10th November, 1895 — St. Mungo’s Hospital Waiting Room
Florian was usually safer working in his darkroom than out of it: there was no chance of being questioned by constables or falling out of trees while trying to get a good angle or hiding in closets full of doxies as the case may be (that last had actually happened to him about a week ago, and he had only just stopped feeling a phantom itch at the back of his neck from their bites).
But sometimes the usual methods simply did not suffice for the project at hand. New cameras were being produced and patented every year – muggle and magical – and Florian was determined that the next revolutionary model should be his. He had a working collection of other people’s excellent ideas – a new fast-shutter that he couldn’t wait to try when he was next assigned a sports piece (though hopefully a quidditch match and not bloody gobstones); tiny detective cameras, small enough to be hidden in a bag or a pocket or up one’s sleeve; the classic bellows camera, glass plates and even some new-fangled film – but the next development in photography would be his, guaranteed.
Or so he had thought this evening, when he had shut himself up in his darkroom to try developing a few of his recent photographs in a new variation of his ordinary emulsions. He had gotten his Potions OWL and he mixed solutions regularly, so he wasn’t completely incompetent – but he was neither a professional chemist or a potioneer, and in this case there weren’t unequivocal recipes to follow. So, to put a long story short – he had poured the new developing solution into one of his plate trays, sunk a negative into said mixture, left it as he should... and when he returned a few minutes later, it had started bubbling. Dangerously. Florian had only taken one step back when the liquid splashed up, hissing angrily. He’d been wearing gloves for protection, but the concoction had been strong enough to start eating through the material, corroding it away.
So he had Vanished the solution hurriedly and gone out to the sink basin, peeling off his gloves gingerly and washing off his hands, hoping that would be enough. So far, so good – only now, about an hour later, both of his hands had turned a blotchy, blistering purple, and moving his fingers was getting more difficult by the minute.
Once ignoring the problem simply wasn’t working, Florian reluctantly Flooed into the St. Mungo’s entrance hall and waiting room. Apparently people had had far worse accidents than him today – or they prioritised their wealthier patients, cough – because he hadn’t yet been called. And since he couldn’t even physically twiddle his thumbs, all he could do was observe the comings and goings of the waiting room to try and distract himself from the uncomfortable sensation of his hands. Getting itchy and restless and trying to avoid looking at his hands, listless in his lap, Florian turned to the nearest occupying chair. “What happened to you, then?” he asked (possibly too cheerfully for the context, but).
But sometimes the usual methods simply did not suffice for the project at hand. New cameras were being produced and patented every year – muggle and magical – and Florian was determined that the next revolutionary model should be his. He had a working collection of other people’s excellent ideas – a new fast-shutter that he couldn’t wait to try when he was next assigned a sports piece (though hopefully a quidditch match and not bloody gobstones); tiny detective cameras, small enough to be hidden in a bag or a pocket or up one’s sleeve; the classic bellows camera, glass plates and even some new-fangled film – but the next development in photography would be his, guaranteed.
Or so he had thought this evening, when he had shut himself up in his darkroom to try developing a few of his recent photographs in a new variation of his ordinary emulsions. He had gotten his Potions OWL and he mixed solutions regularly, so he wasn’t completely incompetent – but he was neither a professional chemist or a potioneer, and in this case there weren’t unequivocal recipes to follow. So, to put a long story short – he had poured the new developing solution into one of his plate trays, sunk a negative into said mixture, left it as he should... and when he returned a few minutes later, it had started bubbling. Dangerously. Florian had only taken one step back when the liquid splashed up, hissing angrily. He’d been wearing gloves for protection, but the concoction had been strong enough to start eating through the material, corroding it away.
So he had Vanished the solution hurriedly and gone out to the sink basin, peeling off his gloves gingerly and washing off his hands, hoping that would be enough. So far, so good – only now, about an hour later, both of his hands had turned a blotchy, blistering purple, and moving his fingers was getting more difficult by the minute.
Once ignoring the problem simply wasn’t working, Florian reluctantly Flooed into the St. Mungo’s entrance hall and waiting room. Apparently people had had far worse accidents than him today – or they prioritised their wealthier patients, cough – because he hadn’t yet been called. And since he couldn’t even physically twiddle his thumbs, all he could do was observe the comings and goings of the waiting room to try and distract himself from the uncomfortable sensation of his hands. Getting itchy and restless and trying to avoid looking at his hands, listless in his lap, Florian turned to the nearest occupying chair. “What happened to you, then?” he asked (possibly too cheerfully for the context, but).