On the morning of August 15^th, 2025, the grounds surrounding the London Quidditch Stadium echoed with faint explosions.

Or not so faint, if you were Dee and setting them off on purpose from a few metres away. She'd set the experiment up in a clean, clinical way: Same sized target blocks, spaced out in an equidistant way, clear and repeatable. Maybe all that science-y stuff they talked about in Transfiguration had taught her a thing or two, after all.

But not the spells she was going to test here, nope, those were a favour from Professor Fresnel's inexplicable penchant for blowing things up, not that Dee ever complained when they learned yet another way to cause chaos and destruction. There was also a potion set aside for this little benchmarking experiment, in four separate identical vials, and she'd spent the past twenty minutes teaching herself a spell she'd stumbled across in her new Astronomy textbook. Five was a good number for some good scientific benchmarking, right?

"Okay," she muttered to herself, adjusting a last block and then apparating over to where she'd left her notebook. (Could she have walked the five metres? Yes. But you had to hone a skill to master it, right?) "Four rounds of tests, comparing the effects of Bombarda, Confringo, Reducto, Expulso, and 3 fluid ounces of Erumpent Potion." She jotted down each entry and numbers from one to four in a grid. Surveying her setup once more, then nodded.

It was only when she set down the notebook and readied her wand that her serious expression morphed into a sharp, gleeful grin. Despite the pretense and careful orchestration of a scientific experiment, her true purpose was just to blow shit up, after all. In her defense, her last few months had been rather stressful, and this was a better way to de-stress than taking it out on a hapless fellow student. Perhaps it would even help her with her ongoing attempt to psych herself up for a serious conversation with her boyfriend. Finding out which option for blowing shit up at her disposal was the most effective one was mostly an excuse, and to a minimal extent out of actual curiosity.

Assuming a duelling stance was, even after years, more automatism than conscious decision. She exhaled slowly, then fired off four spells in quick succession, before lobbing one of her potion bottles at the last block. (Was the speed necessary? No. But it seemed more dramatic, and that was reason enough.)

Reducio

Bombarda
Wisdom: [d20: 11] + 18 = 29
Accuracy: [d20: 9] + 22 = 31

Confringo
Wisdom: [d20: 1] + 18 = 19, success due to Perfectionist
Accuracy: [d20: 9] + 22 = 31

Reducto:
Wisdom: [d20: 5] + 18 = 23
Accuracy: [d20: 19] + 22 = 41

Expulso:
Wisdom: [d20: 20] + 18 = 38, critical success
Accuracy: [d20: 18] + 22 = 40

Erumpent Potion:
Accuracy: [d20: 17] + 22 = 39

There was something very satisfying about all five blocks exploding one after another, struck with sharp precision, blasts vibrating through the ground and echoing from nearby trees. For a moment Dee wondered if it was audible in the tent area on the other side of the stadium, but on second thought... didn't really care all that much. Her smile widened, and she rolled her wrist, then slipped her wand back into her sleeve to survey the damage. Bombarda had done exactly as promised, blasting the block into pieces and leaving a decent range of black scorchmarks. Confringo had, by comparison, performed underwhelmingly Nat1, and Dee frowned at it before making a note in her test records. Reducto had done as promised and completely turned the block into dust, but caused less of an actual explosion, while Expulso... well, it took Dee a while to find the remnants of that particular block, further away than she would have thought possible Nat20. The Erumpent Potion had performed admirably, ranking somewhere between Bombarda and Expulso, and Dee grinned at the scorch marks before skipping back to her casting position. Time to reset, and start the second round.

Back in place, Dee couldn't resist a little flourish with the next round of spells, spinning perhaps a little more than necessary as she cast each spell. They all went off beautifully, of course, but her aim... was potentially a little more questionable.

Reducio

Bombarda
Wisdom: [d20: 9] + 18 = 27
Accuracy: [d20: 20] + 22 = 42

Confringo
Wisdom: [d20: 18] + 18 = 36
Accuracy: [d20: 12] + 22 = 33

Reducto:
Wisdom: [d20: 19] + 18 = 37
Accuracy: [d20: 2] + 22 = 24

Expulso:
Wisdom: [d20: 19] + 18 = 37
Accuracy: [d20: 3] + 22 = 25

Erumpent Potion:
Accuracy: [d20: 3] + 22 = 25

@Marshal Mozor
Feel free to have any of the last three explosions (Reducto, Expulso, Erumpent Potion) go a little off target if it aids your entry~

Effervescent rays shone from the heavens, escaping their place of conception and making home anew within the earth’s atmosphere. Dancing to and fro, they warmed all with their presence, refracting off the laughter of children and filling the bright tone with their own sheen. The sky was dyed nearly the shade of sapphire, more royal in shade yet piercing just as deep with its tenacity, and dotted by the occasional composition of clouds. Suspended as if by the magic these children practiced, the alabaster bits of fluff wafted lazily above, further augmenting the sense of contentedness that permeated the air.

With a new year came its seasons, and with the seasons their festivities. Spring had gone, taking with it the newness it wrought. In its place now resided summer — ever laden with opportunity and adventure, though opportunity could end in disappointment, and adventure in tragedy.
From a personal standpoint, Marshal’s last few summers had fallen into those less desirable categories. Good things had come few and far between, overshadowed by the loss of close relationships, including that which he’d enjoyed with the boy in the mirror. But those summers were in the past, he reasoned with himself as grass meandered by underfoot. He’d once harbored a love for poetry; so then, what could be more poetic than taking advantage of the very camp that had once torn his life to shambles, and using it to reclaim some semblance of a social life? A true comeback story, that; from riches to rags, and subsequently back to riches.

Who was he kidding? He didn’t have to be rich — he’d take one good friend at this point. But that didn’t mean he was desperate enough to succumb to foolishness. He’d had a run-in too many with the consequences of his actions to let that happen again. If anyone wanted to be close to him, they would earn it first, over time. But then, perhaps some sort of grand gesture would help the process along; one of explosive proportions, to wax coincidentally poetic on the matter.

And as coincidence would have it, a number of low roars took to the air, rumbling like a cacophony of beasts in some garbled attempt to harmonize. But the voices were too sudden and uniform to be bestial, more like claps of thunder but for the rhythm in which they sounded, one after the other in quick succession.
Traipsing beyond the perimeter of camp, Marshal felt the meandering grass tremble slightly beneath his feet, coming to a stop as his gaze traveled toward the origin of the quake. There, he found the quidditch stadium staring back from nearby. It beckoned him come, tugging at his curiosities in a way that could not be denied, nor resisted.

Left with no choice in the matter, the sixth year glanced about furtively — seeing no one near him, as per usual — then hurried directly toward the sound of explosions. Battered and bruised by life over the previous few years, the once cheerful and outgoing boy had grown much more cautious and guarded in many respects. But those erected walls held no respect, in particular, for explosions. Explosions would always be his friend; they had never hurt him before, save for that small train incident years back… but even then, it had been the train that hurt him directly when it landed on him, not the explosions that had thrown it from the track. Thus, boarding trains still bothered him to this day, but explosions? Not a problem.

Upon entering the stadium, he found no epic clash taking place in the sky, to his slight disappointment, but rather a lone figure on the grassy floor. She stood facing a row of targets, wand in hand, clearly prepared to launch another volley of spells after the one he assumed she’d cast minutes before. Evidence of that previous volley littered the area around and behind the current targets, as what was left of others lay in blackened bits and warped shapes. Patches of dead grass indicated where the devastation had taken place, the same spots where the new targets awaited their fate.
Having approached from one side, Marshal said nothing, loathe to interrupt as the girl twirled into a deadly dance. Her feet moved with precision, one spin followed by a flick of her wand, the incantation leaping from her mouth like the words to a song. The first target erupted in a plume of fiery fury, the subsequent roar seeming to provide rhythm to her routine, as she pirouetted toward the next with another verse. The second target was demolished, followed in similar fashion by the third, then the fourth.

Ensnared by awe, Marshal couldn’t help but gravitate toward the magnificent sight, feet shuffling unconsciously forward as they made a moth out of him, entranced by a flame that could well prove to be his end. He had the foresight, of course, to recognize where the nearest target stood in relation to him, and stop at what would have been a safe distance, had the caster hit it. The previous shots had struck with such deadly precision that — somewhere in his subconscious — the Gryffindor simply assumed that this one would be the same. But where her wand’s accuracy never faltered, perhaps the girl’s throwing arm left something to be desired, as she finished by lofting an object in the ‘general’ vicinity of the remaining target.
Hazel eyes still reflecting the light of the previous explosion, Marshal caught the object as movement at the corner of his eye. Turning to see it already tumbling end over end through the air, he vaguely registered that it appeared to be a bottle, but that thought was overridden by an unmistakable jolt of danger at his realization of where it was headed.

Eyes widening, he instinctively pulled his wand, surmising that it was too late to dive clear of the explosion that was sure to follow. How unfortunate that the spell he required had an incantation of two words rather than one.

”Wingardium shi-“

In hindsight, a quick ‘Flipendo’ likely would have done the trick, sending the bottle away from him. But if hindsight had twenty-twenty vision, then foresight desperately needed glasses.
He’d always hated the casting time of the levitation charm. Why two words? And why four syllables in each word? More than once he’d considered that, in a situation where time dictated life or death, the spell would certainly get him killed. Hey, at least that bit of foresight had seen a clear picture.

He desperately needed to learn Levioso.

In any case, his saving grace came in the fact that the bottle did not land directly at his feet, but rather several paces away. That being the chief reason he didn’t end up in similar charred bits to the rest of the targets, he was still thrown back, wand departing his grip as his body cartwheeled majestically across the stadium floor. Upon landing, the boy rolled with a series of grunts and other guttural sounds of dispelled air, his lungs swiftly relieved of oxygen. He felt one arm hit the ground, then his face, his back, his legs, and finally his chest as he settled into a painfully sprawled position.
For several seconds he lay there motionless, likely giving the appearance that the blast had either killed him or knocked him unconscious. Frankly, he wouldn’t have minded either. The smell of burnt hair hung in the air.
Finally, he moaned into a faceful of uprooted grass, ”Sometimes… magic really sucks.”

@Dealla Prince

Looking back, Dee should have predicted that the sound of recurring explosions might draw a few gawkers, especially from her own school, where common sense seemed exceedingly rare. (Maybe it should be called uncommon sense, rather.) Even then, she wouldn't have expected said gawkers to wander near the targets, of all things - although the mishap that followed was, admittedly, at least fifty percent her fault. (More, likely.)

Slipping further from her facade of conducting a scientific experiment, Dee had been firing off her spells at precise intervals, spinning in fluid motions, the rhythm of her spell incantations providing a steady frame that rendered the scene almost performative. She was having fun - casting spells not for grades, not for practice or training, for duels or races, but simply because she wanted to. It filled her with a fierce joy she'd almost forgotten, spilling into the grin on her face and every movement. The timing was easy enough to keep while casting, but to ensure the timing for the last explosion, Dee had to switch from wand to potion almost before she had finished the last incantation - and her aim suffered the consequences.

Or rather, the figure that had suddenly appeared, too close to comfort, did. Caught up in her casting, she only noticed the presence when it was already too late, the potion phial slipping from her fingers in an angle that was not quite right (too far right, one might argue), a jarring rift in the unbroken sequence of movements. Eyes widening, she opened her mouth to call out a warning - a reflex, as it was, of course, too late at that point. "Careful-"

Unfortunately, the young man's reflexes proved no more helpful than her own. Dee saw a wand yanked from a pocket, raised in a defensive casting position, heard the first half of an incantation... but only half. Stupid, was her first thought, because who used Wingardium Leviosa to stop an incoming object? Arresto Momentum would have been a better choice, perhaps Depulso, although she also wouldn't have been too excited to find the phial tossed back in her direction. As it happened, the incantation remained unfinished, disrupted by the detonation of the potion, light flashing across her vision - not quite bright enough to cover the sight of a body being tossed backwards. Under different circumstances, she might have judged the artistry of the way the guy was flipped over and tumbled to the ground, coming to a stop a decent distance from where he'd been standing before. There was a certain drama to how he ended up ragdolled on the grass, 8/10, that arm placement seemed a little awkward. (Oh god, was it broken?)

"Shit," Dee muttered. She started moving before the explosion had echoed out, jogging towards the still figure. "Shit, shit, shit, shit..." Too impatient to cover the distance by foot, she disappeared between one step and the next, to reappear with a sharp crack next to the body on the ground and dropped to her knees. "Please don't be dead," she demanded, the words coming out closer to an order than a plea. "That would suck so much." He smelled singed, there were scorch marks on his clothes. Had he left skid marks on the grass? Her hands fluttered out uncertainly - what was she supposed to do after accidentally blowing someone up? She should have paid more attention during their healing lessons, they'd probably covered that sort of thing. Was he breathing? What was she going to do if he wasn't? But after another heartbeat or two, the figure in front of her groaned vaguely, and Dee almost collapsed backwards as the relief hit her. Not dead. She hadn't accidentally killed a kid, she wasn't going to Azkaban, she wouldn't have to explain to a family that their son had been too stupid to keep a safe distance from things that were clearly in the process of exploding.

She laughed, the sudden absence of panic making her giddy and bringing tears to her eyes at the same time, even before she registered the words being spoken. If he was well enough to complain, he probably wasn't on death's doorstep, more good news. Dee would have to thank all the deities she didn't believe in for her luck today. "Magic doesn't suck," she corrected. "People suck." Whether that referred to either of them remained unclear.

Leaning forward, she carefully reached out to touch the young man's shoulder, still unsure whether she should try to move him or not. "You okay?" she asked. "Any serious injuries? Bleeding? Can you move?" She paused. Cocked her head and cleared her throat. "Umm. Sorry for blowing you up?"

@Marshal Mozor

Marshal wondered if there was a protocol for this sort of situation. Guidelines of what to do when someone explodes, or more specifically, what to do when you explode personally. Perhaps what he’d just experienced was outside the threshold of expected circumstance, considering that people who exploded were generally dead. But then, this was Hogwarts — or Hogwarts adjacent, he supposed; surely this was seen as well within the realm of possibility.
At the very least, he certainly should have seen it coming, and maintained a more sufficient buffer between himself and obvious danger. Yet once again, there was an exception to every rule, in this case being his own stupidity. If nothing else, he had the wherewithal to wonder why he was the way he was, as he lay awkwardly with his nose in the earth. He wished it would just swallow him whole.

The Gryffindor had vaguely registered a sharp crack nearby, though had paid the sound little heed. What he noted more clearly was the voice that came soon after. The words it spoke were lost in the roar that still filled his ears — echoes of the explosion — but he could hear a sense of panic in their delivery.
The first indication of life he offered was the complaint that escaped in a groan, immediately followed by a response from the same voice as before. This time there were no words to comprehend; instead, he recognized the cadence of laughter.
Had he said something funny? He hadn’t intended to. His gripe regarding the shortcomings of magic had emerged from the depths of his soul in the moments after he’d realized he was still alive, not with the idea that anybody was listening, but simply in his own way of venting through the shock. Now, he supposed laughter was as good a thing to hear as any.

The roar in his ears slowly died down, replaced by a shrill ring that filled his skull. It set off an ache in his head, but he was just able to make out what the person beside him was saying.
”People suck,” they corrected him, and he had to agree, though it didn’t dissuade his opinion on magic.
”Let’s just agree for now,” he said, voice still muffled by the dirt, ”that everything sucks.”

It was about then that he came to understand who this person must be. Given that he was fairly certain he and the girl casting the explosive spells had been alone in the stadium, it was logical to assume that she was the one now beside him.
Feeling the sensation of touch on his shoulder, Marshal finally mustered the strength to rend his face from the soil. Craning his neck toward the girl, he now rested his cheek against the overturned dirt and grass, hazel eyes moving upward to identify her.
She was quite pretty, with angular bones that made their presence known beneath fair skin, conjoining to form the exquisite features of her face. Thick hair to the tone of dark chocolate draped either side of her head, hanging nearly to the ground as she leaned toward him, while a pair of eyes the shade of the sea passed over his form, the concern within them washing over him like a wave. That concern permeated a series of questions she threw at him, leaving him to consider most of them for the first time.

Was he okay? He knew he was alive, of course, but that was drastically different from being okay. This he knew from way too much experience.
One by one, he focused on each part of his body, performing a quick series of tests to ascertain their state. The first thing he noticed was that it hurt to breathe; not a great sign, as things went. It likely meant he’d cracked a rib or two, or perhaps bruised them at the very least, but he didn’t feel a sense of anything life-threatening there. Moving on to his extremities, he found that he could move all but his right arm, which lay sprawled to one side in a slightly grotesque manner. His gaze traveled over it — being the arm nearest the girl, his head needn’t move much — and his brow furrowed in a slight wince of pain, more a reaction to the sight of it than anything.
His face, she would see now that his head had turned, was laden with dirt and small scrapes, his eyebrows and hair singed, though luckily still there. Small abrasions surely covered his entire body, but they were of little concern.

A hint of humor was interlaced in his response.”One thing I can say is that blowing up is better than being run over by a train.” He grinned in spite of himself, largely in exasperation that he had experienced both in his short lifetime. Honestly, why on earth was he still alive?
Curling his legs and good arm to him, the boy would attempt to sit up, the wince growing deeper as his right arm dragged unnaturally along. If the girl allowed or helped him to complete the awkward motion, he would ultimately rotate until he was seated on his buttocks.
”If we’re being honest here, that was mainly my fault. Who in their right mind stands near a bunch of explosions?” Nobody, and he clearly wasn’t. ”I have a nasty habit of flying too close to the sun. Just call me Icarus.” He chuckled, though it ended in a groan of pain when his ribs voiced their disapproval.

@Dealla Prince

When the muffled groaning transitioned into barely intelligible words, Dee's hysterical giggles simmered down into a light note in her voice - somewhere between laughter and frantic, sharp-edged relief. "Considering you're the one who just almost got blown up, I'll give that one to you," she agreed easily, a smile lighting up her face, even though in her personal opinion, things were already taking a turn upwards again. He wasn't dead. He was talking. He was moving, even, so that was something to be happy about, right?

Despite her mood lightening by a minimum of ten degrees after realising that her involuntary target had survived the incident, the concern in her eyes was real as she watched him turn his head. "Are you sure you should be moving..." Blond hair and hazel eyes, his face was vaguely familiar, in a passing glances in the corridor sort of way, or sitting near each other at breakfast. A fellow Hogwarts student. Her lips twitched as she recognised further details, singed eyebrows and dirt and grass stuck to his forehead. Perhaps laughing at her accidental victim was not exactly the best or most sensitive response right now. Merlin, she'd make a terrible healer.

Her questions didn't receive an immediate answer, and Dee's smile started fading into worry again. Maybe those two sentences were all he'd had in him? She should go get the nurse, right? Or someone. Who knew more about healing.

But maybe the pause had been one of consideration rather than being rendered an idiot by hitting his head too hard on the ground, even though the eventual response lifted her eyebrows in confused skepticism. Run over by a train? Would that make him extraordinarily unlucky (train collisions, explosions), or extraordinarily lucky for surviving? "Do you... have personal experience with that?" Dee questioned delicately. Was he hallucinating? Perhaps declaring his head free of confusion had been a little premature.

Apparently he felt well enough to make an attempt at sitting up, an Dee lurched forward, concern drowning out both her hesitation to touch him (and possibly make things worse) and the idle musing about possible delusions. She supported his endeavor best she could, an arm around his back and the other hand on his elbow - the not injured side. It didn't seem to make anything worse, if nothing else. Once safely seated, her hands fluttered towards the awkwardly angled right arm, that she was increasingly certain was broken, before she drew them back again, her eyebrows knitting together in worry.

At least he seemed reasonably aware that walking towards things being blown up had been an exceptionally idiotic thing to do, and Dee nodded emphatically, happily dumping the blame for the incident on his willing shoulders. "Not your brightest moment, I'd guess," she replied, flashing him a small grin. "But if I remember right, Icarus didn't survive his hubris, so I'd say you could be doing worse." The mention of names tickled something in the back of her mind, and she lit up, snapping her fingers at him. "Oh! Isn't that something I should ask you after you hit your head? Do you remember your name? The year? Where you are? Uuuh... the incantation of the ear-twitching hex?" Watching Muggle movies in her childhood had clearly paid off.

But no matter the state of his head, he wasn't doing great otherwise. That arm, for instance. Plenty scrapes and bruises, and judging from the way his chuckle broke off, talking, or laughing, hurt as well. Dee hummed slightly, categorising what she could do. Ferula should help splint that arm, she did have some Skelegro in her tent, along with a variety of other healing salves and potions. Alternatively, Episkey should be able to fix him up enough to get him to the nurse. "So... how much faith do you have in my magic abilities right now?" she asked sunnily, slipping her wand from her pocket and presenting it with a flourish. "Because that looks like it hurts." That being his entire body.

@Marshal Mozor

His efforts to sit up did not go unassisted, and that was a fact he appreciated. Feeling how his body wanted nothing more than to stiffen up in pain as he moved, the Gryffindor accepted her help gratefully, uncertain he’d have made it to the desired position under his own power. A grimace twisted his face into an image that betrayed his suffering, complemented by the grunts that accompanied the action.
Once somewhat upright, he felt the girl’s supportive touch abandon him, though noted the way her hands flitted toward his injured arm, which draped unnaturally across his lap. She wanted to help, that much was clear — to mend any damage she had contributed to causing — but was hesitant for concern of furthering what had already occurred.
The anxiety trembling in her eyes brought another to mind, detached from a memory that lived where it was no longer welcome. He wanted to forget the sight of Evelynn’s clouded irises, their visage one of storm clouds raining desperation over his form as he lay helpless, shattered in the snow stained red with his blood.
Why was he always the broken one? Why must he constantly be put back together, and when would it be his turn to do the mending?
Not today.

The intrusive memory was summoned to the forefront as this girl of blue gaze questioned what he’d intended as a passing joke.
”Do I- oh…” Marshal responded, as though only now realizing the train comment had been spoken aloud. His brow knitted together, pupils rolling slightly as he fought the pain in his head to consider her question. ”I suppose it was technically a train car, not the engine. And… technically it rolled over me.” He shrugged, then regretted it as even the small movement drew pain from his limp arm. The very act of talking was uncomfortable due to his ribs, yet that failed to stop him. ”It didn’t actually run me down on the tracks or anything. Funny enough, it was an explosion that blew it off the tracks and threw me out the window.” Despite his use of the word ‘funny,’ the young man had never stumbled across anyone who found the story all that amusing. ”I haven’t cared much for trains since then, but it seems I should have been more concerned about the explosion.” He flashed another dirt-ridden grin, attempting to lift her mood as much as his own. There was no sense making her worry more than she already was.

His humor appeared to be somewhat effective, as his self-comparison to Icarus was met with a small grin of the girl’s own. She lent a hint of her opinion regarding just how foolish his actions had been, though just about as softly as he could have hoped, before asserting that he had something over Icarus, at the very least. He nodded, singed eyebrows twitching upward in agreement, though inwardly he wondered if the man in the myth had met a more merciful fate.
Perhaps Achilles would have been a more apt analogy, and it was only a matter of time until he found something that could actually do him in.

The topic ignited something new in the stranger’s mind, however, prompting another string of questions for him to field. Given that he’d had a bit more time to recover now, Marshal found himself more capable of handling them, though it took every bit of his self control not to joke that he hadn’t the faintest clue. That would just be cruel.
”Okay, doc. My name is Marshal Mozor, the year is twenty-twenty-five, and, uh…” The final answer actually took a quick glance at the field and stands surrounding them to confirm, ”we’re inside the quidditch stadium at summer camp. But I probably couldn’t tell you that incantation on my best day.” He was certain he’d learned said ear-twitching hex at some point, but likely in a lesson his mind had abandoned to the wind long ago.

It seemed ascertaining his mental wherewithal was not enough for her to consider his treatment complete, however, as shown by one final query. Perhaps she was a doctor or a nurse after all, or in training to become one upon graduating Hogwarts. He certainly hoped so when she whipped out a wand and directed it at, well… all of him.
A moment of uncertainty passed in silence, but no more. He’d come this far. He’d been blown up, battered, bruised, broken. What was one more spell gone potentially wrong? If nothing else, it would add to the most interesting thing that had happened to him in a long while, and at least this time he would have chosen to allow it.
Again, he grinned. “You seem pretty good at blowing things apart, so who’s to say you’re not good at putting them back together?” Another shot of agony gripped his ribs like a merciless claw, and he nodded in desperate confirmation. The words battled through an inhalation of pain. ”Yep, go for it. But real quick, what was your name, doc?”

@Dealla Prince

Some questions, as it turned out, were better left unasked. With every word the boy said, presumably in an attempt to downplay what had happened to him, the whole event just sounded more traumatising, and Dee's stare grew more disbelieving. Except... part of this story seemed indeed familiar, and the gears started turning in the back of her mind even while she blinked at the assertion that apparently her explosions were more concerning than murderous trains. "You have dirt on your teeth," she remarked, still a little stunned - and then it clicked. There had been an accident with the Hogwarts Express a couple years ago, it had been attacked, parts derailed. "You're that kid! I've heard of you," Dee exclaimed, somewhere between delight to have identified the background (and validity) of his tale, and fascination that yes, apparently you could get run over by a train, get badly mangled, and live to casually joke about it. After getting blown up by a fellow student.

Looking at it from that angle... "Wow, you really are unlucky," she muttered, shaking her head, but at least she was now less concerned about concussions - especially after he rattled off the answers to her very professional medical questions. Obviously she couldn't verify his name but he seemed pretty certain about it, and his lack of knowledge about hexes really warranted more concern about his education than about his mental state, so she'd let that one slide.

She took that as an indicator that he hadn't suffered any seriously life-threatening injuries, which immediately lifted her mood again - enough to offer her questionable medical services. "That logic has several gaping holes in it," she mused thoughtfully, ever the Ravenclaw. "But considering that your conclusion works out in my favour, I won't bother pointing them out for you." Healing really never had been her strongest field, while she had a rather impressive track record of wreaking havoc on the duelling piste, and more recently, the racing track. If he'd, say, recently been run over by a train, she definitely would have left the healing to the professionals, but she should be able to deal with an arm and a few scratches, right? Six years of spellcasting should have prepared her for that? "And while 'doc' has a nice ring to it, I'm Dee." She eyed his arm, then grinned at him, revealing traces of her usual impish humour. "I'd offer you a hand to shake, but let's maybe wait with that for a bit."

With all the confidence of someone whose injuries had always been treated by professionals, Dee pointed her wand at the injured arm. She knew a spell to heal bone, but splinting it first seemed wise, and anyway, she wasn't even sure it was broken. (Once again, Muggle TV could be very educational.) The Ferula was cast with an easy precision (Wis [d20: 12] + 18 = 30) and bandages shot from the tip, along with a simple splint, affixing themselves to Marshal's arm more securely than Dee could ever have managed with her hands. As testament to her lack of medical training, she had, of course, failed to warn Marshal about what she was doing, resulting in only a second's notice to brace for his arm being aligned with the splint. "Oops." She winced. "Sorry, should have given you a heads-up." She followed it up with an Episkey that faded a few of the shallower scrapes and bruises (Wis 20), and a second one that left him mostly scrape-free (Wis 30) if still covered in grass and dirt.

Finally, she eyed the clean bandages around his arm again, resisting the urge to prod it with her wand. "Do you think it's broken? I can probably fix that." She frowned. There had been more wincing going on while he was sitting up than the scrapes accounted for. "Anything else I should fix?"

@Marshal Mozor

Evidently, his reputation preceded him, though he wasn’t sure he liked the things it said. “That kid,” she’d called him. His moniker, his prestige, his legacy? He’d heard better. Then again, he’d heard worse.
He supposed it ought to come with some satisfaction to learn that a beautiful girl knew of his existence, yet the pleasure was rather dulled by the circumstance of her knowledge. To be known for the worst day of one’s life didn’t exactly glow with the sheen of superstardom that every child revered. Truth be told, being crushed by a train car and living to tell the tale garnered more pity than awe. How he despised the creased brows and awkward silence that followed once people realized he was, in fact, “that kid.”
Oddly enough, there would be none of that here. The girl’s exclamation that she’d heard of him was layered with excitement… relief, even? It was such a stark contrast to the reaction he’d grown accustomed to that he was uncertain how to respond. Instead of making an attempt, he fished at his teeth with his tongue, finding truth behind her statement that dirt clung there. Turning away, the Gryffindor spat and rubbed at his teeth again, this time with a finger. Seconds later, he could still taste the earthy flavor, but the worst seemed to be cleared away.

“Wow, you really are unlucky.”

The comment drew an immediate laugh from the boy, an involuntary sound followed by a wince as his ribs tightened. He knew he was unlucky, of course. He’d uncovered enough proof to reach that conclusion quite certainly for himself. But there was something about hearing it stated aloud — by another person — that struck him as terribly amusing. It was comforting, in a way, for the obvious to be stated by someone with a different perspective.
”I get that feeling sometimes,” came his reply, tinted by a smirk.

The next few moments involved the Ravenclaw dissing his logic, or lack thereof — a practice he was not unfamiliar with — accepting his shortcomings for her own personal gain, and subsequently introducing herself as Dee. His brow furrowed lightly at the revelation, wrought by his belief that he knew that name. They had attended the same school for many years, after all, so he supposed it only made sense. Perhaps she was a year removed from his own class, which may explain their lack of previous encounters.
The girl’s comment regarding the hazards of a handshake met him well, as a mirror image of her playful grin etched itself across his face. It was rare he stumbled across peers who reciprocated his humor; where most rolled their eyes or were struck dumbfounded, he could appreciate those few who returned it his way. Not that his humor was so readily on tap like it once had been, but he could never seem to eradicate its presence entirely. When he’d been created, sarcasm had been a primary ingredient in the formula.
”I wouldn’t stop you, but you might have to do most of the work.”

Evidently she had little to no interest in his response. Before the final word had escaped his mouth, Dee’s wand was directed at him, a word he didn’t quite catch trickling from her lips. The next moment would prove rather illuminating, to put it one way, as to what the unheard word may have been. Hazel eyes widened as Marshal recognized the spell shooting from the tip of her wand. The sixth year had bad experiences with Ferula, most notably (the only note, really, but it was written in bold and all caps) the time he’d been quite literally mummified alive after being crushed by a train. He supposed he’d neglected to mention that part.
Much like that time (mostly because he’d been unconscious), he was left with no chance to avoid the bandaging that shot his way, whether he liked it or not. And he didn’t.

At all.

Mercifully, he also hadn’t the time to worry if he would be encased like a deceased Egyptian Pharaoh, but that said nothing for the shooting pain that followed the swift application of a splint to his broken arm.
A strangled cry was torn from him, though half of it caught in his throat as his entire body went rigid, an instinctive response to the sudden, extreme agony.
"Oops. Sorry, should have given you a heads-up."
”Yeah, yep…” he said breathlessly, features contorted as the worst of the pain faded. ”A heads-up would have been great.”
Realistically he’d known that spell would likely be used, and what it might mean for his arm; but something like that was better prepared for. At least it was over with. And only his arm was bandaged. Relief.

A pair of Episkeys did away with the majority of lesser pains across his person, and he was left to appreciate the accuracy of her spell work, eying his skin where there once had been numerous abrasions.
She asked if he thought his arm was broken, and he answered with a nod. ”Either that or it’s being overly dramatic about a bruise.”
She also mentioned she could probably fix it. ‘Probably.’ He wasn’t particularly fond of that wording. Perhaps the splint was enough for now, and the remainder of the work was best left up to the nurse. Or was he feeling adventurous? She likely wasn’t referring to another casting of Ferula, and he saw that as a positive.
Shoulders lifted in a shrug. ”Up to you. If you feel confident about it, be my guest. I think my ribs are messed up too.”

His gaze drifted back towards the mess of blackened debris he'd been blown away from, fortunate to look slightly better than the former targets.
”So how come you're here alone, blowing things up? Not that I blame you, people notwithstanding.”