The real shit luck of being an intensely magical creature with innate, undreamed of healing properties is that once they're gone, you're pretty much fucked. Fawkes is going to be limping on that scratched leg a while, he suspects, and as he preens at a loose tailfeather (there's nothing to be done save to yank it out completely) there's a distinct air of wounded dignity.
He leaves the feathers on the floor, hops back up to the table, and edges towards the sill. Nice meeting you, Evelyn. So nice. Such friend. Wow.
Evy reaches out to touch the bird, perhaps try to figure out just how injured it is--then hesitates and stops, because really, if it's limping away, then she really ought to let it.
"I'm sorry," she tells it, however silly it is to apologize to a bird. "He didn't mean to hurt you, really."
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He leaves the feathers on the floor, hops back up to the table, and edges towards the sill. Nice meeting you, Evelyn. So nice. Such friend. Wow.
Albus clearly needs better taste.
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"I'm sorry," she tells it, however silly it is to apologize to a bird. "He didn't mean to hurt you, really."
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And then gets the fuck out of dodge.