(no subject)
It's an early morning for everyone on Monday. Bernard only goes in to the Department of Mysteries a couple times a week, content to let Jonathan run the day-to-day and correspond with him regularly. The Ministry understands that he has priorities to juggle, and they've made it clear that they'd rather have him less than they want than not at all. But today in particular is hectic, because Bernard's appointment with Healer Weir falls at 8 o'clock, before work even starts, and it's a hustle to get everyone packed up and ready to go a full 45 minutes before they usually leave on these mornings.
London is damp, and brisk, and Bernard's glad that he remembered to have Sunny put on her wee woolen socks this morning; otherwise she'd be chilled before they got so much as three blocks in the right direction, and damp cotton socks are no fun to wear all day. St. Mungo's is closer than the Ministry, and they all stop at the doors.
Bernard turns to 'Dora with a nervous smile. "I'll send you a note when I get in to the Department."
"All right, love," she replies, and kisses him.
He bends, then, to eyeball Sunny in the front of the stroller. "Kick some ass at school today, munchkin."
Sunny screws her face up. "Kick ass every day, Ber'd." But she holds her cheek out for a kiss, and gives him one in return. Anthony is dozing a little in the back, so Bernard decides not to bug him, and instead takes a breath and walks into the hospital.
***
"...That can't be right." Healer Weir ends the specialized diagnostic spell, killing the chartreuse light that surrounds Bernard's torso.
"What's wrong?" he ventures, shifting on the tall stool.
"Hrm." Weir doesn't answer right away, but sits at his high desk, appearing to think. "...Well, the readings are still being interpreted," he slowly replies, gesturing toward the scribbling quill and long roll of parchment that started recording as soon as the spell began, "but honestly I can tell quite a bit just by looking at the outline of your spinal column, and what I'm seeing is... very odd." Distracted by his own thoughts, he scribbles a few more quick notes.
Bernard waits patiently, his arms coming out in goosebumps in the cool, sterile air. Biting his lip, he looks around Healer Weir's exam room. It's not really anything like you'd expect a magical healer's exam to be, all strange jars filled with vague, undefined shapes of things long dead. Really, it's pretty normal, except that the reference poster of the central nervous system keeps shifting around impatiently and tapping its foot. After a few more minutes listening to two quills scribble, Bernard tries again. "So... what's odd about it?"
Weir looks up, blinking owlishly. "Oh. Well." He takes off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. "As I have said all along, there's really no reason why you ought to be able to get around as well as you do, except that the combination of--" he shuffles his notes to make sure he has it right, "the reducto curse combined with the necessary chemical reactions of the original blast itself completely changed the molecular structure of not only the residue covering the shrapnel embedded in your spinal column, but the nature of the metal it encased. Since the fusion of metal and bone is so singularly seamless, I can only conclude that the impact changed the surrounding tissues as well, including the severed sections of the spinal cord. I believe the extended readings we've taken will bear this out." He sighs, then, and looks Bernard in the eye, plainly baffled. "What's odd, to me, is that after all this time you should be having the aches, the pains, the restless legs. Very little has changed from the last time I saw you, as far as I can see. The metal is well and truly stuck, and your spinal cord hasn't shifted in any way." He stands and lifts his wand. "I saw evidence of some granulomas forming around the entrance site, and they may be the culprits; nasty little buggers. They may be pressing on a nerve cluster. I'm going to run a few more tests on the spells in there, see if I can ferret anything out, all right? Nothing invasive whatsoever."
"All right," Bernard replies, trying to hide the mixture of relief and worry he's starting to feel. "Let me know if you need me to turn my head and cough, okay?"
Weir shoots him a confused glance, and swoops his wand in a gentle arc, muttering in Latin. Bernard takes a breath, and lets his eyes shut as the spell envelops him once more.
***
It's late morning before he makes it back to the Ministry, and nearly lunchtime before he remembers to shoot 'Dora a note.
Back. Ran some tests. Seems fine, though. He thought there might be some scarring pressing on a nerve cluster, but he wasn't sure.
See you later? Tea?
--B
London is damp, and brisk, and Bernard's glad that he remembered to have Sunny put on her wee woolen socks this morning; otherwise she'd be chilled before they got so much as three blocks in the right direction, and damp cotton socks are no fun to wear all day. St. Mungo's is closer than the Ministry, and they all stop at the doors.
Bernard turns to 'Dora with a nervous smile. "I'll send you a note when I get in to the Department."
"All right, love," she replies, and kisses him.
He bends, then, to eyeball Sunny in the front of the stroller. "Kick some ass at school today, munchkin."
Sunny screws her face up. "Kick ass every day, Ber'd." But she holds her cheek out for a kiss, and gives him one in return. Anthony is dozing a little in the back, so Bernard decides not to bug him, and instead takes a breath and walks into the hospital.
***
"...That can't be right." Healer Weir ends the specialized diagnostic spell, killing the chartreuse light that surrounds Bernard's torso.
"What's wrong?" he ventures, shifting on the tall stool.
"Hrm." Weir doesn't answer right away, but sits at his high desk, appearing to think. "...Well, the readings are still being interpreted," he slowly replies, gesturing toward the scribbling quill and long roll of parchment that started recording as soon as the spell began, "but honestly I can tell quite a bit just by looking at the outline of your spinal column, and what I'm seeing is... very odd." Distracted by his own thoughts, he scribbles a few more quick notes.
Bernard waits patiently, his arms coming out in goosebumps in the cool, sterile air. Biting his lip, he looks around Healer Weir's exam room. It's not really anything like you'd expect a magical healer's exam to be, all strange jars filled with vague, undefined shapes of things long dead. Really, it's pretty normal, except that the reference poster of the central nervous system keeps shifting around impatiently and tapping its foot. After a few more minutes listening to two quills scribble, Bernard tries again. "So... what's odd about it?"
Weir looks up, blinking owlishly. "Oh. Well." He takes off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. "As I have said all along, there's really no reason why you ought to be able to get around as well as you do, except that the combination of--" he shuffles his notes to make sure he has it right, "the reducto curse combined with the necessary chemical reactions of the original blast itself completely changed the molecular structure of not only the residue covering the shrapnel embedded in your spinal column, but the nature of the metal it encased. Since the fusion of metal and bone is so singularly seamless, I can only conclude that the impact changed the surrounding tissues as well, including the severed sections of the spinal cord. I believe the extended readings we've taken will bear this out." He sighs, then, and looks Bernard in the eye, plainly baffled. "What's odd, to me, is that after all this time you should be having the aches, the pains, the restless legs. Very little has changed from the last time I saw you, as far as I can see. The metal is well and truly stuck, and your spinal cord hasn't shifted in any way." He stands and lifts his wand. "I saw evidence of some granulomas forming around the entrance site, and they may be the culprits; nasty little buggers. They may be pressing on a nerve cluster. I'm going to run a few more tests on the spells in there, see if I can ferret anything out, all right? Nothing invasive whatsoever."
"All right," Bernard replies, trying to hide the mixture of relief and worry he's starting to feel. "Let me know if you need me to turn my head and cough, okay?"
Weir shoots him a confused glance, and swoops his wand in a gentle arc, muttering in Latin. Bernard takes a breath, and lets his eyes shut as the spell envelops him once more.
***
It's late morning before he makes it back to the Ministry, and nearly lunchtime before he remembers to shoot 'Dora a note.
Back. Ran some tests. Seems fine, though. He thought there might be some scarring pressing on a nerve cluster, but he wasn't sure.
See you later? Tea?
--B