[i]”Healer Weasley to Senior Healer Cycles’ Office. Healer Weasley to Senior Healer Cycles’ Office,”[/i] the tinny voice of the Welcome Witch blared through the A&E, disrupting Victoire’s rounds barely an hour in.

Being called to the Senior’s office rarely meant good news. Victoire had spent the past ten minutes trying to figure out what she had done wrong, running over the past few weeks in her head. She had been unable to find an offence worthy of a meeting in the office. By the time she reached the fourth floor, her palms were sweating and stomach churning. It took a surprising force of will not to be sick when her pale hand reached out and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” the familiar bark did nothing to assuage her nerves. Victoire took a steadying breath. Straightening her powder blue robes, she clicked open the door to Senior Healer Deirdre Cycle’s office. It was Victoire Weasley’s least favorite place in the hospital. The yellow walls were barren, and but for the drooping spider plant in the corner, the room was completely devoid of personality. Senior sat at her desk, a small pile of parchment scattered across the oak. Feeble rays of sunlight streamed in through slits in the blinds. A memo looped lazily around Senior’s head, skimming the tight black kinks. The door clicked behind Victoire with an unsettling sort of finality.

“Sit,” Senior’s eyes didn’t move from a document she was reading, her pen tapping on the desk. Victoire obeyed without hesitation. Senior Healer Cycles was not a woman she wanted to cross. Her hands folded in her lap, Victoire tried desperately not to fidget as she awaited judgment. A long moment passed before the dark witch signed and rolled the parchment, finally fixing her gaze upon the slim blonde. Senior tutted as she withdrew a folder from beneath the pile of paperwork, thumbing it open. Victoire recognized her portrait inside the front cover, smiling nervously. Her heart leapt into her throat.

“Healer Weasley,” Senior thumbed through evaluations and paperwork, inscrutable as ever. “In nearly three years in my department, it appears you have yet to take a holiday.”
	
Of all the things Victoire had anticipated, this certainly wasn’t one of them. She realized she was gaping—with a start, she snapped her mouth shut and tried not to look too terrified.

“I… beg your pardon, Senior, but I don’t follow—“

“Weasley,” Senior interrupted smoothly, shutting the folder and steepling her hands. “Earlier this week, I had the pleasure of a young woman barging into my office demanding to speak with me about you.”

The bottom of Victoire’s stomach dropped away as the Senior Healer spoke. It would have been funny, almost, if the thought hadn’t been so horrifying. A young woman barging in screamed [i]Weasley[/i]. Weasley’s had a horrible habit of making trouble and wreaking havoc wherever they went. She could scarcely breathe.

“She was rather forceful. Went on and on about how your family has a large reunion planned, how you’ve missed holidays for this, and I quote, ‘Merlin buggered hospital’ for too long, and demanded I get you out into ‘the real world’, as she put it,” the Senior sounded amused at that, but Victoire’s face burned with shame. Victoire sat perfectly still, uncertain if she could trust herself to move.

“Senior, I, I’m so [i]sorry[/i], that never should have happened,” she tried to sound composed, but her voice choked. Senior frowned across the table at her, a brow arched. Victoire felt as though she had been pinned by the full body bind.

“Well, happen it did,” Senior waved her stammering off, looking impatient, “That’s not what’s important. Weasley, I know we’re undermanned as is, but you [i]have[/i] to take time off every once in a while. You keep working like this, you’ll burn out, it’s as simple as that.”

Victoire’s mind had gone horribly blank. She felt rather like she was watching a train wreck, unable to look away, unable to stop it. Her nails drove into her palms.

“I’ve managed to squeeze out three weeks of paid leave for you,” Senior’s words made her blood run cold, “That young woman ordered me to deliver this to you,” she reached out, extending an envelope to Victoire. It took her a long moment to accept it. She recognized her grandmère’s handwriting instantly. She swallowed. She’d ignored the previous invite, had planned on claiming that she had missed it while at hospital, but now she had no such excuse. “I suggest you attend whatever engagement this is. This Dominique threatened to hex me when I said you were previously scheduled for work. Dismissed.”

Victoire nodded numbly and rose to her feet.

	The next few days dragged longer than Victoire had even thought possible. Without the hospital eating her every waking minute, she found there was simply too much time in a day. She’d never been so idle in years. After cleaning the flat twice over and tending Henry, there was little to do. Naoko was swamped with pre-season practice, and as all her friends were fellow Healers working at the hospital, Victoire had nothing to occupy herself with. Books did little to capture her interest and the near constant rain kept her confined to the flat, too drained to bother with the world at large.

	The letter sat on her bedside table. She’d read it a dozen times, had practically memorized her grandmère’s request to visit for her Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny’s anniversary party. She wasn’t sure what to make of Dominique’s delivery of the letter. They had never been particularly close. Her sister had always been so sharp, all fierce confidence and certainty. They’d been in conflict as long as Victoire could remember. But, she supposed it made sense—Dominique certainly had never cared for tact. Victoire could think of no one else who had the nerve to shout down Senior Healer Cycles. Still, she couldn’t fathom why her sister had bothered. She dreaded finding out. Time sensed this and, annoyingly, did not stop its relentless march.

	

	The Saturday of the party, Victoire seriously considered going back to St. Mungo’s and begging Senior to let her work again. The only thing stopping her was the futility of the whole idea. Her frustration was immense. All she wanted was to be at work, doing something useful with herself. The free time was driving her mad. But Senior had put her on leave and there was no arguing with her bosses will. Not for the first time, Victoire cursed her sister’s interference. Everything had been [i]fine[/i]. Now she could barely find the energy to get out of bed, let alone enjoy her impromptu holiday. Naoko had suggested she take off to somewhere with beaches and sunshine, but the thought turned her stomach almost as much as the party.

	The party. Merlin, she didn’t know why she was going. It was an awful idea. Undoubtedly, the whole family would be there, and though she loved them fiercely she could already feel the headache coming on. It would be like every Weasley-Potter get together—filled with explosions and a dozen people shouting to be heard over each other as Grandmère forced entirely too much food on them. Even in her childhood, Victoire had found the parties to be trying. And that had been before she had dropped off the face of the Earth. She knew it would be a mess, showing up properly for the first time in nearly two years. It couldn’t end well.

“I must be mental,” she informed Henry. The bulldog cocked his head at her, obsessively smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her floral patterned sundress in the mirror. “We should have just gone to Majorca like Naoko suggested.”

	Being a dog, Henry said nothing. Victoire breathed in deep, studying her reflection. She’d swept her blonde hair over a shoulder, curling loosely. Her freckles contrasted fantastically against her skin, paler now having practically lived in St. Mungo’s for the past few years. She felt a fraud, put together so neatly when all she wanted was to curl up in bed with a book and a tub of ice cream and avoid the world. She breathed deep. She had to do this sooner or later. Still, she’d always hoped the never face the later. After Teddy, it had been so much easier to simply drift away. She knew she’d never escape him. He was as much as part of the family as she—more so, really. He’d always belonged among the clan, all charm and brilliance. He’d never struggled to breathe at the numerous parties, had never seemed out of place. She’d been a moth to his flame, trailing after him. 
	
	And then she had ended everything in an explosion of rage and vicious words, and that had been that. Panicked and trapped and drowning in everyone else’s image of her, she’d lashed out, indulging her temper. She’d severed years in one night and Victoire wasn’t brave enough to decide whether she regretted it or not. 

	She couldn’t hide any longer. Heart drumming against her ribs, she knelt to wish her little dog a goodbye, before lifting her purse and parcel from the vanity. With a deep breath, she turned on the spot and disappeared in a sharp [i]crack[/i].

	

 	The Burrow loomed before her. Judging by the din, most of the family had already arrived. Adjusting the parcel under her arm, she took a moment to compose herself. Everything would be fine. Even if Teddy was here—which he would be—she could handle it. She had to handle it. Victoire tried not to let the creeping sense of panic overwhelm her. She was here and there was no turning back. If Dominique was willing to humiliate her by harassing her boss to get her here, Victoire dreaded to think what would happen if she didn’t make an appearance.
	
	The door was open, and Victoire took the opportunity to slip inside. The parlor table was covered in a mountain of gifts in varying sizes and colourful wrapping paper. She deposited her simple parcel. It looked rather pitiful in its brown paper, and suddenly she wondered if she should have found something cleverer than a crystal decanter.

	“You finally decided to grace us with your presence, then.” 

	Victoire jumped, looking up from the table, blue eyes meeting brown. It was amazing how a girl four years her junior could make her feel so guilty with a single sentence. Victoire straightened, watching as her younger sister leaned against the doorframe.

	“Domi,” she greeted diplomatically. When had Dominique grown so tall? Victoire still thought of her as six years old, with a toothy smile and a penchant for playing with the gnomechildren. It was hard to see her sister as eighteen, as having come of age.

Dominique rolled her eyes. Victoire frowned. Since when was she not allowed to call her sister by her nickname? [i]Since you dropped off the face of Earth?[/i]

	“I didn’t think you’d come,” Dominique spoke, all matter of fact. Victoire fought the urge to purse her lips. More than anyone, her sister knew how to get beneath her skin, how to bait her temper. “Mum’s been going spare. You do remember you’re a qualified witch, right? There’s this fancy thing called apparation, since apparently Floo is too much of a bother for you.”

Dominique was right, of course, but what could Victoire say? ‘Sorry, I needed to escape the craziness that is this family for a while’? Or, ‘Sorry, I ruined everything with the bloke completely enmeshed in our family and I needed space’? Or even, ‘Sorry, I’m human and I make stupid decisions out of fear’? Dominique would poke holes in any defence she offered, and Victoire didn’t have the energy to engage in a ground war.
	
“I’m here now,” she managed wearily, wishing she could have sounded at least a little more confident there. “What’s done is done.”

Dominique eyed her, something swimming behind her eyes, as if she had a thousand more things she wanted to say. She simply scoffed and turned, abandoning her in the empty parlor. Victoire shut her eyes tight, nails curving into the flesh of her palm. She couldn’t just run away now. Merlin, but she wanted to. 

Victoire’s footsteps carried her softly through the house, sidestepping her cousin Roxanne laden with a basket of table settings. 

“Vic, hey!” Roxanne at least looked pleased to see her, calling over her shoulder. “Your mum’s in the kitchen, I think she needs help!”

“Ah… thanks,” Victoire wasn’t sure if Roxanne heard her, having started shouting for her brother to stop being a prat. With a soft quirk of the lips, she made her way towards the kitchen. The kitchen was full to bursting, a cacophony of pots and pans and sizzling food. It was madness, and the only relief was that the clamor meant she went rather unnoticed.