Obviam Ire

[Deirdre Irons]

I've got some scattered pictures lying on my bedroom floor...

For the first time in a long time, Deirdre found herself in somewhat of a rush. St. Mungo’s had placed a big order, courtesy of the influx of patients they had recently undergone and had requested a few dozen bouquets of flowers specifically with positive messages only. Many people had disappeared, never to be seen again, most that were weren’t among the living anymore so the Wizarding World had protected what was left of their families fiercely and, though it was oftentimes not enough, wanted those recovering (or those who would live but never recover) to be surrounded with good things, happy messages, beauty…

With the soles of her boots—because she wasn’t going to wear heels in a time where she may very well need to run for her life—squeaking against the polished marble floors of the renowned hospital, silver eyes darted back and forth as the trug basket she carried bumped gently against her leg with every step she took. Stopping to take a breath, and to check her flowers were undisturbed, she inhaled deeply several times to calm herself and smiled. She was going to be lost but she was going to be lost with a smile, damn it. At the very least, the sun was still shining through the windows because, regardless of the soft bluebell lights floating lazily about in the lamps illuminating the hallway, she loved the sunlight more.

Sitting down on a conveniently placed bench, she adjusted her black over robe—thrown on over the jeans popular in the muggle world and her own chocolate turtleneck—and reflected on the directions the harried nurse had given her and, frowning, determined they were rather poor instructions consisting of medical jargon, babbling, and something about finding a live Kneazle in someone’s spleen.

A puff of air blew her Byzantium tresses out of her face as she turned her gaze to her enchanted trug basket and carefully rummaged through it, absent-mindedly taking out each of the bouquets and setting them beside her one by one before returning them. This would be the fifth time she’d checked them—a nervous tick she’d developed whenever she wasn’t where she was supposed to be or someone wasn’t where they were supposed to be—and she still had two dozen bouquets to go and scatter about various rooms, though she'd already done the rooms of those who may not pull through.

She barely noticed that one had fallen apart and scattered celandine petals and oak leaves around her...

Taking all the shattered ones
To the place we belong...

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