April 23rd, 1888 — MacFusty home in The Hebrides

Maybe the end is near
But I've been waiting all year
To get the hell up out of here
And throw away my fears
— American Teen by Khalid
Fortune favored the brave, but she wasn't so brave today. It was the precise reason she'd ended up here — leaning forward on her knees, covered in blood, tears, and a few magically-induced scars front of the MacFusty residence.

She'd apparated to the Hebrides without much thought, believeing it to be the one place her parents wouldn't go searching for her. They'd check Cora's home, and they'd check Regina's, but Tilda's? It was unlikely, as she'd only taken a trip to the Hebrides once before to see something other than the MacFusty family. It was the perfect hideaway... assuming she was wanted there. Tilda, while a good friend, was not a great friend — and by that, she meant that they weren't the type of friends who exchanged endless letters during the summer or sought each other out simply for company.

They were situational friends, and hopefully this was a situation that would spark their friendship once more.

Before she could even consider how the MacFusty's would react to her presence, she had to figure out if they were even there. She doubted a bunch of dragon-wranglers sat around the house all day, but the skies were also dimming and she doubted they would handle the mighty creatures without adequate lighting.

There was only one thing she could really do.

Bella let out a loud noise. She'd meant for it to be a call for help — instead, only a strangled wail came out.

Tilda MacFusty

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

❧ April 23rd, 1888

The MacFusty Home – The Hebrides

She'd gotten off work earlier than expected. It was a special treat that she decided she would celebrate by taking Venetia out for a quick trot along their modest property. Today, the roan mare was behaving rather oddly. Her ears flicked about wildly and Tilda could feel her muscles tense underneath the saddle. While it was normal for horses to be cautious of unknown noises (they were flight creatures after all), it wasn't usual for this horse. This horse, who was so used to the flashes, bangs and explosions (not to mention flames) that so often engulfed their household on a regular basis.

Peering around the horse's head, Tilda drew Venetia to a halt and glanced about. There wasn't anything on the path. How strange... "Walk on," she instructed the horse, however the horse refused to budge. "Oh, come on! Venetia, either walk or don't, but stop confusing me with all this odd behavior." she reprimanded, before tugging slightly impatiently on the reins and turning the horse around.

That was when the horse bolted and practically threw her owner out of her saddle. Keeping to her seat, Tilda could only ride along and hope that the horse had a good excuse for her odd behavior. The witch would soon find her answer in the form of a fallen figure on their doorstep. It took her a few seconds to realize who it was. "Oh my goodness," she gasped, pulling Venetia to a halt just before the fence. Tilda was out of the saddle before the mare even came to a complete stop. Throwing the reins in a hasty knot, the witch hurried to the figure's side and crouched down.

Sympathy and confusion flashed across her face; thoughts swam through her head as Tilda surveyed her former classmate - the girl who had been flooding the society gossip columns recently - currently sprawled in the middle of the pathway to her family's home.

"Bella."

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Bella, who was still entirely in shock, could only stare up at her former classmate at the moment. Tilda hadn't really changed that much; she definitely didn't look as put together as she had as head girl, but they were in the Hebrides — there was no need to give off the appearance of looking prim and proper in the company of her family.

She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could manage was a gasp. Any attempts at movement were met by a sharp pain on her leg, but she didn't have the stomach at the moment to look down to see what was wrong. She felt uneasy, dizzy, and undeniably in pain at whatever had hit her.

What had hit her, though?

She remembered the confrontation's beginning and she knew the outcome, but her memories of everything in between were surprisingly dim for having been so recent. She struggled to remember which spells he'd used and where on her body she'd specifically been hit, but it was hard to tell when she was sore all over.

She picked up one of her hands (which was unfortunately covered in dirt) and tried to grab her friend's wrist — a wordless plea for help. How was she supposed to even get across what had happened? Would Tilda just know?

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

❧ April 23rd, 1888

The MacFusty Home – The Hebrides

The way that Bella looked up at her made Tilda's heart break. The broken, defeated and pitiful look that a person got when they were done dealing with the world; but the world wasn't quite done with them yet. Well, not if Tilda had anything to say about it.

As soon as Bella's hand moved up to hers, Tilda grasped it. Surveying the girl, Tilda saw that she was covered in small gashes; she didn't even want to know what was magically inflicted and what wasn't, though Healer's instincts told her it was a good half of them. The witch hid her grimace as she thought of ways to get Bella up and into the house.

Glancing down at Bella's dress, Tilda saw that a good portion of it was soaked in blood. Gingerly, she brushed the girl's skirts aside and she saw that her leg was the source of the blood. Biting back a grimace, she stood up and set Bella's hand down. No, she wasn't going to make the girl walk to the bloody door. She could barely stand as it is.

"Hold on, Bells," she said, and immediately summoned a stretcher.  Stooping back down, Tilda placed another hand on the other side of Bella and with a brief but sympathetic, "My apologies for this," she hoisted her classmate up on her feet. Her former classmate wasn't really heavy - Tilda's penchant for knife throwing had given her enough muscle to handle her own - at least against her brothers or a 50 stone horse, whichever was in the mood to mess with her first.

With Bella on the stretcher, Tilda levitated it and threw a glance back at Venetia, who had somehow meandered into their front yard by opening the gate and was now having a go at her mother's petunias. It wasn't the time to be sympathetic to her mother's garden though, and she headed inside with her friend levitating on the stretcher in front of her.

Once inside, Tilda turned to Bella as she made her way to the guest room. Searching the girl yet again, she recognized the signs of shock setting in - wide, dilated pupils, quick shallowed breaths and a 1,000 yard stare. She pressed her hand to her friend's arm again, this time with a firmer (though no less gentle) grip.

"Bella." she said firmly, perhaps a bit louder in order to reach her friend. "Can you tell me what happened?"

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As pleased as she was to be off the ground and off her sore knees, she was not pleased to be put back on her feet — correction, her foot. Any attempts to rest her left leg down was met with resistance. She couldn't even manage to figure out how to plant her foot flat on the ground, and any attempts to correct its position were met with a stinging sensation.

Not that it was even bad compared to how she felt elsewhere, though. Was it possible to be in so much pain that... there was no pain at all? There was no logic or rationale behind the thought, but it seemed to be her reality at the moment. She then made the mistake of looking down, which it when she saw it: her leg, but it didn't look like her leg. While not manged, per se, the skin seemed completely raw and sliced. If she hadn't been used to seeing bloody patients at the hospital, she would have likely emptied the contents of her stomach right there.

She wasn't sure how much time went by, but she eventually found herself inside with Tilda leaning beside her. Her friend's words frustrated her, partly because she couldn't figure out how to explain what had happened and partly because she wasn't one hundred percent sure what had happened. Was it possible she'd been hit with a memory charm in the midst of apparating? She wasn't sure how that worked, but what other explanation was there?

"I —" she tried, but any and all words were replaced by a puff of air leaving her chest instead. It was the same sort of sensation that one had when they were trying to admit something that was embarrassing — only Bella wanted to say it, and she definitely wasn't embarrassed by it, but simply couldn't manage it!

"My father." That was all she could manage, and for once in her life she dearly hoped Tilda had caught a rumor or two about her and her home life in passing. Cora, Regina, Lucille — they all knew what Bella's home life was like, but any other friends were left to make assumptions.

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

❧ April 23rd, 1888

The MacFusty Home – The Hebrides

Luckily the boys and Tilda's parents were out working for the day. Tilda wouldn't really know what to say to them to warn that they had an unexpected guest, but she suspected they wouldn't be too angry about the extra visitor.

Tilda surveyed the shock was still apparent on the girl's face as she summoned the proper ingredients to make poultices for the girl's wounds. She saw Bella's face get even more pale as she looked down at her splinched leg. "I'll need to tend to that first, and I'll need to lift your skirt up a little to get to it," she started, walking her patient through what she was doing - it was the best way to avoid any unwanted surprises that might occur. "This isn't going to feel very nice." Walking over, she let the mixture for poultices tend to itself while she dropped more than a few drops of dittany on Bella's leg. Skin sizzled as the wound started closing itself up, though Tilda knew from a few personal mishaps that it wouldn't be any less painful while the skin re-formed.

Adding the final ingredient of chamomile into the potion, Tilda spread some of the paste onto a damp cloth and pressed it to Bella's leg. It was then that the girl finally spoke, her voice as desperate as if she were balancing on the thread of a sewing needle. Though Tilda's movements didn't pause, her expression found her eyebrows knitted slightly together in thought as she ran over what she knew of Bella's family.

Though she made it a point not to listen too closely to rumors (her family was subject to enough of them), it was hard to not hear whispers about the Scrimgeour family patriarch and his....less than liberal thoughts into what a normal family should look like. "Your father," though the repetition posed a slight question, it was redundant all the same. Tilda was smart enough to figure it out, and that caused her even more worry for her friend. Merlin, the most her father had done when he'd gotten mad at her was make her go shovel dragon dung with no magic for a while - and that was at her brattiest stage, which for Tilda, wasn't much.

What kind of father would do this to their own child? Again, Tilda didn't need answering to that question. The kind of father who never saw beyond his own ego and prejudiced thoughts, that was who. A slight grimace of disgust pulled at the witch's lips as she continued to tend to her friend; a few drops of dittany here, another poultice there. "Your father did this to you." The disgust and anger was even more apparent on Tilda's face. Then the next question, "Does he know you're here?"

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While she hadn't yet become a full healer, Bella knew the process for healing and took comfort in it as she became Tilda's patient. She didn't think very much when her clothes were pushed around; there was far worse things Tilda could do to her than pull her skirt up. (In hindsight, at least her father hadn't humiliated her like that).

Even the comfort of healing knowledge, it seemed, couldn't soothe the actual pain that ensued. She wanted to cry and she wanted to yell — neither of which would be very helpful, especially for Tilda, who was trying to treat her — so she instead grabbed a fistful of the duvet and bit down on her lower lip until it began to bleed. Bella really loved plants, but she was beginning to resent the dittany as much as she resented her father, if only because it fucking hurt.

Tilda's questions were as difficult to bear as the sizzling pain from the dittany, but they were questions that needed to be answered. She couldn't expect her family to grant her a stay without any information as to why she'd run off her and why she was covered in injuries, right? It would be best to tell Tilda so she could be the one to tell the rest of the family.

"Of course he doesn't," she choked. "I wouldn't go anywhere he could find me. I-I just thought of you — he doesn't know about you." As my friend. He surely knew about the MacFusty clan, but simply knowing who they were would give him no reason to think she was there.

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

❧ April 23rd, 1888

The MacFusty Home – The Hebrides

At the very least he didn't know she was here; which was both good and bad. Tilda wouldn't wish to cause Bella any more distress, but on the other hand, the dragons needed feeding about now, and the witch had a good idea exactly how to satiate their ravenous hunger. Then again, getting charged for murder wasn't exactly on the top of her "to-do" list, so she settled for daydreaming about it instead.

If he didn't know she was here, that also meant that he probably thought she could be anywhere. Tilda knew that Bella obviously didn't want to be found, so she kept quiet about contacting anyone of Bella's immediate family. Though she couldn't possibly fathom of what made Bella think of coming to the Hebrides, she took comfort in knowing that she could tend to Bella - she'd be safe here, despite the dragons. If she'd caught wind of Bella missing at work, there wouldn't have been a part of her that wasn't the least bit worried. They were good friends back in school, but it'd been a while since they'd truly caught up.

What a time to do so. After she finished tending to Bella's leg, Tilda turned to face her friend and sat down at the bedside. "What else hurts, Bella?" she said, summoning her cart over to her and looking up as the door creaked open slightly to reveal a teapot and two mugs floating happily to join the rest of Tilda's supplies on the cart. She handed Bella a mug of the concoction once it had finished filling itself.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" She didn't want to push the girl, but eventually she'd need to know what exactly happened; or at least what part to tell her family when they asked why Tilda's schoolmate was staying at the household.

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Bella had never been an internal processor; most of her thoughts were spoken out loud, and for everyone else around her to hear. That trait was perhaps the one that usually got her in the most trouble, but at this moment it was also the one she wished she could conjure. She sat beside Tilda, her mouth open as if she was about to speak... but no words seemed to be coming out. She'd never had a problem speaking before (all she ever did is speak, according to some people), but she either couldn't figure out how to phrase it or she couldn't comprehend was actually had happened.

She resigned to her silence after a moment, bearing a frown as she stared at Tilda before taking a sip of whatever her friend had placed in the mug in front of her — either a really nasty tea or a potion, she figured.

When she experimentally shifted on the bed, testing for any signs of pain - well, sharp pains. Her entire body was so sore that pinpointing a certain area of pain — apart from her leg, which Tilda had just tended to — was difficult. It didn't help that she couldn't see many of her injuries, with her sleeves covering up her arms and chest and everything, really.

"I'm not sure," she responded quietly, unsure of which question she was truly answering.

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

April 23, 1888 — The MacFusty Home, Hebrides

Right. One question at a time. Tilda settled more comfortably into her chair while she observed her friend shift around tentatively. Soreness was expected - magic could only do so much; Tilda was more worried about what had been done to Bella's psyche more than anything.

She chewed on her lip, hoping Bella might give her something more than a vague answer; no such reply. No matter. This was quite on par with what Tilda had studied about shock. All that she needed was patience, persistence and a really good bedside manner. Hopefully she'd gleaned enough from observing her mother at work to make the older witch proud.

In attempts to make the energy in the room calm, Tilda relaxed her position in her chair and sat back. "What aren't you sure about?" she inquired unimpatiently, eyes shifting over to the window where a small blue jay hopped around on the sill. She turned back to Bella, hands clasped over her mug.

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Bella Scrimgeour

  

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Tilda's first questions had seemed prodding (but rightfully so, seeing as she'd just - appeared - with no warning), but her most last question allowed Bella to pierce the small gap in her brain that led to the information she needed to get out.

"I'm not sure what's going to happen now. If he's going to come looking for me," she said quietly, her stomach churning at the thought of him appearing at the Hebrides while she was weak and vulnerable. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about it. I'm not sure what will happen if I... report him. I'm not sure if everyone will hate me — my family certainly will," she choked out, her chest beginning to shake in a dry, silent sob.

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

April 23, 1888 — The MacFusty Home, Hebrides

Tilda's eyes drifted slightly towards the cieling as she thought about what she remembered about Argus Scrimgeour. Former auror, and quite the menacing figure if she recalled correctly - certainly able to take on a 19 year old witch, however Tilda wasn't exactly sure that was an honorable thing to do.

The witch couldn't think of any reason for Bella's father to come looking for her here. It was the Hebrides and on top of that, Bella and Tilda had gone their separate ways since Hogwarts; Tilda presumed whenever they saw each other, it was a mutual delight to see the other, but they never went too fully out of their ways to hang out with the other. That was the way some friendships went, and Tilda was perfectly content with that.

At the mention of reporting him, her eyes snapped back to Bella. She studied the other witch carefully. There were options. But Tilda wasn't sure she wanted to breach any of them until she got more of a feel for where Bella was at. As her patient began to dissolve into tears, Tilda leaned forward, placing her mug on the side cart, and leaning against the edge of the bed. She placed a hand on the bed near Bella's leg, not wanting to startle the witch by touching her outright. "Bella," she said, "What do you want to do about it? You're safe here, in the Hebrides with my family. Your father has no way of knowing where you are, but I think after a day or so people are going to note that you've gone missing."

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Bella Scrimgeour

  

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Bella had never shown any particular desire to be a beloved member of society. She rarely cared what other people thought about her, or at least she tried to convince herself of that. She could count the number of opinions she cared about on two hands, but this was different. If she were to do anything (namely, report her father for this), she wanted society's sympathy. She didn't want to be labeled a traitor, nor did she want anyone telling her she should have learned to cope. People were mean — especially to a no-good, trouble-making girl like her.

"I should just disappear. Everyone can think I'm dead," she sobbed, burying her face in the palms of her hands (one of the only parts of her body that had remained unscathed). "That's what they always wanted anyways. Let Witch Weekly have their field day." In her despair, it didn't dawn upon her that anyone would care, as silly as it sounded. She'd felt like a burden as long as she could remember, and it was all too easy to convince herself, in this moment, that she was even a burden to those who would openly claim her as their friend.

At least it was only Tilda who had to witness her pity party. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

April 23, 1888 — The MacFusty Home, Hebrides

The amount of sympathy Tilda felt towards Bella was more than the usual amount she usually had for her regular patients. Perhaps it was because hearing about Bella's situation at home made her all the more grateful to have the loving family she did. Sure, sometimes she wanted to absolutely murder her brothers and her mother wanted to murder their father from time to time, but they'd always be a family with consequences of the highest degree if someone wanted to purposefully hurt the other.

"Come now, Bella," Tilda said, pouring the girl another cup of tea. "I know the societal aspect of it seems bad, but who really takes that weekly rag seriously besides those who have nothing better to do than to feed their own egos?"

She gently prodded the girl, holding out the mug to her. "Now, I've seen you with your friends around," she began matter of factly. "I know it's tough to not focus on what society thinks, but if I'm honest, you seem to have done a great job so far. And I think that might be the reason why they write about you so much. You don't seem to care too much on the outside, and they hate that."

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Bella Scrimgeour

  

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It was easy for Tilda to ramble on about why Bella shouldn't care about her reputation — she didn't have magazines insinuating she was a whore, nor did she have people treating her with disdain on the regular. She was a MacFusty, sure, but even they were only known for being a bit unruly. Even then, it was a simple enough reputation to avoid on an individual level, which was evidenced by Tilda's former head girl status.

"But Witch Weekly is only an example," she countered, using the back of her hand to wipe the tears, dirt, and sweat off her face. Witch Weekly was the easiest example to find; it was a physical magazine with slanderous accusations written across them. She knew other people — even ones who didn't read the magazine — already thought little of her.

"... and I do care, and that's the problem. It's not the words themselves, but the fact that people believe them. Maybe only silly girls read them, but they'll tell their brothers, and their brothers will tell their friends," she hiccuped. "And if those friends don't want to marry me, than I won't get married. And if I don't get married, I'll end up homeless and alone," she continued to ramble, tears beginning to fall once more.

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

April 23, 1888 — The MacFusty Home, Hebrides

Despite the rambling of her patient, Tilda knew Bella had a point; people talked, and though no such news from Witch Weekly of all places should be taken seriously, gossip was not to be trusted. Tilda shuffled around in her robes before she found a handkerchief and she passed it to Bella.

It was tough for Tilda to relate to the societal pressures that some felt from their families. As more traditional than the rest of the family as they were, Tilda's parents weren't completely strict in looking after their daughter's courting agenda.

She wasn't entirely sure what to do at this point. Until... "Witch Weekly might not have a field day if they knew the truth..." it was said almost as an afterthought to a longer idea, but only the back half of the idea was said aloud. Before Bella could take it the wrong way, Tilda straightened. "Hear me out, Bella. I have a.....friend, at the Ministry - he's an investigator, and something tells me the Ministry might be looking for you at some point."

Truthfully, she was sort of flying by the seat of her pants (as it were); Bella couldn't stay here forever, but Tilda certainly wasn't going to let her out of her sight for the foreseeable day. She needed to heal, but there was also the matter of work. Bella wasn't going to show up for work and then most likely the Ministry was going to get involved in one way or another. "He's a good man. He'd listen to your story regardless of your previous social standing, and plus you'd have me as your witness." Tilda sat back again, waiting to see what her friend's response was.

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Bella Scrimgeour

  

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