and the stream runs in circles from the chasm to the core
Who: MULTIPLE THREADS! Expected: there are some plans. Unexpected: how would I know?
When: Right after this-with flexibility. All sparked by this after this.
Where: The Clinic
Format: [hates choosing] Whatever I start with, do your own thing!
What: Tonks visitations. Lupin's return. Shirley in da house. Trepkos the Grouch. AND MORE.
Warnings: Ow ow ( Read more... )
When: Right after this-with flexibility. All sparked by this after this.
Where: The Clinic
Format: [hates choosing] Whatever I start with, do your own thing!
What: Tonks visitations. Lupin's return. Shirley in da house. Trepkos the Grouch. AND MORE.
Warnings: Ow ow ( Read more... )
That spot. Right there. Where the palmaris longus caused a furrow when he twisted his forearm.
A month ago (one month) it had been burned. Second degree progressing to third. Up both his arms, onto his chest, across his face. He'd been burning.
He should be mutilated for life.
(And who's to say he wasn't.)
But there's not a scar. No contractures. No amputations.
A week in a clinic. Not even a burn unit. Another week in wheelchair. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He should have died of inhalation injury. Of poisoning.
These people, these doctors, these… whatevever they were, with their magic wands-literally! no, can't be-had healed him…
Had done something to him.
He presses his face to the glass. It's radiating sunlight. It should be warm.
He should feel warm.
He had just been consumed in fire and hadn't even felt warmth.
False fire? Illusion? But the wall… the wheelchair… his clothes… burned away, all burned… real, very real. He knows burning.
His hair didn't even curl. His skin is unmarred.
He jumps at the creak of the door.
Even in turning to look at who enters, he still doesn't realize that he's standing up. The wheelchair had been burned and taken away.]
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