Heels squeaking intermittently, Kia strode down the hallways of St. Mungos as best she could with the faint remains of a limp, glancing side to side as she searched for the room number she had been given. Despite the comfortable temperature, Kia couldn't help but shiver and pull her jacket a bit closer. She had never been fond of hospitals. They conjured up bad memories from waiting to learn about her mothers death, to her brothers attack to, until recently, her own little jaunt in Creature Injuries. As she thought about it, both the livid scar on her shin and something in the back of her brain cringed reflexively, and she felt a strong desire to turn around and leave.

However, the large paper bag she had with her crinkled in her grip, as if to remind her of her reasons for visiting. It was not quite a week since the attack on the Leaky Cauldron and it had been a couple of days before Kale even informed her that, among the patients, was an old friend. She had met Margo many years ago, thanks to her father, and the two surprisingly became close. A bit of an odd couple though. Margo was a bit older than Kia, but with her being a 'child at heart' and Kia being an 'old soul', the two's ages seemingly balanced out. The two had polar opposite personalities as well, with Margo as passionate and aggressive as a dragon and Kia as cold and aloof as a lone wolf, which made it fitting that they worked in the RCMC dragon restraint and werewolf capture sections respectively. However, despite their differences, the two respected each other for their propensity towards adventurousness, independence and blunt honesty. So, despite her apprehensions regarding hospitals, Kia forged onward.

When she finally found the room, Kia stopped and took a moment to breathe. She had no idea the extent of Margo's injuries, as Kale wasn't sure himself, so she had to prepare herself for the worst. As she knocked lightly on the door before opening it quietly, Kia reminded herself that no matter what Margo looked like, even if half her face was gone, Kia would not gawk or comment on it. Being honest did not mean she had to lack tact, after all. "Hey, Margo... It's me, Kia..." She said softly as she entered, uncertain of how loud she could be.

When she was fully in the room, she could see that Margo's wounds, while definitely not minor, were not life threatening and she relaxed a bit. Avoiding the subject of wounds or the accident, Kia made her way to Margos side and held up the bag "I brought you some provisions to keep you from going crazy..."

After Balfour’s visit and practically going into a sweets induced food coma the previous day, Margo was actually rather sedated – even without the aid of medication.  She certainly wasn’t throwing any pillows at Lee Jordan’s radio broadcast.  Though, she suspected that was because her neck pillow was much too comfortable and the subject had moved from international to British League Quidditch.  There was significantly less to care about in that regard. 

She had a letter from Eli that she needed to respond to and despite the fact that she wouldn’t touch the brownie he gave her with a ten foot pole while she was in this place (though, notably, she wouldn’t let anyone throw it away either), the idea became tempting when the time seemed to drag by.  It’d been barely a minute since she glanced at the clock. 

Was it sad when you looked forward to the elderly mediwitch coming in and giving you dirty looks when you tried to make jokes?  …After a second thought, it definitely was and that made Margo feel even worse.  She couldn’t wait to leave, but it would be a while yet.  Her prosthetics weren’t even close to being assembled, plus the lungs thing was still an issue… and infections.  It was all kind of a mess. 

Margo knew the routine though.  Traumatic injury wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary in her line of work.  She’d always done the whole ‘live fast, die young’ thing – going by the seat of her pants, seeing whatever happened and just seizing opportunities.  She’d sort of begun rethinking that after her first amputation.  It was said to be common in her work, so Margo persisted despite obstacles.  A leg was one thing… but a hand? 

She looked to the bed with her arm laying under the sheets.  The space where she swore she still imagined her hand empty and nubbed down.  She sighed.  Balfour had asked if she was done courting death – too poetic for her taste, but fitting, she guessed… since she could come up with nothing better than that.  Maybe it was time for a change of scene?  Or did she really want to get out alive? 

Probably.  It was a solid probably.  Grumbling, contemplating the potential very bleak future of paperwork or unemployment, Margo was left alone with her thoughts until the door creaked (it always creaked) and Margo turned her head quickly.  As antsy as she had been for the mediwitch’s evil glares, seeing that it wasn’t that, Margo felt her heart speed up.  Friend! 

“Afraid you might be too late,” Margo laughed, “but I’ll take ‘em anyway.”  She motioned around the room to the various wilting flower arranged and an odd box or two, “All bearing gifts are welcome.” 

“Afraid you might be too late, but I’ll take ‘em anyway. All bearing gifts are welcome.” 

Kia glanced at the already wilted flowers and resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose in distaste. "Well, I didn't bring any flowers. Mostly because I didn't peg you as a flower type..." She retorted, sitting on the end of the bed with a familiarity she saved only for close friends and family. Truth was, she was the one who wasn't the flower type. Well... flowers in hospital rooms anyways. She didn't mind a nice bouquet as an accent piece, but the flowers brought to the hospital reminded her of memories she would have preferred to forget. Why would you give flowers to someone sick in bed anyways? She always asked herself when trying to rationalize the guilt she felt at not bringing them. After all, if the flowers weren't cared for, they would wilt and what sick person wanted to watch something so pretty wilt away and die like that, like some kind of sick reminder of their own fleeting mortality? It seemed so... counterproductive.

Instead, Kia tried to bring practical gifts. "But, I did bring a few things that might ease the boredom..." She reached in the bag and pulled out a small box, placing it at Margo's side. "First, an aromatherapy candle... I tried to get one that smelt a bit more ... outdoorsy, I guess. It's supposed to uplift you, or something..." She then added a bundle of muggle paperbacked books to the pile "Um... some puzzle books... mostly Sudoku. Muggles really seem to love it and I figured it would keep your mind and hands' busy..." At this point, Kia had not realized that the area under the blanket that should have been filled with Margos' left hand was strangely empty.

Finally, Kia pulled out a small, lidded, cast iron cauldron. A delicious aroma wafted from it and she proudly offered it to Margo, saying "And at last, a self heating cauldron of my home made chicken soup..." Like her mother, there was nothing Kia loved more than to cook for her loved ones and watch the joy on their faces as they tasted something truly delicious.

“You must know me better than my family then,” Margo laughed.  They were mainly responsible for flowers.  They didn’t know what to say.  It wasn’t exactly the first time something like this had happened.  They didn’t know what to say – or what to get her.  Margo had always been the… hard to peg down one.  Whatever though, wasn’t important.  Friends obviously understood at least a little bit more.  “I appreciate that you didn’t get me something useless already,” she added with a wry smile.

It was funny, having company could make you fall into some old habits: not taking things seriously, laughing it off, all the stuff that indicated she really hadn’t learned her lesson in the past year.  Letting a deep breath out of her nose, the thought was unpleasant.  At least she didn’t have to scoot out of the way for Kia to sit down.  Margo’s absent leg did that for her. 

Not moving was going to be a lot easier.  Plus, she liked presents.  Watching Kia remove the candle, she sniffed in amusement.  “You sure smoke won’t induce some PTSD to someone in this place?” she teased.  Margo didn’t really know how to do gratitude, but she could do laughter and teasing.  It meant the same thing to her.  She figured Kia knew that.  Eyeing the books, Margo was a little skeptical, especially of muggle things, but she’d give it a shot. 

It couldn’t hurt.  Until it did.  Hands busy.  Margo snorted again, this time less in jest and looked down at the blankets.  She instinctively knew she wanted to flex her fingers, even sort of felt like she did, but there was nothing there.  She hated that sensation.  She still struggled with it with her knee, calf, and foot… The new addition was just another headache.  But since Kia didn’t know, she wasn’t going to make a big deal of it.  It would be nice to have someone not know for a while. 

Or it would have been if she hadn’t offered her a warm, small cauldron of soup.  It smelled really good, Margo immediately noticed, and though she had a limited appetite, her stomach started to growl straight away.  Biting her lip, she thought for a moment, “If you could,” she motioned with her hand to the floating tray bit that was near the side of the bed, a ginger drink in one of those abysmal pink cups still sitting on it, “bit hard to grab things yet,” she skirted the issue, but still got what she wanted.  “Wouldn’t want to spill it on myself,” she informed her, “not sure I could afford anymore burns!”  Morbid.  “I hope you didn’t just make this for me,” she added, “isn’t chicken soup a lot of work?”

Kia gradually became more and more aware that something was amiss with Margos' smile. She was hiding something and Kia had an inkling of what it could be. Kale had been the same way when their mother died. Unlike Kia, who had simply withdrawn, Kale had put on a smile and adopted a carefree attitude that seemed happy to those who didn't know better. Truthfully, he became so carefree that he didn't care about anything. Possessions... friends... himself. It had gotten so bad that he had been self medicating his wounds with alcohol and narcotic potions even in his teens, right under the noses of Kia and their father. Discovering this had been a hard blow for Kia, who had considered herself quite observant of others as well as someone Kale could talk to about anything. It had taken his near death experience for anyone to realize the damage he had been doing to himself, all because he hid it so well with that smile. Kia feared that Margo would go down the same dark path.

The problem was that Kia herself was no good at expression emotion. She had locked hers away with her mother died and had only cried in private. How could she sit here and lecture Margo on expression her emotions in a healthy manner when she couldn't do the same? But then she was racked with guilt and wondered how long or how serious the wound would have to be before Margo did come clean with her. The possibility of death being the answer was not beyond comprehension.

“I hope you didn’t just make this for me, isn’t chicken soup a lot of work?”

The smell of the soup and Margos' question reminded Kia that she was staring, and she quickly focused on her friend instead of imagining the ways she could face death. "Eh... It's more time consuming than difficult..." Kia said, skirting the question "I had plenty of time since I wasn't able to get in to see you until today..."

There were so many questions popping up in her mind now. Like how some burns could possibly keep Margo in a hospital bed for several days considering magical salve usually regrew the skin fairly quickly. Or why Margo seemed so ill at ease about handling the soup. Kia wanted to ask but refrained. Margo would eventually tell her, she hoped, and when she did, Kia would be there to listen. Forcing her to do it would only push her farther into her shell.

"Here." She said, pulling the table over and setting the cauldron on it. Then she reached in the bag and pulled out a spoon, showing it to Margo with a hint of pride at her foresight "... I came prepared." Handing her the spoon, Kia opened the cauldron and let out a whoosh of chicken and herb scented steam. The recipe was her mothers and Kia felt a twinge of sadness mixed with nostalgia upon smelling it.

"Did you want me to dispose of any of these old flowers?" Kia asked, sensing that Margo probably didn't want someone staring at her while she ate. Also, Kia couldn't stand the sight of wilted flowers against hospital walls and felt that if she stared at them any longer, she would snap.


(Ugh sorry... not my best work. Need to practice writing. I'm a bit rusty lol)

 “I find it hard to believe that I am the only thing that consumes your time, outside of soup,” Margo laughed, shaking her head.  “So, I appreciate the effort.”  It was true, and seeing Kia start to manipulate the room around her  - pulling the tray closer, getting the spoon out.  She didn’t want to admit she needed the help, but she also didn’t want to mess about with her arm.  It was hard to control and she ended up knocking things over… it’d be embarrassing.  Plus, it was still raw. 

It was one thing when your wounds were pink and healed, subdued by healing and potions work that would dull them down to faint reminders.  But, most of Margo’s injuries were still angry and red, pulsing with heat and discomfort.  Whatever happened in that building, it was obviously not a regular fire.  It was like dragon flames.  Took a hell of a long time to heal and you could never really get rid of the scars.

Some more mundane injuries could be healed with a salve and it was like they never happened.  Margo remembered the hundreds of times she’d tripped over things and cut herself up or burned her hands on hot coffee… a wipe of some crushed up cream from a first aid kit and it was gone.  These did not clear up quite as quickly or nicely. 

But, it didn’t matter.  Margo was used to it.  She’d get over it soon enough and move on.  Find something to do with herself – distract herself from everything.  Margo was exceptionally good at that. 

She would argue that she wasn’t blushing, merely hot and covered in bandages, but her cheeks were pink and she felt a little embarrassed that she couldn’t get things squared away herself.  She murmured a “thanks” before she took the spoon and didn’t stop herself – hospital food was weak, and this smelled amazing. 

Taking a spoonful, Margo groaned: she hadn’t eaten some really damn food in days and closed her eyes, bouncing a little in her bed.  “This is so good,” she garbled, with her mouth still half full.  Chewing came second to informing someone what she was eating was probably the best thing she’d eaten since Balfour brought cinnamon rolls.  But those were like… dessert.  This was food. 

When Kia offered to get rid of the flowers, Margo shrugged.  “Nah, they’re fine,” she informed her, dipping the spoon back into the steaming cauldron and swirled around – watching noodles, chicken, and vegetables swirl in the broth.  “If my family stops by – you know how it is,” she cleared her throat, thickening her accent to accentuate more of the Spanish of her mother’s side, “Marguerite! Where did my flowers go?  They have energy! Healing energy!”  Her family was… strange. 

Margo lifted the spoon again toward her lips and frowned.  “When do you think it’s the right time to move on, Ferris?” She put the spoonful of soup in her mouth, trying not to look as anxious as she felt about even asking the question.  Also, hoping she was not asked to specify, since there were clearly so many things that could apply to at present.