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The first thing he notices isn’t her wild hair or even the blood oozing through her jeans, it’s her smell. Like honeysuckle and freesia and the sweetest summer breeze. The scent catches him off guard. Barrels its way inside his senses. Tunnels inside the barriers he maintains that let him do this work. This isn’t the time or place for such softness. War never is. But all the same, it takes him aback, and for a moment, he loses his place.
Of course, it’s not the only thing out of place at the wizarding hospital. Under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn’t be here either. But his family couldn’t ignore the call for help, not when there is aid to provide. Vampires are excellent at triage — able to hear a heartbeat, able to sense how far the scales may be tipped. Normally, they are relegated to the edges and shadows of magical society — they don’t typically play the role of healers. But desperate times, and all that…
“Edward! Hey!” He hears the sound of fingers snapping. “Do you have this one?”
Carlisle’s voice pulls him back to the present. Into the nightmare of reality instead of the dream. He’s standing in the receiving bay at St. Mungo’s at the place where those who can no longer help themselves pop into existence. In one piece, if they’re lucky.
Today has been particularly bad, the aftermath of a gruesome attack. It seems like they’ve been busy for hours tending to the injuries sustained by those who responded, as well as the poor souls caught between two not equal, though opposite forces.
“Yes, I’ve got her.”
He scoops the patient into his arms to move her out of the way before the next body appears by Portkey. Or Apparition. Or barrels through the doors bellowing for help, praying it isn’t too late.
Carefully, he places her on a cot stationed in a quiet room, where he’ll have a better chance to focus and assess what he’s working with. Calling it a room is generous. It’s more of a supply closet, but then again, he doesn’t need much space, just enough to determine what her injuries are and stabilise what he can until one of the healers can assist — can wave their wands and work their magic.
Though he has no magic, he’s far from useless. What he does have is excellent vision, steady hands, and knowledge of all the available potions in the hospital’s stores. He lifts her head and tips a potion between her lips, a combination of calming draught to relax her and pain potion for comfort. And then he watches for the constriction of her throat which means she’s swallowed reflexively.
After that, he goes to work. He’s careful to not jostle her too much, tries to protect as much of her modesty as he can. He finds a dislocated shoulder he can address, a nasty gash on her thigh he can suture, and a dark purple contusion on her abdomen that will need further attention from someone who can wield a wand, but she seems stable. Better yet, her heartbeat is steady, which suggests there’s not a curse wreaking havoc on her insides.
On his second pass, he moves more slowly, cataloguing a bevy of bruises in various states of healing, and several scars. Carefully, he manipulates her head from side to side, checking for anything he might have missed. When he removes his hands, he brings them to his nose and inhales sharply, registering the same smell he’d caught before.
He doesn’t worry about enlarging the tear in her trousers so he can get to her wound. There are repairing spells for that. Plus, if she’s staying, the Medi-witches will change her into the standard-issue gown. That is not his role in the chorus of those trying to stem the tide of injury. Instead, he threads a needle and slows himself. He’s used to working with human flesh, though it responds differently from the cadavers he trained on. But live tissue isn’t as forgiving of the speed that comes naturally to his kind. Instead, he takes his time, allowing the layers of muscle and fascia to re-adjust to their natural position.
When he’s finished, he tips another sip of pain potion into her mouth. It’s best if she is fully out for this next part. Dislocated limbs are nasty business, providing enough pain to overwhelm the system. A thrashing patient is not what you want when you — an immoveable object — are holding something so fragile as a limb in your hands. He wonders if it is her wand arm that sits at an awkward angle. If she transferred her wand to the other hand and continued battling before she came in. If the scars he’s seen on her are anything to go by, she’s a fighter. But then again, everyone has had to learn to battle in one way or another. This conflict doesn’t allow many the luxury of remaining on the sidelines.
A tug. A pop. A whimper, but only for an instant. And then her face relaxes once more.
He’s done what he can, though he’s not ready to leave her just yet. For a moment, he stands there, listening to the steady lub-dub that signifies she’ll live to fight another day.
There’s a cry from the end of the hall and he knows he must move on. On nights like this, the work is endless. It’s one thing the wizards have come to appreciate after their initial reluctance — the indefatigability of these particular volunteers who don’t give into the all-too-human call for sleep. The reality is that when hands are limited, almost anyone’s will do. He marks the door with the code he’s learned. Female. Stable. Triaged. Possible spell damage.
One last look and then he’s off. Because there are others that need him. Others that need a chance.
He passes by the same door three different times. The mark hasn’t changed, though he knows why. Unlike too many others this evening, she is stable. After all, if a caster’s magic is a finite resource, she’s one who can wait for the next shift, wait for someone who isn’t spent from the futility of trying to keep the critically injured clinging to life.
As if anyone who’s sees this war believes that are only three unforgivable curses…
But each time he passes, he listens for the sound of her heartbeat, steady in its rhythm, and for some reason, the sound allows him to breathe just a little easier.
His next patient isn’t so lucky. The slicing hex they’d taken severed an artery. Even if the Portkey had been faster, they’d probably bled out before they left the field. Instead, he serves as transport to the room in the basement, where another team does the work of identifying the deceased and notifying their families. He treats the burns on the one after that. Administers Skele-Gro on another. If anything, the marriage of magical and non-magical healing techniques makes clear how much both sides could learn from each other. In a world different from this one.
When the onslaught fades to a trickle, the atmosphere in the unit changes again. Relief permeates the air, even as work continues. They’ve made it through this wave. They can relax their guards just a little and focus their care on those already here instead of staying ready for those who aren’t.
“Good work. You okay?”
Carlisle comes to find him, the man both his sire and mentor. Edward knows he only does what he does because Carlisle’s determination and dedication inspire him — push him to be more than the creature he is. He nods in response, lets himself take a tentative breath for the first time in a while. But instead of the lingering scent of cleaning charms or even blood, that same floral smell catches his attention, and he’s drawn back to the room where his earlier patient still waits to be seen.
Now he has the leisure to see her — all of her — instead of just her injuries. He notes the kinky-curliness of her hair, though she’s tried to tame it with a braid. The light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. He sees the faded red string tied around her wrist and boots with sparkly laces that seem wholly out of character with the rest of her.
Her heart beat speeds up as she comes to the end of the light sedation. Nearly always, he is gone by this point, leaving the continuing care for others who make a job of this. This time, however, caught inside, he makes a split decision to stay. He convinces himself it’s the right thing to do, since she still hasn’t been treated. Instead, he positions himself as far away as the small room allows, not wanting to cause fear. It’s enough of a shock when a patient wakes disoriented and thrashing, so he palms a vial of sedative, just in case he needs it, so that she won’t hurt herself.
Her breathing changes and he can tell that she’s awake, playing possum, so to speak. Unsure of her surroundings, her good hand tenses, feeling for a wand he hasn’t seen.
“You were injured on the field,” he offers. “You’re here at St. Mungo’s. You’re safe.” Three phrases designed to quickly center and reassure someone in this world of unknowns.
She relaxes infinitesimally, and cracks opens one eye, as if it might be a trick.
It lands on him, and her gaze sharpens as she makes her own assessment of his words. “You’re one of them. The vampires.”
He nods, waiting for the look of disgust or, more often, fear, that accompanies this revelation. After all, wixen rarely parlay with so-called creatures of the night.
“I met a vampire once.” Her voice cracks, and he reaches for a cup to help quench her thirst.
“Not that one,” he says, as she winces, trying to move the shoulder he’s just fixed.
“Ah, right. Dislocated.”
It’s good that she remembers.
“Do you know what hit you? Does the rest of you feel okay?” He looks down at her abdomen, though it’s hidden under a blanket.
She tips her head, as if taking stock of her injuries before she reaches for the bandage wrapped around her thigh.
“How bad?”
“Could have been worse.”
The fighters know to expect this mix of magical and mundane care now. It’s better than the alternative. Some even look for the reprieve from the constant barrage, given the longer healing times. However, she looks like someone who would be frustrated by any amount of convalescence.
She closes her eyes for a moment, then lifts her shirt and notes the mottling of her skin.
“I don’t know what it was. There was too much happening.”
“But it’s not causing you pain?”
“It’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable,” she admits, pressing a hand to the discolouration. The sudden staccato in the rhythm of her heart tells a different story.
“I can get you another potion. Something for the pain?”
Somehow, he knows she’ll refuse. Knows she prefers the pain to being unaware.
“Your name?”
“Hermione Granger. Phoenix.”
He nods, making a mental note to update the mark on her door. Surely someone will be looking for her.
“Is there a reason we’re in a broom closet?”
At this, he laughs, his golden eyes crinkling. In a different world, he thinks he might like this young woman. Might like to understand why she smells like sunshine on his soul. But it’s been a long day and a longer shift. And if he’s learned anything, he knows the current reprieve won’t last long. It never does. Still, he answers honestly.
“All things being equal, it’s better than the morgue.”