multiversallogs | i think back home they think i've lost my mind

Who: Lucius Malfoy (Sr) and "Vanessza Bernát"
What: What's the use of kind turns, if you can't call in a favour? A little bit of patching up ensues.
Where: Eventually, Syriac Well.
When: Veerdi night.

It's a good thing, Lucius Malfoy reflects, that he had advocated to her the benefits of the kindness of strangers.

Or else this might seem unusual.

Not that there is much unusual about his current circumstance. A normal Veerdi evening in Baedal should see a wizard peeling back the mock up bandaging he's fashioned from conjured silk, soaked through with blood, and evaluating the damage. More complaint in the furrow of his brow for the torn fabric than broken skin, but then again, he isn't looking at that latter thing as closely as he ought, and he's already magically numbed the injury so as best to carry on with his fucking day. The charm had worn out by sundown, however, and he can feel the encroaching beginnings of human pain needling at his senses.

He runs the tap to let red come off his palm and spiral down the silver drain. A train has pulled in at the station, audible even in the public bathroom he has claimed for himself and magically locked against unwanted intruders. In the narrative, this implies a state of crossroads. Except he usually Apparates.

Hand clean, he takes out his CiD. Hesitates, as is only fitting. They call him 'family'.

you implied you are a doctor

And waits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lucius manages not to do that much.

He also takes his time, once he's there, not only to shower itself but afterwards. The injury is to blame for the most part, making him be slow and tentative in each movement, as well as simple vanity - once out, he spends a little time magicing his clothes into some semblance of decency. He fancies he can see where torn cloth has been charmed back together, but only at a squint. Soon, Lucius is standing in her bathroom, coat draped over an arm, the steam thinned to a fine cloud, and contemplating the value in simply Apparating away.

But it isn't just the idea of splinching that has him emerging, door clicking unlocked and swung open at a push.

He finds her at the kitchen island, writing out her instructions for him (in English; she's not sure how much French he speaks, and erred on the side of not making the assumption) and, somewhat understandably, sipping from a small glass of red wine. She doesn't have the stereotypical doctor's handwriting ('chickenscratch'); rather, it's a crisply precise cursive written out in long-hand.

"Sit," she says, waving him down. "I'll go over this with you before I turn you loose."

He goes to her, sitting as asked. There is less of the ghostly death in his skin tone, gone from pallid to a more usual pale if only thanks to the warmth of the shower. A wine probably isn't a bad idea; he'll likely transfigure himself a glass of it before the night is out and sleep through 'til morning with exception to the fog-effect dreams he only barely realises he has.

Fighting monsters and navigating conversation with actual people, Muggle or not, is exhausting.

She turns the paper as she finishes, so she can go point by point with him like she's in her office and not her kitchen. "For the first twenty-four hours, you need to keep it clean and dry-- as long as it's not bleeding or discharging after forty-eight, you can take the bandages off. You can bathe with it after that. I've written down some antibiotic ointment brands here, which will come with instructions, but I don't know what's actually going to be available in Baedal, so I suggest you speak to an apothecary for an equivalent. If you feel like it's getting infected, or if any of the sutures start to loosen or break, call me. I want to see you again in ten days--" she's written down a date, helpfully, so he practically has an appointment with her, "--to see if the sutures are ready to come out. Any questions?"

His eyes skim the brand names, head tilted as he reads, and he imagines even he can concoct the adequate potions that would prevent infection; but he isn't going to tell her this or anything. If Lucius' cynicism to her methods is honest, then he can't imagine there wouldn't be a little bit of that in return, for whatever reason.

"You are working charitably, I take it?" is his question, naturally, despite their surroundings and the apparent state of him. He lifts attention off the page to her. "Otherwise, I can pay you in ten days."

"If you'd be more comfortable paying me," which, from her tone, isn't unusual, "then I'll accept that in ten days, but otherwise I'm happy to assist."

On her own terms, as he's discovered.

He pauses to consider that phrasing, before picking up the piece of paper and neatly folding it. "For your discretion, I may," Lucius says, as he goes to pocket the instructions inside his coat. "As for the rest, I suppose we shall see about that in ten days, won't we?"

He takes his cane back up in hand, moving to get to his feet.

Keeping secrets, she doesn't say, is something she probably knows more about than he does. (Practise, and all that.) She tips her head, instead, rising to see him out of the apartment.

"Call me if there are complications," she exhorts, at the door.

"If there are complications, I'd have a mind to call someone else."

However, the corner of his mouth suggests the barest hint of humour, hedging towards 'smile' territory without every quite making it. Still, a dry tone of voice lends less credibility to how serious he is being. He should, at this point, thank her for her professionalism and efficiency.

"Good evening, Dr. Bernát."

With a huff that's like a laugh, almost - to mirror the smile that isn't quite - Benevenuta waves him out. "As you like. Goodnight, Mr Malfoy."

It seems more appropriate, now he's got his shirt on.

i think back home they think i've lost my mind

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject