Isla Matthews (capablehands) wrote in epiloguesic, @ 2015-05-11 17:01:00 |
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--And to make matters worse, it was pissing down rain. A lone hunched and hooded figure tried to hide a limp while walking through the streets of London, meeting few others at that hour of the morning and in weather understatedly deemed inclement. There was purpose and direction though, every so often, she’d chance a splattering of water in her eyes to squint at the numbers bolded into the sides of the buildings -- slowing to a halt before her apparent destination. As if sensing rest was at so close at hand, whatever energy she had clung to to drive her forward seemed to wash out of her with the rain. The last few steps up to the front door were the slowest and most difficult; her body nearly collapsing against the frame as the bottom of her fist met the door several times in quick, hard succession. Isadora was not expecting visitors. She was, however, a light sleeper (which was something of a curse, but she made up for it by being able to fall asleep anywhere, and quickly) and not unaccustomed to random visits at odd hours. She took a deep breath and shrugged on a dressing gown before making her way to the door. She opened the door, gave her visitor a quick glancing over, and tugged them inside out of the rain, shutting the door behind them. “Who are you, and what sort of injuries am I going to be dealing with?” Isadora asked. No point in beating around the bush, not in cases like these. Dorcas couldn’t help the hiss that escaped her lips upon the sudden full weight taken upon her right leg. “Not going to ask me for the secret phrase? Or do you make a habit of dragging in anyone off the street?” The roof over her head though -- that was a respite at least, and instead of leaning against a doorframe in the rain, Dorcas braced a palm over the back of a chair instead and pushed down the soaked through hood of her robe, and finally gave this Healer -- Stebbins, Isadora -- a thorough scrutiny (in as much as she could through a pain-filled, exhausted lens in the dark). Height, slenderness, and the sort of wide eyed projection of innocence that probably put many a nervous patient at ease. And perhaps it was through that half delirium Dorcas found herself likening the Healer to a gracefully poised doe, bed hair, dressing robe and all. “Not dragging, exactly, but there was no point in leaving you in the rain any longer.” Isadora did let half a smile escape at the mention of secret phrases. “If I start getting more frequent visits, maybe I’ll adopt the secret phrase technique. As it is, not many people who know where I live would be visiting at this hour, and if they did it would be prearranged. I don’t know you, and you didn’t have an appointment, which means someone who does know me told you where you could find help if you needed it.” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Am I correct?” After a moment, Dorcas shrugged as if to say, yeah, okay. “I wasn’t all that keen on ever uttering, lemon drops are for suckers, anyway.” Bloody Riddle. “Dorcas Meadowes. You must be the Healer, hullo.” With one last attempt at pride, Dorcas straightened, removed her bracing hand from the chair and held it out to Isadora for a full second before her leg finally gave up all pretense of support and she took a topple to the floor. Isadora had just been reaching for the offered hand when her new patient--Meadowes--went down. Isadora instinctively moved to catch the woman, getting her just in time to stop her from completely hitting the floor. Definitely a leg, from the look of things. She shifted her hold on Dorcas to brace them both more steadily. “Let’s get you in a chair, now,” she said. “And I’ll have a look at that leg. Anything else I should know about?” Her hands now caught upon Isadora’s forearms, and her sucked in breath brought with it the faint scent of mint. A short shake of her head. “This one’s embarrassing enough,” Dorcas managed through clenched teeth. Pain was loosening the tight grip she held upon her words -- they were slowly sliding into the sounds of her youth, rough and harsh. “Four Aurors. Nasty spell, practically right in the bloody arse. Good to know the security of the muggle electricity grid’s well in hand.” She managed a brief, graceless hobble before shedding wet outer robe and letting it drop to the floor in a collecting puddle of water. The robes had, at least, masked the long ragged gash down one leg, through fabric that had been burned and melted into seared flesh. “...not a chair, then,” Isadora murmured as she eyed the wound. Definitely not the sort of thing one tried to sit with, that wound. She quickly shifted the chair that Dorcas had leaned on and, drawing her wand, transfigured it into a simple hospital style bed. She paused for a moment and looked over the remainder of Dorcas’ soaked and bloodied clothes before whipping off her dressing gown and holding it to the other woman. With the gown off, it was revealed that Isadora was currently wearing a pair of mens pyjamas--presumably hand-me-down from the wear and fading. “Here,” she said. “Get out of the rest of those wet things and wrap up in this while I collect a few things for your treatment.” The production of the hospital bed only produced on raised brow. “You can take the healer out of hospital, but apparently you can’t take hospital out of the healer.” And the night time dress -- a careful study, up, down -- a small smile as Dorcas accepted the robe. The downpour had been a curse and blessing -- the moisture, at least, had prevented her trousers from drying and completely grafting to the open, oozing wound. Dorcas shed her clothes as proficiently as she would any mundane task -- necessity, first. But when the last shred of sodden garment was dropped to the floor, the chill struck her skin like a whip, a shudder curled over her body -- blood loss, exhaustion, the drain of adrenaline, it all hit her at once. “Why...what’s your story, then, Stebbins?” she asked as a way to distract herself, gingerly lowering her damaged body upon the bed. Isadora went over her collection of salves and potions, selecting what would likely work best given what she’d see of the injury. A closer look would reveal more, of course, but she had an idea of what it would need. Some gauze and bandages would help, too. She raised an eyebrow at the question as she returned. Well. At least her patient felt well enough to converse, or at least felt compelled to try. That wasn’t a bad sign. Isadora held out a slender vial. “Swallow that quickly for the pain before I get started. It’s not as foul tasting as some things, but it’s far from pleasant.” She began rolling up her sleeves and pulled a chair over to the side of the bed to have a closer look at her patient’s leg. “And by ‘my story,’ I suppose you mean how I ended up in the Order? I expect we have a mutual acquaintance in Mr Riddle. I find the current way things are dissatisfactory on a number of levels and wish to do my part to change them.” She looked up from Dorcas’ wound. “And to help others who wish to take action.” As a rule, Dorcas always held proffered cocktails with suspicion. Dorcas didn’t grow up in East London for nothing, after all. It was an instinctive rise of hackles, damped down by only a force of will as she took the proffered vial and downed it one unflinching go -- trust and taste laid unflinchingly upon Isadora’s feet. The relief, at least, was nearly instant, settling over her body like a cool blanket, relaxing her limbs and freeing them of pain. “That’s rather the party line, isn’t it?” She tried not to slur. “Mm-hm,” Isadora murmured in agreement as she got a better look at the leg wound and began cleansing the wound. “Once I know you better, I may tell you more.” She fully expected to see Dorcas again. Anyone who’d take a wound like this and keep walking wasn’t likely to go running away from dangerous situations any time soon. From Dorcas’s vantage point, on her side, head cradled in the crook of her elbow to peer up at Isadora through the veil of her lashes, she took in every micro-expression, every thought written across Isadora’s concentrated face. “You wouldn’t rather tell me now when there’s a high chance I’d forget it?” That got a faint smile from Isadora. “That would be an option. But how would i know that you wouldn’t just ask again later, if you forgot?” Meadowes was in good shape, leg wound aside. And not bad looking, either. “I suppose that depends on how much of an impression you’d make, that I’d be that curious about you,” Dorcas said, nearly a whisper as her gaze swept the room -- its personal touches, everything that might give her a clue as to who Isadora was. She was that curious. Neat, pretty Isadora with the healer’s touch and the closed lips. She gave her injured leg shake inspite of the pain it caused. “Think it’ll scar, Healer?” "Mmm. Not too badly. A little at the worst point, perhaps, but it shouldn't give you any difficulty walking. You'll not have to worry about explaining away a limp." Which would, Isadora expected, be the most complicated aspect of any injury that did do that much damage. Or about being sidelined. There was relief to be had in that, and whatever remaining tension that drew Dorcas’s limbs taut drained away upon hearing the final verdict. If she no longer had her work in the Order, then what would she have left? Who would she be? “Alright.” Dorcas propped her heavy head back up in an effort to stave off the siren call of drowsiness. “What would you like to know?” Isadora raised an eyebrow and began gently applying a wound healing ointment to the wound, starting at the top. Well, if her patient wanted to chat, she might as well get to know a fellow Order member. “I’ll start with something relatively innocuous. What House were you in, and when did you finish your schooling?” If Isadora were to hazard a guess, she’d go for not-Ravenclaw (or she’d remember her) and around the same time she’d finished herself, if she was guessing age correctly. Dorcas couldn’t help the grin that turned up at the corners of her mouth. It stayed even though Isadora’s light touches still caused touch points of pain as they made contact with the mottled, burned skin on her hip. Pain was just a physical sensation that alerted the nervous system to possible problems. It could be assessed and ignored. “I was in Slytherin, class of seventy-six. Let me guess: you were Ravenclaw,” she said evenly, because even now, Isadora was a face she vaguely remembered. The eyes, Dorcas thought. Those had stayed with her. She paused, studying the way Isadora so wholly focused upon the task at hand, and then arched a playful brow in lieu of a canted hip (which was, at the moment, out of commission). “You don’t have to put on the kid gloves. I’m not shy.” Isadora nodded, still intent on applying the salve. “Correct. Ravenclaw, class of seventy-five.” She looked up from her in time to catch the other woman’s arched brow. She raised an eyebrow of her own. “Well, if the gloves are off, as they say, do you often get into this sort of trouble, or was it just my lucky night?” A smile quirked at the corners of her mouth and she paused to prepare a second application, this time an ointment that would speed the work of the first. “I thought I remembered you. You’re hard to forget.” And that was all she would have to say about that. Fair play was fair play after all, as Dorcas considered the next point of order. The salve, at least, was getting to work quickly. The sheer sensation of burning fading into nearly nothing, a blessed numbness settling it like a cool balm. Her mind cleared; she weighed the measure of the truth. “I’d say...a bit of both. There’s been close calls before, but we’ve never had an official Healer on call.” Trailing her gaze down the lines of her body to where her injury was so expertly being attended to, “You’re doing a far sight better than what I would’ve done, that’s for certain. Why, are you regretting it already?” “Not regretting it. You’re as close to a model patient as a Healer could ask for, really. Quite a bit less complaining and swearing than I often get. And you’re better at staying still.” Isadora let a finger trail against the edge of the wound to judge how well the treatment was working. Satisfactory. “And yes, better me than you handling this one on you own.” She straightened her back and leaned back in her chair to the the ointments do their work. “And am I really hard to forget?” She could resist a hint of cheekiness in her voice when she asked. “You’ve obviously never met Black. You’ll be in for a right treat then.” The words, dryly issued, trailed off in almost lazy, soporific complacence. By this point, even Dorcas doubted Sirius could drum up an obnoxious complaint. Her eyes had fallen closed only to reopen at the lightness creeping into Isadora’s tone, unexpected, given how so very serious and focused the other woman had been, and yet, presented now, was so wholly delightful. She met Isadora’s gaze, a matrix of answers rising to the tip of her tongue, most woven with insouciance, but what finally emerged was surprisingly, traitorous candour (internally, she’d flinch, the very moment such words slipped out): “Yes, you are.” Unknown waters could be as dangerous as they were alluring, but one never learned without testing the waters. And this was...pleasant, so far. Isadora tucked her hair behind her ears, gaze still locked on Dorcas. “In what way, or why? If that line of questioning in included in ‘gloves off.’” She rather hoped it was included, because now she was intrigued. It wasn’t easy, clawing back through ten years to excavate her memories of Hogwarts. The whole period had been, for Dorcas, both exhilarating, challenging and terrifying. It had appealed to her competitive streak -- how far could she go in convincing her Slytherin housemates of her deception? Of her perfected received pronunciation that slid back into her East London drawl every summer? She had been careful then, to stay narrowly focused, to not to make the wrong associations, to deign to not even regard the existence of those who would have been seen as being below her shaky status. Fellow school children passed her in the corridors and surrounded her in classrooms, coolly nondescript in her mind, like anonymous faces peering from the window of a moving train. But her sharp eye and steel trap mind had worked against her then, and some details had wormed their way in, and Isadora, in particular (though she was one year ahead, and would have, should have, gone completely above her notice): Passing through the dungeons, happening upon a class in session, noting slender, graceful hands carefully measuring and doling out ingredients for a potion. The library, once, seeing lips that moved silently as one read, occasionally worried between teeth. A Hogsmeade weekend, a tendril of hair unfurled and loose in the breeze. “Nothing you ever did or said was done for attention,” Dorcas said. “When one is constantly surrounded by housemates who daily vied for it through whatever means they could, knowing there were others out there who seemed quite content with their place in the world was refreshing. I liked that. The simplicity and honesty of it.” That wasn’t the kind of answer Isadora had been expecting. But it was...candid. And almost a little endearing, though she wouldn’t admit to that. Her expression did soften just a little, though. “That’s a surprising accomplishment,” she said, “making an impression without trying to make one. But it’s nice to know someone appreciated it.” There had certainly been flashier members of Ravenclaw House, but she’d never really seen the point. If you were smart and competent, why not let your results speak for themselves? She leaned down to take another look at the wound. It was no longer open, as layers of skin had begun to re-grow themselves. It was still a little angry looking, and definitely not ready for supporting weight just yet. “Would you like something to drink?” Isadora asked. Might as well be hospitable while they waited, after all. “I suppose a scotch is out of the question.” Dorcas bit back a smile at the moment of unguarded startlement flickering across Isadora’s features and busied herself with a transparent more in depth scrutiny of the living room, squinting to pick off the titles of the books on the shelves. “I wish I had been sorted into Ravenclaw. It seemed like a house with much less pressure. I suppose the Sorting Hat chose well though, given what we’ve become.” Isadora grinned and stood up. “Scotch is, for the moment, out of the question. Tea or coffee wouldn’t go amiss, I’d say. Something warm, anyway. And I suppose it did. A Healer and a covert operative, what a combination that is.” There were a number of texts on potions and Healing techniques, but also some books about myths and legends, some with titles that sounded like they might contain poetry. She took the opportunity whilst Isadora was out of the room to tentatively sit up, biting back a hiss at the pull of sensitive new skin. A closer study of her healing injuries, though, revealed their new healer to be, at the very least, quite capable. Ever impatient, she stood up on shaky legs, using the backs of the nearest pieces of furniture for support, and clenched her teeth against the intense discomfort (Dorcas adamantly refused to call it pain). A finger reached to brush against the spine of Alice in Wonderland, and when she saw Isadora return from the corner of her eye, she asked, “So, why healing?” Isadora returned with tea and a number of things to possibly add to it--sugar, honey, milk--and a few biscuits in case Dorcas was feeling a little hungry. She fought the urge to roll her eyes when she found Dorcas upright and perusing her bookshelf. So much for the ideal patient. “Well,” she said, setting the tea tray down, “it seemed a good option. I wanted something that would keep me on my toes mentally and let me make use of my potions knowledge. There were, of course, other potential options, but I preferred choosing something where helping was more guaranteed than harming.” At last, Dorcas turned from her perusal of Isadora’s collection to the collector herself. It took a particular meticulousness, and by extension a particular type of disposition, to brew an effective potion. Neat, well put together, self-possessed Isadora. Which made it especially intriguing that she who could probably follow instructions precisely to the letter would engage in a bit of rogue subversion that ran a high risk of imprisonment and execution. “But it wasn’t enough, was it?” “No, it wasn’t enough. Not when I knew there had to be things going on, and people doing them who might even consider themselves as doing good work. And I know better than many that things do happen.” Isadora sat down and poured two cups of tea. She looked back at Dorcas. “You asked me earlier what my story was. Well, some of it is that I always wondered what happened to my grandfather--my dad’s father. I knew he’d existed, that my father had the same name, though his father used Ned and mine used the full Edward, mainly. No one talked about him when I was little, but Gran made slips. Things like saying I had her Ned’s looks, a similar temperament. He was a mystery I could never quite tease out.” She paused. “I was sixteen when I found out that he’d been a Muggleborn, and that he’d ‘disappeared’ not long after my dad learned he was going to be a father himself.” After a beat, Dorcas nodded as if confirming something for herself. She limped back over to the couch, favouring her injured hip, gingerly lowering herself back down upon it, but sitting upright this time, no matter the strain and effort it took. “I….” she faltered. Uncharacteristically, the right words, spoken with the correct accent, did not find themselves upon her tongue. Not when it was personal. Not this. Why she was even motivated to admit it now, she didn’t know, not when she had willingly only ever told one other person in her entire life. No, such words needed to be spoken thickly, bathed in the throaty syllables of her childhood. “I never knew my father. He died before I was born. He wasn’t muggleborn, though. But he...married a muggle. Me mum. She never got over it. Didn’t really know what to do with a magical child. There was no one to show me how. Half me heritage, taken from me. A missing link from your own family tree, gone, vanished. And more, so many more, to many families out there. How many of us walk around feeling the absence of something missing from ourselves? I couldn’t…didn’t want to just live my life like that.” The shift in speech was surprising, and it made the revelation all the more raw and honest. Isadora suspected that something missing, or something that marked one as something other than what Grindelwald’s empire wanted magical folk to be, played a role in many of the Order members’ lives and why they joined. Tom had a knack for finding the people who had the most to gain from change, it seemed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “And thank you, for trusting me with this.” Both accent and story. Neither, Isadora could tell, was exactly easy to share. She held out a hand then, though she wasn’t completely sure why or even what she expected the other woman to do with it. Her gaze, which had settled into her hands, rose to Isadora’s outstretched hand. Her eyes darted up to Isadora’s, half-sceptical, wary by instinct, searching for and dreading even a shred of disingenuity. And when Dorcas found none, her shoulders, which had tensed, sunk in relief. It was...an odd thing, almost childish, reaching out, covering that hand, lacing her fingers through Isadora’s as if she were declaring her to be her new best friend. But in a way, it was acknowledgement of something, she realised. That secret parted from her, entrusted in another to hold and keep safe. She shook their joined hands a moment, and then smiled softly. “Welcome to the Order, Stebbins.” |