Thursday, 18th September 2008
St Mungo's Hospital
1st Floor - Creature Injuries

Iona was just surfacing from yet another sleep. She’d spent the past several days drifting in an out of consciousness thanks to the cocktail of potions being pumped into her. Most times, she woke with a deliriousness, needing to reacquaint herself with her surroundings and her new reality. The pain, dulled significantly by the potions, served as a vivid reminder of what had happened. Iona Ballentyne had been bitten and mauled in the line of duty and she was never going to set out on a full moon to chase werewolves again.

For several days, it had been questionable as to whether she would live. Now, the question was whether she would walk unaided. As far as the witch was able to recall from her spaced out conversations with Marrowbone, the healer still wasn’t sure if she would need to take the leg. What was certain, however, was that the curse had gotten into her blood and she had a few weeks before she experienced her first transformation as a hunter turned werewolf.

“Zo…” Iona’s eyes flickered open, glancing around as they came into focus.

“She’ll be back, love.” The mediwitch gave Iona’s hand a squeeze, “Gone to Hogwarts for your girl.” Waverley. They’d agreed to tell Waverley because they couldn’t not.

Breathing in slowly, Iona closed her eyes again, letting her mind drift back into a sleepy state.

It was a couple of hours later when the noise in the room stirred Iona again. This time, the potions must have been wearing off because she felt more aware of herself and her surroundings. The pain, thankfully, wasn’t overwhelming.

The healers and mediwitches had done an excellent job of cleaning their newest werewolf patient up. The mud and blood she’d been caked in out in the woods had been long since cleared off and she was fresh and clean. Curly red hair had been plaited and fell in a messy braid down over her right shoulder. The most striking part of her appearance was the witch’s pallor, for she looked as if all blood had been drained from her body and thoroughly exhausted despite the copious hours of sleep. The sheets were pulled up to her chest, hiding the grim reality beneath.

Bruce, nicknamed after a Scottish hero and warrior, had believed she would be strong when Wav arrived. No one needed to see their mum in such a state. But the second her and Zo appeared in the door, tears filled her eyes.
“I-I’m…fine” the weak voice spoke, “promise.”

Waverly was fifteen, the adopted biracial daughter of an interracial lesbian couple. She was taller than most of the boys. She took up space, she stuck out. Auror mother, werewolf hunter other-mother. At this age, she was at war with herself, pulled between the sometimes opposed defiant self-love and the urgent need to fit in. Beautiful and strange. And now this.

The smell of the hospital made Waverley light-headed. On the long walk, Zora had been filling the air between them with choppy reassurances and recovery outlooks and warnings about what she'd see. Bitten up by a werewolf, but she's still your mum. Everything will be fine. Nasty on the leg, but Healer Marrowbone's optimistic. They've got her on a lot of potions. She's feeling well enough, but something about a long road and big changes and all of that.

"Mum..." Waverly choked on the sudden, violent frown. Her mum was crying, something Waverly didn't remember ever seeing her do. Tears, sure, the way the eyes well up when you laugh too hard or have to pull a shard of glass from the bottom of the foot, from a broken bottle on the sandy beach. Maybe she'd spied a bit of joyful moisture in Ollivanders four years ago when she'd first waved her very own wand.

But no, her mum was small and pale and sick and afraid in hospital bed and it was bone-cold and frightening. Waverly swallowed and approached, unsure of what to do. Should she cry? Was she allowed to touch her? There were no dramatic gashes across the face like werewolves from comic books and stage playbills.

"It's alright, love, giver her hug. See? She's alright," encouraged the mediwitch. "Just mind the leg."

With a big exhale, grateful for the instructions on how to mourn a mother, bent over the bed and wrapped her arms around her mum.

"You're okay?" she asked into her hair, her voice still thick and stuck.

Waverley lingered in the doorway, hovering between the safer corridor and the unfamiliar room. She was teetering, clearly unsure what to do, and Iona wasn’t quick enough to summon her over.

Thankfully, the mediwitch offered some advice, and it was all Waverley needed to bridge the distance and envelope her mother in a hug. Despite herself, Iona winced as Wav leaned onto her. Her leg may have been the worst of the injuries, but her stomach now bore a deep set of claw marks. Mercifully, potions and spells were working their magic on those lacerations. Werewolf scratches were far easier to heal than bites.

Despite the surging pain, Iona gripped Waverly as tightly as she could, closing her eyes and breathing her in. There’d been a moment before blacking out where she’d thought she may never get to hold her again. There’d been several moments when Iona had been quite certain she’d be making Zora a widow and leaving Waverley with only one parent.

 “I am.” Iona lied through tears as she weakly smoothed down Waverley’s curly hair. When Wav withdrew from the hug, Iona dropped her hands, clasping her daughters’ to give them what she attempted to be a squeeze. It only ended up being a weak grasp at best. “Going…” she paused, letting out a slow breath and closing her eyes. Resting her head against the pillow, Iona tried again. “Going to have some ah…some bad…badass scars.” She spoke slowly, as if something were affecting her speech. Being heavily dosed up on pain potions and sedatives did that to a person.