Night Light || Ellen

Thursday, December 14, 1922
10:44 PM - Nearing the end of the final shift

"Oi," Rae tapped the shoulder of the sleeping third year who had curled up on one of the couches in the lounge. "Just call it a night. Get out of here."

The final shift of the night was drawing to an end and being a frequent flyer there herself, she'd become used to the sleepers. They meant well and were usually quite useful at the beginning of their shift, but as 11 drew close and the night became still, many succumbed to that stillness. The patients, the few that needed to be admitted, weren't the sort that needed constant, hands-on care. It left a lot of downtime that not everyone knew how to occupy. Under those conditions, several pairs of eyes began to droop around the school's standard curfew.

Rae didn't have that problem. Sleep had never come easily for her, least of all while sleeping in her own bed. It had left her roaming the castle grounds for years, wracking up enough detentions to make most of Slytherin wither until she'd finally been given a badge that gave her clearance to be up for a little longer. After that, she roamed until her eyes finally grew heavy. Having meaningful ways of passing before being relegated to that roaming had been a blessing. Whenever she could, she always picked the night shift – supplemented by those in the afternoon when she could get them. Every healer that had gone through the wing had tried to preach balance, but the hospital wing was the first place that had ever told the dirty little girl from the streets that she had a purpose and a place.

The third year rose groggily to her feet, muttering an apology she was too sleepy to genuinely feel. Rae watched her exit the lounge for the lockerrooms before heading toward the back cupboard herself.

She held the evening's charts in her hand, ready to begin the task of filing them away until they were needed by those who began their shift in the late morning. Rae tugged the first drawer open, not needing to look at its contents to know she'd gotten the right one. It had been years of the same routine, her responsibilities only growing as she proved herself more and more proficient.

Behind her, she heard the soft footsteps of someone else entering the lounge. Curiosity had her turning. Compared to the afternoon, night shifts were less attended. A handful of volunteers, a handful and a half some nights depending on the schedule. Most of them were already sprawled about the room, waiting for the remaining 15 mins to be over now that the final checks had been done for the patients.

Ellen.

The Hufflepuff was coming to the end of her week of night shifts, having taken the punishment on the chin the way she expected someone as composed as Ellen to. They'd hardly spoken a word the whole time that Rae could recall, but busy as she often made herself, it wasn't something that had stuck out.

On the best of days, the pair weren't exactly giggling girlies who couldn't wait to talk about the mishaps of the day's lessons. As well, Rae's mind tended to be the busiest at night, giving her little time or desire for introspection.

"Did you ensure Austin drank all the potion I gave you?" As a novice, the girl wasn't allowed to be passing off potions on her own, but the healer had already given the measurement. All that had been left was making sure the stubborn boy drank it. Not in the mood for the whiny first year's protests, she'd left that bit to Ellen.

Ellen was finding being a nurse easy. Not because it came with ease; she'd like to say she was relatively quick, but this was a whole new area of— well. Simplicity, perhaps. The tasks themselves were straightforward. The hierarchy was clear. She was a novice, the lowest tier, and her duties reflected that well: change the linens, sterilise the equipment, monitor the patients, report anything unusual to someone above her. No judgment calls about what could be fixed and what couldn't. No delegation. No assistants who treated the rules like suggestions. Just a list of things to do and an expectation that she would do them properly.

It was... restful, in a way. After the library, after O.W.L.s, after the strange weight of sixth year and its open hours, there was something almost relieving about being told exactly what was needed and simply doing it. No more, no less.

It was also, she was aware, a step down. She had been a Head Assistant. She had run an information desk, kept a ledger, and handled assistants. Now she was mopping brows and ensuring first years drank their potions, and the difference was not lost on her, but she wasn't much hung up on it. Especially since being Head Assistant was something she now did not reflect upon with much warmth.

There had been nothing wrong with the position, nothing wrong with the library, the desk, or anything; it had simply been ill-matched. Her stint hadn't been for long, and by the end, she was burnt out. Fourteen-year-olds, even such as her, are just not equipped for that kind of responsibility. Maybe if it had come to her now, or even in fifth year, she would have been equal to it. She liked to think so. But that was neither here nor there, and dwelling on it served no purpose.

The hospital wing, at least, did not ask her to manage people. It asked her to tend to them. The distinction mattered more than she might have expected.

The library had been stressful precisely because of that mismatch; not the work itself, which she had liked, but being fourteen and responsible for people who would not be responsible in return. The whole bit where she was meant to enforce rules that others treated as optional, and had no real means of enforcing beyond the force of her own expectation, which, as it turned out, was not enough. The poor baubles could only do so much. And the frustration of it had not been the frustration of someone who disliked the job. It had been the frustration of someone who cared about the job and could not make anyone else care alongside her.

That was exhausting in a way that changing linens was not.

Here, the tasks were small and concrete. A potion administered. A temperature taken. A sheet changed. Each one completed and then set aside, making room for the next. There was no ledger to stare at, after a particularly trying day, no hierarchy of assistants to manage, no Ruth Elliot eating through a lecture as though discipline were a matter of personal taste.

Just the work.

And she was good at the work. That was the other thing. The things the wing asked of her - patience, attention to detail - these were things she already had. The healing magic would come in time, with study and practice, but the temperament for it, the willingness to be thorough and methodical and present, that was already in place.

Which made the night shifts, paradoxically, the most bearable part of her punishment.

But they were genuinely exhausting, don't get her wrong. Not in the way that studying was exhausting, which was a tiredness of the mind, a depletion that could be remedied with tea and a change of subject. This was a tiredness of the body. A heaviness in the limbs that had not been there before the week began, a heaviness behind the eyes that thickened around two in the morning and did not fully lift even after she'd crawled into bed at dawn. Her feet ached. Her back ached. She had not known that simply standing could make a person ache in so many places at once, because she had never had reason to stand for this long, at these hours, with only the quiet and the dim lights and the occasional murmur of a restless patient for company.

She had never done this before. That was the thing. She had never had to. Gravenmere had house-elves, and Hogwarts had its rhythms, and her life had been arranged in such a way that sleep was simply something that happened at the appropriate time, in the appropriate place, without her ever having to think about it. Now she thought about it. Now she thought about it quite a lot, actually, usually around three in the morning when the wing was at its stillest, and the cot in the corner looked unfairly comfortable.

But she pushed through. Of course, she did. There was no virtue in complaining about a punishment she had accepted, and there was even less in letting it show. So she changed the linens, and she checked the patients, and she made sure the first years drank their potions, and when her shift ended, she went back to her dormitory, slept, and woke up for class, and she did not mention it.

That was simply what you did.

"Yes," she answered, because Ruth had asked her a question. "All of it. He complained about the taste, but he drank it." He'd tried holding it under his tongue first, waiting for her to turn away, but she'd been watching his throat and it hadn't moved, and he'd known he'd been caught. Children were not as clever as they thought they were.

"Yes."

That was all she cared about.

"All of it. He complained about the taste, but he drank it."

Rae snorted lightly, caught off-guard by the amusement she managed to take in such a simple report. Of course, he complained about the taste. Ever since Austin had gotten that first taste of whatever they were selling over at the candy shop these days, nothing else tasted good to him. Potions were already a hard sell for most. For a boy whose tongue may as well have been made of sugar by now, it would've been an uphill battle getting him to swallow.

In that regard, he was lucky to have gotten Ellen as his administering volunteer on duty.

Had Rae been forced to deal with his small tantrum, the boy would've learned the true meaning of force. She wouldn't baulk at the need to hold him down – bind him with a spell, if necessary – then get it done. This late at night, she simply wouldn't allow herself to be bothered.

"Good. He'll be out before we're done wrapping up for the night." If he managed to wake up in the odd hours of the morning, crying over the pain his latest binge had gotten him, he would be Healer Graham's problem. On several occasions, the Slytherin had tried insisting that she wouldn't mind spending the night to offer extra aid, but the woman would never hear of it. At the end of the day, she was a student, and students needed rest. As much as she enjoyed being in the wing, the woman never failed to remind her that her primary job was learning and studying. Sleeping was also a part of growing. Go figure, at 16, she struggled to maintain her 5"3 stature.

If she wouldn't be sleeping anyway, it only made sense she be allowed to stay. Alas, when the clock struck 11, she would have to leave with everyone else.

"Surprised I didn't hear him screaming. You should've heard him when I'd stopped by today after lunch." Very dramatic, some of it, she suspected, due to the candy.

Rae tucked a few of the files neatly into the drawer before tugging open the second one. "Planning to take on more night shifts when the week's over?" she asked, curious to know whether she could get a new night staffer out of the bit of happenstance that had taken place on Sunday. It had been fortuitous for the wing, if not for the Hufflepuff. Two of their regular night volunteers had fallen sick, and the extra hand had been more helpful than perhaps Ellen would ever know.

Rae tucked the remaining files away, then crossed the room to join the others in waiting out the end of the last shift.

Brown eyes remained on the girl a moment, looking her up and down in silent contemplation.

In the quiet of the night, another thought settled on her, one she'd held onto on and off since that summer evening.

Sit with me. Your time still belongs to me for another 10 minutes or so."

"Surprised I didn't hear him screaming. You should've heard him when I'd stopped by today after lunch."

It was not hard to understand why that would be the case.

Ellen had not treated him like a petulant child, even if he was. She had simply told him the facts of his situation.

He could drink it now, quickly, and it would be unpleasant for a few seconds, and then it would be over, and neither of them would have to revisit the matter. Or he could drag it out, and the dragging would not change the outcome; it would only make her stand there until it was done, and the potion was not going to stop tasting the way it tasted, but it would make the experience longer and worse for him, and for her, though she hadn't said that part. The choice was his. Either way, she would stand there.

That was all. No cajoling, no threats, no promises of sweets afterward. Just the situation, laid out for him as though he were a person capable of understanding it.

And he was, as it turned out. Capable, at least, when someone treated him as though he might be.

She had learned that from her mother, though she would not have named it that way at the time. Her mother had never spoken down to her children. Not once. She had corrected, instructed, and on occasion rebuked, but always with the assumption that they could follow the reasoning. It was not kindness, exactly. But perhaps it was respect for the structure of the thing, that children were not less, they were earlier. That they would arrive at understanding if given the opportunity to do so.

Austin had been given the opportunity. He had still tried to hold the potion under his tongue, because he was.. eleven, but he had drunk it in the end without needing to be forced.

"Planning to take on more night shifts when the week's over?"

That question caught her off guard. Because it was not something she expected to be asked. This was her punishment. A week of night shifts, assigned briskly and without discussion, for thirty seconds of lateness caused by a staircase. That was the framework under which she had been operating for the past six nights; head down, work done, no complaints, because the punishment was the punishment and you served it and that was that.

And now Ruth was asking if she wanted to continue.

Ellen's first instinct was to look for the angle. Was this a joke? It didn't sound like one. Ruth's tone had been even, almost conversational, which was not a tone that Ellen had recently associated with her but which was not, apparently, beyond her. A test? Some kind of trap where agreeing would be presumptuous and refusing would be ungrateful? She didn't know. She genuinely did not know, and not knowing made her feel cautious in a way that was perhaps more transparent than she would have liked.

She looked at Ruth. Ruth was looking back.

There didn't seem to be anything hidden in it. That was the strange part. It read as a genuine question. Did she want to keep working nights? As though the punishment had simply been a trial period, and Ruth was now evaluating whether to extend an offer.

That was... a disorienting reframing.

"I-" She paused, because the honest answer was tangled up in exhaustion and surprise and the fact that her feet ached and her eyes were heavy. The honest answer was that she was tired. But the other honest answer, the one sitting underneath that one, was that the work itself had not been unpleasant. The wing at night was quiet. The tasks were clear. No one asked her to manage anyone. No one ate muffins in restricted areas. She just tended to things.

"I hadn't thought about it," she said, which was not entirely true.

"Sit with me. Your time still belongs to me for another 10 minutes or so."

Ellen stood, silent. Then, after a moment, she sat.

Ellen hadn't thought about it. Most people didn't. Even among the volunteers who loved to spend their free time in the wing, it was rare to find those who loved it so much that they would give up their nights. The last shift of the night ran an hour beyond curfew. There were students who preferred to spend that time unwinding, preparing for bed, catching up with their dormmates or, Merlin knew what else.

Not her.

Rae saw her friends all day. They were in her classes and at her meals. When her evening shifts in the hospital didn't start until a little later, they were with her unwinding from the day. They didn't stay, though. With very few exceptions, they grew tired as the night grew long and many were happy to turn in sometime around curfew. Even those who remained awake a little longer in the common room soon succumbed to the stillness of the night and the day's fatigue.

If not the hospital wing, then she had no choice but to wander. That had been made easier after she'd finally completed her animagus training, the world – the immediate world, anyway – opening up to her and Echo, but until the hour grew late enough for that, it was nice to have a place to be and something to focus on.

"You should," Rae countered, easing back into the couch. She accioed a short stool from the other side of the room, propping her feet on top of it. Her feet were killing her. While it hadn't been a busy evening per se, there were many things that had required her attention. The girl had gone back and forth, making a few trips down to the apothecary and over to the greenhouse, verifying stock and making notes of things she could pass on to Healer Graham when day came. Things winding down meant it was the first real moment she'd been allowed to sit, and she would take it with full knowledge that in another hour or so, she would be darting through the forbidden forest.

"The crew's smaller and it's not always as exciting, but it's a worthwhile way of ending the day. You might even get other things done with how frequently the lulls are."

All real emergencies were patched through to St. Mungo's, lightening the load for the volunteers substantially – and saving the school several lawsuits.

Ellen sat.

Rae massaged her ankles and her soles.

For a moment, silence fell between them, the Slytherin in no rush. Ten minutes was plenty of time to get answers and enough to decide the category Ellen would need to be placed in outside the broader one of 'furniture'. Not all furniture was harmless. Some had teeth they hid behind polish and poise. There was a part of her that thought she might be impressed if it turned out that the Hufflepuff had it in her.

A very small part.

"That was a neat stunt your family tried pulling at your ball," she started. "Rotten work, really. How long have you been interested in Benji?" And would she be as hard of hearing as Kaitlyn? The latter was, perhaps, the more pressing question.

Ah.

Ah.

Because of course; why would Ruth Elliot be kind to her.

Was that, what it was? That the previous question, the one about the night shifts, had not been an olive branch, but instead a loosening of the guard? A casual step forward so that the next hit could land cleaner? If so, then Ellen really, really should have known better.

A "stunt." The word was poorly chosen. It was crude, reductive. Darenne Graymere did not pull stunts. Yes, her mother had spent three weeks on a seating chart, but not because she was simply arranging names on parchment, but calling on people, corresponding, testing the temperature of old alliances and older grudges, determining who could tolerate whom for the length of a supper and who could not. It was, like all things her mother did, both meticulous and political. That took time, patience, and effort. And the result was architecture, not theatre. But Ellen understood what Ruth meant, even if she didn't exactly like the way the girl talked about her family. The placement had been deliberate. Benji Laurence, at her table, at her side, on the night she was presented. The message had been clear enough that even Ruth, who seemed to move through social nuance like a battering ram, had caught it.

"How long have you been interested in Benji?"

Ellen looked at her. She was tired, her feet ached, and the fog behind her eyes was thickening by the minute, but she was not so tired that she didn't recognize the potential trap. Admitting interest meant admitting complicity in the "stunt." Denying it meant opening the door to the follow-up: Then why didn't you say anything?

But was she interested in Benji?

Sure, he was handsome enough. Any girl would think so, she'd figure. But she didn't.. like him, in that way. The truth was simpler than either option, and less dramatic. Benji was loud, well-meaning, and a Laurence. He was the sort of boy her mother would select because his family name was more than good and his manner was easy enough to tolerate. He was a possibility, not a passion. He was a friend, in the loose, structural way that Ellen had friends, and had never given anything more to rise than that, in her chest.

But the way Ruth said it, the way she lumped it in with "rotten work" and "hard of hearing," suggested she wasn't asking about her personal feelings.

"I'm not," Ellen said, softly. "He was seated there because my mother found symmetry appealing. Benji is just a classmate to me. Is that what you wanted to hear? Or is this going to drag out?"

"I'm not. He was seated there because my mother found symmetry appealing. Benji is just a classmate to me. Is that what you wanted to hear? Or is this going to drag out?"

Pff.

Pf.

Rae's jaws puffed from her effort not to laugh, an effort that ultimately failed her.

"Hahahahahahahaha!"

In the end, she had to clamp her hands over her mouth, cautious not to rouse the sleeping or otherwise resting patients. Noise wasn't tolerated on the wing – she was the biggest enforcer of that herself, but frankly, what Ellen said had been the funniest thing she'd heard in at least the last two weeks. She'd been curious, she would admit, about how the Hufflepuff might handle the confrontation and those blatant accusations. Her own father had tried impressing upon her the need for subtlety in social settings and how some shells needed to be pried open more gently to ensure the pearls on the inside weren't damaged.

But Roger Burke also approved of the times she cut to the heart of bullshit, rather than allowing herself to be placated by it. There was room for both. Not everyone believed the same, and Ellen had drawn on diplomacy.

"You sing like those pretty birds, don't you? Did your mother teach you to reply like that? Or was it the calm, stern aura of your father teaching you to hold the line?" Rae's head flopped back onto the back of the couch, the girl more amused than she ever imagined she could be given the circumstances. Not enough of a spine to own it, perhaps trying to save face and the appearance of no ill-intent. Hard to accuse if the other side denied it.

For other people.

Ruth Anaya hadn't been raised in palaces. She didn't smile graciously unless there was something in it for her. The girl didn't perform like a show pony without a guarantee of return for her labour. There was nothing to be gained by giggling bashfully and apologising for a 'misunderstanding' that neither of them believed had occurred.

"Sing me another tune, Ellen. They almost sound believable coming from your lips. Your mother can fuck off with her symmetry." She paused, a wry smile stretching at her lips. "Not as pretty, I'm afraid. My father will be thoroughly disappointed." Should the girl decide to tell. Even then, his markets were largely in the Americas, and Ellen's family did not impact his trade in any manner that might cause him grievance. Would Roger Burke even care? Rae thought she'd like to see, if only to test the limits of where he expected her behaviour to extend.

"You don't have to feed me the little garden seeds; I won't sing. If you say you're not interested, I'll leave you be, but you should let your darling mother know that my father isn't someone to suffer insults lightly. He doesn't know. Neither do the Laurences. What do you think people who've made covenants in blood would do when someone else tries to make claims on their investments?—It's nothing for you to worry about, of course. Heavens, no. You don't even like Benji. It's just...something worth mentioning the next time you lot sit together at the family table."

Did she need to evoke her father's name to make a point? Not hardly. Had it been an interest for Ellen, she wouldn't have had a problem taking things to a more physical plane—barbaric, truly. But Ellen had indirectly pointed her to the real culprit, and that sort tended to do better when they didn't think they were only contented with a 16-year-old. To send a message, she needed the right sender.

Weight was thrown where it was needed, and exploitation of the power others held had never been off-limits to the girl with loose morals.

"Symmetry", she snorted, just as amused the second time.