The cane is set down, never far and certainly not offered to her to take, leaning in the crook of wall and sink. Lucius is slow but measured, the heavy wool shucked off his shoulders as one-armedly as he can. The surprisingly nice black satin lining inside is pretty much ruined, but there are. Ways. Magicing his laundry is the least of his worries. He lets the thing drop.
The shirt is more or less peeled away, once unbuttoned, slow going unless she interferes and helps with the more difficult shoulder. That everything is black serves to make everything somewhat less horrific until its actually gone, and the injury at his arm looks like something large and with claws got its hit in. Various bruises mottle his torso, less concerning, and older still would be the white scars that mar his other forearm that could vaguely have been a skull and snake in another life time. And was. Small black runes mark in a row against the side of his neck.
He catches a glimpse of the injury in the mirror, lines bracketing his mouth deepening in automatic scowl. "What will you do for it?" What do Muggle doctors even do, anyway?
He knows what wizards and witches would do, but lacks the right empathy, finesse and interest to master healing magics, even for the sake of himself, and he'd always had Narcissa's assistance. As for potions... the idea of going to Severus, as with everyone else, is enough for it to be promptly stamped upon with other ideas less offensive to his pride.
no subject
The cane is set down, never far and certainly not offered to her to take, leaning in the crook of wall and sink. Lucius is slow but measured, the heavy wool shucked off his shoulders as one-armedly as he can. The surprisingly nice black satin lining inside is pretty much ruined, but there are. Ways. Magicing his laundry is the least of his worries. He lets the thing drop.
The shirt is more or less peeled away, once unbuttoned, slow going unless she interferes and helps with the more difficult shoulder. That everything is black serves to make everything somewhat less horrific until its actually gone, and the injury at his arm looks like something large and with claws got its hit in. Various bruises mottle his torso, less concerning, and older still would be the white scars that mar his other forearm that could vaguely have been a skull and snake in another life time. And was. Small black runes mark in a row against the side of his neck.
He catches a glimpse of the injury in the mirror, lines bracketing his mouth deepening in automatic scowl. "What will you do for it?" What do Muggle doctors even do, anyway?
He knows what wizards and witches would do, but lacks the right empathy, finesse and interest to master healing magics, even for the sake of himself, and he'd always had Narcissa's assistance. As for potions... the idea of going to Severus, as with everyone else, is enough for it to be promptly stamped upon with other ideas less offensive to his pride.