Today was a slowish day at St. Mungos. Or at least, it was as slow as it ever got. None of his long term patients had any sort of crisis, and the newer patients who were dealing with spell damage had relatively easy fixes. Some would have to stay overnight, but other than that, it wasn’t too bad. Someone this morning had made an appointment for a sore leg, and he was on his way to see him. When Flynn entered the room, the patient seemed frustrated and perhaps… Embarrassed? He closed the door behind him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Warrington. I’m Flynn Hughes, I’ll be your healer today.” He sat down in a chair across from Omari, “You can call me Flynn if you’d like. I’m not fussy." He gave the auror one of his warm, genuine smiles. "Now, the chart says that you’re experiencing leg pain. That’s a bummer.” He shook his head and a crease appeared on his forehead and between his brows, “Can you tell me a bit more about that so I can help? When did the pain start, and how bad is it from a scale of one to ten?” He noticed that there was a cane next to Omari, which implied that the pain was giving him difficulty in walking.

That leg. Oh, that damn leg! It had been acting up since a small skirmish with some low-life witch down in Cornwall. Even though the hex she’d cast had been mediocre at best, it had still made Omari’s left leg (the one made out of goblin-silver) ache with every step he took. He wouldn’t have done anything about it if it wasn’t for his mother. He’d been over for dinner the night before, and when his mother saw him limping in, with a cane in his hand. The row had been a feisty one, but Omari had finally caved in, knowing that his mother only wanted what was best for him.

So here he was - at the one place in Britain he hated the most. Hospitals was not Omari’s thing. It had been Lucas’ thing, and that’s what made Omari cringe everytime he had to visit one. The Healers in their lime green robes; the moaning of patients in pain; the distinct smell of healing-potions filling the halls; and especially - the Janus Thickey Ward, where the hopeless cases dwelled. This was the worst way he had began a new week in ages.

A Healer walked up to him, holding one of those clipboards in his hands, and introduced himself as Flynn Hughes. “You can call me Flynn if you like. I’m not fussy.” Omari scowled. It wasn’t that the Healer was being rude or uninterested, but it was the way that they always tried to get familiar, friendly.

“Got me leg hit by a hex,” Omari answered to Flynn’s question. “Friday.”

He eyed Flynn, silently wondering if he knew about Omari’s leg not being all organic. He saw the glance towards the cane, straightened up and cleared his throat.

“I’ve tried the usual ointment,” he said and knocked on his knee, so that a metallic sound gave a slight echo in the hall. “But it doesn’t seem to want me walkin’.”

At the metallic sound knocking on his knee made, Flynn raised his eyebrows—not judgmentally—but rather, curiously. This was not something he saw very often. It seemed, that perhaps it wasn’t the leg as a whole that hurt, but the organic part that was left. Flynn knew he’d have to see it, see if parts were red and inflamed… Or if the hex had caused it to turn any other unpleasant color. There were plenty of things it could’ve been, and some ointments worked better than others. It wasn’t like Omari had a choice. Flynn needed to have a look at what he was dealing with if he was going to be able to help the auror in any way.

“Alright then. Let me see it whenever you’re ready.” Although his voice had a bit of a no-nonsense tone, it wasn’t stern. It was gentle. “What color was the hex that hit your leg?” Chances were, this was a spell that was either made up by the person who cast it, or it wasn’t spoken when it was cast.

Flynn was worried though, that Warrington may have waited too long to get that leg checked. With these sorts of injuries, the longer you waited the worse it got. Luckily, it was only two days or so—but still. It was typical of aurors though, to wait til the last possible minute. There was something about the job that made them feel like they were invincible, in Flynn’s opinion.

“Let me see it whenever you’re ready.”

Omari looked at Flynn, down at his leg and then back up at Flynn. Was he supposed to take his pants off here? He wasn’t embarrassed about his fake leg, but it wasn’t something he liked showing off to people he didn’t know. And he didn’t know a single witch or wizard who was currently in the ward. He grunted, stood up (with some difficulty) and unbuckled his belt. He let the pants drop, before sitting down with a heavy sigh.

The leg looked magnificent - hand crafted of the best goblin-silver it had an intricate yet sleek design and was covered in markings of unknown meaning. It gleamed in comparison with his dark skin, making it appear almost white. It would have been a wonderful sight, if it wasn’t for the teal coloured rash that seemed to emerge from the end of the silver leg, halfway down his thigh.

“I think it was about that colour,” Omari said, nodding towards his leg.

He felt naked and vulnerable - him pantless in front of a new stranger, the cane laying by his side. He hadn’t been this exposed to anyone in a long time. Not since… Lucas. The memory, together with the familiarity of the hospital and its many smells and sounds, made him shudder. Every second he was there he felt more and more uneasy. He mentally located his wand (in a holster under his coat) and tried to focus on it. His wand was always his safety-net.

He was nothing, if not professional.

It took everything in Flynn’s power not to stare at the leg—not because it was ‘unnatural’ but rather, because it was so intricately made! A real work of art. Whoever made it was indeed skilled. He knew he was going to have to do some more research on artificial limbs. While creating them wasn’t part of the healer’s skill set, finding the person who made it would be a great asset to future patients that he had. Flynn was curious about the markings—runes, perhaps?
His eyes focused the most on the teal rash, it looked a bit swollen as well. Flynn had seen rashes like that before-- the product of a rather nasty hex that tended to spread if left untreated. Thankfully, it seemed that it hadn't spread that much.

“Does it hurt beyond the rash, or just in that area?” Flynn inquired. “Do you mind, if I touch it?” His number one policy was not to touch any body part of a patient without their express permission (except, of course, during emergencies when they were unconscious and whatnot). “I need to feel if it’s radiating heat, and if it hurts to the touch. I've seen this before, but different people have different reactions to it.” For some, it had itched. For others, it had more of a burning sensation. It didn't usually hurt worse when touched, unless it was rather aggressive.
   

Omari was not one for admitting pain. He had never been one for admitting pain. Sure, he could swear like a sailor when something mundane as parchment-cut or hitting your toe against the desk happened, but bigger pain was something he always bottled up. He didn’t want to seem weak - he felt that it gave people power over him that he was not comfortable to give them. The only one that had ever seen him cry was his mother.

“It only hurts when I walk,” he lied.

He saw how Flynn was eyeing his leg, and at the question of whether he was allowed to touch it or not, Omari nodded in response. He admitted to himself that the rash didn’t look that appealing, but he still thought that the ointment he bought down in Diagon Alley would do after a couple of more uses. He had taken worst blows than that hex before and lived (as his goblin-made leg was proof of of).

Flynn saying that he had seen this kind of thing before did calm Omari down, but at the same time it felt oddly familiar. Of course he knew why, but that was the last thing he wanted to think about at the moment. He didn’t want to have a meltdown, however internal, right now.

“Only when you walk, eh?” Flynn repeated to himself, raising his eyebrows.  So that meant it hurt if there was pressure put on it, but not otherwise? Strange. But, as Flynn remembered, this rash affected people differently, though it was almost always uncomfortable. Scratch the almost part. It was definitely always uncomfortable.

He put on some gloves and tenderly put his hands to the rash, applying just the tiniest bit of pressure. “Does that hurt, then?” The rash itself was hot to the touch. Flynn highly doubted that it only hurt when pressure was applied. It wasn’t uncommon for patients to lie about the level of pain they were feeling—some viewed it as weak, and some were just rather embarrassed to feel it at all. That was especially frustrating to healers—trying to figure out amounts of potions and remedies to use so that it’d work was difficult when the patient didn’t give all the details. The truth, like it always did, would come out in time.

“What ointment did you use? Did you bring it with you?” As he examined the rash, it looked like, the rash went further than they could see. It was hidden by the leg.

“I hate to ask this of you, but… Can you remove your leg? I need the whole rash exposed.”

Flynns hands on his leg made Omari’s entire body twitch, and a small groan slipped from his lips. It hurt! It hurt like red hot iron pressed to his skin. He tried to mask his pain as proudly as he could, but a grimace still flashed across his face. He gazed towards the ceiling and sighed, knowing quite well that the game was up. Lucas had taken care of him after too many duels for him to know when he no longer could pretend to be invulnerable.

“I used this one,” he said and withdrew a small bottle filled with a yellow liquid. Madame Ortega’s Ointment for Unruly Rashes was printed in neat writing on the label. He knew, deep down, that the potion wouldn’t have made the rash go away. He had bought it for two sickles from a friendly witch in a stall down in Diagon Alley. Of course it wouldn’t be enough.

The next question baffled Omari.

“Remove… me leg?”

He gave his prosthetic a look. It had been almost two years since he last removed it, and he remembered the agonizing feeling quite well. It wasn’t the easiest of task, involving both spells and force, and the stump beneath it wasn’t a pretty sight. He looked back up at Flynn.

“Are ye sure that’s necessary?”

Ah, so it hurt that bad?

Flynn didn’t comment on it, since it was obvious that Omari was the type of guy who didn’t like to admit the amount of pain he was in. Actually, the fact that he even came into St. Mungos really should’ve spoken for itself.

“Unfortunately, yes.” He frowned, “The ointment will need to cover the entire rash in order to make it go away.” Hughes gave Warrington a sympathetic look. “Is it possible, to take the leg off?” Or did he have to figure out a different way? Flynn could get inventive, and concoct a new potion that needed to be ingested—but who knows how effective that’d be? In this sort of circumstance, topical solutions worked the best. 

“It’s the only way I can be absolutely sure that we’ll get rid of this damage.” This, he was sure of.

Omari hesitated. It would be much easier if he just lied and said that a removal of the leg was impossible. But then again, that would be a lie. And it wouldn’t help him in the long run. He needed to get rid of this rash and get back to work in mint condition as soon as he could.

“Well… yes,” he said, looking Flynn straight in the eye. “It’s not easy, and I’ll need ye help.”

He withdrew his aspen wand.

“Do ye know the spell?” he asked, and not waiting for an answer he continued. “It’s Argentum Eximo. The best way would be if a goblin could do it, but this is the next best thing.”

He moved his wand in a pattern similar to the letter B and gave Flynn a meaning nod.

“Ye think ye could do it?”