RP: I'm Not Done
Characters: Cho Chang, Hermione Granger.
Date: 13th of January, 2000
Location: St. Mungo's D:
Summary: Cho is... Happy.
Status/Warning: Open!
Completion: Incomplete.
Cho hadn't been joking, the past few mornings: greeting her healers with grit teeth and (figuratively) rolled-up sleeves, proclaiming every sunrise as her last wasting away in the horrid pale room.
Conclusions had been made.
Namely --
Therapy was necessary. Much more than her profession rested on able hands. She didn't like, however, the feeling of being powerless or weak in the face of strangers. Worse was the idea that this was how they might remember her later: Chang, who stood firm as a snapped twig in the face of danger. Her recovery so far had been full of pitfalls, and most had been -- admittedly -- in the mental realm. It was if the dissonance between her mind and body was determined to manifest itself in...
Well, honestly. To name the symptoms would give them power, and it wasn't as if she weren't going to be perfectly healthy ever again. She would, and quickly! Play cello, fly... Anything.
In order to leave the hospital at any semblance of a reasonable time, there were things she had to leave for later: the second guessing, the indignation, the damaged pride, all of it. Home was much more appropriate for that sort of thing, anyway. What am I thinking? It wasn't something anyone needed to see, and even if her recovery was a lie for now...
Poor, poor Percy.
At least there were things to look forward to, regardless. Even if this new bravado would mean nothing in a day, Cho had to hold onto what she could when it came. Any happiness was worth it -- no sense in being picky as a little waif in a hospital bed. (After all: she had plenty of time to regrow her disdain.)
Today was a different day.
After therapy, for the first time the healers saw it fit to let her roam. Her legs were weak, but she was nowhere near the mess she'd been at first -- wandering between the bed and an armchair in the corner was simple, even oddly pleasing. There was a set amount of steps, a preordained shine to the tile on the floor, and perhaps the scuffed remains of a wheelchair's rolling; and no, she would've never thought to smile at such a thing even hours ago, but there it was.
For some time Cho merely occupied the space, bending her knees, rolling her hips; perhaps there was even the ghost of a Quidditch stretch or two. (Admittedly, much slower and far less coordinated.) When she lifted her arms over her head, there were several horrid popping sounds.
But I'm not done.
"All right," she said to herself, a bit breathless. "Yes."
Date: 13th of January, 2000
Location: St. Mungo's D:
Summary: Cho is... Happy.
Status/Warning: Open!
Completion: Incomplete.
Cho hadn't been joking, the past few mornings: greeting her healers with grit teeth and (figuratively) rolled-up sleeves, proclaiming every sunrise as her last wasting away in the horrid pale room.
Conclusions had been made.
Namely --
Therapy was necessary. Much more than her profession rested on able hands. She didn't like, however, the feeling of being powerless or weak in the face of strangers. Worse was the idea that this was how they might remember her later: Chang, who stood firm as a snapped twig in the face of danger. Her recovery so far had been full of pitfalls, and most had been -- admittedly -- in the mental realm. It was if the dissonance between her mind and body was determined to manifest itself in...
Well, honestly. To name the symptoms would give them power, and it wasn't as if she weren't going to be perfectly healthy ever again. She would, and quickly! Play cello, fly... Anything.
In order to leave the hospital at any semblance of a reasonable time, there were things she had to leave for later: the second guessing, the indignation, the damaged pride, all of it. Home was much more appropriate for that sort of thing, anyway. What am I thinking? It wasn't something anyone needed to see, and even if her recovery was a lie for now...
Poor, poor Percy.
At least there were things to look forward to, regardless. Even if this new bravado would mean nothing in a day, Cho had to hold onto what she could when it came. Any happiness was worth it -- no sense in being picky as a little waif in a hospital bed. (After all: she had plenty of time to regrow her disdain.)
Today was a different day.
After therapy, for the first time the healers saw it fit to let her roam. Her legs were weak, but she was nowhere near the mess she'd been at first -- wandering between the bed and an armchair in the corner was simple, even oddly pleasing. There was a set amount of steps, a preordained shine to the tile on the floor, and perhaps the scuffed remains of a wheelchair's rolling; and no, she would've never thought to smile at such a thing even hours ago, but there it was.
For some time Cho merely occupied the space, bending her knees, rolling her hips; perhaps there was even the ghost of a Quidditch stretch or two. (Admittedly, much slower and far less coordinated.) When she lifted her arms over her head, there were several horrid popping sounds.
But I'm not done.
"All right," she said to herself, a bit breathless. "Yes."