A New Flu PV Closed

Jax strode down the school's halls holding a rose he had found in a wayward vase, the latter swinging free at his side; paying little attention to his surroundings as his mind wandered to worry over his sister. Gryffindor? What was Rhea doing in there? Nobody even talked about the last Bishop to end up in Gryffindor. They started lobbying for transparency between the wizard and muggle world, of all the insane ideas. They even married a muggle, for crying out loud! Those same barbarians who tried to burn witches at the stake! Some would say that was just a bygone of the dark ages, but if history had taught him anything it was that muggles were ruled by violence and fear and prejudice, and that some people never changed. Needless to say, the family had cut all ties with that misguided wizard until the hopeful time they would come to their senses. Gryffindor was full of mudbloods and radical idiots. It was charitable of Hogwarts to take them in and try to teach them, but it was no place for a Bishop.

Snapping out of his reverie, Jax glanced up to see he had arrived at his destination. The hospital wing doors loomed in front of him, but it wasn’t as intimidating as he had made them out to be in his imagination. Not anywhere close. It was even a little inviting, in a all white clinical sort of way. He imagined it would probably be a lot more intimidating from a stretcher’s point of view. He could only hope it wouldn't be his sister on such a stretcher later this year.

The grapevine had been talking about young Ms. Steele, and more specifically how she had been seen heading to the hospital wing making a face that promised nausea. She would probably enjoy some sympathy, and Jax was on the market for friends. She was a fellow Slytherin, from a influential family, and all-in-all was a very good wizard to have in your corner. Making friends wasn’t entirely about chess moves and shifting your pawns about to get ahead though (as much as his parents might disagree sometimes). He was also a bit bored, and spending some time chatting with someone sounded like a pretty good way to fast forward through some tedious hours. If he was lucky, she might even be pleasant company. Making friends was something he had always been pretty decent at, but most of them had been more political moves and less lasting friendships. The label of friend being more important than actually enjoying each others company. But here at Hogwarts he was going to be stuck with them for the next 7 years. Friends made here would last a while, indeed.

Jax entered the room and walked straight up to the bed where Ms. Steele was sitting. He wasn’t entirely clear on what kind of illness she had, and whether or not her throat was fine and she could actually hold a decent conversation. It wasn’t too big of a deal if she couldn’t, he could hold a pretty mean one-sided conversation with the mirror, talking with someone that couldn’t talk back wouldn’t be too difficult. And he hadn’t heard her cough yet, so her throat was probably fine anyway.

Holding the flower out to her, he smiled widely. It was a nice smile, a bishop smile. A smile full of fun and mischief.
“Heard you were feeling under the weather and figured you might like some company. Here’s a little get well soon present, how’s it going? My name is Jax. Bishop.”

Cel's head jerked up as she saw a girl sitting on the cot next to her, fingers tightening on the pages of the book she held-- A Court of Mist and Fury, a reread of one of her favorites. She had woken up with a head-splitting ache in her temple after a dreadfully familiar nightmare and immediately saw herself to the Hospital Wing-- all the while cursing to herself in Latin, just because she wanted to practice. Unfortunately, she forgot most of the cuss words halfway down the stairs.

By now most of the pain had ebbed away over time, though a lingering ache, more irritating than immediately infernal as it had been before, still ran through her head. The nurses advised that she stay, and she wouldn't argue against being able to skip Muggle Studies, so she did. After a quarter of an hour sitting on the cot dumbly, staring into space, and having mental conversations with herself, she discovered that she had brought the book she had been reading last night with her-- and of course, picked it up.

The girl had lost the general sense of time as she saw-- or heard, rather-- the dark-haired girl entering the Hospital Wing. Something about the allure of fantasy made it hard for her to put the book down, even if she wanted to, which she obviously did not. Of course, now that she knew what magic essentially was, her perspective upon reading the novel had shifted considerably, but of course, it was still a purely amazing book. Duh. It was a book.

Cel squinted at the girl for a moment. Dark-haired, dark-robed, but then all their robes were dark. Perhaps a Slytherin, from the uniform colors?

Quickly she returned to her book as she heard another enter-- a red-haired boy who looked strangely familiar... but she was certain she hadn't seen him before. Perhaps a relative of someone she knew? Cel watched as he approached the Slytherin girl, but quickly lapsed back into her book. Too interesting to give up. Besides, eavesdropping wasn't polite.

Syrah waited on a surprisingly comfortable cot for the Hogwarts doctor to have time to come and look at her. After sitting down she felt a little less nauseous, and was not in fear of puking all over the place. The Hospital Wing was not very crowded this morning. Besides the student the doctor was currently looking at, and another student at the far end that appeared to be asleep, there was also a girl sitting on the cot next to her reading a book. But she appeared to be pretty into it so Syrah did not bother her. Although she was curious what ailment had brought the girl here.

Suddenly, though, there was a boy standing directly in front of her. She instantly recognized his robes, with the green and gold emblem, as a fellow Slytherin. She had definitely seen this boy around. He was most certainly a first-year, just like Syrah was. She could almost remember seeing him at the Sorting Hat Ceremony at the beginning of the year. But she had definitely seeing him in the Common Room once or twice. She could swear his name started with a J.

Turns out she was correct. His name was Jax. But what Syrah had not been expecting, was the rose in the boy's hand that he held out to her. She was stunned, to say the least. Was this boy hitting on her? Or was he simply being nice? She remembered something her mother had told her growing up, something about how it was a delicate art, figuring out if someone was just being nice, or if they wanted another kind of relationship. Syrah never really understood what her mother was saying, but perhaps this had something to do with it. She was most definitely confused.

She found that all she could say in her stunned state, was, "Where did you get that?" but before the boy would have a chance to answer, the Hogwarts doctor walked over to Syrah.

"Sorry about that dear. How are we feeling today?" As she spoke the woman placed the tips of her fingers on Syrah's neck feeling around. As well as placing one palm on Syrah's  forehead, to feel her temperature, she presumed.

Uhh... Syrah faltered, looking away from Jax, although mindlessly taking the flower from him at the same time, "Just feel kind of nauseous today. Was walking to the dining hall, and nearly didn't make it. That's when I came up here."

The doctor nodded along as Syrah spoke, "Well you don't have a fever, so that means it can't be too bad. But I'll let you rest here for a while until you feel a bit better. I wouldn't want you getting sick in the middle of Defence Against the Dark Arts class. I know Leonie wouldn't like that." She chuckled. Looking over at Jax, she smiled, "Looks like you have a pretty good friend here to keep you company." And with that she walked away to go about more business.

Cel shifted as she listened in on the conversation. Jax... Bishop? Wasn't Bishop the name of the taller than her girl she had encountered in the library a couple of days ago? That might explain it; maybe they were cousins. Or siblings. Or something. Related, at least. She could see slight similarities-- the hair, of course, although the flaming color was comparable to a myriad of other students in Hogwarts. Eris, the girl she had conversed with in the library and later in the study room, for example, even shorter than herself by a few inches. The former Gryffindor prefect seemed a bit rebellious, if not an outright delinquent in punching Eri Windstone, but Cel liked her enough. She seemed like the kind of person who would enjoy... life, out to claim her own fun from whatever life she would be given.



Anyway. Back to analyzation. There was also the same facial structure, the same facial features... yes, Cel was quite sure he must be a relative of Rhea, and not too much of a distant one, either. Perhaps close cousins, or siblings? Quite a case... perhaps she could ask Rhea later if she could find her, or maybe ask-- was it Jax?-- himself. Or maybe not, she thought ruefully; it was much more likely that she would end up spending the entire time contemplating whether or not to involve herself in the conversation, weighing the possibilities and consequences, and finally make a decision to just go for it right after the chance flickered away, than her actually doing anything at all. As usual, of course. Better to go unnoticed and safe, even if she knew and was admittedly rather proud of her severely un-normal composition.

Quickly the girl turned her gaze back to her book, realizing that she had been studying and analyzing the similarities for far too long to be considered normal. Hopefully, the boy wouldn't notice... or the girl; if she had been facing her, then Cel would be worried. Thankfully, the Slytherin seemed to be speaking to the nurse now, describing nausea as a symptom, something about the dining hall. The girl peered at the three people, her gaze cutting over the top of the pages of her book, holding the volume up as a sort of shield from notice.

The girl shifted her position to reach for the glass on the nightstand by the soft hospital cot, pursing her lips as the water lay just beyond her reach. She stretched with a grimace, just touching the cool material with her fingertips. If Cel let go of her book, then she might be able to get out of bed and clasp the cup fully, soothe her according-to-doctor-but-skeptically-alleged headache as well as her dry throat... but she was in the middle of such a great chapter at the moment; if she let go, it would take her ages to find the right page again.

Her eyes darted back to the bookmark sitting innocently on the sheets, sadly on the other side of her cot. Neither of her hands was free to take it and slide it in between the beautiful, spectacular, glorious pages of her book, even though it was close enough to the nearsighted gaze she had that she could make out the tiny letters reading No Mourners, No Funerals etched into the thin hardwood. What a good book that was, that the quote had come from-- Six of Crows, by the muggle author Leigh  ... irrelevant. Right now, she was stretched in a strange position, trying to reach her water, and the bookmark was still out of reach. Perhaps if she moved it with her leg, it would be within reach...? But no, she was already in precarious form; if she shifted much more her center of gravity would drag her straight off the cot.



Cel looked back at the glass, biting her lip. If only her arms were a little longer... she strained, reaching just a little more, huffing in frustration as her fingertips brushed the cool glass. Maybe if she just-- shifted forward a little, like that--



Cel's eyes widened as the cup seemed to teeter off the edge of the nightstand in slow motion, the crystal clear water contained inside of it sloshing around, spilling out of the neck. It spun off the deeply polished wood of the tiny table, flying neck-over-base to the hard stone ground, then... shattered. The crash echoed through the Hospital Wing as Cel gave a gasp, staring at the shards of crystal spraying from the ground, a fountain of glass.

A single shard of glass flew up from the ground to slice a line of red across her left forearm, prompting her sharp inhale. Instinctively she clutched the wound, watching a bead of blood form at the end of the cut. Her very first thought: Oh. Strange how it looks so bright, like ruby. Her second musing: Why in the world are you thinking about that right now? The third: You're getting blood on the sheets. Not going to earn you any favors with the nurses. The fourth: Celynne Flores, focus.

The girl looked up, her eyes narrowing in a grimace as she scanned the many shocked faces of some of the other people in the Hospital Wing. One boy in the back glanced up, rolled his eyes, then went back to picking at his fingernail. Cheek. Most, though, were staring in surprise, as well as a few of the nurses.

"Sorry," the girl whispered. She looked back at her arm, watching another bead of blood drop from the cut and splash onto the pure white of her pillow, soaking into the cotton as the soft fabric absorbed the liquid.



A little Cel watched with wide eyes as she saw a drop of blood from her own hand drop onto the petal of the white asphodel before her. Most children would cry, or shriek, or gasp, or clutch it-- not her. She simply watched as it seeped into the white, blooming outwards from its epicenter, noting the pain in her hand like a curious observation of a science experience. Come hither, the curiosity beckoned. Come and see, what might this be? That was what it always was for her. Why did fire burn? Come forward to touch it. Why do people breathe? Only stop to know the consequences. She might have no longer been as stupid as her three-year-old self-- that was four years ago-- but she was still...curious. And this could not cause her harm. Harm had already been caused to her, by the shard of porcelain she had accidentally dropped in the backyard. Her father was still inside, doing whatever he pleased to do, muttering prayers to whatever this god person was over her mother, unaware of her wound. Her wounds, actually. But when there was nothing else to feel, there was always that one thought:

?


Cel gasped as she lapsed back into reality, clutching her head as a new pang of angst rocked her mind at the same time as physical pain attacked her temple. She blinked several times, pulling her knees up to her chest as she always did when fearful, watching the white sheets bunch up in hypnotic curves and waves. Groaning, the girl lowered her head, massaging her scalp with her fingers, trying to ease the pain. Think about something else. What was there to think about? Think about...how to translate 'avifors' into the ancient alphabet you learned in Transfiguration. But she could not; she could only clench her teeth and wait for the pain to cease.

She could also wonder what the others in the Hospital Wing, of whom she realized had been staring at her and were likely still staring at her throughout and after the flashback, were currently thinking of her. Slowly, mournfully, Cel raised her head from beneath the curtain of hair and white sheets, staring at the rest of the people there, trying to communicate an irritated message to those who met her gaze: What are you looking at? Or, more kindly, I apologize for the disturbance but I would rather you avert your gaze even if you talk about me behind your back later please come back later Celynne Flores is not available at this hour we reopen at noontime thank you very much for your consideration. Anything to get them to look away, stop giving her attention.

Once the nurse went away Syrah turned back to the boy who had taken a seat by the bed, near the wall. He was silent and Syrah was too confused to fully understand what had happened with the boy or what had promoted his strange introduction. So instead of speaking she looked down at the rose he got her, wondering where he had gotten it in the first place and why it was red. Syrah's mother, who enjoyed gardening on the occasion, had a few rose bushes at the home and would love to educate her daughter on the meanings of the different colors. Red, she knew, meant love. Like a deep kind of love. She was sure she was reading more into it, since red rose were the most common and sought after... But it was still kind of weird. She touched the petals, picking at their soft surface, until, accidentally, one detached and fell silently to the white floor below.

As soon as it touched the shiny ground she heard a crash and her head snapped up. The girl on the cot beside her whom was reading just a second ago had now somehow shattered a glass, and water was seeping quickly towards the petal that had fallen until it was engulfed, flattened and the color darkened. Looking up at the girl she saw her clutching her arm, and Syrah could see a pinprick of blood hiding behind her fingers. Looks like she somehow managed to cut herself as well. Good thing they were already in the hospital wing. Although the amount of blood made it seem like the wound wasn't too nasty.

Her suspicions confirmed when the girl let go of her hurt arm and moved her hands to her head. The blood was coming from a tiny scratch that some flying glass and undoubtedly cut. Syrah started to open her mouth to make a joke about being in the hospital wing... when she noticed the girl was not just holding her head, but clutching it and was now curled into a tight ball, slightly shaking.

What the... Syrah thought just as a nurse came to aid the girl. The nurse stood in front of her, looking shocked and unsure, her hands out, wanting to touch the girl but seemingly as if she couldn't. Syrah furrowed her brow, extremely confused by the scene. Then she beat the nurse to the punch, "Hey man, are you okay?" She asked. The girl did not seem in pain, more like mortified or something that she had broken this silly cup. "It was just a glass. No harm, no foul." She said trying to sound confident and reassuring. It looked like this chick was about to have some sort of panic attack or something and Syrah did not want to be sitting right next to that.

Raising her defeated face to stare at the Hospital Wing, she looked up at the Slytherin girl spoke, unconsciously scooting away from the nurse at her bedside... cot-side? But as a wave of pain hit her skull again, she buried her head in the blankets again, groaning. She didn't get it, none of them did; if Cel told anyone, they would only call her crazy.

"Not the glass," the girl managed to grit out. The reason for this is not the glass. "It's not because of... the glass." Of course, it would look like... like she was a crazy person trying to hide because of the stupid idiot cup. Well, of course, she was insane-- wasn't everyone?-- though she still preferred to think of herself as eccentric instead. Ever since she had learned the word on her seventh-- seventh or eighth? She could barely remember-- birthday, when Parker had used it, she took it as her own. So clearly Cel could see that birthday party she had never had before, so clearly she could remember the dancing light atop the wax candles, watching the flame flicker and beckon on the frosted plain of cake. She recalled watching it sway-- once, twice, thrice-- before she took a deep breath, taking all the air she could into her then-small lungs and blew out, observing the flame lean away from her as if scared and then disappear.



The same way she dealt with almost all of her problems: lean away, then disappear. It was better that way, she always told herself; better to disappear than face and break down in the face of consequence-- but this was a problem she could not lean away then disappear from. Cel could not lean away and disappear from the phantom pain in her mind, nor the flashes of illusion she could see behind the darkness of her eyelids.

But it had gotten worse enough already; the waves of agony were already beginning to fade. With challenge the girl uncurled, blinking at the seemingly confused nurse and the girl in the next cot, withholding the don't-you-have-better-things-to-do-than-stare rejoinder she wanted to burst out with.

It was nice, though, for the Slytherin to try and reassure her, she knew. Some people told her Slytherins were jerks, and of course, there were jerks belonging to the house of Slytherin, but then again, there were jerks in every house. Gryffindor had jerks, Hufflepuff had jerks, Slytherin had jerks, Ravenclaw had a heck of a jerk based on Eris's recount of the hallway fisticuffs-- and even if the students in each of those houses shared some kind of personality trait or quality, obviously there wasn't a personality trait named Jerk. No, being a jerk was a combination of different personality traits, and not one jerk was exactly the same as another... and boy, did she know that.

Perhaps she could thank the girl? But too much time had passed between the girl's words and her clear thinking... never to late to be courteous. "I'm okay," Cel said softly to both the nurse and the girl. "But thank you," she added. Please don't ask, pleasedon'taskpleasedon'task.

Well obviously it wasn't the glass, Syrah thought, at least not directly unless the girl had superhuman hearing and the sound nearly deafened her. But still, the reaction was over the top and Syrah was still confused, she looked over at the nurse, silently waiting for a small exploration. 

The woman was still somewhat hovering, as if unsure. Man, Syrah wondered, doesn't she know how to do her job? Right on that question, though, the nurse laid her hands on the girls arm, where the glass had cute and began dabbing some cotton into it to clean the bleeding. While she did so she stared at the girl, her eyes schrinched and searching her face. "Is it still your headache, young one?" She asked.

Ah, so a headache was the reason she girl was here. That seemed dumb, headaches aren't that bad, just suck it up and go to class. Unless of course she was trying to ditch, in which case that worked really well but no, Syrah decided, clearly this girl have severe headache, or else she wouldn't react in such a way to a glass breaking. Syrah was almost right before, about the superhuman hearing, the sound of the glass must have really hurt someone with such a bad head pain. 

Syrah continued to look at the girl who clenched and unclenched and curled herself over and over again. Syrah was certainly lucky that she was simply nauseous today. She would think headaches liek this would be chronic, whereas nausea was a one day thing. 

She turned her gaze toward the nurse, blinking a couple of times as the question was asked of her. Her headache was already calming, her fuzzy vision adjusting...  yes, the episode was fading. Slowly, but still fading. Thank goodness for that. Perhaps now she would be able to go to class...? But the hour was nearly over...

"It was," Cel spoke, realizing she still hadn't answered the kindly witch. At least she could see straight and clearly, make out the folds and silken texture of the curtains drawn across her little space, see the carved designs on the archway surrounding the wooden doors. The girl winced as the nurse began wrapping adhesive gauze around the cut-- was gauze a bit over the top?-- then added,"But I think it's getting a little better now." Terrible timing for the headache to go away, of course. Now was the time when it was a little pointless to stay in the Hospital Wing, but also too late to go to class... how strange, and how irritating it was that she was aware that she was missing so much, but class would be practically over by the time she got herself out of the Hospital Wing and into the classroom. Hmph. Really, Cel was too accustomed to this. Not healthy.

Of course, the insistent pound of pain in her head reminded her that she would much rather that the pain went away than for it to keep going-- annoying and agonizing at the same time. It was true that it was not truly gone, but it had definitely lessened to a point where, like yesterday, she would ignore it if she were in the middle of class. A symbol of more to come, a harbinger, she thought of it, for it told her that more was to come, but it was benign for the time being. It was a good thing, then, that she had read the textbook for her first class of the day over last night; perhaps she would not miss anything...? Oh, Cel would need to go pick up homework, ask what she missed, practice on her own time... but she told herself, earnestly, that she doubted she could have picked up much information anyway-- and she did.

"Perhaps you should stay and rest for a while," the nurse suggested worriedly. Ah, so the situation was to be solved by another-- perfect, for herself. That way she might be able to leave at the end of the hour and attend her second class without hassle, perhaps check in on her first during lunch, as her appetite was rather absent, as expected after not one but two flashbacks in the same day, or at least in succession...?

She gave a nod, trying to conserve her voice. Honestly, Cel was thirsty-- her throat was sticky, her mouth sour with the taste of dried saliva-- but too tired, too drowsy from the fumes released by the Drowsiness Draught sitting on her table, to ask for it. As the nurse left, though, Cel turned to the other girl beside her, feeling guilty for what could have been seen as dismissal by the over-worrying mind she possessed.

"What's your name?" the girl asked conversationally, her voice dry and scratchy. Quite obliged to cough, she did so to clear her throat, too softly to alarm. Normally she would never be one to administer conversation, especially when a flashback had just happened, but her guilt and worry that had been magnified by the event overrode her fear of being noticed-- something, of course, that did not happen much. No, in nearly every other case, the other would ask first, not herself-- something she had come to accept as a part of her, even as Parker liked to nag her to socialize. Of course, she would always reply with a what is this soshulizayshun thing and what does it have to do with me? humorous comment, simply to avoid it.

Cel would not give her own name, she decided before the words slipped past her heavy guard, unless the Slytherin was nice enough to give hers. Or unless asked.

Syrah watched in silence as the girl's headache seemed to settle. That must be one tough migraine, Syrah thought. She wondered why the nurse wasn't doing more to help the girl. Surely there was some sort of spell or potion that would aid in her pain at the very least, and at the most cure the headache all together. She shrugged inwardly, maybe not though, based on how the woman was acting. Maybe she was new? She didn't seem to be much of a help. Even to Syrah she just said to rest. The young witch would have thought there was a simple cure for nausea in the wizarding world. Hm.

After the nurse seemed to dismiss the poor girl next to her. the strange young student looked at Syrah and asked her name. Though her voice was awful and Syrah immediately offered her hospital neighbor her own water glass. Syrah was too nausea still to drink anything, clearly the girl had more use of it than she did. And hopefully she wouldn't drop it this time. Even Syrah did not want to have to go through that again.

"Oh, I'm Syrah." She responded. "Slytherin. If you couldn't tell by the robes, of course." She waved a hand down her torso, signaling her black robes with the green additions. She held out a hand out of habit, but then pulled it back. She wasn't sure how contagious, if at all she might be, but it seemed like this girl didn't need anything else on her plate. "Sorry, got the flu, forgot for a moment. So who are you?"