RP: Mechanism
Character(s): Cho Chang, Percy Weasley.
Location: The flat.
Date: 11th of March, 2000
Status/Warning: Closed/openish.
Summary: Cho isn't feeling well.
Completion: Complete.
Inexplicably -- whether having to do with weather or wingbeats -- Cho grew sick.
She woke sore and dry-throated, dry and sore-throated, wrists throbbing, stomach inside out, eyes bright with sniffling tears. In a moment of desperation a muggle thermometer was brought to the scene, indicating a thorough investigation: understandably, when it came to matters of the body, Cho now trusted medicine above magic. Had they ever checked her temperature once, in St. Mungo's? Did they not realise the psychological power of numbers?
(Obviously not.)
In this scenario, Cho did have a fever: something slight, cloying to the softness of skin. Hands at throat, the knot of veins there worked heatedly beneath her fingers. At times the pressure in her head came in increments, like the dial of an oven.
And so she slept.
There wasn't much else to be done. If she stayed awake, it would be to confront the why, the how, and anyone knew that such thoughts only encouraged illness. It felt like something small -- a passing inconvenience -- but under the right conditions who knew how long it might last?
Cho was not willing to risk such a thing, for once. A few weeks back and turning the tables, perhaps an old self-destructive tendency would have surfaced. Fortunately they were progressing now, beyond where they'd progressed before, and Cho had things to do. She had a career to consider, an idea to ponder.
Because, here, it was true: she didn't want what was happening. Perhaps that was why her stomach turned now, why it all seemed a lull in the heat -- and she was familiar with the haze, but today it came under a different mechanism. Self-defense was futile lately, after all.
Cho didn't want Percy to become an Unspeakable.
She didn't want to be left at home wondering, didn't want to consider a heavier thought, didn't want to believe in clairvoyance, didn't want any of it.
The second truth was that she had to.
She had to because there wasn't really a choice. A prouder Cho would leave today, in protest -- go walk the town, visit a friend, stay out late. A prouder Cho would have no qualms with making him worry, leaving her half of the compact behind. And... a prouder Cho certainly wouldn't allow this to happen: the Unspeakables or me, she'd say, and then cry magnificently, tears illuminated in black and white film.
Today a prouder Cho lay still instead. When Hermes returned from isn't-easy -- the aftermath of what she'd eavesdropped from the bedroom -- there was a smile, some baring of the teeth. If crying came afterward, it was less than cinematic. If there wasn't, no one was better off.
A conclusion had been made, and she had her own letter to burn.
C.
Now that you're dead,
does it seem awfully silly that you were ever alive?
Location: The flat.
Date: 11th of March, 2000
Status/Warning: Closed/openish.
Summary: Cho isn't feeling well.
Completion: Complete.
Inexplicably -- whether having to do with weather or wingbeats -- Cho grew sick.
She woke sore and dry-throated, dry and sore-throated, wrists throbbing, stomach inside out, eyes bright with sniffling tears. In a moment of desperation a muggle thermometer was brought to the scene, indicating a thorough investigation: understandably, when it came to matters of the body, Cho now trusted medicine above magic. Had they ever checked her temperature once, in St. Mungo's? Did they not realise the psychological power of numbers?
(Obviously not.)
In this scenario, Cho did have a fever: something slight, cloying to the softness of skin. Hands at throat, the knot of veins there worked heatedly beneath her fingers. At times the pressure in her head came in increments, like the dial of an oven.
And so she slept.
There wasn't much else to be done. If she stayed awake, it would be to confront the why, the how, and anyone knew that such thoughts only encouraged illness. It felt like something small -- a passing inconvenience -- but under the right conditions who knew how long it might last?
Cho was not willing to risk such a thing, for once. A few weeks back and turning the tables, perhaps an old self-destructive tendency would have surfaced. Fortunately they were progressing now, beyond where they'd progressed before, and Cho had things to do. She had a career to consider, an idea to ponder.
Because, here, it was true: she didn't want what was happening. Perhaps that was why her stomach turned now, why it all seemed a lull in the heat -- and she was familiar with the haze, but today it came under a different mechanism. Self-defense was futile lately, after all.
Cho didn't want Percy to become an Unspeakable.
She didn't want to be left at home wondering, didn't want to consider a heavier thought, didn't want to believe in clairvoyance, didn't want any of it.
The second truth was that she had to.
She had to because there wasn't really a choice. A prouder Cho would leave today, in protest -- go walk the town, visit a friend, stay out late. A prouder Cho would have no qualms with making him worry, leaving her half of the compact behind. And... a prouder Cho certainly wouldn't allow this to happen: the Unspeakables or me, she'd say, and then cry magnificently, tears illuminated in black and white film.
Today a prouder Cho lay still instead. When Hermes returned from isn't-easy -- the aftermath of what she'd eavesdropped from the bedroom -- there was a smile, some baring of the teeth. If crying came afterward, it was less than cinematic. If there wasn't, no one was better off.
A conclusion had been made, and she had her own letter to burn.
C.
Now that you're dead,
does it seem awfully silly that you were ever alive?