Still Delicate

Chapter one - A Beginning Of Sorts

Christmas is always a tricky time of year. It's that time when we spend an outrageous amount of money on gifts that will be neither used nor appreciated, when we stuff ourselves with food we aren't even hungry for and when we spend time with those family members we can't stand, but we love just because we feel obliged to. I've had my fair share of difficult Christmases, one which sticks out in my mind perhaps slightly more than others, but this year might just about top them all.

"Look, Weasley, this is the roster, and what it says goes," the Chief Healer and my boss, Healer Wharton spits at me. I'm not sure if he means to spit every time he says a word with the letter 's' in it, but it seems like every time I try to have a conversation with the man, I end up needing to put a drying spell on my hair.

"But sir, I can't work on Christmas Eve!" I try to reason with him, "I have too much to do – I haven't even had time to do my Christmas shopping yet –"

"Cry me a river," he says nastily, "You don't work Christmas Eve, you don't work in my hospital ever again."

I go to argue back, but he sweeps off down the corridor, clearly not giving a toss that he's just ruined all of my best laid plans. Healer Joseph Wharton always wears blood red robes instead of the traditional lime green ones every other Healer in this place wears. I think he just likes to show that he's a step above everyone else.

I slump back onto my chair behind the receptionists' station, defeated. Christmas Eve is all of two days away and I have so much to do before then that it's not physically possible to get it done.

"Cheer up, love," Gladys tells me in her husky voice. Gladys is a woman in her very late fifties and every time she speaks, you can hear the thousands of cigarettes she's smoked in her lifetime. She's a divorcee and hates almost everything about men, especially men like Hr. Wharton. She's the only person Hr. Wharton doesn't give attitude to, because even he knows better than to mess with a menopausal receptionist. "It'll only be 'til four."

"I know," I mumble miserably, "But I haven't bought any presents yet and I told my Nana I'd make the Christmas pudding, and I told Mum I'd help them decorate The Burrow, and I promised Aidan I'd take him to see Santa in the shopping centre..."

"Those Muggle Santa's always look so fake anyway," Linda butted in, "When I used to take Our Liam to see them, he'd end up pulling off the beard and making all the other kiddies cry." Linda sounds half-proud of her son as she tells the story. Linda is a forty year old single mother, with a fifteen year old son, called 'Our Liam'. Ever since I came to work in St Mungo's she's been incredibly supportive of me, because she knows just how hard it is raising a child alone. She talks about 'Our Liam' more than anything else in the world, almost to the point where it's annoying. 'Our Liam' is the Second Coming, according to Linda.

"Why don't you get his dad to take him?" asks Hazel. Hazel, slightly younger than Gladys, is still married but refers to her husband as 'The Useless Shit'. I don't even know what her husband's actual name is. I'm not quite sure if she hates men more than Gladys, but I certainly do feel a bit sorry for her husband. These three women – all of whom are old enough to be my mother – have become my closest friends since I came to work at St Mungo's almost two years ago. And that I find sort of pathetic.

"He's still in America," I remind her, "He'll be home tomorrow." I try not to feel nauseous at the thought, but I fail miserably.

"Too busy for his kid," Gladys scoffs, "Typical bloke, if you ask me!"

Luckily, the magi-phone rings, so Gladys answers with a very bored and husky-sounding 'Hello, St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Gladys speaking, how can I help you?' I would hardly consider going away on a two-week business trip as 'too busy' for his child. Scorpius has a demanding job and I've accepted that. Is it sad that I'm even defending him in my own head?