October, 1893 — Hogsmeade Hospital

Edmund Whitby was dying. It was only a matter of time. Calvin wasn't a pathologist and hadn't been assigned to Mr. Whitby at any point since he'd been admitted to the hospital, but he'd gotten a good look at his patient record all the same and the facts seemed clear enough to him. He wasn't sure whether the family had realized it yet, or whether Mr. Whitby himself had. He wasn't sure if Saffron knew it or if she was in denial. It was quite a natural thing to be in denial about. Losing a parent was difficult — (he imagined; he'd never done it) — they had already lost their mother. It would be entirely understandable if she wanted to stave off the realization. And the healers were probably lying to them, he assumed; they usually did when things were like this, as a softening attempt. That was one of the reasons Calvin had gravitated towards Creature-Induced Injuries; there was rarely a need for dancing around the facts. If someone was going to die from a creature-induced injury, everyone probably already knew it. There was no reason to be subtle in relaying the prognosis.

His schedule was erratic, so he hadn't seen her every time she'd come in, but her work schedule was predictable. There was a consistent window of time where Saffron might be visiting her father. She didn't always come to the tea room in the hospital's central waiting area, but sometimes she did, so he'd started checking it every afternoon to see that it was adequately supplied for her. A full tin of chamomile tea, clean spoons, a jar of honey he'd picked up at the Hogsmeade street market. Chamomile wasn't the only tea she drank, but it was the better sort for the mood she was in these days. He'd been watching her come in and out, with her shoulders tense and a look on her face as though she was always on the verge of a larger emotion. He suspected she wasn't sleeping well. She needed a calming tea. The first time he'd spotted her in the tea room after a visit with her father she'd made herself a black tea, and he hadn't thought that was a good idea. He'd emptied that tin out before she could visit again.

He made the same round today, stocking the tea room in a quiet moment where no one would ask what he was doing. He had just gotten off of his shift, which meant he probably had to go home; there were few places he could linger for long without arousing suspicion. The tea room was one of them... and he might sit here for twenty minutes or more without anyone wondering what he was doing, he considered. If they even noticed him, he could easily explain it by claiming he was tired, or that he'd made a cup of tea and lost track of time. He had a book in his work bag. That was as good an alibi as anything. He went to fetch it and then made himself tea and settled in towards the back of the room, watching for Saffron.

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Saffron Whitby

  

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Tired. She was…so tired. And Saffy knew she wasn’t the only one of her family who were struggling. Practically everyone was pitching in, working extra hours where they could in order to make payments to the hospital on time for Papa’s treatment. Her back hurt. Her limbs hurt. She was strung out. It felt like at any point she would burst into tears at the slightest inconvenience. There were times when she had broken down into tears, but most of those where when she had time after work to lock herself in a broom closet at work and succumb to the grief. She had been able to cry a little with her sisters. When she was with Mia or Amber, but she hadn’t wanted to burden Tess or Sage with anything else. She could see the toll it was taking on them.

Today was a little better. She’d had her tears yesterday in her typical obliging broom closet back at the Ministry (and maybe once again earlier this afternoon), before making the trip over to sit with her father. She could see him doing his best at keeping his spirit up, but she knew their visits wore him out. So in an effort to make it easier on him, Saffron had brought a book to read to him, which helped to kill two birds with one stone (perhaps not the best phrase to think of when one’s father is in the hospital for an illness): they got to spend time together but Papa didn’t have to exert himself by talking so much. He could merely enjoy the story and even fall asleep if he needed to.

After he’d fallen asleep, Saffron put the book down and decided to go fetch a cup of tea, remembering that the room had been stocked with a particularly good brand of chamomile that sounded rather soothing for her vocal chords. She had shooed her sisters away for the night, insisting they go home and get some sleep. It took her a few moments to make it to the tea room, but by now Saffron had the route memorized. Once she’d even counted the steps in her head; 394 steps if she was moving slowly, which today she was. Walking into the room, Saffron barely looked around before making a beeline for the trays the staff had left out. She took solace in the routine of making a cup. Someone had just made hot water so it didn’t take long to reheat. Saffy took a teabag from the chamomile tin, dropping it in with a dollop of honey and watched as the hot water melted the golden threads around the inside of the cup.

With a yawn she turned around, cup and saucer in hand and sat down at a free table.

  

He hardly had to wait for her arrival at all. It was almost like fate. Calvin propped his book on the table so that he had the excuse of it, but surreptitiously watched every move while she entered the room and went about making her tea. He'd taken one of the chamomile, too. It was almost like they were having tea together. It would have been sweet, except that she looked so distraught. There was red around her eyes; it could have meant that she'd been crying or that she'd been trying not to, but having watched her for the past few weeks he thought it was most likely both. And she wasn't sleeping well, that was obvious now that he could see her more than just in passing. He could have helped with that, if they were together. He could have massaged out each point of tension and put her to bed with a cup of tea. He could have listened to all of the things she was trying to hold back from everyone else. He could have taken them all, and she would have slept soundly and woken up to a fresh pastry from the Ivy Leaf.

Moot point; they weren't together. It was an oversight on his part. He could have approached her months ago, if he'd known there was a sense of urgency to it. He hadn't wanted to, because he still hadn't felt ready to finally pull the trigger, but he hadn't known then that her father would be dying. Now whenever they did meet he was going to have to carry the sting of this — that she had needed him here in this moment, and he hadn't been there for her yet.

Her tea was finished. Even the way she yawned was beautiful. There was a muscle that flexed in her neck when she bent her head that way, as she sat down at one of the tables, and it made him ache to put his hand on the back of her neck. She was about to become an orphan and he wasn't going to be there to comfort her through any of it. He could hardly stand it. Maybe staying behind to see her had been a bad idea.

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Sitting at the table might have been a bad idea. She immediately saw the whole room swim before her eyes. Elbow on the table to brace herself, she let her head drop into her free hand. It was almost enough to make the spinning go away. Almost. With another tired sigh she reached into the pockets of her skirt and drew out her book. After reading a few sentences, it didn’t help and she shut it again.

This was madness. She was restless and tired at the same time. How in Merlin’s name was she supposed to deal with both of those at the same time? It wasn’t as if she had never felt this before; after a long day at a loud Quidditch field, she was certainly used to feeling this way, but now she had the added burden of being worried about her father. It made for an emotional whiplash that she was constantly recovering from.

She found that sipping her tea helped a great deal, and soon she had drained most of the cup. She swirled the dregs around in the bottom thinking of Divination classes at Hogwarts. Would any seer have been able to tell her what would happen to their family? Of her mother’s death, of their family’s fate? Would her father survive? Not wanting to be caught in public crying, Saffy gave a sniff and finished the rest of her tea cup before getting up. The sound of her chair scraping back echoed throughout the room’s silence. She cringed, looking around for the first time as the heat rose in her cheeks.

It wasn’t completely empty like she thought; there were two couples who were talking quietly to each other and a few hospital employees who were likely on their shift break. It didn’t look like she’d disturbed anyone, but nonetheless she let a “Beg pardon,” slip from her lips in case she had.

  

Saffron had looked tired when she came in, but when she saw down with her tea Calvin began to suspect she might be ill, too. Not a cold (maybe also a cold; it was that time of year), but the sort of nauseated feeling that made it difficult to make one's eyes focus. How was she going to get herself home like this? He'd have to follow her, in case she needed him. It was risky, because he couldn't stay here forever and he didn't know how long she might be here before she left for the evening, but he could hardly let her leave in this state. What if something happened to her? He never could have forgiven himself. No, he'd have to follow her home. He wished he could have done it without risk — if only they were at the point where he could have just offered to walk her home, and she might have accepted! But she still hadn't met him, at least that she knew of. There had been three occasions where they had exchanged words, actually. In the Ivy Leaf cafe she'd bumped into him in the line on her way out the door. Last winter in Padmore Park they had been crossing paths and he'd let a bookmark slip out of the pages of the book he was carrying, and she had stopped him to give it back. They'd had a brief conversation about the weather — it was cold enough that they were both bundled up and there was no chance of her recognizing him later, so he had been feeling especially bold and was thrilled at being able to actually talk to her. In the spring he'd been at a Quidditch game and part of the stands had needed to be closed off — the Tutshill Tornadoes may have cut some corners on their latest construction, it seemed. She had been at the edge of the tape while the rest of her department crawled through the stands like ants; he'd asked mildly if she thought he would get a refund on his ticket. She did not remember any of those, or at least not well enough to tie them back to him.

He could have turned the interaction at the Quidditch game into a real conversation. That could have been how they met. He could have been charming and just distracting enough to keep her mind off the noise. Then they might have kept meeting, by coincidence, and eventually grow fond of each other, and then he'd be able to offer to walk her home now.

(No he couldn't have. A Quidditch match was the wrong venue entirely. She was never going to be fond of someone who tried to talk to her while she was overwhelmed like that. He knew that. Wistful thinking, in hindsight.)

She stood up. She still looked disoriented. Calvin didn't want her to leave, both because she continued to look unwell and because he wasn't ready to let her go yet. He was powerless to stop her, of course... but something propelled him to his feet, slipping out of the chair he'd been in. He didn't look at her as he walked, or give any indication that he had noticed either the noise of the chair or her apology for it. He made his way to the tea service, and he got there before her without having to rush — he'd been at the back of the room already, and far closer to it. She'd be headed this direction, to return her mug to the dirtied dishes area. He still had half a mug of tea back at his table but pretended he didn't and filled the kettle with more water. He was just closing the tap when she approached.

"Another cup?" he asked, with a nod towards the kettle. "I can put water on for you."

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   Saffron Whitby

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The only people who seemed to have noticed were one or two who immediately went back to their conversation. With the worry of disrupting people in her peripherals, Saffron walked to the tea kettle, only to realize it was already occupied. She waffled for a moment or two, debating on whether she should go back to her seat to wait for the man at the kettle. That he looked almost done with it convinced her to approach with a soft apologetic smile.

Saffy expected him to merely step aside and get back to his table, but instead he offered to help fix her another cup. Touched, she gave him a smile. He looked slightly familiar, but at this particular nexus in her life, Saffron had little capacity to process new people’s faces whilst worrying that her father was at death’s door. “If it’s not too much trouble.” She responded gratefully.