Who: Roger and Mandy When: Saturday evening, after the Quidditch match Where: St. Mungos What: Roger wakes up. Rated/Status: Lowish, except for language cause it's Roger. Incomplete.
Roger opened his eyes, surprised to see strange walls in an unfamiliar room. He’d just been playing Quidditch a second ago. What the hell was he doing here? He tried to think. His head hurt like a bitch. There was something hooked up to his arm, dripping some kind of potion into him. And his chest felt really weird. He shifted and hissed as a sharp pain in his side nearly knocked him out again. He knew that feeling. Broken rib. Several of them.
And then he remembered what he’d been doing before he woke up here. He’d been flying, about to score. His sixth of the game. He’d been on fucking fire. Like nothing could stop him. Not even the abnormally high number of fouls. But then… Flint. Something hard collided with Roger’s side when he raised his arm and it hurt like a bitch, but that wasn’t unusual. He’d already been fouled off by Flint and Warrington starting at about ten seconds into the game. Elbowed in the face, kicked in the back of the head. A bludger to the back that nearly knocked him off his broom. He was used to bruises and broken bones. You sucked it up and kept flying.
But the weird thing about this time was that all the air went out of his lungs after he got hit, like a deflating balloon. And he kept gasping for breath but it wouldn’t stay in his chest. It kept leaking out. He felt dizzy, and then he was falling. He vaguely remembered being really close to the ground. People screaming his name.
And now he was here.
He sat up abruptly, ignoring the sudden stabbing pain in his skull. “What happened?” he demanded, finally noticing Mandy next to him. She was calmly reading a book, and he huffed, annoyed. “What’s the score?” He scowled and started yanking at the thing in his arm, moved to get out of the bed that he barely fit in. Everything ached. “I’ve got to get back out there. I’m good, I can still play.”