https://staging.knockturnbound.net/ Mon, 03 Aug 2026 10:09:50 +0000 MyBB https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=1102 Sat, 06 Jun 2026 14:45:55 +0000 Cassian McCormick]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=1102 Wednesday, June 14, 1922
Spell damage ward,
4:15 PM
He'd almost forgotten his appointment. Where Cassian had been the model patient when the attack had first happened – in no small part thanks to his mother, who fawned and fussed – he was a boy typical of his time. Once he began to feel better, it became harder to convince him that he was still injured and in need of check-ups. It no longer hurt to breathe, and movement didn't pose the same distress. No, Cass could say that while the cuts still stung, they weren't bad enough to deter him from more rigorous activity.

As far as he was concerned, that meant he no longer needed healers monitoring him. What more was there to see? His skin wasn't changing colours. The bandages weren't easily made dirty and in need of constant cleaning and replacing like they were in the beginning.

He glanced down at them now while he waited, shirtless at the edge of the bed for whoever came to see him. This time, he'd walked in with a plan. Whatever it took, he would try to convince them that this needed to be his final visit.

He didn't like coming to St. Mungo's. In the last year or so, it was safe to say the boy had gotten his fill of hospitals. There was always something, always a reason or a person who tried to ensure he and his wife never went too long without being reminded they weren't truly safe.

Cassian was ready to get back to living.

He didn't want to see the bandages every morning when he got ready for work. He didn't want to keep reporting his condition to healers and having them tut to themselves. His mother no longer treated him like an egg – something he was grateful for – but there was still the cloud of this obligation to remind him that something terrible did happen and that they weren't done dealing with the fallout. It clung to them in the little things and the not-so-little things.

Truth be told, one of his reasons for showing up despite being sure he was now fine had more to do with his wife than himself.

When someone entered the room, his gaze finally lifted from the bandages.

She wasn't the healer who usually checked in on him. Young, by the look of it, and a student based on her uniform. He wanted to believe it was a good sign.

He cracked a boyish grin for her benefit. "Must be doing better than I thought if I don't need a healer coming to see me anymore," he quipped, not at all bothered by that fact.]]> Wednesday, June 14, 1922
Spell damage ward,
4:15 PM
He'd almost forgotten his appointment. Where Cassian had been the model patient when the attack had first happened – in no small part thanks to his mother, who fawned and fussed – he was a boy typical of his time. Once he began to feel better, it became harder to convince him that he was still injured and in need of check-ups. It no longer hurt to breathe, and movement didn't pose the same distress. No, Cass could say that while the cuts still stung, they weren't bad enough to deter him from more rigorous activity.

As far as he was concerned, that meant he no longer needed healers monitoring him. What more was there to see? His skin wasn't changing colours. The bandages weren't easily made dirty and in need of constant cleaning and replacing like they were in the beginning.

He glanced down at them now while he waited, shirtless at the edge of the bed for whoever came to see him. This time, he'd walked in with a plan. Whatever it took, he would try to convince them that this needed to be his final visit.

He didn't like coming to St. Mungo's. In the last year or so, it was safe to say the boy had gotten his fill of hospitals. There was always something, always a reason or a person who tried to ensure he and his wife never went too long without being reminded they weren't truly safe.

Cassian was ready to get back to living.

He didn't want to see the bandages every morning when he got ready for work. He didn't want to keep reporting his condition to healers and having them tut to themselves. His mother no longer treated him like an egg – something he was grateful for – but there was still the cloud of this obligation to remind him that something terrible did happen and that they weren't done dealing with the fallout. It clung to them in the little things and the not-so-little things.

Truth be told, one of his reasons for showing up despite being sure he was now fine had more to do with his wife than himself.

When someone entered the room, his gaze finally lifted from the bandages.

She wasn't the healer who usually checked in on him. Young, by the look of it, and a student based on her uniform. He wanted to believe it was a good sign.

He cracked a boyish grin for her benefit. "Must be doing better than I thought if I don't need a healer coming to see me anymore," he quipped, not at all bothered by that fact.]]>