Frying Pan to Fire }{ Open

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

A pulse, the steady rhythm of an irregular drum, throbbed in every achy area and was especially bad in the center of his face. What was worse was the pain that flared up with every beat and the blood that continued to come from his nose. A fall down the stairs. Or was it a fall? Ayrle had the vague sense that he felt hands on him when he mounted the landing, but couldn't remember seeing a face. Either way, some unknown force had knocked him down and sent him on a very uncomfortable journey down the revolving stairs. He had bumps on his head, bruises everywhere, and a broken nose from smacking into the wall- the wall the finally ended his decent- and as a result he was kind of dizzy and in a lot of pain.

Ayrle felt like crying his eyes out, but couldn't muster up the sob behind the tears because that would hurt just too darn much.

Thankfully the floor he landed on was the exact floor the hospital wing was on. After a moment of regaining his bearings (his head was throbbing so bad he couldn't see straight for a few minutes) he stood and realized where he was, and began staggering in that direction with his hand cupped under his nose to catch the steady stream of blood pouring from it. The wing was only a few more feet away- Ayrle extended his hand the final distance and tugged it open, squinting at the bright light pouring in from the windows.

"Uhm... Hello?" His voice carried timidly, with the crack of unshed tears behind it.

[Diomedea Rosier]

Diomedea was in the Hospital Wing, looking outside the large glass window with her arms crossed, and a thoughtful expression on her face; her blonde hair was tied up in a long, thick ponytail, and she was wearing simple clothes for the day – her uniform, without the robes over her, of course. She had requested of Madam Pomfrey to help her in her service, and she had been given permission to do so; it seemed as though the number of people being hexed or cursed had considerably arisen, but then again everyone knew the times were dark and there was a war going on out there in the open – which she would have to face in a couple of months. That thought was not remotely daunting; perhaps something would happen to liven things up a bit. All these months she had been enraged, confused, uncertain, insecure, emotionally paralyzed, and finally resigned and miserable. It was a state and a fact which she had embraced as permanent.

She was not allowed to be lost in her thoughts for long – she heard noises and lazily turned to look over her shoulder; undoubtedly some third year or other having been smacked by the Whomping Willow, and it served them right. Those children simply never learned. When, however, her eyes met with the sight of a rather awfully injured Ayrle Woodward, her irises widened and she rushed to him. He managed to say a tiny word, but she brought him carefully to lie over one of the empty beds, making certain she did not hurt his bones. “There – don’t move – you’ve just broken some bones, nothing that can’t be fixed …” she told him, trying to sound soothing, her pale fingers wiping off the blood she could find quickly. She walked quickly to the cupboard with the potions and grabbed a jar with purple content within. It looked disgusting, and it probably tasted even worse. She returned to him, hovering above him, tall and imposing, her movements commanding but her face oddly compassionate. “What happened?” she asked him, while opening the jar.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

Diomedea Rosier was in the hospital wing. She was wearing an outfit that indicated that she was working in said hospital wing. She was coming towards him with a look of... Concern? Ayrle looked up (way up, since he was just a little runt) and swollowed nervously. There were things he wanted to say, like that he'd come back later, or that he changed his mind, but no sound would come out other than the pitiful squeak that resulted from a word he was trying to say because his throat closed up. The first touch was recieved flinchingly (he was unsure, and anticipating something awry) but he allowed himself to be led to the bed.

She laid him down, but a bump on the back of the head made that rightfully uncomfortable- he sat up slowly and tried to adjust his irrational trembling. Rosier didn't seem to have any intentions on hurting him... Maybe. The way she wiped the blood from his nose didn't hurt (and considering that was a swollen mess, he was surprised it didn't) and her voice was kind of mild. But what was going on? He really thought the older woman really, really hated him.

"Uhm..." His voice was quiet, partially because that's the way he spoke and partially because he was very bewildered. "I th-think I..." Ayrle paused, feeling her imposing presence get to him a little; she blocked out the light from the windows, casting her face in shadow and reminding him of that night within his first week at Hogwarts. "Fell... D-Down the stairs.." Average brown eyes flickered over towards the jar, causing his face to go a little pale.

That looked really quite icky...

[Diomedea Rosier]

Diomedea could feel and understand his tension and concern over her being the one to set him right, and she could not blame him. After all, she had been the one to torture him mercilessly in that secluded room in the dungeons so many months ago, but times had changed. Now she felt guilty, and even though her pride was still driving her to not allow her to express such new emotions to her, she felt them deep inside her. “Relax,” she instructed him. She narrowed her eyes when he spoke those last words, looking at him suspiciously, her fingers paused opening the jar that seemed to have been glued closed. “You fell off the stairs – or you were thrown down the stairs?” she asked him carefully, looking inquisitively at him and with a quirk of her eyebrow she stared at his eyes for an answer. “Where did it happen?”

She got angry with the jar and swung really hard, when the noise of the cork opened finally echoed around the room. She stuck her hands inside the slippery content and applied some portion in his hands and around his neckline; it instantly soothed the bruises of his skin, and cooled it. She next drew her wand from her pocket and pointed it directly at his bones, muttering the spell; some disgusting ‘cracks’ were heard as bones were relocated, but she was certain the bump in his head still hurt awfully. “Let me see this,” she told him, her hands touching each side of his face as she brought him closer, and examined the top of his head. Her hands were not as cold as usual, nor fierce or demanding; they were soft, but very firm, her fingers touched the edge of his cheeks with very light pressure, as her eyes scanned his head. There was a purple thump there, and when she carefully touched it with the edge of her fingers she felt it was rather large. She walked away and back to the cupboard, and when she returned, she placed a bowl of water and ice, a small towel and another jar (smaller than the previous) on the bedside table. She applied gentle force as the ice, inside a thin layer of tower, touched the thump of his head. She made a soothing sound to calm him down as the sudden contact must have made him uncomfortable. “It’s only a minor thump,” she told him. “Embrace the pain, it is not your enemy, but your friend.” She pulled her hand down. “Do you feel slightly better?”

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

Did he fall, or was he thrown? Ayrle looked down apologetically and shrugged the shoulder that wasn't sore. "I... Don't know." His tone carried the hesitation of insecurity; he really wasn't sure. "I mean, I w-was on the l-landing when I felt... Pushed." A blush colored freckled cheeks, "It was on the... Fifth floor." He was on the landing of the fifth floor when he was (obviously) pushed, now that he thought about it. "I didn't see anyone, though." His eyes lifted at the gesture of movement, and for a moment he watched her struggle with the bottle before she managed to get it open.

Ayrle bit his lower lip, hoping that he wouldn't have to eat or drink that stuff...

Luckily for him, it merely went on his skin (he had to look rediculous, but he didn't care) and began soothing his bruises. If there was anything to say about the wizarding world, he really wished that they could borrow some of their medicine. Slim shoulders slowly relaxed as the aches eased, but jumped up again when he found a wand drawn at his face. Eyes widened, but it was too late for him to jerk away; the sickening crunch of mending bone was heard, and for a few seconds he felt (blinding) pain.

"Jesus..." Tears fell from his eyes now, falling down his cheeks and tucking under the collar of his shirt. He was such a crybaby sometimes, he didn't have any real resistance to tears; they just came. She was systematic, though, and was already moving onto the next portion of injury- his head. Her hands were warm on his face, and for a second Ayrle was confused- Weren't they always cold?

"Ow!" The little hufflepuff squeezed his eyes shut at the touch. The spot was awfully tender and throbbing. "Owowow..." The ice on it was expected, but it still hurt. Ayrle took a deep breath and opened his eyes; he hated being battered. His brother normally got a kick out of it, but the aches and pains... He'd never be able to understand how much it hurt. "I..." She asked him if he felt better, and he honestly did. Ayrle gave a nod of his ginger-mopped head and smiled sheepishly.

"Yeah..."

[Diomedea Rosier]

Diomedea wiped the tears off his face with her fingers. “There’s nothing to cry for,” she told him gently. “There is a place and time when one must cry, and this is not it. I’ll give you exactly five seconds to do so,” she said, slightly smiled, and then raised her finger as though to indicate the allotted time had passed. “If you felt pushed, then someone must have pushed you,” she told him matter-of-factly. “No one falls down the stairs without even realising how they did so. It is either an accident … or it is not. Seeing how you would have remembered falling down by your own fault, I can only assume that some … Slytherin was behind it,” she told him, almost certain of that part. It was the first time in her life and in her school years that she had ever talked about Slytherins in that way; she knew they cursed around and even though she did not directly accuse or speak ill of them, the tone in her voice suggested she was being accusatory.

“You see, Ayrle,” she told him softly, very close to him, needing to talk to someone and being enveloped by so many feelings again, as her hands applied the purple sticky content all over his bruises; “Slytherins like to inflict harm to other people, they believe in that way they become more powerful. They are blessed by such unrestricted arrogance as to make them feel superior by acting in ways which might be described as morally contemptuous and … controversial. Sometimes I used to think Slytherins were misunderstood, others that they were taken exactly for what they were worth – superior, able, ambitious – but with every person there you shall find hidden insecurity,” she said; she was talking about the Slytherins, she was talking about herself; everything she had never told anybody once her resignation took complete control over her. “Then there are those Slytherins who are slightly better than others but still enveloped by their own supreme haughtiness,” she said, but once her mind meandered to Tristain, she found something choking her, and briskly shook her head. “No Slytherin seems to escape that,” she spoke, and bitterly laughed; it was rather humourless. “Sometimes it is hard to understand, and you are still young, and as a Hufflepuff you must endure criticism and derision – but you need to know …” she hesitated. “You need to know there are books you cannot read.” She sighed wearily.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

If there was any place and time to cry, it was when your nose was being reset. The sting so close to his eyes brought the formation of tears, which fell down his cheeks without resistance. Ayrle wasn’t well versed in keeping his tears in (considering his many sobbing outbursts) and there wasn’t any then. But Diomedea was right; after the initial pain it edged down to a dull ache and he was (thankfully) able to stop crying before five seconds. He hiccoughed once, took a deep breath, and raised his moppy head to show that he was indeed, no longer crying.

“I… P-p-probably was p-pushed.” His voice sounded so small, merely a child’s murmur when he spoke. “There’s s-some p-people who really don’t like me…” The little boy lifted his chin further at the sign of more of the goop, staying still while it was being applied and patiently accepted the slight smudges in his hair and clothes. After the visible bruises were handled, Ayrle folded his leg onto the bed and rolled the pant’s sleeve to reveal a nasty looking bruise on his shin.

“… They don’t need to act t-tough.” His little face was gloomy when he said this. “We… We all need to cry s-sometimes. If you’re too… Too tough, you ignore how you feel. If a lot of people ignore how to feel, and then forget,” Ayrle’s lower lip was taken hostage by his teeth, gently gnawing at the tender skin until he seemed to piece together what he was trying to say. “If they forget, they hurt themselves and others, and they lose all the friends they could have had.” His fingers were victim to his nervous biting now, seeing as he was doing his best not to stutter.

“I don’t care if they’re ins-secure, or if they think they’re b-better… If they weren’t bullies I’d be their friend.” Eyes the color of creamed coffee, bowed under the downward angles of his puppy-dog brows, he beseeched Diomedea to understand. “They want power, but there’s power in numbers… Right?”

[Diomedea Rosier]

Yes, the young boy had matured before his time, it seemed. Diomedea listened to him speak while cleaning his various wounds here and there, but then as he continued talking, she became transfixed at his pure and innocent eyes, and the words that escaped those thin lips who perhaps as of yet knew not how to kiss, and had known only motherly care. She had always endeavoured to be tough, not to care about other people and forget what sensitivity meant, even though she was from her nature a highly sensitive girl; she had refused to budge with tears, she had refused herself the peace which came after crying and letting it out. Those icy-gray eyes were no longer icy but crystal and bright, as she felt a prickling feeling in the corner of her eyes, and had the sudden feeling someone had somewhere opened the window for her – it was, perhaps, his small hand; yes, she was certain, and the sunlight which penetrated the room from the glass window poked her hair and made it resemble a golden waterfall. The prickling feeling was now burning her – how could an eleven-year-old know of her heart, look through her shut eyes and express the depths of an unfathomable soul? How could this young little angel understand she had been a misanthrope, shun everyone out of her life, hurt people for nothing and even deceived her own self in this cruel way?

She had ignored her own feelings, for there was a time when she had them – she felt too much, to the point of growing desperate and dejected of having them, only because they hurt her. She had forgotten what it meant to care, until Tristain came, or rather, until he left. She had forgotten what a true touch meant and how it felt, in this time of misery and in which she had pushed herself after he had left; alone and miserable, and perfectly resigned, from school, from friends, from herself – from life. It was power she had desired, to prove herself to an unknown enemy, to prove herself to everyone, her worth, her intelligence, all those hours studying extensively, all those years devoted to technicalities and never people, those years of pain and solitude, and it was all her fault. Who else was to blame? She had realized all this when she was alone, months after Tristain had left her for someone better, and she had stopped blaming him; how childish otherwise! All that secret insecurity, the craving to be better than anyone else … the endless inner battles she hid from the world, she hid from herself, and she now was what exactly? A mere human being, another nobody in a world of nobodies, a bee in a world of innumerable bees, buzzing with no purpose and no elegance, for she was a crushed bee, and had no strength to move on, despite the youth of her years.

Bitter tears flowed down her pale cheeks, but her crying was silent, for who would want, who would ever be interested to hear her wretched story? She only gazed at him, now incapacitated of touching him, for he bore the light that opened her eyes and she but a mere person of no importance or consequence. Therefore, what was she supposed to do? She did not know, but perhaps cared not to find out. She had wished to smile at him and beg for forgiveness, but there was something constricting her throat and making it impossible for her at the moment to utter a single sound – and she had forgotten what it was like to smile. It seemed her lips had lost sense of how to crack, for they bore a permanent expression of determined melancholy. “And I?” she asked him, her voice ever so frail, and whispering, the tears drying up in her pale skin, but there were more to come. “Can I be your friend?” For the first time in her life her tone was imploring; even though she had whispered it, it had been perfectly audible to him, who was so close to her. He could hear her hopeless heart beats.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

When he spoke his words, he never expected any sort of reaction from them. Especially not the woman before him shedding tears that fell down her cheeks like shooting starts on a white backdrop. Or perhaps more like condensation on crystal, his words acting like the curious finger tracing the contours and shapes on the surface, forcing the droplets to form and fall. It wasn’t a voluntary action, but the fact that the tears were there made him sad. He could tell that her heart hurt, aching for a reason that he couldn’t comprehend, and that he’d said something to bear her soul.

For a few moments he watched her face through her inner turmoil, childishly grasping the difference between Rosier of the past and Diomedea as of now. There was no longer the raging fight to harm inside of her, but a sense of defeat that lay naked in her crystalline eyes. They asked for his forgiveness, even when her voice wouldn’t function. A kind smile formed over his lips, as natural as blinking and breathing, and he scooted on the bed to be closer to her.

“Yep!”

In a movement that lacked hesitation, he leaned forward enough to give her a gentle hug around the neck. The action was careful, so as not to get any of the goop onto her, but also with a grip that was both secure and breakable, should she want to pull away. The sound of his throat working could be heard in his ear, the words obviously containing the hesitation his actions lacked. Ayrle cleared his throat softly, and whispered,

“ ‘There is a place and time when one must cry’… You can, if you want. I won’t tell anybody.”

[Diomedea Rosier]

Diomedea felt surprised to have Ayrle embrace her in such a loving manner, the innocence of that age, the purity of intentions, the crystal-clear gaze of that heavenly smile were moments she had forgotten, neglected, but wished to experience again. He was giving them back to her generously, blessing her with those feelings once more, and to her this incident was to be one of the most important in her life. She accepted it, welcomed it with open arms, and returned it most passionately, grasping from the last threads of life lest she should forget to breathe. She wished to tell him so many things, plead for forgiveness and then thank him for it, but something was choking her on the throat, thus she appreciated the wordless conversation shared between them, that he could empathize even without entirely understanding and that he could show caress even without knowing her, despite what she did to him. She felt safe. He won’t tell anybody. He would never tell anybody.

When they pulled apart, she looked at him with tears in her eyes, which she never bothered to dry with her pale white hands. She nervously looked down at her lap, and then back at him after only moments. It was seconds later that her gaze fell upon the shirt covering his stomach, and her tender touch soon found the once bruised skin, pulling the shirt slightly upwards to reveal it. She was careful enough not to hurt or embarrass him and as her thin, delicate fingers touched across the skin, curiosity overwhelmed her. She had really caused that pain, the suffering. How ridiculous! She had blamed an innocent child for her own misfortune, and had him experience a portion of her pain purely out of selfish reasons. How could she have been so vain, so blind, and egotistic? Ill-disposed, envious, vindictive and inclined to folly. But he had given her his valuable forgiveness for which she was most grateful, and she could finally find some peace of mind, if indeed it was feasible. She took the sponge silently and with slow moves, and began to caress his hurt skin with it, slowly, smoothly, looking at the faded mark of what had once been a wound.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

When she didn’t immediately pull away, he tightened his hold to a comforting squeeze. Sometimes all someone really needed was a hug and some quiet moments to gather themselves (he would know!). He couldn’t entirely grasp the meaning of her pain, nor did he fully know what was plaguing her, but he definitely hugged her to make her feel better. Once she was ready, they pulled apart and he smiled at her again. A hug and a smile were the perfect medium for comfort, and Ayrle was willing to offer it.

Even though she hurt him at the start of the year and proceeded to scare the crud out of him for months beyond that, she didn’t seem like that now. Maybe it was because she was hurt, or had been hurt, but her demeanor seemed kinder, and her eyes were warm and calm. They were prettier that way, he noticed (shyly) and hoped that the spring thaw on her heart would continue into summer.

His face shifted (comically) to one of surprise when she pulled up his shirt, and a scorching red blush burned his ears. Ever since that time, he never let anyone see his wound. Not that he dared wandering around naked anyway (he was much too shy for that!) but he did a really good job of hiding it. The fact that Diomedea was openly examining it now was reason to blush.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” He informed her, the bewildered, shy, confused expression still on his face. “You don’t have to feel b-“ Diomedea’s fingers grazed his side, and a boyish giggle escaped. “It’s okay, really!” The sponge only served to earn more giggles and a little squirming.

Ayrle was obviously extremely ticklish in his belly and sides.

Child’s small hands jumped down to grab onto Dio’s hand, stilling it from its movements. “That tickles!” He giggled out, his face twisted into a childish grin with slightly gap-toothed teeth.

[Diomedea Rosier]

Diomedea smiled. It felt so strange to do so after all this time; it was not wide, but it was honest and warm for as little as it lasted. She was utterly relieved to hear it did not hurt anymore, and when he commenced giggling she looked at him with motherly warmth. He was so sweet and she was certain he promised to become a very talented and amiable young man.

She rose to walk to the cupboard once more, and when she returned to him, she had all the ingredients ready to make him forget that cold and cruel night, at least physically. She applied the new liquid across the skin of his stomach, smoothly and slowly, until the medicine satisfied its use and the mark began to fade; certainly it would not disappear within a second, it needed its own cycle, for it had been a spell of Dark Magic she had used – nevertheless, it would meet its due. When she was finished, she grabbed the bottle and put it back on its place; Diomedea was not scared to face Madam Pomfrey should the Healer inquire as to why had the potion been used. She would simply tell her the truth. The time when she hid her dirty little secrets had long since been gone, and she was prepared to face the consequences of past actions. It just need not happen right now; it could wait a little. For now, she needed some sleep. She needed some peace of mind.

[Ayrle R. Woodward]

More giggling bubbled up from his throat when Dio smeared the solution on his marked belly. He couldn't help it, he was just so ticklish that it was nearly rediculous. Ayrle peeked down at the short expanse of his skinny stomach, pleased when the mark began to fade more. Maybe next year he'd be able to swim in the lake like he wanted.

"Thank you." He breathed out as the magical substance sank into the old would. Careful not to get the ooze on his shirt, he brought it down and tilted his head up to Diomedea with a warm expression on his face. "I feel a lot better now." Of course he was talking about all of his previous injuries, but he was glad that the elder Slytherin was willing to make amends with him. Now he wouldn't fear anything...

Well, except the dark, but that would take a while.