At this hour the hospital was, predictably, quite quiet. As Gideon stood in the lobby, he could not help but worry—fear, even—that Miss Chevalier simply would not come. His heart sank at the prospect, both because it would be confirmation she had little (or no!) faith in his skills, and also because if she did not, she might succumb to her (...admittedly not as dire as he had originally suspected) injuries. Neither was a notion he wished to entertain.

After what seemed like an hour but was, at most, a quarter of one, she apparated into the lobby with a pop, and Gideon's stomach did the little somersault it was so good at in her presence and he felt decidedly lighter than he had moments before.

"Miss Chevalier, you are clearly out of sorts," Gideon pointed out gently in protest, his hands just beside her back, just beside her elbow, that he might guide without presuming to touch her. "Let us at least get you to a work room so I can see to your head and get a potion into you."