<![CDATA[Knockturn Bound - Third Floor]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/ Mon, 05 Oct 2026 22:34:49 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Here Comes The Sun :: Liliya]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=1167 Thu, 23 Jul 2026 05:10:37 +0000 Everleigh Ravenstone]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=1167
RECAP




Progress didn't happen overnight. It would likely take years before anyone could say Everleigh Ravenstone had truly recovered. Healing wasn't measured in dramatic breakthroughs or recovered memories, but in the small moments that most people never thought twice about. Since autumn, those moments had slowly begun to grow.

September was much the same. Sessions with Liliya and other healers at St Mungos continued. Much of the time was spent teaching Ever that she wasn’t in prison.

Every morning looked a lot like the one before it. Breakfast arrived at the same time. The nurses rotated on a predictable schedule. Her bedroom, although still a boring bright white, was hers. Pictures of family and friends were hung on the walls, giving Ever something to look at other than the white walls. Books sat untouched, collecting dust. But the beautiful blue flower quilt that Tilly had brought for her was mysteriously draped somewhere different almost every day. Evidence that she did more than sit in silence while she was alone.

She rarely ventured beyond her room, except for brief periods in the day room where she sat quietly near the doorway, sketchbook balanced on her knees, watching the other children move around her without ever joining them.

October brought small victories. Everleigh began leaving her room without being asked. She learned the faces of the nurses, accepted meals without coaxing, and one morning surprised everyone by dressing herself before anyone arrived to help. It was hardly the sort of breakthrough that made headlines in medical journals, but for a girl whose entire life had been turned upside down, putting on her own cardigan felt monumental.

November reminded everyone that progress rarely traveled a straight line. A handful of words returned, unexpected and unprompted. Cold. Book. No. Eww, after a particularly gross dinner. They slipped into conversation like small surprises, then vanished just as fast.

December proved cruel.

The ward was decorated quietly for Christmas, but memories didn’t care about holidays. Everleigh's nightmares intensified. Her charcoal drawings darkened once again, fireplaces, silhouettes, and closed office doors were drawn with more detail. Bram visited consistently throughout the holidays, while Alice and Tilly spent nearly every day of their school break at the hospital, bringing books, fresh sketchpads and more colorful accents for her boring white room. Ever responded well to their presence and seemed to calm while they were near.

By January, another healer had been added to her care team. The trauma she suffered not only attacked her memories, but could be seen in her reactions. She startled at closing doors, flinched from unexpected movement and carried herself with the tension of someone waiting for the next hit. Her new healer attempted to teach her that surviving didn’t mean constantly preparing for the next catastrophe.

February surprised everyone.

For months, Everleigh had existed in a state of numbness, then one afternoon she became angry. She refused therapy, snapped charcoal in half, tore several sketches into tiny pieces before going quiet once again.

Some of the staff worried they were losing her, but the more experienced healers knew this was another step in the right direction. Anger required feelings. Anger meant Everleigh was beginning to feel something more than fear.

March came and her nightmares escalated. Sleep became difficult. Even without understanding why, her body remembered what happened in March two years prior. Therapy slowed to a crawl. The goal was no longer progress, but stability. Once the worst of March dwindled, the healers felt comfortable attempting something new.

The healers finally let Everleigh have short, supervised visits into the hospital gardens. The first outing lasted barely fifteen minutes. She sat, quietly looking without speaking or wandering. As the spring sun came out from behind the clouds, her eyes shut and a deep breath escaped while the sun warmed her skin.

When the session ended, she stood without issue and returned inside.

The next week, a new word appeared. It took only a few days for the nurses to recognize that whenever Ever whispered "sun," she wasn't commenting on the weather. She was asking to go outside. It was a simple request that showed her life wasn’t only fear.


10 April, 10:00am
St Mungo's Courtyard


It was another therapy day, but things looked different when Liliya came to see Ever. Normally, she would be found sitting quietly in the day room, but today Ever was sitting in the courtyard soaking up the sun. She had been outside for over an hour, quietly watching the other patients. It was the most present she had been in ages. Watching, and actually seeing.

It was the footsteps that drew Ever's attention. Normally, someone moving around barely got a glance. Today was different. Her eyes lifted toward the sound, seeing the familiar blonde walking across the courtyard. For a moment, Ever simply watched. For the first time in months, Everleigh Ravenstone looked at Liliya. Really looked at her. Something flickered behind her light blue eyes. Recognition. Her lips parted. The nurses had grown used to waiting. Sometimes no sound came out. This time, one quiet word appeared. ”Hi.”]]>
RECAP




Progress didn't happen overnight. It would likely take years before anyone could say Everleigh Ravenstone had truly recovered. Healing wasn't measured in dramatic breakthroughs or recovered memories, but in the small moments that most people never thought twice about. Since autumn, those moments had slowly begun to grow.

September was much the same. Sessions with Liliya and other healers at St Mungos continued. Much of the time was spent teaching Ever that she wasn’t in prison.

Every morning looked a lot like the one before it. Breakfast arrived at the same time. The nurses rotated on a predictable schedule. Her bedroom, although still a boring bright white, was hers. Pictures of family and friends were hung on the walls, giving Ever something to look at other than the white walls. Books sat untouched, collecting dust. But the beautiful blue flower quilt that Tilly had brought for her was mysteriously draped somewhere different almost every day. Evidence that she did more than sit in silence while she was alone.

She rarely ventured beyond her room, except for brief periods in the day room where she sat quietly near the doorway, sketchbook balanced on her knees, watching the other children move around her without ever joining them.

October brought small victories. Everleigh began leaving her room without being asked. She learned the faces of the nurses, accepted meals without coaxing, and one morning surprised everyone by dressing herself before anyone arrived to help. It was hardly the sort of breakthrough that made headlines in medical journals, but for a girl whose entire life had been turned upside down, putting on her own cardigan felt monumental.

November reminded everyone that progress rarely traveled a straight line. A handful of words returned, unexpected and unprompted. Cold. Book. No. Eww, after a particularly gross dinner. They slipped into conversation like small surprises, then vanished just as fast.

December proved cruel.

The ward was decorated quietly for Christmas, but memories didn’t care about holidays. Everleigh's nightmares intensified. Her charcoal drawings darkened once again, fireplaces, silhouettes, and closed office doors were drawn with more detail. Bram visited consistently throughout the holidays, while Alice and Tilly spent nearly every day of their school break at the hospital, bringing books, fresh sketchpads and more colorful accents for her boring white room. Ever responded well to their presence and seemed to calm while they were near.

By January, another healer had been added to her care team. The trauma she suffered not only attacked her memories, but could be seen in her reactions. She startled at closing doors, flinched from unexpected movement and carried herself with the tension of someone waiting for the next hit. Her new healer attempted to teach her that surviving didn’t mean constantly preparing for the next catastrophe.

February surprised everyone.

For months, Everleigh had existed in a state of numbness, then one afternoon she became angry. She refused therapy, snapped charcoal in half, tore several sketches into tiny pieces before going quiet once again.

Some of the staff worried they were losing her, but the more experienced healers knew this was another step in the right direction. Anger required feelings. Anger meant Everleigh was beginning to feel something more than fear.

March came and her nightmares escalated. Sleep became difficult. Even without understanding why, her body remembered what happened in March two years prior. Therapy slowed to a crawl. The goal was no longer progress, but stability. Once the worst of March dwindled, the healers felt comfortable attempting something new.

The healers finally let Everleigh have short, supervised visits into the hospital gardens. The first outing lasted barely fifteen minutes. She sat, quietly looking without speaking or wandering. As the spring sun came out from behind the clouds, her eyes shut and a deep breath escaped while the sun warmed her skin.

When the session ended, she stood without issue and returned inside.

The next week, a new word appeared. It took only a few days for the nurses to recognize that whenever Ever whispered "sun," she wasn't commenting on the weather. She was asking to go outside. It was a simple request that showed her life wasn’t only fear.


10 April, 10:00am
St Mungo's Courtyard


It was another therapy day, but things looked different when Liliya came to see Ever. Normally, she would be found sitting quietly in the day room, but today Ever was sitting in the courtyard soaking up the sun. She had been outside for over an hour, quietly watching the other patients. It was the most present she had been in ages. Watching, and actually seeing.

It was the footsteps that drew Ever's attention. Normally, someone moving around barely got a glance. Today was different. Her eyes lifted toward the sound, seeing the familiar blonde walking across the courtyard. For a moment, Ever simply watched. For the first time in months, Everleigh Ravenstone looked at Liliya. Really looked at her. Something flickered behind her light blue eyes. Recognition. Her lips parted. The nurses had grown used to waiting. Sometimes no sound came out. This time, one quiet word appeared. ”Hi.”]]> <![CDATA[Gilded Lily | Cassian]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=1108 Thu, 11 Jun 2026 20:51:56 +0000 Rosalie McCormick]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=1108 Friday, June 16, 1922
7:45 PM
Psychiatric Ward
“Hush now, love. This will help you relax.”

Rosalie’s lip trembled as the tears continued streaking down her face, a slight wince crossing her expression as the nurse injected something through the top of her hand.

It had been a fight tearing the young woman from the arms of her husband as she screamed and begged, clinging to him even as the nurses and healers tried to reassure her. She’d swung at a few of them, the normally passive people-pleaser nowhere to be found as they wrestled her into a bed, using magic and a few muggle means to get her restrained.

She’d screamed for Cassian to make them stop, screamed for Julia who had no idea she was there. She’d bargained, begged, promised to eat if they’d just let her go home. All of it had fallen on what felt like indifferent ears.

No one cared about what she wanted. No one cared that she was terrified. No one paid any mind to her tears, convinced they knew what was best for her.

As the medication flowed through her veins, Rosie felt the fatigue return. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes heavy, but locked on her husband as she whimpered softly, his name the last thing she said before she fell into a deep sleep.


Saturday, June 17, 1922
8:20 AM

“It’s only a small amount, Rosalie. A few bites to see how your stomach handles it.”

The psychiatrist sat at one side her bed, while Cassian sat on the other. Breakfast had been delivered fifteen minutes ago, and for the entirety of those fifteen minutes, Rosie had stared at the meager offerings on her plate. A scoop of eggs, a few slices of apples, a small bowl of oatmeal and half a piece of toast.

No tea. When Cass had told them all she was drinking was tea to get her through the day, they’d removed her comfort blanket altogether. None until she was properly eating again.

Had she ever properly eaten in the first place? She couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever eaten with the same appetite she’d seen in others.

A soft sigh through her nose as she finally reached for a piece of the apple, placing it gingerly between her lips, and scrunching her eyes shut as her stomach revolted. She bit down regardless, chewing even as the nausea rose up, urging her to spit it out.

A forced swallow as the psychiatrist praised her, as though chewing and swallowing food was some great feat she had managed. It only served to make her feel small.

She turned slightly to look at Cassian, her eyes softening as the tiny bite of apple hit her stomach. Her lip trembled as tears pricked at her eyes. “Can you please just take me home now? I can eat. I’ll be good, I swear.”


Sunday, June 17, 1922
Noon

“We had to sedate her again.”

The nurse’s update was pointedly exasperated for a woman who dealt with her share of patients on the mental ward. Rosalie’s outburst earlier that morning had worn on the nurse whose patience was quickly waning, and she’d injected the young woman with another sleeping serum.

“She did better at breakfast today. She ate an entire piece of toast and a few bites of oatmeal, but when the psychiatrist came to see her, she broke down.”

Rosalie stared at the wall in front of her, her fingers trailing the stitching on her blanket, listening to the conversation between the nurse and Cassian as though she weren’t in the room. Anger surged through her, and she felt her nails dig into her palms as her fists clenched.

Nobody understood. They only saw a girl starving herself, and not the turmoil beneath. They saw skin and bones, but not the broken heart buried within. They heard her cries and curses but not the pain laced in her voice. They didn’t see the guilt she carried, the shame, the hurt.

When the psychiatrist had tried to sit with her and dig a little deeper, she’d panicked. She didn’t want to be analyzed or observed. She didn’t want the psychiatrist to pretend he was her friend, only to turn around and tell Cassian how fucked in the head she was.

“Just leave me alone,” she breathed, to both the nurse and her husband.

Her gaze never moved from the wall.


Monday, June 18, 1922
2:45 PM

“What happened to you and your husband was not your fault. You have to see that.”

Rosalie stared, her expression subdued and softer than it had been in the days since she’d first arrived at St. Mungo’s. The psychiatrist, Healer Thompson had been relentless in his determination to reach Rosalie, despite her resistance. He came for every meal, sat with her as she picked through bits and managed what she could. He cheered on her smallest efforts and didn’t scold her when she struggled.

Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten Rosie to talk, soft, short answers at first. Baby steps, he called them.

“If I hadn’t - “

“Wanted something of your own? Wanted to be with the man you loved? Tried to help someone in need?” Rosie quieted, listening, for the first real time since that night. “None of those things make you bad. They don’t make you selfish. They make you human.”

Human. Rosalie blinked, realizing she’d never considered that perhaps what she had wanted with Cassian, was what anyone would have wanted with the person they considered the love of their life. She had never considered that she was entitled to her own life and choices as much as anyone else was.

“And it didn’t give them the right,” she said softly, looking to Healer Thompson for validation, but he only offered her a small smile.

“Your husband chose you, the same as you chose him. He chose to love you. He chose to be with you, despite what you feared your family would do. He chose to bring you here. He chooses to come every day and stay with you. Not because he has to, but because he loves you.”

Rosie swallowed hard, and nodded. She knew that, all of it. She just hadn’t been able to recognize it through the fog. “I know,” she answered, “I just…I don’t know how to love him in a way that feels fair to him.” She paused, letting her thoughts wander for a moment. “I think I’m always waiting for him to wake up and realize that life with me is too hard.”

There had been too much that had happened between them at such a young age. Cassian still had his entire life ahead of him. They were only seventeen. He could start anew, find someone he was more compatible with and go live his dreams free of the turmoil that Rosalie had brought into his life.

“And if he ever does, Rosalie, you’ll have to accept it, and understand that every one of us has the right to our choice. It doesn’t mean you’re bad or broken, or that you did something wrong.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, with a slight nod, as a knock sounded on the door and her husband peeked his head in.

“Come in Mister McCormick,” the psychiatrist said, ushering the young man in. “She’s just getting ready for an early dinner.”


Wednesday, June 20, 1922
6:30 PM

Her face was filling out a bit, rounder in her cheeks and her eyes were beginning to rid themselves of the dark hallows that had lingered beneath. Light was finding its way slowly back into blue oceans, and laughter had found its way into her chest again.

Yesterday, when the psychiatrist had mentioned how perturbed Gretchen would be to see the appetite her daughter was developing, it had caused Rosie to grin so widely that she’d had to cover her mouth to keep from spitting her chicken all over her lap.

Somehow, between Friday and Wednesday with a regiment of regular eating and a psychiatrist that held a gentle but firm hand with her, Rosalie was beginning to feel like perhaps there was some light at the end of the tunnel. While she knew she wasn’t fixed and she still had a long way to go, her future didn’t feel quite as daunting.

Healer Thompson had helped talk her through some of the darkest thoughts she’d had, and helped reconcile her feelings around her and Cassian’s relationship. While he acknowledged that coming to terms with the loss of her baby had no timeframe, he encouraged her to try and find healthy ways to cope with her grief.

She had settled on letter-writing and poetry. Small confessions of her heart that her baby would never hear, but would help to get everything she felt out and unburied.

But she owed her husband an apology first.

She smiled at him, warmly when he sat down beside her, the first real smile she had given him since before they’d left France. “Hey Casanova,” she said gently, sitting up in her bed with her legs curled under her. She reached for his hand, running her thumb gingerly over the top of it.

“I ate everything today,” she said nodding towards her empty dinner plate on the bedside table. “They said a few more days too make sure I’m sticking with it. They don’t want me to go home before they feel confident I’m past the worst of it.” She paused a moment, tugging on his hand to have him join her on the bed.

“I owe you an apology,” she began, her heart thudding softly against her chest in anticipation, “for everything.”]]> Friday, June 16, 1922
7:45 PM
Psychiatric Ward
“Hush now, love. This will help you relax.”

Rosalie’s lip trembled as the tears continued streaking down her face, a slight wince crossing her expression as the nurse injected something through the top of her hand.

It had been a fight tearing the young woman from the arms of her husband as she screamed and begged, clinging to him even as the nurses and healers tried to reassure her. She’d swung at a few of them, the normally passive people-pleaser nowhere to be found as they wrestled her into a bed, using magic and a few muggle means to get her restrained.

She’d screamed for Cassian to make them stop, screamed for Julia who had no idea she was there. She’d bargained, begged, promised to eat if they’d just let her go home. All of it had fallen on what felt like indifferent ears.

No one cared about what she wanted. No one cared that she was terrified. No one paid any mind to her tears, convinced they knew what was best for her.

As the medication flowed through her veins, Rosie felt the fatigue return. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes heavy, but locked on her husband as she whimpered softly, his name the last thing she said before she fell into a deep sleep.


Saturday, June 17, 1922
8:20 AM

“It’s only a small amount, Rosalie. A few bites to see how your stomach handles it.”

The psychiatrist sat at one side her bed, while Cassian sat on the other. Breakfast had been delivered fifteen minutes ago, and for the entirety of those fifteen minutes, Rosie had stared at the meager offerings on her plate. A scoop of eggs, a few slices of apples, a small bowl of oatmeal and half a piece of toast.

No tea. When Cass had told them all she was drinking was tea to get her through the day, they’d removed her comfort blanket altogether. None until she was properly eating again.

Had she ever properly eaten in the first place? She couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever eaten with the same appetite she’d seen in others.

A soft sigh through her nose as she finally reached for a piece of the apple, placing it gingerly between her lips, and scrunching her eyes shut as her stomach revolted. She bit down regardless, chewing even as the nausea rose up, urging her to spit it out.

A forced swallow as the psychiatrist praised her, as though chewing and swallowing food was some great feat she had managed. It only served to make her feel small.

She turned slightly to look at Cassian, her eyes softening as the tiny bite of apple hit her stomach. Her lip trembled as tears pricked at her eyes. “Can you please just take me home now? I can eat. I’ll be good, I swear.”


Sunday, June 17, 1922
Noon

“We had to sedate her again.”

The nurse’s update was pointedly exasperated for a woman who dealt with her share of patients on the mental ward. Rosalie’s outburst earlier that morning had worn on the nurse whose patience was quickly waning, and she’d injected the young woman with another sleeping serum.

“She did better at breakfast today. She ate an entire piece of toast and a few bites of oatmeal, but when the psychiatrist came to see her, she broke down.”

Rosalie stared at the wall in front of her, her fingers trailing the stitching on her blanket, listening to the conversation between the nurse and Cassian as though she weren’t in the room. Anger surged through her, and she felt her nails dig into her palms as her fists clenched.

Nobody understood. They only saw a girl starving herself, and not the turmoil beneath. They saw skin and bones, but not the broken heart buried within. They heard her cries and curses but not the pain laced in her voice. They didn’t see the guilt she carried, the shame, the hurt.

When the psychiatrist had tried to sit with her and dig a little deeper, she’d panicked. She didn’t want to be analyzed or observed. She didn’t want the psychiatrist to pretend he was her friend, only to turn around and tell Cassian how fucked in the head she was.

“Just leave me alone,” she breathed, to both the nurse and her husband.

Her gaze never moved from the wall.


Monday, June 18, 1922
2:45 PM

“What happened to you and your husband was not your fault. You have to see that.”

Rosalie stared, her expression subdued and softer than it had been in the days since she’d first arrived at St. Mungo’s. The psychiatrist, Healer Thompson had been relentless in his determination to reach Rosalie, despite her resistance. He came for every meal, sat with her as she picked through bits and managed what she could. He cheered on her smallest efforts and didn’t scold her when she struggled.

Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten Rosie to talk, soft, short answers at first. Baby steps, he called them.

“If I hadn’t - “

“Wanted something of your own? Wanted to be with the man you loved? Tried to help someone in need?” Rosie quieted, listening, for the first real time since that night. “None of those things make you bad. They don’t make you selfish. They make you human.”

Human. Rosalie blinked, realizing she’d never considered that perhaps what she had wanted with Cassian, was what anyone would have wanted with the person they considered the love of their life. She had never considered that she was entitled to her own life and choices as much as anyone else was.

“And it didn’t give them the right,” she said softly, looking to Healer Thompson for validation, but he only offered her a small smile.

“Your husband chose you, the same as you chose him. He chose to love you. He chose to be with you, despite what you feared your family would do. He chose to bring you here. He chooses to come every day and stay with you. Not because he has to, but because he loves you.”

Rosie swallowed hard, and nodded. She knew that, all of it. She just hadn’t been able to recognize it through the fog. “I know,” she answered, “I just…I don’t know how to love him in a way that feels fair to him.” She paused, letting her thoughts wander for a moment. “I think I’m always waiting for him to wake up and realize that life with me is too hard.”

There had been too much that had happened between them at such a young age. Cassian still had his entire life ahead of him. They were only seventeen. He could start anew, find someone he was more compatible with and go live his dreams free of the turmoil that Rosalie had brought into his life.

“And if he ever does, Rosalie, you’ll have to accept it, and understand that every one of us has the right to our choice. It doesn’t mean you’re bad or broken, or that you did something wrong.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, with a slight nod, as a knock sounded on the door and her husband peeked his head in.

“Come in Mister McCormick,” the psychiatrist said, ushering the young man in. “She’s just getting ready for an early dinner.”


Wednesday, June 20, 1922
6:30 PM

Her face was filling out a bit, rounder in her cheeks and her eyes were beginning to rid themselves of the dark hallows that had lingered beneath. Light was finding its way slowly back into blue oceans, and laughter had found its way into her chest again.

Yesterday, when the psychiatrist had mentioned how perturbed Gretchen would be to see the appetite her daughter was developing, it had caused Rosie to grin so widely that she’d had to cover her mouth to keep from spitting her chicken all over her lap.

Somehow, between Friday and Wednesday with a regiment of regular eating and a psychiatrist that held a gentle but firm hand with her, Rosalie was beginning to feel like perhaps there was some light at the end of the tunnel. While she knew she wasn’t fixed and she still had a long way to go, her future didn’t feel quite as daunting.

Healer Thompson had helped talk her through some of the darkest thoughts she’d had, and helped reconcile her feelings around her and Cassian’s relationship. While he acknowledged that coming to terms with the loss of her baby had no timeframe, he encouraged her to try and find healthy ways to cope with her grief.

She had settled on letter-writing and poetry. Small confessions of her heart that her baby would never hear, but would help to get everything she felt out and unburied.

But she owed her husband an apology first.

She smiled at him, warmly when he sat down beside her, the first real smile she had given him since before they’d left France. “Hey Casanova,” she said gently, sitting up in her bed with her legs curled under her. She reached for his hand, running her thumb gingerly over the top of it.

“I ate everything today,” she said nodding towards her empty dinner plate on the bedside table. “They said a few more days too make sure I’m sticking with it. They don’t want me to go home before they feel confident I’m past the worst of it.” She paused a moment, tugging on his hand to have him join her on the bed.

“I owe you an apology,” she began, her heart thudding softly against her chest in anticipation, “for everything.”]]> <![CDATA[oh, cruel fate ~ everleigh]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=984 Sun, 12 Apr 2026 23:10:58 +0000 Maevie Golding]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=984
Saturday, August 12th 1922
2:32pm


She had been looking forward to this for weeks now. Not exactly the hospital itself — that could do with a makeover if she were being honest — but one of the people residing within it. It had her swinging her legs, giddy smile on her lips as she sat on her hands in the waiting room of Floor Three, bubbling on the inside.

Her excitement was a ball of fluttering nerves inside her chest, expanding and quivering every time her thoughts drifted to her friend and the afternoon they would get to spend together. Since her mum had finally agreed to take her, Maevie had counted down the days.

She hadn't heard from her in all this time, had only been told by Tilly that Ever had been brought to St. Mungo's at some point, a better place for her to receive therapy. Maevie hoped that perhaps she was better now. Maybe she spoke again and maybe they could talk about all the things they had done since Ever left school. The healers here must have made some progress surely. They were the best after all.

At last a rather rigid looking woman approached, nodding for her to follow.

Maevie jumped from her chair, sending her mum a smile before leaving her in the waiting room. They were only allowing one visitor.

White walls passed in a blur, the woman's back blocking off the view ahead. Maevie tried her best to contain herself, hands gripping the sides of her skirt to keep her hands from fidgeting. After a moment they entered into a room where clusters of people scattered amongst various tables and chairs, couches and the floor. It seemed bleak, she briefly thought, but it didn't linger.

Because as they crossed the room they neared a window and there she sat.

Maevie's smile stretched into a grin.

The healer left with a stern warning to be quiet and to not overwhelm anyone, to which Maevie nodded curtly, waiting for the woman to leave before hurrying to sit across her friend.

"Hi, Ever," she greeted, eyes searching the other's, the beat of her heart a drum in her ears. "It's Maevie. I came to see you! How— how are you?" Fear mingled with hope as she waited — no one had told her how Ever had been doing. Only to be mindful.

She cast a glance around the room before scooting an inch closer, letting her hand vanish inside her blouse. When it reappeared, two simple, colourful bracelets of glass beads lay in her palm, a gift she had bought on her trip through London with her brother and mum.

No one had thought to check there before they had allowed her in.

Maevie held one of them out to Ever. "I brought you this. It's a friendship bracelet! You know, because we're friends." The other she pulled over her own hand, wiggling her wrist in the sunlight so the beads caught the light, clacking a little. "See?"]]>
Saturday, August 12th 1922
2:32pm


She had been looking forward to this for weeks now. Not exactly the hospital itself — that could do with a makeover if she were being honest — but one of the people residing within it. It had her swinging her legs, giddy smile on her lips as she sat on her hands in the waiting room of Floor Three, bubbling on the inside.

Her excitement was a ball of fluttering nerves inside her chest, expanding and quivering every time her thoughts drifted to her friend and the afternoon they would get to spend together. Since her mum had finally agreed to take her, Maevie had counted down the days.

She hadn't heard from her in all this time, had only been told by Tilly that Ever had been brought to St. Mungo's at some point, a better place for her to receive therapy. Maevie hoped that perhaps she was better now. Maybe she spoke again and maybe they could talk about all the things they had done since Ever left school. The healers here must have made some progress surely. They were the best after all.

At last a rather rigid looking woman approached, nodding for her to follow.

Maevie jumped from her chair, sending her mum a smile before leaving her in the waiting room. They were only allowing one visitor.

White walls passed in a blur, the woman's back blocking off the view ahead. Maevie tried her best to contain herself, hands gripping the sides of her skirt to keep her hands from fidgeting. After a moment they entered into a room where clusters of people scattered amongst various tables and chairs, couches and the floor. It seemed bleak, she briefly thought, but it didn't linger.

Because as they crossed the room they neared a window and there she sat.

Maevie's smile stretched into a grin.

The healer left with a stern warning to be quiet and to not overwhelm anyone, to which Maevie nodded curtly, waiting for the woman to leave before hurrying to sit across her friend.

"Hi, Ever," she greeted, eyes searching the other's, the beat of her heart a drum in her ears. "It's Maevie. I came to see you! How— how are you?" Fear mingled with hope as she waited — no one had told her how Ever had been doing. Only to be mindful.

She cast a glance around the room before scooting an inch closer, letting her hand vanish inside her blouse. When it reappeared, two simple, colourful bracelets of glass beads lay in her palm, a gift she had bought on her trip through London with her brother and mum.

No one had thought to check there before they had allowed her in.

Maevie held one of them out to Ever. "I brought you this. It's a friendship bracelet! You know, because we're friends." The other she pulled over her own hand, wiggling her wrist in the sunlight so the beads caught the light, clacking a little. "See?"]]> <![CDATA[3rd Floor: Home for Now: Open]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=964 Sun, 29 Mar 2026 00:43:41 +0000 Everleigh Ravenstone]]> https://staging.knockturnbound.net/showthread.php?tid=964 5th July 1922


The room was simple. Sterile.

White walls. White floor. White linens. Everything was white. From the wood trim to the bedframe, the painted rocking chair and the bedside table.

Thankfully, Ever’s family brought the color. A rainbow splash at the end of her bed came in the form of a quilt. Her childhood stuffed animals sat against the headboard, keeping an eye on the scattered girl inside the room. Reginald the teddy bear, or Reggy if he was being spicy. Patty the calico cat was queen of the group, holding court over the lesser stuffies. And Larry the panda. Why Larry? No one knew.

Ever sat in her favorite spot in the room, if she had the emotional wherewithal to have a favorite anything, but it was where the healers typically found her when they came in for therapy and bed checks. The window seat overlooked a small garden plot, filled with colorful flowers and a bench to sit in the sun. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twitching rhythmically against the fabric of her hospital gown. This wasn’t your typical tie in the back gown, but a long nightgown with a matching robe.

Also white.

She wasn't allowed her quills anymore, “Safety protocols, darling,” the Healer with the sharp eyes had said. Now, she only had charcoal sticks that left her fingers blackened, like she’d been reaching into a fireplace that wasn't there. On days where she felt like drawing, a white towel was brought in, otherwise there was a lot less white in the room after she was done.

The air in the ward didn’t move. No windows opened and there were numerous charms in place to keep the magical outburst to a minimum. To Ever, it felt like being wrapped in a tight blanket, smothered, too tight, almost itchy. It was quiet in her room, too quiet. She could sometimes hear the screams of other patients, but the walls and magical wards made it seem like a dream, a whisper, not something happening in the present.

The older man, the important one, came often. He talked about progress and therapy, words that went in one ear and right out the other. He encouraged her to write, to talk, to draw. When he came in to talk, a very one sided conversation, Ever sat in the rocking chair and listened. Nothing stuck, little was comprehended.

Potions were tried. The bitter taste stuck on her tongue. On the busy days she would be taken to a treatment room where a potion would be given then sleep would come. On those days she would wake in her bed with her brain pounding in her skull.

Alice didn’t live with her. That hurt the most, even if Ever couldn't find the words to say it. Her sister, her anchor, came and things felt right. There wasn’t words for it, but everything felt lighter when Alice was there.

“She isn’t safe to be around long term,” the Healer had said. On more than one occasion Ever’s magic had exploded during a more rigorous treatment. Memories coming on fast, causing violent behavior or magical outbursts.

There were times during the day where Ever was allowed in the common area. This space was more colorful than her white room. There were toys for the younger kids, bookcases with everything from picture books to novels. Easels sat against one wall, paints and colored chalk to make drawings. Her time in the common room was much like her time in her room. No talking. No interacting. A lot of sitting.

The healers tried to get her to participate, but that would require want and emotion, which she had none. Time would tell if she would get better. If the healers would be able to open her mind and extract the painful memories locking her in a mental prison.]]> 5th July 1922


The room was simple. Sterile.

White walls. White floor. White linens. Everything was white. From the wood trim to the bedframe, the painted rocking chair and the bedside table.

Thankfully, Ever’s family brought the color. A rainbow splash at the end of her bed came in the form of a quilt. Her childhood stuffed animals sat against the headboard, keeping an eye on the scattered girl inside the room. Reginald the teddy bear, or Reggy if he was being spicy. Patty the calico cat was queen of the group, holding court over the lesser stuffies. And Larry the panda. Why Larry? No one knew.

Ever sat in her favorite spot in the room, if she had the emotional wherewithal to have a favorite anything, but it was where the healers typically found her when they came in for therapy and bed checks. The window seat overlooked a small garden plot, filled with colorful flowers and a bench to sit in the sun. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twitching rhythmically against the fabric of her hospital gown. This wasn’t your typical tie in the back gown, but a long nightgown with a matching robe.

Also white.

She wasn't allowed her quills anymore, “Safety protocols, darling,” the Healer with the sharp eyes had said. Now, she only had charcoal sticks that left her fingers blackened, like she’d been reaching into a fireplace that wasn't there. On days where she felt like drawing, a white towel was brought in, otherwise there was a lot less white in the room after she was done.

The air in the ward didn’t move. No windows opened and there were numerous charms in place to keep the magical outburst to a minimum. To Ever, it felt like being wrapped in a tight blanket, smothered, too tight, almost itchy. It was quiet in her room, too quiet. She could sometimes hear the screams of other patients, but the walls and magical wards made it seem like a dream, a whisper, not something happening in the present.

The older man, the important one, came often. He talked about progress and therapy, words that went in one ear and right out the other. He encouraged her to write, to talk, to draw. When he came in to talk, a very one sided conversation, Ever sat in the rocking chair and listened. Nothing stuck, little was comprehended.

Potions were tried. The bitter taste stuck on her tongue. On the busy days she would be taken to a treatment room where a potion would be given then sleep would come. On those days she would wake in her bed with her brain pounding in her skull.

Alice didn’t live with her. That hurt the most, even if Ever couldn't find the words to say it. Her sister, her anchor, came and things felt right. There wasn’t words for it, but everything felt lighter when Alice was there.

“She isn’t safe to be around long term,” the Healer had said. On more than one occasion Ever’s magic had exploded during a more rigorous treatment. Memories coming on fast, causing violent behavior or magical outbursts.

There were times during the day where Ever was allowed in the common area. This space was more colorful than her white room. There were toys for the younger kids, bookcases with everything from picture books to novels. Easels sat against one wall, paints and colored chalk to make drawings. Her time in the common room was much like her time in her room. No talking. No interacting. A lot of sitting.

The healers tried to get her to participate, but that would require want and emotion, which she had none. Time would tell if she would get better. If the healers would be able to open her mind and extract the painful memories locking her in a mental prison.]]>