Who: Bertie Aubrey & Penelope Clearwater What: It's hard to find a Healer when St. Mungo's doesn't want anything to do with you. Where: London When: This afternoon Warnings/Rating: TBA
When London's only hospital for magical injuries and maladies had made it known that people like him would no longer be welcome there, Bertie hadn't taken much notice. He'd been avoiding places like that for years (thanks to the suspiciously wolf-shaped bite and claw marks along his back and shoulder) and hadn't felt the lack. He so rarely interacted with magical people anymore that his complaints were invariably Muggle in nature.
After spending three days abusing his liver over Christmas, his current Muggle complaint was that he was spectacularly hungover and recovery in time for the obligatory New Year's bender was seeming less and less likely. He didn't often go and get himself quite that good and tight, but he had the time off, the moon was right, and he felt he deserved to unwind a little. He knew, however, that all the vitamin C, water and aspirin in the world wasn't going to put him right before Saturday. It was time to resort to magic once again.
He wasn't completely sure the reason he felt so awful didn't have anything to do with his recent introduction to Wolfsbane, either. Lycanthropy had given Bertie a touch of hypochondria that had only grown over the past several years, and he was inclined to overthink his personal health problems in any case. So, after hearing about the clinic a few more liberal-minded ex-Mungo's employees had set up, it was really only a matter of time before he found his way there. People who were Healing underground, as it were, would at least be less likely to ask pressing questions. By the time he found the proper address, he'd come up with a few things beyond a hangover potion he might want to get out of it, and he settled into the makeshift waiting room with his bottle of water and just tried not to look like an utter train wreck for a few minutes.