3rd November, 1895 — Outside the Hog’s Head

“Evening, Miss Whitby,” Florian managed brightly as the (familiar) mediwitch who’d been summoned finally arrived on the scene. He was impressed with himself for focusing enough on her face to recognise her, actually, because the multitude of doxy bites littering his arms and face and neck were now having the combined effect of making him woozy. His head lolled a little as he looked up at her.

The doxy venom was half the reason why he hadn’t made it much further out of the Hog’s Head than this, propped up on a stack of empty crates out back of the dingiest pub on Hogsmeade’s high street. He didn’t come to the Hog’s Head often (which was probably wise of him, Florian figured, if this was how things were going to end up). So when he had overheard an interesting (in the newsworthy or perhaps-personally-profitable-way, if he played his cards right) conversation between some other men in the place, he had ducked into a dusty broom closet under the stairs to better eavesdrop (– and eavesdropping sounded more elegant and efficient than just hiding, at any rate). And all had been well, until he heard a suspicious whirring at his ears; and the infestation of doxies he had just dislodged from their nest in some mouldy cleaning clothes had swarmed him with a vengeance, biting anywhere they could get to on him.

Vainly he had tried to stay quiet and surreptitious, in the face of that, so, in short – Florian had launched himself out of the broom cupboard, landed on his face in front of the men he’d been investigating, and thence been hauled up by the scruff of his neck and soundly boxed around the ears before being thrown out of the pub in disgrace. The punches were the other half of the reason for his dizziness.

And the effects of the doxy bites were coming up splendidly in mass now, so he had felt too faint to walk himself to the Hospital, and the apothecary was closed at this hour. One of the kitchen staff had helped prop him up somewhere safe out back in the meantime, and summoned a mediwitch on call to look him over. And here she was. And a Whitby to boot. He knew most of the sisters a little – Sage here; Saffron from the Ministry; used their printers sometimes and all. “Closet full of doxies,” he explained, shaking his head plaintively and immediately regretting it. “You don’t want to know.” She would be able to sort him out, at least, he was positive.

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Sage Whitby/Daffodil Grimstone

  

The Hog's Head wasn't somewhere she was called to often, unfortunately. It wasn't a place she would frequent of her own accord, but Sage thought maybe she ought to, it would save her the trip if she was already here.

"Oh, Mr. Bashar what have you gotten yourself into." The doxy bites were only part of the problem, clearly. He looked far more worse for the wear than expected. Truthfully, Sage hadn't gotten much information, which wasn't uncommon with a call from the pub, but this was pretty bad. Her connection to the reporter was familiar enough. The paper was a printshop in its own right and though she didn't often have a lot to do with her family's business, she did tend to keep track of the people then ran into often.

Gently she tipped his head up towards hers a little more with one finger, turning gently to take in the worst of the damage. She bent down to get a good look in his eyes; a little glassy, which wasn't good and unclear as if it was from being knocked about or the doxies. At least she knew what to treat first, so she pulled a vial of an antidote for the creatures' venom first. Once that was handled, she might have a chance at ascertaining what caused which injury to his face. "Start here," she said as she offered the vial to him. "Once that starts to kick in, I'll have a look at the rest. You aren't going to pass out on me, are you?" That would warrant a trip to the hospital without question.

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He had not said you don’t want to know for nothing – because, although she had asked (purely rhetorically, he figured; and probably in mild exasperation, although it was lucky for her there were enough idiots in the world for her to have such constant work, if she liked it) the real answer was that there was only himself to blame. One couldn’t go to the Hog’s Head and fail to keep their head appropriately down and their nose appropriately out of other people’s business without asking for it. The doxies might have been karma. (Or left there preventatively, as a deterrent to any like-minded eavesdroppers, even...? Florian wouldn’t be surprised if the owner was that purposefully shrewd.) “It would seem I aggravated both the resident doxies and the resident clientele, through no fault of my own,” he said, all innocence, and not sure which half of that sequence of events was to blame for the difficulty in stringing together his words now – so he took the vial Sage Whitby handed him without even pausing to ask what it was first; and Florian rarely did anything without asking a question or three, purely out of curiosity.

But none of that now – he put it shakily to his lips and gulped it down, wincing loudly at the unforgivable taste. He hoped it would take the edge off fast – but he pulled another face as he laughed at the mediwitch’s next question, never mind how it stretched one of the doxy bites on his neck. “Absolutely not. I don’t have the money for an overnight hospital stay.” Florian blinked, trying harder now to keep himself balanced on the crate he was sitting on, and his eyes focused on her face (– and if he picked one spot at a time, like her nose, or her forehead, or her right eyebrow, he could make sure she stayed properly in focus too).

“Just keep talking to me,” he advised – or implored – with a hopeful smile; the conversation was already helping to distract him from the ache in his face and on his arms and the back of his neck. “And I think I might hang on. How have you been?” Working hard, no doubt. The evening shift for a mediwitch (and getting called out to the Hog’s Head, of all places), was hardly a glamorous time.

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