He had been in one of those all-too-familiar ruts again: the type where he went for weeks at a time with only a day off peppered in amongst long work-weeks because the scheduling wouldn’t work out any other way. It was the special subtype, too: when and all of the emotionally-draining cases had decided to present themselves in uncannily-timed clusters. He was simply existing from day to day, going through the motions of work, eating, sleeping, and repeating. He was the same cheerful, attentive Healer he always was – but there didn’t seem to be enough time to recharge, during these types of stretches. They happened infrequently, thankfully, but all the same they were unpleasant. His brain reverted to a few less-than-healthy tendencies he had picked up while studying for exams in Healing school, mentally shutting out everything except what he needed to focus on until the task had been accomplished. And then let himself be overcome with exhaustion, recover, and then repeat.
It had seemed a sign, then, that – in the last few hours of his last shift before his exceedingly rare four-day weekend, which included an actual weekend this time! – the Welcome Witch at the reception desk was listening to the week’s Quidditch recap on the radio (Which, admittedly, she wasn’t supposed to be doing while on-duty… but for the moment the waiting room was empty, and Ben was in no mood to tell her off anyways). He had just been finishing up his note to file in his most recent patient’s chart when his ears pricked at the sound of a familiar name.
…some spectacular saves by Oliver Wood of Puddlemere United, but not quite enough to hang on for the win. Terribly unfortunate that they’ve fallen even below the Cannons now, while the Harpies advance to the eighth seed…
The Healer had stopped listening at that, grimacing slightly. While he wasn’t a particularly avid Quidditch follower, he knew enough to understand that dropping below the Cannons was very unfortunate indeed. Ben had been thrilled to hear that his friend had been promoted to the starting roster, but unfortunately it seemed that the season wasn’t going quite as well as the younger man had probably hoped. Which had gotten Ben to thinking – when was the last time he’d seen Oliver? Too long ago, he had decided; and once his shift had ended he had gone straight to the hospital’s owlery to send Oliver a note, inviting him to his flat that weekend for drinks.
Fortunately, both Gryffindor alumni’s free time overlapped – and now the evening had come.
Ever the host, Ben had put out some snacks on the coffee table in the main room: chips and salsa, pretzels, and something he’d only recently heard about called pigs-in-a-blanket – mini-sausages in a sort of croissant roll. They sounded wonderful so Ben had given it a whirl, and the first batch had seemed to turn out all right. He had just taken the second tray out of the oven to cool when he heard a knock at the door. Leaving the tray on the stovetop for the time being, he brushed stray crumbs off of his shirt as he left the small kitchen and opened the door, grinning as he took in his friend’s familiar face.
“Good to see you, mate,†he greeted, clapping Oliver jovially on the shoulder. “Glad you could make it, what with neither of us having a normal work schedule!â€
