Who: T What: waking up. When: Sunday, late night/early Monday morning. Where: St. Mungo's Warnings: CRAZY. No, seriously, this is the toned down version. Status: Complete Notes: If you're confused, read this.
Terrence hadn't moved a single muscle since arriving at St. Mungo's. They'd moved him from where he'd collapsed onto the floor, stretched him out on a bed in the Spell Damage ward, where he had been lying still as a statue for more than twenty-four hours now. His only movement was the rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat was present, steady and slow.
And then, not long after the midnight rounds as the day changed from Sunday to Monday, the spells on him registered a change in his heart rate, becoming erratic, and his blood pressure spiked. He was dreaming, eyes moving behind his eyelids, muscles twitching in an echo of his dream-self's response to what was going on in his mind.
Struggling to regain consciousness and return to its previous ordered state, his mind conjured intense and strange images; fire, everywhere, figures familiar and unfamiliar bursting into flame, men, women, and children screaming and being cut down by dark silhouettes. He could have sworn they were at least children when they were alive, anyway, and yet the ground was covered in tiny cold bodies, no larger than Amelia when she'd died.
And then everything went white, except for the blood on his hands, covering his body. He was aware of Amelia's presence somehow, in the whiteness, but no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find her.
Those were the only things he could remember when he woke in the midst of the white blindness, opening his eyes to the dim light of the hospital room. For a long moment he hadn't the faintest clue where he was or what had happened, just stared around, breathing hard, as the events on Saturday slowly came back to him. With the memories, the splitting pain in his head returned, and he closed his eyes with a groan, fighting with his own mind to compartmentalize the part of it that had broken down and preserve what was left of his sanity.
He opened his eyes again when the lip of a bottle was pressed to his lips; it stunk of a potion. "No," he ground out, voice hoarse, and without even intending to, his arm swung up, sending the potion flying out of the healer's hands and smashing against the opposite wall. No one was giving him any more fucking potions. Ever. His brain was fucked enough as it was; he wouldn't even be surprised if part of it was because of some side effect of that blasted potion.
The scent of smoke rose; the healer's robes were starting to catch. Terrified, the poor man left the room in a hurry, and a fire caught and halfway filled the doorway as Terrence's eyes closed again. If they'd just leave him alone, he'd be alright; he could sort out his own mind and prevent it from happening again. His headache had already started, very slowly, to subside.