August 17th, 1920
St. Mungo's Hospital, Fourth Floor
3:27pm
It had been decades since Emil had seen the inside of the premier (and only) medical institution for wizards in Great Britian. Not since as a teenager he was taken for various checks after being exposed to fiendfyre.
They weren't fun memories to recall.
But after meeting with the Minister of Magic and through the suggestion of various others, Dr. Dorian Montreaux seemed to be the man he needed to meet with. He had spent the majority of his time in the jungles of Brazil doing everything humanly possible to avoid any sort of magical examination. Regardless of the main reason he dodged every person who would examine him, it was time for him to see what damage had been done to him as a result of his time abroad. The countless hours in infested jungles, the sleepless nights that wore down his stamina. Had it not been for the magic of the shaman he worked together with, he would have possibly lost his body sooner than he would have his mind.
It was time for a professional to look at him. A discreet professional, he hoped.
Unfortunately, he had yet to find a place safe enough to store the bit of his soul that he'd ripped apart years ago. Until his tenure at Hogwarts would begin, the item would not have a semi-permanent home and would have to travel with him. It had calmed itself down, the first weeks of being back in Europe felt like handling a misbehaving child. He could tell that it resisted any move that brought the two of them apart.
It was a visceral feeling. There was no denying that it felt like a desire he'd have himself deep down if he was in the same spot. Although he hadn't yet become accustomed to thinking of the item as, 'him', yet. The very thought confused him.
Finally, in front of the door, he took a deep breath. It was time to see what the consequences for his actions were and face them.
Hopefully, not too many of them.
*Knock knock*
"Dr. Montreaux? It's me, Emil Roan. May I come in?"
Knock knock.
Dorian cringed at the sound.
He'd only just returned to his office, following a pair of consecutive meetings, first in the board room, then over in the meeting room for the maternity unit. Years later, many of their departments were still grappling with the outcomes of the war, both overtly and more insidiously. The head of maternity brought up the need for improvements in paternal programs, citing the many unsettled women who came in close to delivery in distress.
He looked over the list of recommendations now, sharp blue eyes scanning the parchment line by line. Dorian's gaze lingered only long enough to scrutinise each entry, his quill occasionally jotting his own thoughts next to the ones he felt required clarification. The man had hoped to be through the document before his next meeting at 4:15, but as the time drew closer and the knock sounded at the door, it began to feel like a fool's errand.
"Dr. Montreaux? It's me, Emil Roan. May I come in?"
Roan...Roan...Roan...?
Dorian frowned in thought, wondering if he'd missed something. Had there been talk of a Roan stopping by? And why did the name sound...familiar? The greeting the man had given seemed to imply that they were acquainted in some way, but whether fatigue or limited exposure, nothing came to mind for the chief of staff.
Had he seen it on a patient file somewhere? What would a patient be doing knocking at his door?
The man cast a forlorn look at the clock as he shuffled the sheets of parchment back into a neat pile.
"Come in." If he were lucky, it wouldn't take that long. If the man were unlucky, it likely would.
"Come in."
Emil pressed down on the handle and swung the door slowly. His head peaked out of the edge of the frame, making sure that he indeed was in the right office despite the placard outside of the door confirming it. His eyes crossing the threshold first, his eyes spotted the doctor behind his desk with plenty of paperwork to slightly obscure his view.
He had only just returned to England and already he needed to bother two of the more important men in the country. It was enough to make a man nervous.
"Thank you, Doctor."
Walking into the office and slowly closing the door behind him, his left hand gripped his right on instinct. Muscle memory of years holding his arm while it writhed in pain was deeply imprinted. The thought of anyone looking upon his arm that had been covered in public for the past eight years was enough to trigger slight palpitations. Emil had become largely unbothered about various things as a consequence of splitting his soul, except when it came to the very act and it's consequences.
He turned to the doctor once more and slowly approached, slowly lowering his messenger back near the door as he approached the professional. "I was told I should see you directly, Doctor. I would have preferred not to bother you, I'm sure you're a busy man. Unfortunately, this is on a need to know basis and I've been told very few people should know this."
Recommendations made to him made it clear that whomever he went to medical advice for, he should be as forthcoming as possible. Explaining his situation of dark magic splitting his soul to a GP in suburban magical London probably wasn't going to cut it, either.
He began unwrapping the protective linens around his right arm.
As the purple strands of cloth fell to the floor, it revealed an appendage battered by dark magic. The arm itself, starting from the wrist up, was noticably thinner than his left. The veins, traditionally a subtle blue, were more violet than not. They had a slight glow to them, almost indiscernable. But those were just background. The most damning visual were the welts left on his arm. Circular, blackened, as if someone took large marbles out of a furnace and pressed them against his arm in a spiral pattern going all the way up to his shoulder.
As the last of the protections hit the floor and his arm, free of the beads, were explosed to another human for the first time since he removed the horcrux in Brazil, his arm slightly trembled. As if it was scared to be seen.
"It's been a while since I've been to a doctor, you see..."
The more the man explained, the clearer it became that this wouldn't be a simple in and out. Not for the first--or the last--time, Dorian's eyes returned briefly to the old clock that ticked on the wall. He'd been recommended, he couldn't guess by whom, and had come with a matter that was 'need to know'. None of that boded well for his between-meeting plans. While the greater portion of the man withered at the interruption, there was a part of him curious about what could be important enough to drop in without an appointment on the recommendation of persons unknown.
It was all a bit ominous, he supposed. A stranger with a ragged look in his eyes, carrying the visage of a past not frequently spoken of, turning up at his door with a wrapped hand and a parcel by his door.
In his line of work, Dorian supposed he must've seen it all by now, but even within the known, surprises still managed to find him. For his own sake, he hoped today wouldn't be one of those times. Rabbitholes were a terrible thing to fall down for the man who already had so much on his plate.
Dorian leaned into the back of his chair, arms folded lightly at his chest, while he watched the man remove the wrapping he'd come in with. Until he'd begun, the chief of staff hadn't given much thought to what may lay underneath. Bandages were a daily occurrence, even with him now being all but removed from the day-to-day healing that took place within the hospital. Aside from a brief assessment to ensure it wasn't bleeding and a few subtle sniffs when he'd approached to confirm the man didn't smell of rot and decay, Dorian was content with the idea that whatever had plagued his visitor had already been addressed by whomever he'd seen.
What lay beneath was less expected but still within the realm of 'normal' in the context of a hospital where folks walked in with all sorts of maladies. Dorian had long since stopped flinching at the things presented to him.
"It's been a while since I've been to a doctor, you see..."
"Indeed," was all he said initially. He gave the arm a second once over, taking in the blackened welts that spiraled along the man's trembling arm. "It seems you've come afoul of some cursed object or the other." There were so many, it made no difference to ask which. Not for him.
"I'm not sure why you've been referred to me, Mr. Roan, however, we have many capable healers on the second floor who'll be happy to take care of the matter once you've gone through reception. Our Curse Removal Unit has met with many stubborn afflictions if that's where your concerns lie."
Roan hadn't said his case was difficult, but it was an easy deduction if he felt he needed to speak with the chief of staff himself.
"Don't leave out any details when you're seen. We're not concerned with where you found whatever you've found, only in fixing it."
In the end, not such a long meeting after all. It was a relief for the Frenchman whose eyes already returned to the parchment laid before him.
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