St. Mungo's
The Archimedes Gimp Ward of St. Mungo's (Spell Damage) is a horrible place.
Penelope scarcely saw any of it, whisked down the corridor as she was, but what she had seen out of her peripheral vision had been more than enough: Babbling people being rushed by on stretchers; a healer tugging gently at the elbow of an empty-eyed woman whose skin was a startling purple; a man who appeared to have a small tree growing from his chest.
Penelope winces at the memory. He had been the worst.
"Look," she'd sputtered then (for what must have been the fiftieth time), digging in her heels and following his progress with horrified eyes, "you've got to let me explain--"
"Come on, miss," the aide had interrupted briskly. "Just come along with me and we'll have you sorted out in no time."
She understands why they can't let her explain. Really she does. It infuriates her, but if they just listened to everyone who said, I'm not under the Imperius Curse, really!-- well, things would be a far sight worse around here than they already are.
Penelope supposes that the quickest way out of here is to play by the rules. Let them examine her, let them try to lift the curse that isn't there, let them ask all the questions they want. Try not to retch at the sight of those horrid lime green robes.
She supposes also that she oughtn't to loosen up the idiotic straitjacket they've got her in.
They've taken her wand, of course, but Penny's always been rather brilliant at wandless spells (if she does say so herself), and her constraints are both chafing and ridiculous. Maybe just a little nudge, a little looser ...
The room is small and bland and isolated, as they all are in this ward, and she is sick of waiting in it. She thinks constantly that someone must be about to come in and see about her-- but no one does.
... If the hospital gowns are lime green as well, she'll hex the lot of them.
Penelope scarcely saw any of it, whisked down the corridor as she was, but what she had seen out of her peripheral vision had been more than enough: Babbling people being rushed by on stretchers; a healer tugging gently at the elbow of an empty-eyed woman whose skin was a startling purple; a man who appeared to have a small tree growing from his chest.
Penelope winces at the memory. He had been the worst.
"Look," she'd sputtered then (for what must have been the fiftieth time), digging in her heels and following his progress with horrified eyes, "you've got to let me explain--"
"Come on, miss," the aide had interrupted briskly. "Just come along with me and we'll have you sorted out in no time."
She understands why they can't let her explain. Really she does. It infuriates her, but if they just listened to everyone who said, I'm not under the Imperius Curse, really!-- well, things would be a far sight worse around here than they already are.
Penelope supposes that the quickest way out of here is to play by the rules. Let them examine her, let them try to lift the curse that isn't there, let them ask all the questions they want. Try not to retch at the sight of those horrid lime green robes.
She supposes also that she oughtn't to loosen up the idiotic straitjacket they've got her in.
They've taken her wand, of course, but Penny's always been rather brilliant at wandless spells (if she does say so herself), and her constraints are both chafing and ridiculous. Maybe just a little nudge, a little looser ...
The room is small and bland and isolated, as they all are in this ward, and she is sick of waiting in it. She thinks constantly that someone must be about to come in and see about her-- but no one does.
... If the hospital gowns are lime green as well, she'll hex the lot of them.