And he absorbs back in the words right through his skin, // closed Options

[Aster Gardinier]

Weak had never been something the Slytherin would have characterized himself as, but as he numbly darted out of the Great Hall, gaze downcast and pace steadily increasing, his legs were little more than jell-o.

He cringed at the rusty taste of dried blood as he sucked a deep breath in through his nostrils, but raised his fist to the door and quickly rapped twice in succession nonetheless. His eyelids pressed shut as it opened; everything had come rushing back at once, far too familiar. The bed in the far right corner where he had rested Evelyn down that night in third year; where he had lay down next to her, wrapped his arm around her, and squeezed, even with the knowledge that he hadn't been able to protect her; where, the morning after, they had exchanged the kiss: the first and last one he had pulled away from. And just as he had left her then, alone and stumbling for words suitable enough for the smallest of reprieves, she had left him today.

Duly broken.

"Hello," he just barely murmured into the silence of the Wing, slipping gingerly into a chair nearest the door and folding his hands atop his crossed legs. It was the simplest picture he could paint of being fine; of nothing at all holding even the slightest possibility of being wrong. It would have to do.

Out Of Character Form:
Patient Name: Aster Gardinier
Current Year: Sixth
Gender: Male
Blood Type (if applicable): O+
Species (Human, Veela (part or full), etc: Human
Allergies: n/a
Damage Location (Entire body or certain parts, please specify) (BE SPECIFIC): Split lip, battered and bloodied in general; mostly near the face.
Damage type (Spells cast, Potion/poison, Fall, etc.) (BE SPECIFIC) Preston McCormack.
Summarize (what exactly were you doing when you got your injury?): Being a pansy.
Other (Is there anything we should watch out for?): He's not pleased. Whatsoever.

[Oliver Fulton]

Oliver was never fond of having assistants, they were always in the way. However, he was completely okay with dumping the bulk of the work onto Atwell and Odette, since they were so inseparable. This year came with entirely too many responsibilities. Was it graduation day yet?

He was thumbing through paperwork in the back, organizing things for the new year and general stuff that hadn't gotten done at the end of his sixth year. Ollie heard someone enter and sighed, first one of the year, eh? The Slytherin grabbed a pair of latex gloves and went out, wincing when he he saw the blood face of Aster Gardinier.

After spending the entire summer with Autumn and finding out what had happened between them...or what was SUPPOSED to happen, rather, he was tempted to beat the boy's face in, himself. Looks like someone beat him to it. "I'd ask how the other guy was, but I have a feeling you didn't fight back," he mumbled, reaching over to grab the clipboard, his brows furrowing, "Preston did this to you?" Oliver honestly had no idea how to go about this situation. He wanted to hate Aster, but he knew deep down that none of this was his or Autumn's faults, it was their parents.

"The cut in your lip is nasty, but not deep, I'll clean it up and put some antiseptic on it, as for the rest, I think you'll do fine with bruise remover paste and soothing cloths," Preston was the real pansy, Oliver snorted, heading over to the cabinet with basic first aid supplies. "Would you like to enlighten me on what happened?" Eitherway, he would find out from Autumn, as soon as he left, he had a instinctual feeling that she was involved. "It'll hurt for a while, but no permenant damage, right?" Oliver frowned, not sure if he was talking about Aster, or about himself.

[Aster Gardinier]

He managed a weak half smile as Oliver came closer, arching his back and clenching his hands upon his knees to mask the deep flinch that rushed through his upper body as he stretched his lips. For a moment his gaze wanted just to rest upon the older boy, to look him up and down to search in naivete for the smug sense of self-satisfaction Aster was certain he would have found in himself had their roles been switched, but nothing struck him except the severe lack thereof. His brow furrowed and his eyes shot right back down to the folds in his pant legs when Oliver rounded back. Did the entire castle know that he wouldn't fight back? "Fancy that," he mumbled. They hadn't been there. They hadn't seen the look in Evelyn Weber's eyes, enough to break down the resolve of any one man. They hadn't felt the guilt rush over their entire body, freezing them in place with nothing left to do except stand there and take nothing less than what they had coming.

"I can do it myself," he cleared his throat to offer, overturning and outstretching his palm to take the antiseptic. Whether it was a gesture of basic kindness for them both to keep Oliver off of his mouth or to regain his own sense of feeble independence, he wasn't sure, but either way he lingered, the other set of fingers brushing carefully over his bottom lip to survey the damage. It wasn't terrible---it could have, and likely would have, been worse within another few milliseconds had Preston kept his hold---but still he shook his head mournfully. The pain wasn't worse than the knowledge that it all could have been prevented so easily with just a few different words or a carefully placed kick to Autumn's shins beneath the table, but somehow, Aster was certain that wouldn't have done a world of good, either.

Oliver's voice over his shoulder echoed and Aster lifted his head again.

Certainly the boy would have found out by now; gossip around the castle was far worse than wildfire, and the chants outside of the door alluding to the fight couldn't have been a great help, but still he pursed his lips as he carefully pondered just how much he could say. "A small scuffle, s'all," he mumbled to the floor. "Somebody at the table said something, and that set somebody else off, and you know Preston; can't keep his fists out of anybody's business." He might have tried to grin had he not known the splitting pain. Instead, he gave a small shrug of his shoulders as he stood up to take the cloths from Oliver's hands and casually added, "This time it was mine. No big deal; no harm done that can't be fixed with a few patches here and there." It was too bad his relationship would need a great deal more healing than his wounds did. He suspected Oliver's and Autumn's was the same.

[Oliver Fulton]

It was slightly surprising that Aster came to the Wing on his own. Days and days would go by without Oliver seeing anyone older than a fourth year, unless it was really serious. Once they got past a certain point, they could take care of themselves. Ollie snorted at the memory of knicking several tubs of bruise remover paste for Atwell, because he could never keep his face or his fists out of anything. No matter how many times his nose was broken, he still, like many other students, refused to go to the Wing.

When Aster took the antiseptic from him, Oliver let him, the kid was only a year younger, he trusted he could fix his own split lip. "Someone should set him straight then, throwing fists is a pathetic way of getting your point across," What could have been said that sent Preston into such a fury? Ollie frowned, busying himself in the cabinets, looking for a tub of bruise remover paste, "I swear, now that Atwell has access to this place, he takes all of the bloody tubs for himself," Oliver scowled, finding one last tub in the back of the cabinet.

"That's pretty much standard procedure in regards to some bruising and a split lip, it would be smart to avoid Preston until your lip heels fully, if you plan on revenge, I suggest hexing him when he turns the corner," Ollie smiled, he was completely serious. Maybe it was the Hufflepuff bravado thing that had him swinging fists, but Slytherins knew better. Secretly causing someone pain was a helluva lot better. "Do you need anything else?"