Morning at St. Mungo's
Previously posted...somewhere in HiH
As Healer Jackson hurried in the Emergency room, he could see his wife (and assistant) helping a young man with ginger-colored hair into one of the beds. He was pale, and seemed to be aching all over. With a sympathetic smile, she pulled a blanket over him even as she looked at her husband.
“He appears to be having a rather nasty reaction to one of the minor healing potions.”
“Name?”
“Weasley, Ron Weasley.”
Frowning, Healer Jackson pulled a piece of parchment and a quill out of his pocket. Penning a quick note, he sent it flying off to the Records department.
“For the moment, let’s get him settled, and start running some basic scans. We’ll see what Records can turn up.”
They looked over a few other patients before Records sent a reply. Opening the note, he nodded.
“His mother is also allergic to the wound-cleaning potion. His wounds need to be cleaned by charm instead. Let’s get him set up on a restorative draught and make sure his records both here and at school are marked accordingly.
CRASH!
Their attention swung to the door. Sitting amidst a wreckage of trays and dishes, a young woman dressed neatly in Healer attire slumped against the wall. Rushing over and running a quick scan, it became obvious that she had succumbed to some kind of delayed Sleeping Draught. Healer Jackson gestured at two nearby orderlies.
“Get her up to the Third Floor. Let them know the potion is on some kind of time delay. I’ve never seen anything like that, and we need to get an antidote quickly.”
Looking around at the mess, he frowned.
“And get maintenance down here to clean up all of these cupcakes.”
Even as the orderlies turned away, a loud, off-key voice began echoing in the main entrance.
”Hark when the night is falling; Hear! hear the pipes are calling; Loudly and proudly calling; Down thro' the glen.”
He sighed.
“Some one get me the general antidote for a Love Potion. It’s Professor McGonagall again. Every February 20th, just like clockwork.”
His wife was shocked.
“Surely someone doesn’t dose her every year?”
He shook his head.
“No, but people do not understand the mess they make when they try and muck around with people’s emotions. The long-term effects can last for years, even decades.”
He sighed, exasperated, rubbing his eyes.
“And its not even lunchtime yet.”
As Healer Jackson hurried in the Emergency room, he could see his wife (and assistant) helping a young man with ginger-colored hair into one of the beds. He was pale, and seemed to be aching all over. With a sympathetic smile, she pulled a blanket over him even as she looked at her husband.
“He appears to be having a rather nasty reaction to one of the minor healing potions.”
“Name?”
“Weasley, Ron Weasley.”
Frowning, Healer Jackson pulled a piece of parchment and a quill out of his pocket. Penning a quick note, he sent it flying off to the Records department.
“For the moment, let’s get him settled, and start running some basic scans. We’ll see what Records can turn up.”
They looked over a few other patients before Records sent a reply. Opening the note, he nodded.
“His mother is also allergic to the wound-cleaning potion. His wounds need to be cleaned by charm instead. Let’s get him set up on a restorative draught and make sure his records both here and at school are marked accordingly.
CRASH!
Their attention swung to the door. Sitting amidst a wreckage of trays and dishes, a young woman dressed neatly in Healer attire slumped against the wall. Rushing over and running a quick scan, it became obvious that she had succumbed to some kind of delayed Sleeping Draught. Healer Jackson gestured at two nearby orderlies.
“Get her up to the Third Floor. Let them know the potion is on some kind of time delay. I’ve never seen anything like that, and we need to get an antidote quickly.”
Looking around at the mess, he frowned.
“And get maintenance down here to clean up all of these cupcakes.”
Even as the orderlies turned away, a loud, off-key voice began echoing in the main entrance.
”Hark when the night is falling; Hear! hear the pipes are calling; Loudly and proudly calling; Down thro' the glen.”
He sighed.
“Some one get me the general antidote for a Love Potion. It’s Professor McGonagall again. Every February 20th, just like clockwork.”
His wife was shocked.
“Surely someone doesn’t dose her every year?”
He shook his head.
“No, but people do not understand the mess they make when they try and muck around with people’s emotions. The long-term effects can last for years, even decades.”
He sighed, exasperated, rubbing his eyes.
“And its not even lunchtime yet.”