Scratches (Fred Weasley)

(155) Always You

Sloan ignored the man, his eyes still glaring at Scrimgeour, "If someone else dies because of your rash decision to put them in to the battlefield unprepared, that's on you, and your conscience. Hopefully to haunt you for as long as you breath. And you better pray that the someone won't be Florence, because if I lose her, your conscience won't be the only thing you'll have to worry about."

"Is that a threat?" Scrimgeour said, his voice filled with astonishment, "How dare you—"

"It's not a threat. It's a promise." Sloan said, and with that, he stormed out of the hospital facility, rage burning in him.

                                         ————

All she could see was white. White walls, white ceiling, blinding white light. If it weren't for the bouquet of bright sunflowers on her bedside, she would've been convinced that she was dead, and her soul was now resting somewhere in the abyss of the purgatory. With a good amount of energy, Florence managed to peel her eyes open completely, and in the process, stirred everyone else in the room out of their collective boredom.

"Florence!" Julien was the first to cry out, bolting upright from the uncomfortable-looking plastic chair that was situated closest to her bed. "Someone call a Mediwitch."

"Jules, I'm fine, I—" she flinched, a searing pain coursing through her body as she attempted to sit up. "Bloody hell," she sighed, flopping back down.

"Don't move too much. The wound is still healing. The blade that Reagan stabbed you with was pretty long and almost went all the way in. The Healers took awhile to stop the bleeding."

"That's the last time that bitch is going to get me," Florence said, "I'll make sure of it."

"Too right you are," a voice chimed in, Sirius coming in to view, his face looking restless and miserable, the bags under his eyes making him look exponentially older than he was. He was frowning, the type that expressed anger with a fair share of worry, his arms folded across his chest, "This whole Auror thing ends now. No way you're going back in to the force after what happened."

"Sirius, mate," Julien sighed in a frustrated manner, "I thought we agreed that this wasn't the time to talk about that."

"There isnt any time to talk about that at all," Florence interjected, "It isn't something that any of you have a say in. I'm going back. That's final."

"You've no clue how much you terrified us." Sirius snapped, Florence seeing his uncharacteristically angry persona and instantly disliking it, "You've no clue how much all of us hated ourselves for not being able to take care of you in behalf of Jane. You have no idea how awful it feels to have failed her this much. Florence, I don't know what you're trying to prove, but whatever it is, you don't have to. You have to stop, before you're killed. You have to—"

"Stop," she cut off, hearing the mad hysteria creeping up in Sirius' tone of voice, craning her neck to the other side, as if avoiding eye contact, "Please leave. I don't want to talk about this."

"Florence, we—"

"You too, Jules. Please leave, the both of you. I don't feel well enough for this type of conversation."

Hesitantly, Julien stepped away from her bedside, Sirius curtly transforming into his animagus form, the two exiting the room.

Florence let out a sigh as soon as the door clicked shut, closing her eyes once more to process the previous occurrences in her head. The previous events were hazy in her head, but the image of Reagan looming above her, knife in hand, had been etched into her mind so bad that she couldn't shake it off. It was anger, most of all, her pride wounded that she was knocked out that easily by a girl that she despised. But it was also fear, the traumatic feeling of hopelessness and the fact that she was convinced she was going to die then and there. It was a lot to process, too much for her to process. She wondered when merciful sleep would come to her aid again.