Ernest had never had much respect for healers — the human body, to his thinking, could not possibly contain within it the mysteries that the outside world did, and so confining one's study simply to fixing up broken things seemed to be a rather low profession — on par, perhaps, with a tailor or a tinker. It was less a profession and more of a trade, with a finite amount of things to be learned and a plodding, repetitive labor. That had been his perspective before having ever needed to be involved with healers for any length of time. Now, it was even lower. They had one job, which was to repair the bodies of men and women who had been magically injured, and it seemed they could not even manage that. How was this unfixable? What sort of a person just sat around with an unsolved problem and said yes, well, we've done all we can, no use trying anything else?
There was a way to fix it, he was convinced, and if only someone of any intelligence worked in the hospital — or, really, anywhere in the field of magical medicine worldwide — they would already know what it was. Because they were all blundering idiots, he would have to do it himself — and in the meantime, he was stuck being carted around by the servants like so much extra luggage after a holiday. How utterly dehumanizing.
While still at St. Mungo's and surrounded by morons, he'd ordered several books of anatomy and healing fundamentals from the library. They had been waiting in his study on his return home, and he'd retired with them, taking his meals at his desk and sleeping right there in the wheelchair. The only thing he left for was to relieve himself — or, rather, to be relieved, since that was something he was no longer able to do for himself. (The humiliation! When he found a way to fix this, he could take the healers who had inflicted this misfortune on him to court for incompetence).
Rufina's interruption was not a welcome one, but nor was it entirely unsurprising. He expected her to force her way into his study sooner or later. He could not, however, be bothered to consider her rather small concerns at a time like this. He had much more important things on his mind. With a half-hearted shrug, then, he merely said, "Whatever you like."
There was a way to fix it, he was convinced, and if only someone of any intelligence worked in the hospital — or, really, anywhere in the field of magical medicine worldwide — they would already know what it was. Because they were all blundering idiots, he would have to do it himself — and in the meantime, he was stuck being carted around by the servants like so much extra luggage after a holiday. How utterly dehumanizing.
While still at St. Mungo's and surrounded by morons, he'd ordered several books of anatomy and healing fundamentals from the library. They had been waiting in his study on his return home, and he'd retired with them, taking his meals at his desk and sleeping right there in the wheelchair. The only thing he left for was to relieve himself — or, rather, to be relieved, since that was something he was no longer able to do for himself. (The humiliation! When he found a way to fix this, he could take the healers who had inflicted this misfortune on him to court for incompetence).
Rufina's interruption was not a welcome one, but nor was it entirely unsurprising. He expected her to force her way into his study sooner or later. He could not, however, be bothered to consider her rather small concerns at a time like this. He had much more important things on his mind. With a half-hearted shrug, then, he merely said, "Whatever you like."