11PM Monday evening  and Hannah Bombay was stood at the bedside of an auror she’d worked in the same department as only a couple of weeks prior. But he certainly didn’t look as healthy and annoyingly inquisitive as he had during her days at the ministry. Instead he was light in pallor and certainly not conscious with the ability to bother her with silly questions. But he was due to awaken from the potion induced coma fairly soon but he’d no doubt be highly delirious for a day or so. After all, one couldn’t induce such a large quantity of potion and have the mental capacity for rational conversation. But this was Eleor still. He had always proved a slight nuisance.

Despite being exhausted and the annoyance Adon had provided since his arrival at the ministry of magic, Hannah had requested to be there when he did awake. She hadn’t been tending to him since his arrival but one could never say Hannah Bombay wasn’t thoughtful. After all, she wanted him to wake up to a face he recognised when the potions began to wear off. Then Eleor would be less likely to panic. Back during her training Bombay had witnessed some quite spectacular cases of paranoid patients coming round and springing in panic from their beds as if they’d seen Lord Voldemort hovering above their heads with a lollipop.

Therefore the witch was stood beside his bed, measuring a small amount of potion into several vials. Adon would require such brews when he hit consciousness. No one wanted an agonised auror going crazy through the ward as the runespoor poison coursed through his veins. Hannah didn’t even want to think of the torturous ache this poison could create and she certainly didn’t want to be holding a man down while the agonising toxin overpowered his body. This was why potions were prescribed and brewed.

From her side, the healer heard a rousing and saw slow movement in the corner of her spectacle covered eyes. Potion vials still clasped between her thin fingers, she turned on her heel to look down at the man, lips parted and eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“Auror Eleor...?”

The first thing Adon could identify was that this whole goddamned place was nothing short of a miserable, hot, dark, smelly, exhausting, achy, horrible, painful, awful, confusticating place and that he didn't want to be there. He tried to turn away, only to find his response not . . . as responsive as he wanted. This was not good. He had to tell someone. Now. Something was wrong. Wrongwrongwrong.

Breathing speeding up, Adon managed, on the fourth attempt, to move his neck a little. He emitted a soft sound, which if he had had his way would have been an enraged plea for some sort of explanation. There had to be a reason for all this.

He heard his name -- baruch hashem  -- his chance! Whoever this was would help get the weights off his body keeping him down, turn on some lights, or -- get out of this . . .

This body.

He needed help. He needed answers. Instead, Adon only managed an abrupt, "Hn."

Opening his eyes felt -- it shouldn't have felt so -- absolutely exhausting. And unnatural. Adon tossed his head upon the pillows to regard the speaker. A woman -- very pretty, soft features. Familiar. Adon knew a lot of women, but she looked -- he couldn't . . . work. He knew her from work.

"Bombhh..." he managed. "Ha'tsil...[1]"

1.	slurred Hebrew for "help" (hat'see'lu)

The Israeli’s eyes began to open very slowly as if fighting a spell that held them closed against their will. Potions caused such effects as well as many other, strange and delusional sensations. Hannah had been told of people seeing angels, lights and all other ludicrous visions while rousing from a potion induced coma. Of course all these were absurd figments plaguing the imaginations of patients but finding out about them had always been an obsession for certain, less pragmatic and sensible healers. Hannah, however, put this down to exhaustion from both the concoctions and the auror’s body fighting the toxin that was presently trying to destroy his body from within.

The two vials were quickly placed on the table beside the bed and Hannah stepped closer to the man as his features, mainly the creases in the corner of two dark eyes tightened, the intensity of the tiny wrinkles increasing. At least he didn’t seem to be experiencing pain yet. His whole body was no doubt too paralysed by exhaustion.

A cold hand found its way onto the warm skin of her patient’s arm as Hannah squeezed to show she was there and he needn’t worry. As she had been over the last couple of weeks, Hannah was still mildly astonished by the warmth of the skin. It was as if she still expected warm blooded living beings to be as cold to the touch as the corpses in the frosty bare room of level two and her own ice cold fingers.  She wasn’t good with live patients, this contact with his appendage was as sensitive and caring as it ever got. This was why Hannah had preferred to deal with the cold, unresponsive patients on her table.

An incomprehensive mutter left the man’s weak and uncharacteristically pale lips and Hannah squeezed his arm once more before speaking softly to him. “Shhh, Adon. Don’t try and move. You need to keep calm.”

Not-feeling was terrifying. But the return of sensations –worse.
Adon flinched as a cold grasp encircled his forearm. The muscles underneath burned painfully and he hissed out his breath, unable to move enough to break the contact. Unable to move at all.

Help.Helphelphelp.

The voice—Bombay—either didn’t understand or didn’t know. Instead, she told him to be quiet and sit still, but he wasn’t moving. He couldn’t. Bombay needed to understand. She needed to see—this was not a time to be calm. This was a time to save him! He couldn’t—he felt so. . . His body wasn’t what it needed to be. It was listless and limp, and all he could feel was the vice-like grip of. . . of
Bombay.

The Dead-doctor.

“Oh, no,” he whimpered. “nonononoNONONO!” He tried more insistently to get away.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. And if it was, it was supposed to have been in Jerusalem, saving Dree. But instead, he’d been. . . There’d been Dree. . . and then Dree turned into someone else. He got stabbed with a Runespoor dagger. . . venom. . .blade. And Jonas couldn’t do anything because he’d either been blown away or was magic-less. . . and Adon’d been fighting just to keep Jonas alive, because Adon knew, no matter what, with the stab wound and the venom and Apparation and the wandless magic, that he’d be. . .

dead. His throat emitted a low whine.

“Ge’way!” he groaned, attempting to pull away in long, languid motions. “I am not dead!”

“I am not dead!”

Hannah blinked down at the man, mild confusion registering on her soft features. Yes, the potions tended to have out of the ordinary effects on patients but most trusted consciousness to be evidence that they were alive. It seemed Adon Eleor was just overly confused. Hannah gripped her arm slightly tighter in a squeeze that had the intent of providing at least a tiny bit on comfort before she withdrew her cold hand from his warm flesh.

“Don’t be silly.” The healer responded briskly as her hand travelled down to his wrist which it took in her fingers, tips seeking out his pulse. “You’re not dead, Auror Eleor. You’re in St Mungo’s. It’s me, Healer Bombay.” Hannah certainly hadn’t managed to put his confusion down to any specific reason other than the shock of waking up in such a delirious state. In reality, he’d probably seen a young woman who was usually found in a small room with a corpse and panicked.

“You’ve been poisoned by Runespoor venom, Adon.” Hannah stated after a long pause and withdrew her hand.  “It’s coursing through your veins causing as much destruction as possible. We’re in the process of flushing it out of your system and monitoring the damage the point is attempting to cause.” And this was why Hannah hadn’t been a real healer for several years. She, unlike most others in the profession believed it imperative to offer the truthful and blunt information about a patient’s condition. No one appreciated being lied to.

"Healer Bombay?" he repeated, a mixture of indignation and horror on his face. "How. ." he attempted to stir. Still not responsive. She'd done something to him. Mungo's had a morgue just like the rest of them. It didn't mean she wasn't a Dead-Doctor, and this wasn't some kind of trick. Even if she had pulled her hand away. He didn't trust any of this.

"I'm not silly," he protested in a whine. "I just. . . I want. . . I just want to--"

He sunk back, closing his eyes. He couldn't, really, think of what he wanted just now. Except for all the words -- those forbidding words -- venom, destruction, flushing, damage -- to stop. They were making the pain start to appear. Adon was becoming aware of the burning in his limbs, the torn pain emanating from his stomach, and the absolute, helpless weakness in his body. 

"No," he insisted; his attempt to move his arm in a sweeping dismissal resulted in the too-heavy limb moving an inch to the left before sliding heavily across the blanketed surface and hanging down at his side. "What's going on, here? What are those potions for?" He gave a stifled whimper as he tried to pull his arm back up. It hurt. "Do the potions. . . are they going to . .  ." He looked up at the -- well, maybe she was a healer, this time. He wouldn't hurt so much, if she wasn't. If he was dead.

But if she was a healer, he wasn't supposed to hurt like this!

"I just want to stop hurting," he muttered feebly, looking towards the potions hopefully.

The young woman looked down at her patient and her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “Through years of training.” Of course Adon had just surfaced from the induced sleep of several powerful potions and elixirs but was it entirely necessary to give allowance to his daft questions? Hannah rarely had the patience for such queries. “Your inability to form a full sentence should be evidence enough you don’t have the capacity to do anything at present, Auror Eleor. You just want to rest that tongue until you are possessed with suitable capacities.”

Continuing to ask questions, the auror only wasted more of the tiny supply of energy he had. The witch let out a slightly irritated breath as she turned on her heel to the table and grasped a tiny bottle of lavender coloured potion between her slim fingers. She lifted it up to her eyelevel to peer into it before giving it a few shakes, allowing the fluid to mix and engage the elements within to start working together.

“I was under the impression aurors didn’t mind pain so much.” The healer smirked as she continued to shake the vial. “Rumour has it that it’s testimony of how macho and manly you all are.” Nevertheless, Hannah stopped shaking the vial and stepped closer to the bed. She extended her hand to bring the vial to the auror’s lips. “Open wide.”

“Your inability to form a full sentence should be evidence enough you don’t have the capacity to do anything at present, Auror Eleor. You just want to rest that tongue until you are possessed with suitable capacities.”

What the. . . what, what was she saying? Adon watched her lips move, trying to muddle out what she was – well then, he was just watching her lips move. It was a welcome distraction from the rising pain. They were just—her lips were so red. It felt remarkable, somehow, in a whitewashed world.

“Rumour has it that it’s testimony of how macho and manly you all are.”

Aurors. Manly. This one didn’t have as many seven- and ten-letter words in it, so it was less time before she got a response. “Healer Bombay,” he cut in blearily. “That is sexist.” He smirked in satisfaction. He knew that had been a good comeback. He filled his lungs, testing their capacity, then sputtered a bit as he exhaled. When he had recovered, he said lazily, “Not all Aur’s are men. Even if theyact like them.” His eyes flitted shut as he continued to slur through his logic. “’N I’m a man. But a man has organs, ‘n senses, ‘n. . .pazhuns; hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal'd by the  sa. . .”

”Open wide.”

Adon, who had been preparing himself for the finale of Shylock’s speech[1], was unprepared for the cool liquid which slithered down his throat. He began to cough. Then to wretch. "Luuugh!" he said, hand reaching up slowly for his throat. "Why?" he insisted irascibly.

He'd been so good. And she was so pretty. It just wasn't fair.

1.

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with  the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means,  warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us,  do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. (Mechant of Venice. III.i.49–61)

A tiny sign of mild amusement tugged at the corners of Hannah Bombay’s lips in the way of a smirk before she suppressed it and continued to maintain her professional composure. Hannah had never been called sexist before. She’d been referred to as cold, emotionally dead and over professional but never sexist. All aurors if not men, seemed to think they were. The job of an auror was to control and protect. If Hannah wasn’t mistaken, the majority of men enjoyed and thought it their merlin-given right to do just that. There did seem to be perks to working in St Mungo’s again. The young woman wasn’t surrounded by power and action hungry men.

Except now.

Unexpected as it was for the injured man to commence a speech about having feelings and all that jazz, Hannah decided to simply reward it with a raised eyebrow before she put a stop to the speech all together with a large and dose of pain reducing potion. The patient coughed a little, he wretched and he calmed with a groan, either indicating the shock of his consumption or of the putrid taste that always came with such potions. Hannah hoped never to require a dose of it herself.

"Why?"

Once more, Hannah eyebrows rose as she shoved the stopper into the top of the vial and dropped it into her robe pocket.  “Because you want the pain to go.” The witch responded plainly. “It might make you vomit in a few minutes if you’ve got a weak stomach.” She paused. “Or you might stop breathing. Nothing’s perfect.”

With that the witch withdrew her wand once more from her pocket and pointed it at a chair. The wooden chair shot from the corner of the room to the head of Eleor’s bed and Hannah lowered herself into it. “I believe it's best to make sure it doesn’t undo our hard work. It would be highly inconvenient if you died at the end of my shift.”

The pain to stop. Yes. Oh, yes. "Hmm," he crooned in quiet agreement. It was mind-numbing--the only saving grace at the moment. If it hadn't been, he'd have wanted out of his mind.

“It might make you vomit in a few minutes if you’ve got a weak stomach.”

Adon giggled a bit at this. A weak stomach--he didn't suppose he'd ever have that. “Or you might stop breathing. Nothing’s perfect.” Giggles were gone. "Wai--wai. . . but--" Adon said, putting his hands to his throat fearfully. He'd already swallowed. He's already almost died.

"You're supposed to fix it!" he managed indignantly. "It's not--you're not--" the burst of anger was buried under the heavy weight of exhaustion he felt. His words died with a whimper, and he closed his eyes for a few moments.

When he opened them--something that felt a little unpleasant in an otherwise bleary world--he considered her once more. Adon felt a level of relaxation he had never yet felt. The air entering his lungs felt soft. and heavy. His own hands, attempting to move from atop the white sheets, felt light and unresponsive. Everything--everything was white except the limegreen figure in front of him. Who he'd been talking to. Bombay. But she looked prettier, somehow. Like an angel. . . an Angel of--

"'m I dead?" he asked dreamily. "'re you sure'm not dead?" He remembered the last words she'd spoken--he'd die at the end of her shift. "Is it the end of your shift?"

The injured and delirious man in the bed moved from giggles of amusement to panic as quick as a specialised poison could stop a heart. Hannah’s lips pursed in mild disapproval of the emotion display as she watched him. People didn’t need to show how they were feeling on the exterior. Especially around people who found it the height of discomfort. She folded her arms over her chest and simply waited for him to calm and the pain relieving potions to take hold. Some wizards were exceptionally over dramatic. Especially aurors, so it seemed. The wizards that were employed to protect society quivered in a hospital bed at the hands of a healer and her potions bag. It seemed they were simply boys playing at being men. That didn’t exactly make the members of the public who realised this feel particularly safe. It simply made Hannah feel more sure that her own secret was certainly safe enough to remain that way with quivering men enforcing the law.

A dreamlike state seemed to commence taking over Eleor’s body and Hannah sat back watching him try in vain to focus on his surroundings and her. His eyes became hazy and she watched his unusually pale face with the usual intensity she showed when surveying and attempting to read any person. As many had realised, however, Bombay was incapable of reading the psychological. She had as much success in predicting the behaviour and reading the emotions and wants of human beings as she did a troll did in passing his OWLs. What Hannah was reading was Adon’s body. She watched his brow crease with confusion, the slow rising of his chest and the slight rouging of his cheeks as the temperature in the room and the potions he had presently consumed began to affect him.

Eyebrows rose quickly and Hannah leaned forwards in her chair, closer to her patient.

“You tell me, Auror Eleor.” The witch responded coldly. “If you feel this, you’re alive and I can go home soon. If you don’t, I should don my white robes and place you on a very attractive cold silver table.” She lifted a hand up to his arm and proceeded to pinch him sharply with neatly clipped and short nails.

"You sure I'm not dead?" he repeated. "Cos I mustaf gone and died in heaven, because you're an angel."

He paused.

"Of death."

That was how that line was supposed to go, right?

“If you feel this, you’re alive and I can go home soon. If you don’t, I should don my white robes and place you on a very attractive cold silver table.”

"Shit. Why?!" He hissed agitatedly, lifting a languid arm across to smack the hand away. It fell heavily across his chest. He hissed again at the pain that emanated from--right, from where he'd been stabbed.

Ought to have thought of that before.

"I'll have you know I don't like any of this," he informed with the proper amount of indignation. "You may be hot, but this sucks." His head was getting that floating feeling. Like he wasn't in it anymore. Like his head was detached, or his brains had slipped out of his forehead, or. . .

"You're sure this is real life?"

The prospect of being called an angel by an attractive foreign auror was rather lovely. The fact that the handsome wizard was under the influence of a great deal of pain potions and proceeded to complete the statement with ‘of death’ wasn’t quite as flattering and let the young witch to purse her lips in mild displeasure. Being referred to as an angel of death was about as complimentary as being told you were beautiful...compared to a century old hag.

“Hm.”

However, after a stupid evasive movement on the auror’s behalf and a groan of pain, the lopsided compliments continued. Hannah withdrew her hand from his arm and began to rise out of the chair and to her feet. Eleor seemed to be handling the potion adequately, even if he was mildly deranged and therefore Hannah didn’t need to remain in his company to be called an angel of death again. And being referred to as ‘hot’ was simply bizarre.

“Positive.” The healer confirmed, offering her patient a small smile. “If this is a dream or heaven then you’ve got a fairly disturbed mind. I certainly wouldn’t be visualising pain, St Mungo’s and an angel of death...” the edges of the witch’s lips twitched, “even if she is hot.”

“Now, despite the lovely compliments you’ve been offering me, I have someone at home waiting for me.” The witch quickly muttered, fishing into her robe for the golden pocket watch she kept. Eyes took in the time before she looked across at the auror once more. “You seem stable, if deluded.”