Burn Bridges, Not Witches

~three~

She knew Harry had arrived when she heard the breaking of glass. Honestly it was rather common for the Snake House's uninitiated visitors to accidentally knock over a vase or two. Just because no one used the furniture didn't mean it wasn't real!

She quickly made her way down the stairs, briefly leaning over the ornate wooden railings to whistle out a tune that signaled the presence of a visitor rather than an intruder. Rounding the corner into the ostentatious front room, she spotted all 6'5" of her friend hunched worriedly over the remains of what was once an antique ceramic teapot. Nadia would not be pleased.

Walking over to him in quick strides, Saoirse quickly  snatched up the bumbling man with a menacing glare, leading him upstairs to her quarters before someone got the idea to come downstairs and investigate the racket for themselves. She hurriedly unlocked the door, shoving him inside.

"You do know that someone is going to have to replace that right?" She growled out, continuing to press her injured hand firmly into the fabric of her old Nirvana tee shirt.

Harry muttered out a quick response, something along the lines of being able to pay for it himself, before gently reaching out to grab her hand.

He looked down at the wound, tutting quietly at the small bits of dirt and rust left on her hand.

"We're going to need to get this cleaned up before I can stitch it for you. Wouldn't want it getting infected." He spoke in a more thoughtful tone, quieting his voice to help assuage her headache.

Harry did always have a knack for knowing when someone wasn't to be messed with. And right now Saoirse was definitely not in the mood for his usual cocky banter.

Quickly moving over to the small shelving unit in the corner of her room, Harry reached around the smaller half of her book collection in search of the first aid kit she kept for emergencies. Carefully removing it from it's place, he examined the worn leather case, opening it up and removing a needle, thread, and a packet of alcohol wipes.

Setting it down on the desk, he moved back over to Saoirse, motioning for her to sit at the chair.

"This is probably going to sting a little bit, but I'm pretty sure you know that already," he said, opening one of the wipes and swiping it over her hand.

"It's not like it's worse than it was going in," she ground out through gritted teeth. He was right, it did sting rather bad but Saoirse was no stranger to pain. From the occasional work related injury to the near constant thrumming of the searing magic in her veins, the girl was almost constantly in some form of discomfort. The only reason she hadn't yet found a healer capable of ridding her of the affliction was because the powers she had gained from her unfortunate run-in with the artifact occupying her chest cavity far outweighed the benefits of losing it.

—

It took nearly thirty minutes for Harry to finish placing the sutures now in her palm. The wound was deeper than she'd thought, requiring six stitches to fully close. She sat in silence, watching Harry clean the blood from his hands with another one of the wipes when her phone rang.

"Aye?"

"Darling, it's Azriel. Mercy and I would love it if you were able to make your way over to the shop. We have some things to discuss," the lilted voice of her more cheery adoptive parent Azriel exited her speakers.

Saoirse had always looked back at her time with Azriel fondly. They had taken care of her dutifully since her abandonment, taught her English, and helped her learn more about her powers, things that even she felt she did not deserve at the time.

Something's wrong.

"Is everything alright?" She hedged, making sure to mask any sort of concern in her voice. It was rare that Az didn't tell her what they were dealing with.