“Healer Smythwyck!”
Hippocratres Smythwyck looked up from the pile of paperwork littering his desk, and into the eyes of the young flustered Healer standing before him.
“Sir, we have a small problem,” gasped the young Healer.
“What type of problem, Healer?” asked Smythwyck.
“It’s the House-Elves, Sir.” The young Healer paused, shaking his head in disbelief, “They’ve gone on strike.”
Chaos. That seemed like the only appropriate word to describe St. Mungo’s. As Smythwyck ran to the Dai Llewelyn Ward, he caught glimpses of other Healers desperately trying to figure out to do. He passed one Healer in tears, but he had no time to help, his own patients needed looking after.
When Hippocrates entered his own Ward the first thing he noticed was the smell. The bedpans hadn’t been cleaned, bandages hadn’t been changed, and none of the patients had been fed.
As Hippocrates finished caring for his patients, Trainee Healer Augustus Pye walked in with breakfast, which was an hour and a half late.
“Healer Smythwyck,” Pye whispered. “They need you down in the main lobby to work triage.”
“What?” Hippocrates cried. Then lowering his voice, “There hasn’t been a battle, has there?”
“No,” the Trainee Healer replied. “They said you would understand when you got down there.”
Hippocrates grabbed Pye’s shoulder, “Don’t leave this Ward. These patients are in your care now, and no Muggle medicine.”
“Yes, sir.”
Without a look back, Hippocrates hurried down to the main lobby.
When Hippocrates arrived he couldn’t scene before his eyes. Every inch of the lobby was covered in a mass of humanity. Witches and wizards swarmed him as soon as he entered. Quickly, he pushed his way to the front desk where the Welcome Witch looked like she was about to have a breakdown.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“Most of them heard about the strike and want to see their families, others really need care, but we can’t get to them,” the Welcome Witch replied.
“They won’t go home?” he asked and she shook her head no in reply. Hippocrates pulled a passing Healer to the side and said, “We need a place to put the visitors until things die down.”
The Healer pointed to a set of doors and stated, “That room is empty at the moment.”
Hippocrates and the other Healer started the triage: sending the visitors to the side room, marking people who needed immediate care with red light, people who needed care in the next couple of hours with yellow, and those who could wait with green. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to use black; for those too far gone or would take too much time to save.
As he slowly worked his way through the crowd, Hippocrates saw her. She was an elderly lady with black hair, pulled back into a tight bun, and square glasses. She was leaning on a cane for support, and her free was hand clutching her chest.
Hippocrates tried to reach her, but the crowd wouldn’t let him through. The crowds’ hands grabbed his robes, trying to get his attention. They demanded care, to see their loved ones, and that he do something.
“Move,” Hippocrates ordered, pushing hands away.
The crowd, however, refused to listen. In desperation drew his wand, but he could only watch as the woman collapsed.
“OUT OF MY WAY!”
Shocked, the crowd froze allowing Hippocrates to push through to her.
She was just laying there, no breathe and no pulse. Hippocrates placed the tip of his wand over her heart, trying to restart it, but it was too late. She was dead.
In front of the Ministry of Magic, Hermione Granger was having the day of her life. She had finally convinced the House-Elves to rise up against their masters. Surrounded by House-Elves she watched with joy as they demanded fair wages, days off, and overtime. Finally, centuries of oppression would end.
Hermione smiled as she caught sight of Harry Potter running toward her. “You made it, Harry! Look at this, isn’t it wonderful?”
“Hermione,” Harry said his voice cold. “Call them off.”
“What?”
“Call them off, send them home, Hermione,” Harry demanded.
“Harry…”
“McGonagall’s dead! She’s dead because of you!”
“I…” Hermione’s voice shook with emotion, “I don’t understand.”
Hermione had seen Harry mad before, but never like this. He was too mad to yell, too mad to scream. Instead, he stared at her with daggers in his eyes and replied in a cold harsh voice.
“You had the House-Elves strike at St. Mungo’s. The Healers were trying to care for the patients and do the House-Elves jobs, too. It was total chaos. No one noticed McGonagall come in, holding her chest. It was her heart; it had never been the same since she took three stunners to her chest. No one found her, until it was too late.”
The House-Elves surrounding Hermione fell silent as they listened to Harry’s words. Slowly, one by one, they left to return to their masters and their jobs.
Slowly, with tears in her eyes, Hermione replied, “Harry, you know I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just wanted…”
“Don’t speak to me, Hermione.”
With that, Harry turned and left Hermione alone on an empty street, weeping. She wept for her professor that she would never see again, and for her best friend that would never speak to her again. When it seemed like there were no more tears left to cry, Hermione wept for a dream that would never come to pass.