[open] you were only waiting for this moment to arise
[OOC: Post exists mostly to be a plot vehicle between a handful of characters, but even if you're not involved in the plot, your character can feel free to coincidentally show up at the infirmary if they want to. A visitor is fine too. *nod*]
It's not entirely a surprise, when she wakes up to find the blank walls of the infirmary around her, the soft bleeping of monitors echoing in her ears. She sort of expected to wind up here. Even in the best-case scenario, she was pretty sure the pain of transformation was going to knock her out cold, and that in turn would be enough to make Hermione insist that she be hospitalised.
She pretty much figures that's what's happened. She doesn't remember everything about the past several hours: she screamed most of the memories into oblivion, drowned them in her desperation to block out what her body was going through. But there are snatches, here and there. She remembers Hermione trying to make her drink the antidotes, the tinctures that would set the Polyjuice Potion on its slow process of reversal, and her pushing them away. Crying, no, no, I'm not giving this up, even while delirium tore at her senses, her insides churning with sickness. She remembers the yearning, the ache of new limbs coming to life beneath her skin, remembers how it felt like it went on forever, the waiting for her wings to unfurl, to finally be set free.
She doesn't really remember how that ended.
Well, time to find out the damage, she thinks, her heart thudding more with excitement than with fear. She tries to push herself up, her hands gripping the bedsheets-- which feel strange. No. Her hands. It's her hands that feel strange.
She halts her attempts at sitting up and moves her hands in front of her face, and stares. They're-- small hands, much like her own, but something is different about them. Well, a lot of things are different about them: for one, they're not covered in scars. Her skin, the skin of these hands and arms, is completely unmarked. It looks weird, unnatural. She hasn't seen herself without scars for many years, and never as an adult.
What strikes her more, though, is the subtle differences. They're not her hands, she's certain, all at once. The curvature, the length of the fingers, it's subtly off. They look like Molly's hands.
She leans over the stainless-steel instrument tray at her bedside to catch her reflection, eyes wide.
Dark eyes.
She-- doesn't look entirely like Molly, not really. She's kept most of her own facial features, or if not then what's changed still blends in fairly well. This could have been a lot worse: she finds herself intensely relieved, all of a sudden, that she never included Kaden on that journal entry. She could have chosen his hair, for the potion, and then gods only know what she would have looked like. Not to mention what a mess it might have made of her gender.
It's just the hands, mostly, and those round black eyes that aren't anything much like Iris' blue ones. Her vision's blurry, and it takes her a few rounds of blinking to realise it isn't from the pain: she's stuck like this. Her new eyes just don't work the way her old ones did.
Still, this could be worse. It could be a lot worse.
She tries to sit up again, and winces, whimpering, at the pressure at her back. She doesn't understand why it's hurting more. Shouldn't it be better? Shouldn't her wings be out by now?
She reaches back to touch herself there. The skin's burning hot, stretched taut across two misshapen lumps, buried deep in muscle and flesh. She can feel the wings, twitching inside her, but skin is in the way. They press up against it, restless, wanting. Wanting to escape, but it's not happening. There's no magic to push them out. Just flesh, just bone, and the wings are too weak to tear through.
She doesn't understand. They should be out. She should be able to-- she tries pushing, with all her might. But they're not under her control. They're just struggling inside her, regardless of what she does, beating uselessly against her flesh like some alien child, kicking.
Okay, now things are worse. A lot worse.
It's going to happen soon, she thinks to herself, trying to talk herself down. They're going to come out. It's going to be okay.
Her heart rate's rising again, and there's a fever burning under her skin. She wants Molly here, if only to laugh with her about how they look even more alike now.
She hopes Molly will laugh.
She thinks she's going to be sick.
It's not entirely a surprise, when she wakes up to find the blank walls of the infirmary around her, the soft bleeping of monitors echoing in her ears. She sort of expected to wind up here. Even in the best-case scenario, she was pretty sure the pain of transformation was going to knock her out cold, and that in turn would be enough to make Hermione insist that she be hospitalised.
She pretty much figures that's what's happened. She doesn't remember everything about the past several hours: she screamed most of the memories into oblivion, drowned them in her desperation to block out what her body was going through. But there are snatches, here and there. She remembers Hermione trying to make her drink the antidotes, the tinctures that would set the Polyjuice Potion on its slow process of reversal, and her pushing them away. Crying, no, no, I'm not giving this up, even while delirium tore at her senses, her insides churning with sickness. She remembers the yearning, the ache of new limbs coming to life beneath her skin, remembers how it felt like it went on forever, the waiting for her wings to unfurl, to finally be set free.
She doesn't really remember how that ended.
Well, time to find out the damage, she thinks, her heart thudding more with excitement than with fear. She tries to push herself up, her hands gripping the bedsheets-- which feel strange. No. Her hands. It's her hands that feel strange.
She halts her attempts at sitting up and moves her hands in front of her face, and stares. They're-- small hands, much like her own, but something is different about them. Well, a lot of things are different about them: for one, they're not covered in scars. Her skin, the skin of these hands and arms, is completely unmarked. It looks weird, unnatural. She hasn't seen herself without scars for many years, and never as an adult.
What strikes her more, though, is the subtle differences. They're not her hands, she's certain, all at once. The curvature, the length of the fingers, it's subtly off. They look like Molly's hands.
She leans over the stainless-steel instrument tray at her bedside to catch her reflection, eyes wide.
Dark eyes.
She-- doesn't look entirely like Molly, not really. She's kept most of her own facial features, or if not then what's changed still blends in fairly well. This could have been a lot worse: she finds herself intensely relieved, all of a sudden, that she never included Kaden on that journal entry. She could have chosen his hair, for the potion, and then gods only know what she would have looked like. Not to mention what a mess it might have made of her gender.
It's just the hands, mostly, and those round black eyes that aren't anything much like Iris' blue ones. Her vision's blurry, and it takes her a few rounds of blinking to realise it isn't from the pain: she's stuck like this. Her new eyes just don't work the way her old ones did.
Still, this could be worse. It could be a lot worse.
She tries to sit up again, and winces, whimpering, at the pressure at her back. She doesn't understand why it's hurting more. Shouldn't it be better? Shouldn't her wings be out by now?
She reaches back to touch herself there. The skin's burning hot, stretched taut across two misshapen lumps, buried deep in muscle and flesh. She can feel the wings, twitching inside her, but skin is in the way. They press up against it, restless, wanting. Wanting to escape, but it's not happening. There's no magic to push them out. Just flesh, just bone, and the wings are too weak to tear through.
She doesn't understand. They should be out. She should be able to-- she tries pushing, with all her might. But they're not under her control. They're just struggling inside her, regardless of what she does, beating uselessly against her flesh like some alien child, kicking.
Okay, now things are worse. A lot worse.
It's going to happen soon, she thinks to herself, trying to talk herself down. They're going to come out. It's going to be okay.
Her heart rate's rising again, and there's a fever burning under her skin. She wants Molly here, if only to laugh with her about how they look even more alike now.
She hopes Molly will laugh.
She thinks she's going to be sick.