Winterborne, Rowan

Rowan sipped on a steaming cup of Lung Ching green tea, as he eyed the sleet pelting noisily against the tall windows of the Hospital Wing. He had taken up residence beside the very last window on the far left of the long, narrow wing; it was the window right before the door of his office. Rowan supposed he could have watched the rain from within the solace of his own space, but there was something quietly majestic about the Hospital Wing and its rows of windows.

It was early evening, just after dinner in the Great Hall. The day had been yet another quiet twenty-four hour period in a week of quiet twenty-four hour periods. There hadn't been a single visitor to the Hospital Wing all week - which was something of a minor miracle, in Rowan's experience. True, he had only been working for a few short months, but in those months, he'd had at least one to two vistors a day. Ailments had ranged to something as minor as an infected cuticle, to more major injuries like broken bones from Quidditch.

The last of his Quidditch casualities had left the Wing at the beginning of the week. Since then, it had been eerily silent among the starched white beds and cabinets of medicinal supplies. Rowan had used the unusual period of peace to get some work done on his thesis-in-progress on combining Muggle practicality into Wizarding medical practices and he'd also read up on experimental treatments of scrufungulus. The doctor, however, was getting a litte bit antsy - there was only so much he discipline himself to do from behind his desk. He much preferred to be interacting with the students and tending to patients. While the occassional downtime to work on some of his hobbies was a welcome relief, nothing quite beat the rush of fending off the forces of illness, disease, and discomfort.