Cold Enough for You? PV Sinclair Carver FIN

Sinclair stumbled stiffly into the hospital wing, being supported by a fellow student. Her face was scratched up, dried blood collected just under her nostril, and a cold and disturbed frown was cast upon her visage. She couldn't tell who this classmate was and couldn't remember the name, and squinted as if it would help her make sense of it all. She let one the nurse's assistants tend to her as the student explained what happened, then the student was dismissed.

"Fell off your broom, did you?" the assistant puts her hand against her waist with a warm, sympathetic smile, "Sounds like you took a hit from behind.. ah-" she looks over at said student who just entered the wing with someone else, "Looks like he's the one who did it. I need to check for a concussion. Can you look here for me dearie?" She holds out a finger. Sinclair's furrow follows the finger, "I can see fine," she mumbles, "I just feel a little nauseous. And I'm bleeding, I guess." At least she was aware enough.
"Alright. I'll clean you up and ask you some questions, but you'll have to stay in bed until you feel better."
Sinclair didn't really have an option but to agree, despite not liking the feeling of laying in a bed in such a public setting. She shuts her eyes for a moment to relax, breathing out slowly, "Okay."

It did not take too long. The assistant was sweet and swift, and Sinclair was left alone to rest. She felt a lot better already now that she was treated and laying properly, but the nausea and ache still remained. She knew there were others in the room, but not who they were for now.

Syrah had been lying in the hospital wing for what felt like forever, tucked into the farthest bed by the window, wrapped in too many blankets. she insisted she was fine, the nurse clearly disagreed. So now she was here, staring blankly at the ceiling, listening to the occasional cough rattle her chest.

When the doors opened, she barely turned her head. But the shuffle of steps, the murmuring of voices, and the distinct sound of someone begrudgingly agreeing to rest drew her sluggish attention.

Jet-black hair.

Syrah recognized her immediately. Sinclair.

She watched as the other girl was guided into bed, her face pale beneath the scratches and dried blood. Something unpleasant twisted in Syrah’s chest, though her expression remained unreadable. A bad fall, then. Or someone knocked her off.

Her gaze lingered for a second longer before she coughed into her sleeve, breaking the moment. She turned her head away, resting her cheek against the pillow.

Syrah didn’t call out. She wasn’t the type to. But her eyes flickered back, just briefly, and she muttered under her breath in Romanian, voice hoarse:

„Ești un dezastru.”

(You’re a disaster.)

Sinclair settled into bed. She noticed the clean white cotton sheets under her fingertips, the sterile-but not unpleasant- scent of the hospital wing, and the natural lighting that was much preferred over fluorescent lights commonly found at a muggle hospital. She gingerly brought her fingertips to her forehead- just to check if there had been any swelling at all. Sinclair was expecting to bruise and swell terribly, but it seems to her that the nurse's assistant did something to prevent what would've been considered normal in the muggle world, because she's rather sure that she'd have swollen by now. Then, a hoarse whisper from beside her caused her to turn slightly. The throbbing ache made her eyes narrow, but her gaze eventually rested upon a figure in the next bed with blonde, icy skin...

"..." It took a moment to realise who it was, but she let out a laugh at the ridiculousness of this, then frowned due to the pain. "...Incredible, the second time we meet is when we're bedridden." Sinclair purses her lips in discomfort as she tries to adjust herself to get a better view of Syrah. Looks like she's here because of a bad cold. Seems like spending time at the lake that day was too cold after all.

Syrah let her eyes drift shut for a moment, feeling the warmth of the blankets seep into her chilled skin. Her body ached, her throat burned, and she wanted nothing more than to disappear into sleep, but Sinclair’s presence made that difficult. Not in a bad way. Just… difficult.

At Sinclair’s laugh, something flickered inside her, something that made her stomach feel light in a way she didn’t quite understand. When she forced her eyes open again, she studied the girl beside her, taking in the bruises, the way her lips pressed together as she shifted uncomfortably. Syrah swallowed, her throat dry, and despite herself, she spoke.

“You should sleep,” she murmured, her voice scratchy and weak. But the words weren’t dismissive. They were careful, almost… gentle.

She wasn’t sure why she said it like that. She never spoke to people like that.

Syrah shut her eyes again, but this time, she wasn’t trying to block Sinclair out. If anything, she found herself listening, to the quiet sound of her breathing, to the way she shifted against the sheets. It was oddly… calming. And as much as she wanted to act indifferent, to let the silence stretch between them like it always did with everyone else, she couldn’t help it.

“…You look worse than me,” she muttered after a pause with a faint chuckle, voice low, nearly drowned out by the soft rustling of the blankets. Her tone, despite the hoarse voice, was teasing.

Her lips curled lightly, "How sweet of you," the jet-haired girl teased back with her voice just as low, as if this little exchange between them was that fragile- or was it simply due to her weakened state? She finds her fingers pinch the cotton sheets, fidgeting in a subtly nervous manner. Something about Syrah's words and chuckle made her feel a little bashful, and Sinclair didn't understand it. Eh.. it's probably because I find a similarity with her, and it's nice to hear that from someone I enjoy being around. This doesn't happen often. Despite it all, her expression remained composed, not being very used to outward expressions of emotion.
Sinclair knew she enjoyed Syrah's presence. She was intriguing and made the cogs in her head whir and tick. Since they met at the lake, she'd find the blonde girl entering her thoughts every now and then, curious about what she'd be doing. Looking into that dark journal again? Staring at the lake? Reading some other books on morally ambiguous magic? Whatever this curiosity was, it was slowly gnawing at her from the inside. Some little part of her felt pathetic for such a want to connect; felt childish, even though she was a child.
She's supposed to get some rest. The nurse's assistant left her in bed just for that reason, but being put right next to someone she wants to bond with was incredibly distracting. With this newfound interest, it felt like any silence between them was too silent. She didn't want Syrah to think she was disinterested in her. She decided to just be upfront and honest about it.
Sinclair takes a deep breath, quiet, controlled, barely audible, "...I think you're cool. We should meet up more often, when we're outta here."

Syrah raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to Sinclair with amusement, but she didn’t show much else. She tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance at the other girl, the corners of her lips tugging upward in a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

Cool? Her? That was a first. She wasn’t sure how to take it, but the acknowledgment wasn’t unwelcome. It felt... genuine, in a way. And considering how little people usually paid attention to her, it was almost refreshing.

The silence hung between them for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She liked it, actually. There was something about Sinclair that intrigued her, this sharp, guarded edge she couldn’t quite figure out, like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite match but somehow made sense when put together.

“I didn’t think you were the type to make friends, Sinclair,” Syrah replied, her voice low, but not unkind. She shifted slightly, leaning against the bed as she turned her body toward the other girl. Her smile faded just enough to let the sincerity creep in. "But... sure, why not?"

Her words were sharp, but there was an underlying warmth in them, a rare moment of openness that even she didn’t usually let people see. She wasn’t the kind to actively seek out friendships. It wasn’t in her nature, but Sinclair wasn’t like the others. And that made a difference.

“You know where to find me.” Her tone was casual, as though the suggestion didn’t matter much. But the subtle shift in her gaze, the small, deliberate pause before she continued, suggested otherwise.

She shifted again, looking away. "You sure you wanna hang out with someone like me?" She let out a dry chuckle, kids back at home didn't want anything to do with her, they thought she was some kind of evil dark ghost that haunted the school. They were afraid of her...But then again, she didn't mind people leaving her alone to herself. It was the scared looks that annoyed her most.

Sinclair took a low sigh, her breath gritty from the ache, "I appreciate someone that knows being quiet isn't all that bad. Not a lot of people do." She understood why some people would not be too keen on befriending someone like Syrah and herself, simply because she's just noticed that most loud types get the most attention, and therefore popularity. It may possibly be something that will never change. "And... it was fun discussing magic with you. People are easy to jump to conclusions just cause you start talking about a controversial topic or something. It's better to question things and get to know it better, I think. It's hard to come by someone that people like us get along with, so... It makes it all the more precious to form a friendship like that. Don't feel pressured though. If you end up not liking me, I'd rather you just tell me," she smiles tiredly, watching Syrah's side profile.

For a moment, Sinclair wonders if there could be any other reason someone wouldn't like Syrah, since the jet-haired girl technically didn't know all that much about her. This was only their second meeting after all. She found Syrah to be somewhat of a puzzle box, but rather try to brute force her way into the contents, she'd rather take the time to appreciate the experience of it all.

Syrah stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Sinclair’s words with an unreadable expression. Most people filled silences just to avoid them, as if quiet was something to be afraid of. But Sinclair didn’t—she let the quiet settle naturally, like it belonged there. Syrah liked that.

She finally let out a small huff, not quite a laugh but close enough. “Yeah, well. Most people are idiots,” she muttered, her voice dry but not entirely unkind. “They hear one thing they don’t like and suddenly you’re some villain in their grand little story.” She flicked her gaze toward Sinclair, giving her a slow, deliberate once-over before returning her attention to the ceiling. “I don’t care what people think, though. Never have.”

There was a beat of silence, then a slight shift in her posture as she turned her head just enough to look at Sinclair properly. “You don’t have to worry about me ‘not liking you.’” Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact, but there was something in her eyes—something softer, reluctant, like she wasn’t quite used to reassuring people. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

She let the words settle before sighing, shifting her weight slightly as if getting comfortable. “And, for the record, discussing magic with you wasn’t the worst way to pass time.” That was the closest thing to a compliment she was going to give, and she figured Sinclair was smart enough to catch onto that.

It was clear to Sinclair that Syrah didn't care about others thoughts. The jet-haired didn't quite get why people would want to care so much about that anyway. Being brought up wearing whatever her history bounding parents liked, and engaging in their family lifestyle, Sinclair learned from a young age that there just were better things to care about, when no matter what, people were going to gossip and point anyway. She enjoyed to see that kind of honest authenticity echoed in the blonde, and it only made Sinclair more curious about her.

Despite her flat tone, Sinclair simply found Syrah's words to be somewhat heart warming. It was like seeing a cold doll show hints of, god forbid, warmth. In her own cold way that is. Her lips curled subtly with a low chuckle in response, closing her eyes for a bit of rest.

Another moment of silence. Just sounds of disturbed breathing, subtle shifting of bedsheets, the drip of water from a tap in the distance, nurse's assistants shuffling around and tending to students, low mumbling of hushed conversations...

Since they were somewhat stuck here for the time being, why not get some basic info out there to get a better idea of each other? Sinclair sighs lightly, not bothered to open her eyes.
"I'm in Gryffindor, muggle born. My parents own a farm. Dad owns a shop, carving trinkets, and my Mum hunts animals in the woods. And you?"