“Self-defense,” Benjamin explained, noticing that the healer’s steady gaze had flicked down to look at his bloody knuckles more than once since he’d entered the clinic in Diagon Alley.

“I didn’t ask,” Ginny murmured in response, continuing to mix her salves into one jar. She’d made the mission statement of Healing Hands clear; they healed anyone, regardless of blood status, financial status, and level of healing. She’d need to expand that to ‘reasons behind injuries’ as well, if the number of people wandering into her clinic said anything.

Ginny hadn’t batted an eye when a tall, dark man had rapped on the front door to her new clinic, obviously in need of care. She’d been battling all day with patients who seemed to want to be healed in a hurry and have the entire thing forgotten about. While she had been complimented often on her bedside manner while training at St. Mungo’s, even she could only take so many ‘Can you hurry this up, ducks? I’ve got places to be.’ before she felt the strain.

It might have been the different type of atmosphere that Diagon Alley exuded, or being so close to Knockturn, but she’d seen more than her fair share of reasonless injuries in less-than-trustworthy patients. They all seemed to understand the type of privacy she offered, however, and quietly settled their bill once their bones had been set.

This man had barely said two words since he’d followed her into an exam room, simply stripped himself of the shirt and tie he’d been wearing and exposed the bruises mottling his upper body to the stark and sterile light.

“No, you haven’t asked,” Benjamin agreed, nodding, pain heating his jaw as the muscle tightened with the movement. “One would argue that makes you impressively naive.”

“Or exceptionally professional,” she countered, happy with the combination of salve she’d prepared. It would help with the color of the bruises and soothe the muscles underneath. He would be sore, but he was lucky that the ribs on his right side hadn’t been broken instead of just fractured; they could have pierced his lung.

“Professional,” Benjamin repeated, wincing slightly as she began to spread the balm over the bruises on his shoulders. “How long have you been healing?” He asked both because she looked rather young to be running her own clinic, and also because he’d not had the time to check her credentials.

“That seems like a rather personal question.”

The quick exhale of breath from Benjamin could have been mistaken as a stilted laugh if it hadn’t ended with his clutching at his ribs in pain. This wasn’t the first time that he’d found himself in a bidding war over a piece of artwork, and when he’d named a price he knew the other buyer couldn’t match, one of the man’s goons had tackled him. The over-sized bodyguard had gotten more than his share of hits in before Benjamin had come out of his shock enough to fight back.

It wasn’t what he’d prepared for, and that was his mistake. It wouldn’t be repeated.

“You’ll have to stop jogging for at least the next week,” Ginny said, pushing his hands out of the way so she could spread the salve over the deepening purple skin at his ribs, “and try not to let as many boots come in contact with your chest, if possible.”

Benjamin’s eyes shifted down to look at the top of her head, a slight narrow of his eyes the only change of expression. He had never met this woman before and instantly wondered at her knowledge.

“You’ve lean muscles running the length of your frame and your lung capacity is higher than most. This either means you jog or swim.” She glanced up at him, having noticed the tiny stiffening of his spine at her assumption. “I had a fifty-fifty chance on guessing right.”

“It’s possible that someone both runs and swims.”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders, returning her focus to the application of the balm. “Possible, yes, I suppose. But whichever one it is, don’t do it for a week.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Benjamin asked as she straightened, watching as she spun the top back on the little jar of salve before wiping her hands on a flannel.

“No. My professional opinion is that whatever you did to deserve this beating had better’ve been worth it,” she answered with a frown.

She’d healed her brothers and Harry after battles and she knew when something was going to hurt for days afterward. This man was going to be sore. Anything that involved labored breathing, even simply walking up a flight of stairs, would have his lungs expanding and leave him aching. If he didn’t follow her advice, it would only be worse.

“You’re assuming I did something to deserve this.” Benjamin couldn’t help the small, tainted smile that slid onto his lips. He flinched as he began to pull his shirt back on, but continued though the movement, fingers deftly working the buttons. “Could you imagine someone deserving this?”

“Yes,” she answered immediately, “nearly every time one of my brothers opens their mouths. Luckily they have a sister who rarely needs to follow through on her threats.”

Benjamin stood slowly, tucking the shirt into his slacks, though he knew it wasn’t necessary. It seemed rather poetic that the most adept healer he’d ever used seemed to think beating her brothers bloody was an acceptable threat.

Grabbing his tie, he draped it over his arm while he reached for his wallet. “Thank you for your assistance, Healer Weasley. I trust the nature of this appointment will be kept under patient-healer confidentiality?”

She raised an eyebrow and ignored the annoyance at his insinuation that she would be anything but strictly private. “I am a certified healer of Britain and am held under the statute set forth by Hippocrates which states, among other things, ‘All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal,’” she recited from memory.

Benjamin could almost taste the honesty as she spoke the words her healing practice may have been built upon. Honesty was something he found severely lacking in the world. “Then that puts you a step above St. Mungo’s.”

“No,” Ginny said, fingers wrapping around the coins he placed in her palm, “my level of care and the fact that I’m not in this for money put me above St. Mungo’s. Among other numerous and varied reasons.” She held out the extra galleons he’d attempted to give her. Though she could tell by his tailored suit and leather shoes that he could afford it, she didn’t need bribes to keep confidentiality, and if it was a tip, she didn’t take those either.

Wondering how the clinic survived on the sum she charged, Benjamin took the coins back, having meant no offense to the woman personally. In his realm of business, you kept and lost clients based on what you offered them as incentive and compensation.

“Perhaps I’ll transfer my healing needs to you,” he said with a nod, pulling on his suit jacket.

“If you do plan on returning, our regular business hours are between eight and six. If at all possible.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, the dimples on his either side of his mouth forming small shadows. “I shall endeavor to do my best, Ms. Weasley. Thank you.”

Ginny watched the man make his way from the exam room, waiting to hear the front door close, feeling the crackle of energy as the wards closed back down around her. Though she found some of the late-night visitors exasperating, some of them were better than others.

She wondered what the outcome would have been if she hadn’t been the one on duty in Diagon and if Theo had been the one to heal the man. Theo might have hated him. It might have been a disaster.

Or they might have gotten on too well.

She wasn’t sure which one was less appealing.


Summary: Benjamin needs healing but knows St. Mungo’s is out of the question due to the illegal nature of his injuries. He instead visits Healing Hands and Ginny.