An Unanticipated Emergency
Of all days to be sunny it has to be today.
I groan and roll over, pulling the covers over my head in order to stem the slivers of light that seem to be poking through my eyelids and blinding me. My head is throbbing and it feels like I have an entire cotton field growing on my tongue. I think the Horse and Hound pub must’ve gotten vacuumed into some bizarre alternate universe last night or crossed some invisible barrier into the land of the ridiculously absurd and delusional, or at least a part of me hopes that was the case.
I peek out from beneath the covers and through the inch-wide space between the door and door frame. A bundle of blankets on the floor of my living room confirms the fact that it wasn’t just a very vivid dream. Ernie is apparently still sleeping.
Tav and I managed to get him back here without too much trouble. Never mind the fact that it was nearly impossible to hold onto someone who seems to have lost all of their bones and is as heavy as a baby whale while Flooing. But, then again it could’ve also had something to do with the fact that I had my fair share of pints as well.
Actually, I should give Ernie some credit. He didn’t puke and he was rather pleasant to be around for a drunk; he was very cooperative and polite when he wasn’t completely unconscious. Every time I got up last night to haul him back onto the couch after hearing him slip onto the floor for the umpteenth time, he would thank me.
“Just drink some more water, mate,” I’d tell him between yawns, “and stay on the couch this time or you’ll really be sorry tomorrow.”
“Right. On the couch,” he’d say amicably, clutching the hot water bottle I gave him to his chest.
“That’s right, Mr Nightingale. I’m not coming back out here to drag your sorry arse back up here again.”
But invariably, I’d find myself out there about forty minutes later with a severe case of déjà vu.
Oh, Ernie’s going to have a hard time living down last night. I’m going to give him hell. I decide as I recall him toasting everyone in the room with an imaginary glass and sing-talking at the top of his lungs, “I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne!”
I snort, turn over, and am just about to stuff a pillow over my head when there’s a knock at the front door.
Who would be visiting? I wonder. The only other people who know where I live are Pug, Tav, and now Ernie…well, and the Pavarti and Padma who only know by default because they’re the neighbors.
I stumble out of bed and hastily throw on a shirt and yank on a pair of old jeans that were sitting on top of the pile of clothes in the corner. I push open my bedroom door and walk across the living room, careful not to step on Ernie. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me letting him remain sprawled out in the middle of my flat like this for the whole world to see. I pause and am considering if I should wake him in order to get him back on the couch again when the knocking continues.
“Just a moment,” I say loudly to whoever is behind the door as I couch down. “Ernie,” I shake the blankets gently. “Hey, nightingale,” I say, trying not to laugh.
I pull the edge of the feather duvet back and I feel the smile slide off my face. He doesn’t look well; he’s rather pale and yellowish and his breathing is shallow.
“Ernie, mate. We’ve got to get you back on the couch,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move.
I reconsider; I’ll give him my bed instead of the couch after I get rid of whoever is here.
“Come on, I’ll let you crash in the bed if you promise not to drool all over the place,” I say jokingly as if that alone will dispel my worry. But he continues to just lie there.
Shite! Maybe I should firecall someone... Tav? Go pound on Pavarti’s door? Hell, if only I knew where Ernie lived, maybe then I could contact this Laura that Ernie keeps talking about…
The gentle rapping at the door resumes and I wonder how long I’ve sat here staring at Ernie who is still not stirring.
I jump up and pull open the door a crack, blocking the view into the flat by positioning by body direction in front of it. Standing in the small hall is a distinguished-looking man in his early 50’s dressed in a rather expensive Muggle suit.
“Yes?” I ask, rather hastily. I want to get rid of this man so I can figure out what to do with Ernie.
The man is looking up at me with an expression of slight surprise that quickly morphs into one that is more studious. However, I can’t be bothered right now to wonder what he’s staring at.
Maybe I should just Floo Ernie straight St Mungo’s?
He says, “Good afternoon.”
I glance quickly at my watch. Holy hell, it’s already noon?
“My name is Archibald Macmillan. I am looking for my son, Ernie Macmillan. Have you, by any chance, seen him lately?”
It takes me a moment to process that this man is Ernie’s father. I have no idea how Archibald Macmillan knew where to find Ernie, and I wonder if there is the existence of some divine force that’s just dropped him onto my doorstep. But I realize that right now is not the time to be wondering about the why and how.
“Oh…Ernie…yes. He’s here.” I pull open the door and add, “I’m Dean Thomas.”
Archibald extends his hand immediately and we shake hands.
“Ernie needed a place to spend the night after the retirement party at the Horse and Hound,” I tell him as he fiddles with his coat and steps through the door.
Good grief, if only I had at least gotten him back on the couch. I suddenly feel like I’m seventeen again and having to answer to a parental figure.
“He…err…over indulged.” I try to explain as if Ernie lying passed-out in the middle of the floor doesn’t make it clearly obvious what has happened.
But Archibald doesn’t seem to care about an explanation because he immediately rushes over to the lump that is Ernie and then strides to the fireplace and firecalls someone named Healer Davenport.
Moments later, a man, who can only be Healer Davenport, is now kneeling on my living room floor beside Ernie and riffling through a medical bag full of glittering bottles filled with colored liquids.
“Ernie’s drank more than his body allows him too. He is being slowly poisoned. We need to clear his body,” Archibald Macmillan explains to me as he watches Davenport run his wand over Ernie.
I can barely believe what I’m hearing. Why the hell did Ernie get royally pissed in the first place? Then I remember that I had bought him a couple of drinks. Ernie is so damn polite, maybe he didn’t want to turn them down? Suddenly, Ernie slumped against the wall, Oliver sitting on him, and him lying face down on the table is just one bad nightmare. Blimey, if I had known maybe I could’ve gotten him to St Mungo’s earlier. I begin to count the hours that have passed since the karaoke incident.
I move off to the side and watch as Archibald helps prop Ernie up as Davenport pours an especially foul-smelling potion down this throat. Ernie sputters and coughs as Davenport quickly turns him onto his side as he throws up.
Archibald looks at Davenport with a serious expression as Ernie begins to mumble and move around fitfully before becoming quiet again.
“He just needs to sleep. The potion I just gave him has a sedative. He will also be running a temperature in the next twenty-four hours but will be fine. All he needs is complete bed rest for a couple of days. I will be popping in later to make sure that everything is satisfactory,” says Davenport as he stands up and collects his bag.
Archibald rises to his feet and shakes Davenport’s hand and motions me over. It seems that now Ernie’s health has been assessed, introductions can be made.
“Good to meet you, Mr Thomas,” says Davenport, “I would like to stay but I do have another wizard to attend to. I hope you do not mind me using your fireplace.” And in a flash of green, he disappears.
Archibald Macmillan turns to me and I wonder if he’s going to suddenly lay into me. “Mr Thomas –” he begins.
“Call me Dean, please,” I say, feeling somewhat responsible.
He smiles at me and I get the bizarre feeling that he’s trying to place my face. “Alright, Dean, I have a Portkey to bring my son back home. I would really appreciate it if you would come along, meet my wife, and tell us exactly what happened.”
I nod and quickly grab a coat and stuff my feet into a pair of shoes. After all, this is the least I can do after practically killing your son.
I groan and roll over, pulling the covers over my head in order to stem the slivers of light that seem to be poking through my eyelids and blinding me. My head is throbbing and it feels like I have an entire cotton field growing on my tongue. I think the Horse and Hound pub must’ve gotten vacuumed into some bizarre alternate universe last night or crossed some invisible barrier into the land of the ridiculously absurd and delusional, or at least a part of me hopes that was the case.
I peek out from beneath the covers and through the inch-wide space between the door and door frame. A bundle of blankets on the floor of my living room confirms the fact that it wasn’t just a very vivid dream. Ernie is apparently still sleeping.
Tav and I managed to get him back here without too much trouble. Never mind the fact that it was nearly impossible to hold onto someone who seems to have lost all of their bones and is as heavy as a baby whale while Flooing. But, then again it could’ve also had something to do with the fact that I had my fair share of pints as well.
Actually, I should give Ernie some credit. He didn’t puke and he was rather pleasant to be around for a drunk; he was very cooperative and polite when he wasn’t completely unconscious. Every time I got up last night to haul him back onto the couch after hearing him slip onto the floor for the umpteenth time, he would thank me.
“Just drink some more water, mate,” I’d tell him between yawns, “and stay on the couch this time or you’ll really be sorry tomorrow.”
“Right. On the couch,” he’d say amicably, clutching the hot water bottle I gave him to his chest.
“That’s right, Mr Nightingale. I’m not coming back out here to drag your sorry arse back up here again.”
But invariably, I’d find myself out there about forty minutes later with a severe case of déjà vu.
Oh, Ernie’s going to have a hard time living down last night. I’m going to give him hell. I decide as I recall him toasting everyone in the room with an imaginary glass and sing-talking at the top of his lungs, “I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne!”
I snort, turn over, and am just about to stuff a pillow over my head when there’s a knock at the front door.
Who would be visiting? I wonder. The only other people who know where I live are Pug, Tav, and now Ernie…well, and the Pavarti and Padma who only know by default because they’re the neighbors.
I stumble out of bed and hastily throw on a shirt and yank on a pair of old jeans that were sitting on top of the pile of clothes in the corner. I push open my bedroom door and walk across the living room, careful not to step on Ernie. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me letting him remain sprawled out in the middle of my flat like this for the whole world to see. I pause and am considering if I should wake him in order to get him back on the couch again when the knocking continues.
“Just a moment,” I say loudly to whoever is behind the door as I couch down. “Ernie,” I shake the blankets gently. “Hey, nightingale,” I say, trying not to laugh.
I pull the edge of the feather duvet back and I feel the smile slide off my face. He doesn’t look well; he’s rather pale and yellowish and his breathing is shallow.
“Ernie, mate. We’ve got to get you back on the couch,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move.
I reconsider; I’ll give him my bed instead of the couch after I get rid of whoever is here.
“Come on, I’ll let you crash in the bed if you promise not to drool all over the place,” I say jokingly as if that alone will dispel my worry. But he continues to just lie there.
Shite! Maybe I should firecall someone... Tav? Go pound on Pavarti’s door? Hell, if only I knew where Ernie lived, maybe then I could contact this Laura that Ernie keeps talking about…
The gentle rapping at the door resumes and I wonder how long I’ve sat here staring at Ernie who is still not stirring.
I jump up and pull open the door a crack, blocking the view into the flat by positioning by body direction in front of it. Standing in the small hall is a distinguished-looking man in his early 50’s dressed in a rather expensive Muggle suit.
“Yes?” I ask, rather hastily. I want to get rid of this man so I can figure out what to do with Ernie.
The man is looking up at me with an expression of slight surprise that quickly morphs into one that is more studious. However, I can’t be bothered right now to wonder what he’s staring at.
Maybe I should just Floo Ernie straight St Mungo’s?
He says, “Good afternoon.”
I glance quickly at my watch. Holy hell, it’s already noon?
“My name is Archibald Macmillan. I am looking for my son, Ernie Macmillan. Have you, by any chance, seen him lately?”
It takes me a moment to process that this man is Ernie’s father. I have no idea how Archibald Macmillan knew where to find Ernie, and I wonder if there is the existence of some divine force that’s just dropped him onto my doorstep. But I realize that right now is not the time to be wondering about the why and how.
“Oh…Ernie…yes. He’s here.” I pull open the door and add, “I’m Dean Thomas.”
Archibald extends his hand immediately and we shake hands.
“Ernie needed a place to spend the night after the retirement party at the Horse and Hound,” I tell him as he fiddles with his coat and steps through the door.
Good grief, if only I had at least gotten him back on the couch. I suddenly feel like I’m seventeen again and having to answer to a parental figure.
“He…err…over indulged.” I try to explain as if Ernie lying passed-out in the middle of the floor doesn’t make it clearly obvious what has happened.
But Archibald doesn’t seem to care about an explanation because he immediately rushes over to the lump that is Ernie and then strides to the fireplace and firecalls someone named Healer Davenport.
Moments later, a man, who can only be Healer Davenport, is now kneeling on my living room floor beside Ernie and riffling through a medical bag full of glittering bottles filled with colored liquids.
“Ernie’s drank more than his body allows him too. He is being slowly poisoned. We need to clear his body,” Archibald Macmillan explains to me as he watches Davenport run his wand over Ernie.
I can barely believe what I’m hearing. Why the hell did Ernie get royally pissed in the first place? Then I remember that I had bought him a couple of drinks. Ernie is so damn polite, maybe he didn’t want to turn them down? Suddenly, Ernie slumped against the wall, Oliver sitting on him, and him lying face down on the table is just one bad nightmare. Blimey, if I had known maybe I could’ve gotten him to St Mungo’s earlier. I begin to count the hours that have passed since the karaoke incident.
I move off to the side and watch as Archibald helps prop Ernie up as Davenport pours an especially foul-smelling potion down this throat. Ernie sputters and coughs as Davenport quickly turns him onto his side as he throws up.
Archibald looks at Davenport with a serious expression as Ernie begins to mumble and move around fitfully before becoming quiet again.
“He just needs to sleep. The potion I just gave him has a sedative. He will also be running a temperature in the next twenty-four hours but will be fine. All he needs is complete bed rest for a couple of days. I will be popping in later to make sure that everything is satisfactory,” says Davenport as he stands up and collects his bag.
Archibald rises to his feet and shakes Davenport’s hand and motions me over. It seems that now Ernie’s health has been assessed, introductions can be made.
“Good to meet you, Mr Thomas,” says Davenport, “I would like to stay but I do have another wizard to attend to. I hope you do not mind me using your fireplace.” And in a flash of green, he disappears.
Archibald Macmillan turns to me and I wonder if he’s going to suddenly lay into me. “Mr Thomas –” he begins.
“Call me Dean, please,” I say, feeling somewhat responsible.
He smiles at me and I get the bizarre feeling that he’s trying to place my face. “Alright, Dean, I have a Portkey to bring my son back home. I would really appreciate it if you would come along, meet my wife, and tell us exactly what happened.”
I nod and quickly grab a coat and stuff my feet into a pair of shoes. After all, this is the least I can do after practically killing your son.