Who: Charlie Weasley, Hestia Jones When: Wednesay morning, early, July 20 Where: Their flat, Soho, London What: Up and going in the morning, getting ready for work Rating: Pg-13, for language Open/Closed: closed
He dried carefully with the towel, and then finished with a warming spell as he found the limitations of his motion. He checked his face in the mirror, after using the shaving salve that took off all of his bristles, to be sure he looked better than he felt. His leg hurt but he was going to try to wait until mid morning before he took his first pain potion. He’d already taken a hangover potion but he could still feel the dry powder effects it had on his mouth. He ran his wand tip down to his waist and then along his leg, the twisted scar still ugly and puckering from his hip to the inside of his left leg. Charlie was amazed that he was alive, and that was the main thought that helped keep him cheerful, even bright. If he let himself dwell on what that long scar meant, about what it would deny him for the rest of his life, Charlie found that if he let himself go there, he’d call off via owl and probably crawl back into bed. But that would not do, not at all for only his third day of work in the Apparation Department, not after what had just happened. He'd look weak. He'd look scared. He let his eyes find his own in his reflection and he gave himself a steely look, “Not today, Weasley. Gonna be productive,” he said even as he wrapped the towel around his waist, reading to leave the small loo.
It had been a very rough night, and when he’d finally gotten back into the Ministry, the mood had been edgy and unsettled. He’d done his work, his mind on his brothers who were in the Ministry; he’d owled home to his mum and gotten word that the clock said all were safe. But that had not helped as he had sat and drank in the dark in the small flat he shared with his friend, Hestia. It was her place, really, and he’d only just moved back into his old room. And of course, it seemed like he’d managed to come into town when everything was going to hell in a handbasket.
Hobbling out of the bath, Charlie carefully made his way to his room where he would get dressed in robes, and put on the brace that had been designed to minimize movement in his leg and hip. It was impossible to take a shower with it; he felt luck that he’d gotten something he was even allowed to take off. It was his third model; the last two did not come off and made him practically immobile. As he headed into his bedroom, he called out, “Hestia! I’m done! There’s loads of hot water!” he said as he began working at getting dressed. Breakfast was his next goal. Then today, he'd find his brothers. His life was just that: a series of short term goals.