Minerva awakes in St Mungo’s after a Stunner attack to find she has an unusual visitor.
When Minerva McGonagall woke in an unfamiliar room, the pain that gripped her chest when she tried to sit up told her immediately both where she was and why she was there.
A thickset, balding man in a green robe hurried over to her bedside.
“Professor McGonagall, welcome back. Do you know where you are?”
“St Mungo’s, if I’m not very much mistaken,” she answered, her voice creaky with disuse.
The Healer smiled. “Yes, good. And can you tell me who is Minister of Magic?”
“Cornelius Fudge, unless the old fool has finally managed to get himself the boot.”
He smiled again. The quick return of her even quicker wit was an excellent sign. His Quick-Quotes Quill took notes on a small piece of parchment that hovered next to him as he dictated, “Patient oriented as to time and place,” while he passed his wand slowly over Minerva’s torso. “A-fib resolved. Patient is in consistent normal sinus rhythm. Repeat q two hours to establish baseline.”
He turned his attention back to his patient. “So, how are you feeling?”
“My chest hurts; I’m not certain about anything else just yet.”
“I’ll have the mediwizard on duty bring you something to help with the pain.”
“Thank you, Healer . . . ?” She searched for his badge and failed to read it in the absence of her glasses.
“Any relation to Davy Gudgeon? He was one of my best N.E.W.T. students a few years back,” she said.
Healer Gudgeon gave a little bow. “At your service, Professor.”
“My gods, it can’t be!” Minerva exclaimed, sending a quick stab of white heat to her chest. Her hand flew to where it hurt and found a thick bandage.
Gudgeon said, “That can come off in a few days. The skin is healing well.”
Minerva was taken aback to realise her former student had been tending to her chest, but she told herself to stop being silly. It would happen more and more often as she got older, given that most of the witches and wizards in Britain younger than age fifty had at one time sat under her watchful eye in the Transfiguration classroom.
“I can’t believe little Davy Gudgeon is a Healer at St Mungo’s. I remember you as a wee, timid thing so anxious to prove your Gryffindor mettle you went and got your eye nearly knocked out playing that foolish game with the Whomping Willow,” she said, trying not to laugh, which she knew would hurt like the dickens.
“That’s what gave me the idea to go into Healing. What I remember most, though, is the dressing down you gave me afterwards. I think it scarred me worse than my injury,” he joked, pointing to a jagged, faded cicatrice just below his left eye.
This time she did laugh, and it hurt quite as much as she had expected.
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Gudgeon said. “I’ll get that mediwizard right in with your pain potion.”
“When can I go home?”
“Not for at least a few days. You gave everyone quite a fright.”
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