One week into his internship and Eldin was confident in his ability to recite the names of every healer in his ward—but more importantly, he knew where all the supply cabinets were, how the confusing room numbers were arranged, and where his mother hid her (and his) favorite coffee.

Nothing very eventful had happened. Most of his days were spent under the charge of a more experienced healer who taught him the basics of building a healing plan, showed him more advanced healing spells than Hogwarts taught, and sent him to grab coffee during their breaks. There were no surprise disasters to send their ward into overtime mode, nor had he faced a patient with an injury he had yet to understand. Yet being the key word.

The sky had gone down ten minutes prior to receiving his last file of the night. It was routine for him to make his own determination before the actual healer came in, and then afterwards they would compare notes. Usually it was something like "patient has turned himself blue and can't figure out went wrong" or "A bad memory spell left the patient struggling to remember how to use the floo network".

Tonight was different. Eldin stood outside the closed door of the hospital room on the far end of the wing and began flipping through the file. It was a young male—his age—who'd... managed to get his arms stuck together? Unsure of whether to be horrified or amused, Eldin simply knocked on the door and walked inside.

"Merlin, Pyrites," he cackled, unable to stop himself. The boy's arms were outstretched in front of him, fused together at the forearm. "What did you do?"

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