not a soul to hear [sylvester]

february 2002

A salad from the commissary certainly wasn’t Varvara Stepanovna’s idea of a good lunch, but when she only had twenty minutes before her next appointment and needed to keep an eye on a potion she didn’t want to leave in the hands of a healer-in-training, it was her best option. But she didn’t get much farther than fumbling with the plastic container before a knock at her office door interrupted her from what little enjoyment her break was about to afford her. Apparently there was a new patient that was both more important than her lunch and her already established patients.

She took the chart wordlessly from her colleague, pursing her lips as she told her he was some sort of celebrity client, undoubtedly hard to please, and the pièce de résistance, he had specifically requested for Varya’s care. One would think celebrities would be able to afford enough common sense to keep themselves out of the hospital, but no, instead they required special attention.

Varya looked down at the patient’s information as the other healer retreated; she had been searching for his ailment, not really caring about his name, but she stopped scanning the paperwork after the first line. Sylvester Walker. She knew who he was, but not because he was famous. She had only found out he was some sort of big shot a few (maybe four?) years ago, in this very hospital, and only because they had simultaneously discovered that each one of them had been using an alias the entire duration of their short-lived relationship. Of course Varya had real reasons for using one, leaving Durmstrang after going a tad too far in a lesson and needing to lay low. His reason, though? Needing to hide from the masses how big a prick he was. It almost worked.

But after he had left the hospital that day, assuming she only wanted him for his money, Varya had done her fair share of research, finding out exactly why he thought he was so important. But she stopped thinking about him after a couple months, busying herself with work at the hospital, traveling, returning to Durmstrang, and working at the hospital again, this time as a Head Healer.

Head Healer. Is that why she was being requested, or had he requested her by name? Why did she care? Why were her eyes searching her office for a reflective surface to make doubly sure she looked good? At least as Head Healer she wasn’t required to wear those ghastly colored robes required of the other healers. She knew he dark green with gold trim robes she was wearing now went perfectly with her hair, which looked as nice as ever. He wasn’t important enough for her to start doubting herself.

She looked at last at the ailment, smirking at the ‘complaints of a rash’, the same thing that had landed him in the hospital the last time. Holding the chart to to her chest, Varya left her office, walking swiftly to the exam room (though the thought of making him wait another half hour had certainly crossed her mind). She knocked lightly as she opened the door, her best and least sincere healer-smile on her face as she entered the room. “Mr. Walker,” she started, making sure to heavily accent his name, almost daring him to correct her pronunciation.

No wonder that, at some point in history, the British went on to move to Australia in the past, for this island was positively medieval. While Sylvester himself didn’t have to bother with the Walker representation in the United Kingdom, having already entrusted one of his most competent nieces with running it, the man had been sent by his older sister to sign for the releasing and disclosure of some research regarding Diricawls. Apparently, Silvia’s signature on its own wouldn’t suffice, for the procedure required someone in a position of higher authority to claim responsibility should something happen to the still secret research.

Naturally, the signing of the disclosure was quite the event among academics, specialised magizoologists, and numerous researchers, and the ceremony had been simply nothing but a pain to attend. Sylvester could’ve easily just done with simply signing the documents and nothing more. Nonetheless, business required certain protocols that even he himself had to submit to. However, a turn in events had happened. Upon getting back home from the event, Sylvester noticed that the British partners had sent him a plant as a gift in order to thank him for participating to the event.

He had found it suspicious, for such pleasantries usually arrived a few days later after the event took place, as he himself would commit to sending such presents. Reason why Sylvester decided to levitate the plant away, since it had been a bit too suspicious. But, as one would expect of the wizarding world, the plants’ vines started moving, clinging to Sylvester’s left arm, and not letting go until the man’s personal assistant came to set the certain vines on fire. His arm had seemed alright, at least until the aurors came to check out the plant.

The officials mentioned that the poisonous plant had been most likely sent by a group of activists, which didn’t necessarily have something against Sylvester personally, but against the concept of ‘research’. Leave it to these islanders to think that a world without research was possible. However, the plant was poisonous, and while its effects took time to show, a rash started appearing on Sylvester’s lower arm. He hadn’t particularly desired to go to St. Mungo’s, but the aurors insisted on it, that a further analysis of the effects the plant gave him will aid in their investigation.

And now that all those procedures were done, there he was, in a private salon, waiting for the Head Healer to arrive. His personal assistant had gone to the Ministry with the aurors, to handle the rest of the paperwork, and Sylvester had found that he himself had to point out that he wanted to have the best healer, the Head Healer, tend to him. Such tediousness and annoyance, truly. Wasn’t it obvious that a person of his rank always required having the best of the best around? That mediocre healer who’s first been assigned to him, who was probably not a day over twenty-five, while the pretty little thing, Sylvester highly doubted they had the necessary amount of knowledge to tend to the needs of a person as important as him. Naturally, when the Australian pointed it out, the individual had felt ‘offended’, but certainly, did they even expect anything else? A VIP patient of his prestige wasn’t just for anyone.

Alone in the salon as he was waiting for the Head Healer to arrive, Sylvester’s gaze trailed along the potions cabinets. St. Mungo’s definitely lived up to its reputation in regards to that, he would give it to them. Sylvester got up from the chair he had been sitting on to check a certain label that had attracted his attention, dark long black silk robes softly touching the ground as he made his way to the cabinet. He noticed his reflection in it, and immediately left out a deep sigh, realising he was still in his gala outfit, black robes, with a layer of golden embroidery. His hair was slicked back and he was freshly shaved – definitely too good-looking to be in a hospital for long, really. But also slightly uncomfortable as his left sleeve was rolled up, enough to reveal his aggravating rash.

When would that Head Healer arrive already? Not that he’s waited long, because he did not, but Sylvester really just wanted this nuisance of a day to be over. Exactly as he thought so, the door opened, causing the man to turn around on his heel, to greet the Head Healer. Ioana Dobrei. His mind automatically thought, before Sylvester correcting himself and emphasising on the fact that she was not, in fact, anyone else but Varvara Stepanovna Zakharova, the woman who had wanted to get close to him, and actually dated him, by pretending to be someone that she wasn’t.

Four years ago, he had done his research on her – she had been a Durmstrang professor and was a potioneer. However, it had been long since he had even thought of her, and didn’t follow her career path at all. But a former Durmstrang professor being a Head Healer now did sound plausible and perfectly reasonable. Still, Sylvester would have preferred her not being the Head Healer of this particular department. He felt a slight discomfort, realising that probably, with how things ended between the two of them, meaning very badly since he had been lied to, the woman was now probably frustrated she had lost her chance of hitting big, and would want to poison him, to get her ‘revenge’. Her frustration was obvious in the way she had pronounced his name.

But he wouldn’t fall for that childish game. Sylvester smirked cheekily, yet quite elegantly charming, suddenly glad that he was indeed looking at his best (minus the small rash on his arm, of course). His eyes analysed her figure – the fact that they both had golden finishings was intriguing, but then again, she was a former paramour of his. Of course she had good taste. And of course that she looked as beautiful as ever, still like a doll, so stunning that it made one wonder if she were even real and not an illusion. Not that Sylvester would ever tell her that. 

He instinctively straightened his posture, afterwards politely nodding towards the Russian, replying in English, probably the first time they had ever talked in the language, previously having talked only in Italian. His Australian accent was more than just present, but a vivid and raw reminder of his roots, just like her Russian one. “Healer Zakharova.” He heavily mispronounced as well, in the end being childish enough to fall for that game. “I am so… glad to see you.” Sylvester continued, his voice being as polite and charming as always, without him even actually trying. “If you would… “ The wizard then stretched out his arm, almost daring her to physically touch him once again.

If they were going to play games, he would definitely win that one. Her touching him and realising once more what she had missed on when lying to him was definitely a battle he will win, surely.

ooc; let's assume his robes are something similar to this, but long and out of silk so a bit shinier lol

Varya bristled as he said her name, for once stopping herself from correcting the incorrect sounds that had spilled out of his mouth. She wasn’t going to take his bait. She kept her eyes trained on is face, not the gorgeous robes or the elegant way he held himself, nor how she liked that he hadn’t drastically changed his hairstyle. She could only spot the tiniest differences in his features, little changes over the years. All that frowning wouldn’t do him any good in the long run. She lingered one more second before closing the door behind her, straightening up her posture as she held her gaze determinedly aloft.

“And here I was, hoping to never see you, again.” Her voice lacked the politeness that his implied, but she wasn’t about to feign anything just for his benefit. “Hospital policy, you see. We don’t look forward to repeat patients.” Well, she could feign that. It certainly had been that she was hoping to never run into him, and not for some silly ethical reasons like wanting him to remain healthy. She held his gaze for two seconds after he had presented his arm, her eyes narrowing just the slightest bit before she dropped her focus down to the reason he was here.

Pity, really, that the rash was contained to his arm. She could take precautionary measures, she realized with equal parts interest and repulsion, and ask him to remove his shirt so she could determine it hadn’t spread. But no, that wouldn’t be necessary. With any luck, it was already too late for him and he would drop dead within minutes. Quicker, if she could help it.

The healer took a step closer, arching her left elbow as she leaned forward to take a better look at his ailment, not yet touching him. “Hmm,” she started, near enough he should be able to feel her breath on his arm, “Unsightly rash.”

She straightened up to take a glance down his chart. There were no details from whoever had admitted him, nothing about how he had received the rash or how long he had been suffering from it. She blinked for one prolonged second, cursing the incompetent person who clearly didn’t know how to handle a quill and follow the proper paperwork protocol. She had already spent more than enough time with the man and now she would have to reprimand whoever was causing her to spend more time asking asinine questions. She also noticed that there was a distinct lack of plant life accompanying him; she hated having to do any sort of teamwork to get to the root of someone’s problems, especially when it would have been so simple to fix him up if they had bothered to be competent and bring the plant along.

But, no matter. Varya looked back to his face, her quill poised to take notes as she began her questions. “Any pain or itchiness?” Hopefully.

She was analysing him. Even if Varvara’s gaze wasn’t moving, the Australian could feel her eyes burning into his skin. He straightened his back, feeling tension in his shoulders. Truthfully, he didn’t like it. Even if it denoted that she was regretting her mistake, it also revealed the fact that she’d always regarded him superficially. He’d always been nothing but a handsome investment to her. While Sylvester had no issue about him regarding people as mere objects with a price tag, he had a lot of issues when others looked at him as if he were nothing more but an object of pleasure, something that could be used for one’s benefit, let it be physical, monetary, or of any other nature.

Her gaze lingered on him for far too long, at least in his opinion. He never stopped making eye contact as she looked at him, not wanting to lose this battle. Sylvester was positive he wasn’t going to lose anyway. In the end, it had been her defeat from the very start. Now, the present situation was mostly him showing her what she’s lost for lying. Well, for lying and being discovered. It was all too conflicting and too much for him to handle emotionally: the hatred, it burnt inside of him. Meeting Varvara again had never been part of his plans.

He smirked at her comment, still as elegant and charming as always. She wasn’t good at acting. And her Russian accent, while new to him, it was a bit rough. It only added less honesty to her words. Quite a bad feat for a Head Healer, really.

“Of course, you don’t.” He replied nonchalantly, not revealing any of the tension which slowly, but surely, took over his entire body as she drew closer. It was a good thing that he, on the other hand, was rather good at faking. Even his arm lacked the tension he felt. Sylvester took a slow, yet deep breath, as Varvara lowered her gaze towards the rash on his arm. Finally, the reason as of why he’s been forced to come to this second-rate hospital. Everything not Australian was so clearly inferior. In the end, having someone with her record as a Head Healer wasn’t something of pride. Unless she’s undergone some severe personality changes since he’d gotten her investigated, he doubted Varvara had proper ethics when dealing with patients. His case aside, Sylvester was sure others would’ve rather died than end up on her hands.

As Varvara drew even closer to inspect the rash, it wasn’t the fact that he could feel her breath that attracted his attention. But her golden locks. They were light blonde, and not the dark brown he remembered. Sylvester’s eyebrow arched at the sight; it irked him that now, she was physically more his type than ever before. He’s always had a thing for blondes. Only Merlin knew how much he absolutely loved blondes. Well, ‘loved’… he never truly ‘loved’ anything. And the few times Sylvester got remotely attached, it proved that others (Varya there included) approached him with ulterior motives.

“Unsightly, yes.” He replied calmly, polite, slightly fascinated by her unprofessional remark. Still, Sylvester’s remark was more towards her than his rash. Regardless… Was she going to keep this up? Was he really going to have to request for another Healer yet again? As if she read his thoughts, Varvara finally looked down his chart.

“No.” said Sylvester, with the forever prepossessing smirk on his face. “None at all.” The Australian placed his other hand in his robes’ pocket, and took out a small leaf. “The Aurors had to take the plant for further investigation, but I kept a leaf.” He stretched out his arm, to hand her over the leaf. “On first glance, and from what I’ve experienced, it’s not severely poisonous, its aim and purpose being more that of suffocating or crushing its victims with its vines. I have never encountered it before, but its traits reveal that it would be from Isle of Man.” The place of ferns generally, however Sylvester was positive the plant he received was some sort of fern breed. His smirk widened only a bit, his right eyebrow arching suggestively as his look focused on Varvara’s face. “Not that you wouldn’t be able to notice any of that merely from this sample.”

Well, as a herbologist himself, of course he would know. But a potioneer knowing in such detail? Just maybe. It all depended on Varvara’s skills. “I’m sure you can make a potion for me in no time, right?” As he handed her over the leaf, Sylvester took a few steps back, and leaned against one of the counters, elegantly crossing his legs in the process. “In the end, we do want to go back to you not seeing me again. It seems that the stress of meeting me in itself had made your hair turn white. Not a brunette anymore now, are we, Barbie?” His sadistic nature was slowly surfacing.

His smirk turned more into a daring, playful smile, keen on seeing her reaction to his remark. Would she take the bait? Or not?

She wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk from his face. She blinked slowly before looking down at the chart again, taking her notes in Russian, resigning herself to translate them later. No pain at all -- pity. She spared a glance in Sylvester’s direction as he continued talking, her gaze focusing on the leaf for a split second before looking down at her notes again. Continued (and ingenious) contact with the suspected plant -- possibility rash will spread to other arm.

He continued talking, almost like she had never seen a plant before; she didn’t stop him, didn’t point out that she headed the Potions and Plant Poisoning floor, didn’t interrupt him to tell him that if she hadn’t gone into potioneering and healing, she would have made a career in herbology.

It was too bad that the plant had been unsuccessful in its attempted suffocation.

“The Isle of Man,” she repeated, making a move to write that information down but actually making another note: Find who sent him the plant and give advice on being more successful next time. She made another glance at the leaf before fixing her eyes on the man’s face, returning his gaze. “I’m sure I appreciate all your help,” she replied after a few seconds, needing to remind herself that she was at work. As much as she would love to tell him that she was disappointed his pain wasn’t severe, she was sure that was borderline unprofessional. Varya was sure that he wouldn’t think twice before making life difficult for her.

“I can,” she replied simply, knowing that she would be able to have something whipped up even sooner than that. The point of interest, however, was if she wanted to, her duty as a Healer be damned. Varya pulled a white handkerchief from the air, finally taking the offered leaf, careful not to touch either the plant or the man. He certainly hadn’t earned that privilege.

Tucking the leaf away, Varya raised a well-manicured eyebrow as he made his offer to never be seen again, seemingly all for the sake of her hair color. Her eyes trailed up just the slightest bit, grazing his hairline, before settling back to his face. “Brunette is not a good color for anyone.” She resisted the urge to take a step forward, instead staying still as she continued: “If ‘Varvara’ is too hard for you to pronounce, you may call me ‘Healer’. I won’t mind.” Her smirk was soft, almost a smile, and she held his gaze for a few seconds more before looking back down at her notes.

“I am afraid that if the rash is not spreading or causing you any pain, you’ll need to wait.” She tilted her head towards the door and all the patients that lie beyond it. “I have other patients, people being poisoned, rashes causing pain.” She nodded, still not taking her eyes off of his. “You understand, I’m sure.”

While Varvara kept scribbling on her parchment as Sylvester had explained the situation, he was highly doubtful that she was actually playing any sort of attention. And not only that, but the healer also seemed to be rather superfluous in her remarks. Furthermore, the tone of her voice, along with very unprofessional remark had caused the wizard even more displeasure. The fact that St. Mungo’s even hired someone like her was something incomprehensible for him; were there really no proper healers in the entirety of the British Isles’ territory? He’d never been more thankful for being Australian.

“Of course you can.” Sylvester remarked glacially cold, the current tone of his voice in severe contrast to the only moments before. He watched her take the leaf he’s brought, being at the very least professional enough to grab it with a handkerchief. However, this also denoted that she didn’t have any kind of gloves in her possession, which was yet another connotation of her improper conduct when at work. “That’s your job.” He added sharply, reminding her that, unlike him, she was at work. Should she treat all of her patients in such a manner, he doubted that St. Mungo’s prestige would last any longer.

A smirk which denoted an air of superiority appeared on his face, Sylvester pleased with himself that he’d managed to irk her noticeably. Varvara commented on the brunette nuance not being a good one for anyone. She was right. Brunette wasn’t good on him, it was flawlessly perfect. The smirk widened a bit as he felt a shiver down his spine, upon realising that it had further added to her displeasure the fact that he’d called her ‘Barbie’. He arched an eyebrow, the mocking smirk still on his face. It brought him nothing but sheer delight the fact that he was managing to piss her off. Sylvester’s sadistic side, even if a little, was showing.

“No, I’ll stick to my choice of address, Barbie.” He remarked as glacially as before, if not a little mockingly. Well, more than just a little. Sylvester particularly emphasised the pronunciation of her nickname, finding nothing but thrill in saying it, especially while knowing it pissed her off. It was the best possible feeling.

But Sylvester was a volcanic nature. It took very little for him to go from one mood to another. And the supposed healer’s next words were enough to tick him off beyond even his own comprehension. He was seeing red. No; he was flaming. The Victorian didn’t reveal it though, neither through his reactions, nor his grimaces. Instead, Sylvester cleared his throat, let me it rather louder than necessary, and straightened his back, his gaze piercing through Varvara as his smirk remained unchanged. “Of course I understand.” He then rolled down his sleeve, eyebrow arching just slightly.

“But then you’ll also understand that I cannot wait, for the aurors at the Ministry of Magic are expecting me as soon as possible. I figure I’ll have to file a complaint against your behaviour directly there, rather than here.” Sylvester let out a short, mocking laughter, as he took out of his pocket his fingerless gloves. “Guess it won’t be long until you’ll be in front of the wizengamots to be imprisoned for misconduct at work.” He shrugged while gracefully, and slowly, starting to put back on one of his gloves.

That’s your job. The words have never been more painful to hear; she was well aware that this was her job, one that she was certainly over-qualified for. She didn’t need to be reminded of it so cooly, especially as it only reiterated the fact that she needed to be ‘professional’. The notes that she had made on his chart would have to wait until she was off duty, unfortunately.

Varya had never been more thankful for him being Australian. They had their own hospitals, their own Head Healers who might not make him wait for treatment like a regular person. She was eager for him to be their problem, though not so eager that she was going to make his exit from St. Mungo’s a speedy one. His lengthy stay didn’t have to be in her presence, however, which she was glad for when he called her ‘Barbie’ yet again. She held her smirk, resisting the urge to purse her lips or narrow her gaze, hoping to give him zero indication that he had managed to get under her skin with something so trivial. Soon -- soonish as she was now determined to make him wait -- he would be on his way from England, back to his side of the world, hopefully to stay. Australia was conveniently far, even farther than Vladivostok, and she was eager to see him return.

“Of course I understand.” She repeated his words back to him. “Yet the aurors at the Ministry of Magic know better than anyone the trials and tribulation of paperwork.” Dropping her gaze back to the chart, Varya offered a small shrug. She was quickly losing her bedside manner and if she stayed too much longer, things might not end well for her. Or for him. But especially for her.

She refrained from arching an eyebrow at his fingerless gloves -- as if he couldn’t afford the whole glove -- and affixed her focus on his face. “Feel free to exercise your right to complain, Mr. Walker,” she continued, her eyes scanning his features for any sort of comprehension on his part. “Continuously poisoning yourself must be tiring at your age so I can see the merit in wanting to be called as a witness in my trial. A better excuse to see me.” She nodded the slightest bit, lingering for only a second before hugging the chart to her chest and patting her pocket.

“I’ll tend to this,” she indicated the leaf folded up in the handkerchief. “And you can tend to that,” she used her wand to conjure a small stack of paperwork: complete medical history, a thorough summary of what brought him in today, three emergency contacts, the usual things that were usually required of those regular patients. One more pass of her wand produced a quill and ink, and she offered an almost sincere smile as she retreated from the room, past the rooms of other ailing patients, and back to her office to finally eat her lunch.

[[ out ]]

But of course that Varvara would claim that bureaucracy was why she was so incompetent. Or, better put, why she was feigning incompetence. Now that she knew that Sylvester didn’t tolerate individuals wanting to take advantage of him, the witch was showing her true face. She didn’t care about him, she never did. He’d been the foolish one, the one who’d actually believed she had sincere feelings for him in the past. But he wasn’t bitter, no. If anything, Sylvester was the epitome of bitterness, and not the usual kind. He’d forgotten about her, her whereabouts, her everything. But now, suddenly, he wanted nothing else but see her ruined, begging for his mercy.

Her following remark, the one about his age in particular, got him even angrier than before. Of course, the man kept his cool demeanour. Sylvester, if anything, did not want to have her thinking that she’s won this battle. In the end, opportunistic women such as herself did not deserve even the illusion of winning, let it be an actual win. His smirk remained, and as Sylvester finished putting back on one of his gloves, his weight gently shifted from one leg to another, as he gracefully started arranging his other glove as well.

“Oh, I’m an open book for sure. You saw right through me.” Sylvester said nonchalantly, and despite his remark having sarcasm within, there wasn't any other kind of emotion revealed in it. “In the end, you’re offering me the perfect excuse to see you again, in court, where aurors would’ve dug out all of your past.” His emphasis was naturally suggestive, Sylvester arched an eyebrow, as his smirk got more demeaning. “Can’t wait to read you as well as you read me.” He added teasingly, if not a bit contemptuously.

“Very well, Barbie. Good luck.” The Victorian added, as Varvara left. He then pulled out his own wand and levitated the stack of paperwork, the quill and the ink, and made his way towards the reception. Surely, a beautiful nurse will complete the forms for him, since, in the end, he was poisoned and couldn’t do it himself, something that a proper healer would have known. Tsk, tsk Barbie.

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