White Heather for Protection

Ditching the Shackles

Hadrian blinked as he surfaced from what felt like a deep, deep sleep. Squinting his eyes at the sudden brightness, he stretched out his arms to get rid of the typical morning stiffness.

And cringed.

His limbs were crying in agony. What tortures had Oliver inflicted to merit this? His eyes burst wide open as he caught sight of the white bed hangings. They looked familiar... He turned to the side gingerly, minding his sore muscles.

Yup, definitely a déjà vu moment.

Sitting at his bedside, looking wretched and worn out, was his sister. The sight, as usual, caused his heart to squeeze painfully. All he ever seemed to do was cause Heather worry.

He remembered now the fiasco that had landed him in this position. The Chamber of Secrets and Ginny and Tom Riddle-Voldemort.

And the pain. The burning pain.

His gaze flew to his arm. Where he had been expecting a bloody, gaping wound, sat a pinkish scar instead. Basilisk venom. It was fatal. Had Heather managed to cure him? She had managed the impossible before.

"Fawkes," his sister stated when she caught his confused look, "He cried for you."

"Do you need some water? Are you in any pain? Shall I call Madam Pomfrey? Maybe another blanket or two?"

At the deluge of questions, Hadrian shook his head firmly. His sister would be much more protective the next few weeks, he knew.

"Did I manage to get rid of Voldemort, at least?" he asked worriedly.

Uh oh. Heather's stare sharpened and she demanded an explanation. So Hadrian told her everything. About the diary and the little anagram. Her expression grew from alarmed to furious and he braced himself.

"That book we found was in tatters, so that's one problem gone, at least," Heather said in a carefully controlled tone.

That was it? Hadrian tilted his head in disbelief. "You're not going to give me another 'You should be more careful!' rant?"

"You made the best of a horrible situation. From the sounds of it, you handled yourself well enough before you lost focus. You remembered all that training. I'm the one who gave you the go ahead," she said, self-reproach heavy on her tongue.

He made to protest, but a look cut him off. He knew his sister wouldn't listen anyway. He got his stubbornness from her, after all.

"Well," Heather said too-brightly, "while we wait for Madam Pomfrey to discharge you, I've got some questions for you." She took out a hefty stack of parchment, mood lifting. This was a much happier topic. It wasn't the time for her inadequacies.

Her brother looked at her curiously and waited. "Do you prefer tall or wide buildings?"

Rian scrunched his brows but answered, "Tall?"

"Right." She made a note. "Crowded or secluded places?"

Despite his obvious befuddlement at the random questions, he continued replying, "Not crowded with strangers. I wouldn't mind if they were friends."

"Antique or modern styles?"

"Maybe rustic, but not ancient, y'know?"

And so on. Heather asked him various odd questions while he did his best to answer without context. She finally ran out of questions and tucked the papers away.

"So, what do those tell you?" her brother asked.

"Tell me what?" It was her turn to look confused.

"About my personality. Wasn't that one of those quizzes in Witch Weekly or something?"