “And so far, I haven’t found a type, though if it’s the gentleman who was here yesterday evening, I imagine you’ve already staked your claim. Or rather, he did the staking.” Jules raised an eyebrow to emphasize the insinuation.


“Maybe I should nap or something? Sleep away some of the time.”

Jules checked some data at the wall after Margo offered her a tired stare. “What, am I boring you?” Jules joked gently. “Sleep is a good idea.” Jules smiled at her friend and stood up, retaking her position as Healer. She took the clipboard back into her hands. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Weakness is in the mind of the person, right?” Margo smiled, though it was mostly hollow.  She was nervous about the idea of going back.  She was nervous about whether or not she’d be able to.  It definitely crossed her mind.  But she bounced back from worse and Margo was a stubborn woman.  She could handle it.  She could do it… right? 

Shaking her head a little, she didn’t want to betray her nerves about her job.  It was her most defining characteristic.  She couldn’t imagine being without it.  So, away with the heavy topics to welcome in a much less terrifying thought: men.  Another part of Margo that had somehow become… at least with others a little more overblown than it really was.  Sure, in the past eight years or so, Margo had her fun… but in the same way that she didn’t handle change very well – she really wasn’t as wild as anyone thought she was – or she portrayed herself to be. 

It didn’t hurt to keep up the illusion.  “It’s more of a secret thing,” Margo waved her hand dismissively.  “It’s so hard to be someone everyone falls in love with.  It’s a burden I carry for everyone else.”  She laughed and closed her eyes for a minute, shaking her head.  “Luckily, there are just so many of them and only one of me so everyone else can have the ones I can’t possibly get to.” 

She winked and laughed, her lungs in searing pain for the moment.  Clutching her chest with her good hand, Margo settled back into the pillows.  It was so much work to be ill.  “Don’t suppose a handle of firewhiskey can come in through those doors, eh?” she asked sleepily, followed by a rather indecorous yawn. 

The friendship Jules had with Margo was an unusual one. Most of Jules’ friends were pretentious, particular, and posh -- essentially copies of Jules herself. Margo was the oddball, incessantly showing up underdressed and over-liquored. The opposing force was exactly what Jules needed in her life, sometimes, and there were certainly times when Jules needed to intervene in Margo’s. This wasn’t simply a case of bad fashion -- Margo’s health was now in Jules’ hands (or at least she felt so). Flynn had taken over the case and was building a new hand, but as the one who had found Margo and brought her to the hospital, she felt responsible for her care.

“Don’t suppose a handle of firewhiskey can come in through those doors, eh?”

Jules rolled her eyes. Margo had such a one-track mind sometimes-- really, if it wasn’t for the dragons, she’d be a professional barhopper. “Why drink firewhiskey when you have the wizarding world’s best potions and salves right at your fingertips?” Jules asked her. She looked at the bag that held the potion Margo was being pumped with, tapping it with her wand so that it slightly increased the flow. That way Margo could get a little buzz on. “Besides, you know you can’t drink here. Don’t be foolish.” Jules clucked and looked at her friend sternly.

She knew that Margo probably wanted to drink to get her mind off of the idea that she might not be able to return to work, might not be able to for a long time. Granted, Jules didn’t know much about dragon-keeping, but she imagined being down two limbs might make it much more challenging. Of course Margo would never dare back down from a challenge, but it wasn’t really up to her. The Ministry wouldn’t want that kind of liability on their hands. It was truly a shame-  Margs had just gotten back into the field after losing her leg.

“So what do you think you’ll do with your time off?” Jules asked, hoping her friend was feeling optimistic about her leave. “An extended island vacation? Topless hula boys fanning you with palms while you drink rum out of coconuts?” Jules raised her eyes suggestively, trying to get her friend to imagine such a place. Thinking about a promising future would help with Marg’s recovery. Negative emotions affected the body more than some people realized.

 “What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” Margo managed to smile and wink at Jules.  She didn’t have a way to get fire whiskey in, but if she could find it… she would damn sure use it.  It would be much better than the bloody bag attached to her, that was for certain.  She supposed it would have to wait until her throat was less irritated though… whatever was in that smoke had really done a number on that. Revision: it had really done a number on her. Period.   

Which was why the witch was really looking forward to a good drink once she was out of this bed.  Margo would like to be normal again.  Well, as normal as possible.  It seemed out of reach just yet. 

Especially with a lot of looming time off, like Jules mentioned.  Margo sighed audibly, making a disgusted sound at the end.  “I hate hot weather,” Margo pretty much whined.  She didn’t wear shorts or skirts or anything…. So leather pants on a beach sounded like the worst possible thing ever… and then rum made her sick.  She’d stick to whiskey, thank you very much. 

“Stick me on the side of mountain with tons of snow…” Margo sighed.  “An entire vat of whiskey, a fireplace…” Margo frowned.  She was basically describing the cabins in Romania.  She loved her time there; she’d love to go back.  The dream was even more distant now.  She had sort of figured she might be able to go back soon.  This whole accident was just like a doxie in the wheel, obviously.  “So, I’ll probably just lay on my couch and listen to the wireless,” she answered honestly, letting her head fall back into the fluffy pillows.  “Go  catatonic from boredom.” 

In response to Margo’s fantasy vacation plans, Jules gave a curt smile and held the clipboard up to her chest. “Well, that sounds lovely, Margo. Do let me know if there’s anything I can get you… besides firewhiskey,” Jules said, emphasizing the last part as if she was a mother. In certain respects, mothers and healers had very similar viewpoints. No mixing painkillers with whiskey, for instance.

Jules walked toward the door, her heels making neat clicks on the linoleum. She spun on her heel before she was too far from Margo’s bed. “I will get you that firewhiskey as soon as you are out of here,” Jules told her firmly, using the clipboard to point at her. This was a demand -- because Margo hadn’t made it to her next firewhiskey.

End