(1941-07-01) Who's a Pretty Bird?
Details for Who's a Pretty Bird?
Summary: Poor Anson. After staying by Morrow's bedside as she recovers from her own transformation, he suffers one, too… just in time to be 'helped' by Oberon. And may very well end up eaten by a rather ill-tempered wildcat. Lestrange makes the most of some time alone with Morrow.
Date: July 1st, 1941
Location: St Mungos
Plot: Zoanthropy Epidemic

It's been almost twenty-four hours exactly since Anson discovered a tiger where his date was meant to be. And in those twenty-four hours, he has not left Morrow's side — except to rush home, change, and return. He's dressed casually in a knit shirt and slacks now, stretched out in a chair beside the hospital bed, his feet in another chair.

He's reading a book - cue the suspenseful music and the shock. Anson has never been a big reader before, unless it has to do with Quidditch. This, it seems, has more to do with advanced potion making. The Quidditch jock is studying? Over the summer? Something is very far out of joint.

Licking his finger, he turns the page, glancing over to see whether Morrow has come out of her sedated sleep.

Not quite. Though there's a sudden shift and stirring that suggests the brunette is finally breaking the surface of the magic-induced slumber. Frowning as awareness begins to filter in to her groggy sense, Morrow grumbles and throws an arm across her eyes in a habitual sort of mannerism. Surely she can't have a hangover already? She doesn't remember attending any parties yesterday… though that's not exactly unusual, either. Amnesia tends to follow the best shenanigans. But.. oh. Oh, it doesn't follow these ones!

Sitting up suddenly with a gasp, one swift motion and the sheets held tight against her chest, the girl blinks dumbly at the closed curtain encircling her hospital bed, then turns her vivid eyes toward her only obvious source of explanation: Anson.

"How did.. why.." It's extremely rare to see this young lady looking like.. well, such a damsel. Morrow doesn't do vulnerable, generally. Not unless the affectation of it can benefit her somehow, anyway. But this is the real deal. She turns very pale as she regards the boy, the colour fleeing her dainty features in a rush. Uh oh.. don't faint. Fainting is not good. Especially when your only visitor is more likely to think it's swooning.

Anson swings out of the chair quickly, feet hitting the ground. "You're alright." He stands, hurrying over to a pitcher of water and pouring a cup. "Everything's alright. You're safe now." He brings the cup to Morrow's side, making a note of that paleness, that unsteadiness. "Here.. The doctors said you'd be thirsty when you woke up."

It seems as though Anson intends to hold the cup to Morrow's lips, relishing — though surely not aware that he's relishing — this helplessness. "They don't know quite what happened yet, Morrow. But you're not the only one. They've had a few others, they say." And then he spots the tiger-ears through Morrow's hair, and Anson smiles — a sweet, ingenuous expression.

"Do you remember much of what happened?" There's a bit of hesitancy in the question. After all, he did hit her with quite the Stunner. Among other awkward problems.

The brunette takes the cup swiftly, rather than let the boy bring it to her lips. She's confused, not an invalid! ..right? "..thank you." Grudgingly polite, she murmurs this before taking a sip and yes, it does help. Savoring the cool water, Morrow closes her blue eyes for a moment, simply letting Anson chatter, as he's prone to. They're still closed, in fact, when she begins to speak. "Yes, Anson. I remember." The tone is dangerously calm.. and those perky little ears twitch as if to flatten backwards before simply returning to their alert state. Raising her dark lashes deliberately slowly, she fixes a decidedly sullen look upon her visitor. "..you stunned me. Twice. Was that entirely necessary?" It probably was, in all fairness. She might have erm.. eaten him, otherwise. But she seems to have found reason to be at least mildly petulant about being knocked unconscious. Twice. TWICE!

Taking another sip of water, she begins to relax; half-turning to set the cup down on the table by her bed. Loosing a deep, oddly benevolent sigh, she leans back against the high-piled pillows and clasps her hands primly atop the woolen blanket covering her. "..not the only one? So.. other people are turning into tigers willy-nilly?" One of the feline ears poking through her silky tresses twitches, flicking once as if irritated. She doesn't seem to have noticed them yet. Thank goodness.

"Well.. Er, yes. It was necessary. You were about to eat me. Both times." Anson smiles hugely, as though it's all been a great lark. "In fact, the second time, I probably saved you from eating some poor little kid. Or an old granny. Poor lady had to be led off for hot chocolate." This isn't the way he anticipated getting next to Morrow in bed, but life is full of surprises.

"And what about you? Shouldn't I be angry that you tackled me? Twice? As a giant tiger?" He's jesting, clearly. Morrow's recovery seems to have stifled any concern he was apt to show — after all, she doesn't like her weaknesses to be viewed. Settling back into his chair, Anson shakes his head idly. "No one else has been a tiger. There were a magpie and a panther, though."

"Tigers? Tigers are special." He reaches out to touch Morrow's arm lightly. There's something odd about his touch. It feels a bit too soft for his fingertips.

There is a little knock at the door, which opens to permit the entry of two wizards, each levitating an obnoxiously large bouquet of colourful flowers. They each give Morrow a pleasant smile as they arrange the bouquets on either side of her bed.

"Cheers, lads," comes a familiar voice just as the delivery men leave. Oberon Lestrange steps into the room with a soft smile, holding a single long-stem rose of deep blue-green, like a stormy sea. "Hello, gorgeous. Heard you weren't feeling well." He approaches the bed and extends the rose right past Anson to Morrow, as if the Gryffindor were invisible.

"I didn't.. I mean.. you.." Uncharacteristic again is Morrow fumbling for a retort. She really must be feeling a tad under the weather. "I did no such thing. It was the tiger." A calm smile follows as she smoothly regains her composure. Sort of. "Apparently you're annoying to me even when I'm not me. But umm.. well, thank you, I suppose. For making sure I was taken care of. Taken care of here having the meaning of 'knocked bloody unconscious'." Splaying the fingers of one hand out across her lap, the young lady examines her nails, the better to avoid Anson's gaze as she offers the awkward gratitude. No more claws! Alas. But at least no more of her belongings will end up shredded. Those poor pillows. "For what it's worth, Abbott.. I'm.. well, I'd probably feel bad if I'd hurt you." Probably feel bad. That's as close to kindness as he's likely ever gotten, from her.

Morrow seems about to speak further, prompted to return her focus by that featherlight touch, perhaps; her arms folding across her midsection in an ever so slightly defensive manner… but then there's a new arrival. Or several, to be exact. Blinking as the enormous bouquets are placed either side of her, grasping her wits enough to return a bemused smile to the two unfamiliar wizards, the brunette then relents to a slow smile of comprehension at the sound of the approaching voice. "Oberon." Alright, yes, admittedly there's a pleased warmth in her tone. But as she reaches to accept the single stem the dark haired Lestrange offers, the rumbling purr that rises from her chest seems to surprise her as much as anyone. Clearing her throat, she lowers her eyes - incidentally almost the exact hue of that rose.. bravo. "Ahem. Pardon me. A lingering side-effect, I suppose." And to Oberon, as she valiantly ignores the faint blush assailing her cheeks, she offers a "Thank you.", before looking to Anson. Is he likely to want to tell the tale? It's his, after all.

A sour expression comes over Anson's features as Oberon makes his admittedly dashing entrance. It deepens at that purr. But there's something else going on, too. His fingers, if one were to look, are thinning. That is to say, they are growing narrower and finer. He doesn't seem to notice. To be fair, it's happening gradually. He finally masters his expression and summons a smile. "I'd feel bad if you had eaten me, too, Morrow."

Explanation is required here. He looks up to Oberon. "It's like this, Lestrange," he begins, civilly enough. "When I came by for tea yesterday" Oh, so he was at Morrow's, was he? "There was a tiger in Morrow's bedroom and no sign of Morrow." He puffs up a bit. His hands are turning a brilliant emerald green, and seem to be spreading out — it's an illusion, however. That's just the feathers sprouting from his skin. It's already spread to his forearms.

"Well. There was a bit of a fight, and I ended up Stunning the tiger and going for help." He's clearly striving for modesty here. Or false modesty, in this case. "I went for help. When we came back — Constable Angle and I — the tiger had gone out the window and into a park. So I lured it out again." All true, so far as it goes. "I used myself as bait," he adds. Gryffindors. "And once we'd Stunned it again, I noticed.. well, it was wearing Morrow's necklace. It was Morrow." More feathers.

Oberon feigns surprise when Anson speaks. "Abbott! I didn't even notice you there," he says with such sincerity. "You can hardly blame me, though, with such beauty in the room. You understand." He is so eager to dismiss Anson again that the changes overcoming the other boy go momentarily unnoticed. "Morrow, are you feeling better? You'll let me know if there is anything you need, and I'll see it done." He is overcome by a sudden frown, and looks back to Anson. "Just what were you doing going into Morrow's bedroom, anyhow? Stars above, you're one desperate s-…what in the world?" He blinks, caught off guard as he finally notices the feathers. "Stop messing about, Abbott. Do you have to try to make everything about you?"

Either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the displeasure writ across Anson's features at the heroic arrival of Lestrange, Morrow's watching the latter for his reaction as the story unfolds, looking ever so slightly sheepish. Well for goodness' sake, who turns into a tiger for no apparent reason and starts terrorising little old ladies? It's not exactly the most ladylike of pasttimes, is it. Still, at least he's here. And with flowers. Smiling once more, heartened by the compliment, the girl nods gently in assent. "I'm feeling better.. still a little drowsy. But better."

Drawing a breath and parting her lips, presumably to interject with some detail the Gryffindor has omitted in his retelling - or to offer some explanation to soothe that frown darkening Oberon's features - she casts her stormy eyes his way and.. nothing. The originally intended words never come to be voiced as she finds herself staring at his elongating fingers. "..Anson?"

As the lad continues on, blithely unawares at first, she's slowly easing across the bed away from him. "..Anson. Anson! Your hands.." Still clutching her long-stemmed rose, she lowers one bare foot down the far side of her bed to the cold tiles. If she turned into a massive predatory cat, what ferocious beast might he become? She's not overly keen to find out.. assuming that's what's happening? This has been a very odd day, for the whole quarter hour or so she's been awake. Hey, maybe she's still dreaming? Brr. Nope. The floor wouldn't be so cold. She rises to a slightly wobbly stand, keeping her eyes on the golden-haired boy all the while.

The changes are happening quickly now. Anson is — well, his arms have transformed themselves by now into wings. Unfortunately for him, they're trapped beneath his clothing. And now he can't miss it — because it's painful. Those wings want to spread. His features are distorting as well, the roots of his perfect blond hair turning an iridescent blue. "What.. What's happening?" Gryffindor or no, there's fear in his voice. But he remembers Morrow, too. There is a duty here. He has to protect these two. Even Oberon.

His voice is strangely distorted, closer to a squawk than a command. "Take her out of here and lock the door." It takes him a few tries to get the words out around his newly-forming beak. And then he screams — the clothing is crushing his wings by now. His legs are shrinking. He falls to the ground. Blue feathers are jutting from his eyebrows, and black ones from his cheekbones.

"What the bloody hell?!" Oberon is quick to draw his wand, moving around the bed to reach for Morrow's hand. "Stay behind me." So, maybe there is some chivalry in the Black Knight of Walpurgis after all. He moves to keep himself between Morrow and the Anson bird as he circles the room toward the door, ready to happily stun the creature into submission. "Is that what happened to you, Morrow?"

From the hallway outside, one might start to pick up on the yowls and hisses of one very unhappy feline who's letting the world knows she is NOT pleased with being locked up. The voice of a man speaking to a woman, can be heard as well, "It was in the market, making a commotion. I stunned her and brought her in. These are her clothes as well.." The group is soon to reach the door that Oberon and Morrow are about to try and pass through…

Stumbling just the once before righting herself and allowing Oberon to place her behind him, Morrow peeks around his shoulder with wide eyes, unable really to see what's happening once the Anson-bird topples to the floor. "I.. I think so." she replies, softly. "It was all a bit of a blur." At the sound of that scream, though, she instinctively starts forward. What girl can ignore the cry of an animal - or.. boy? - in pain? She halts herself, though, rather than instigate a struggle which Lestrange would certainly win. She's not that stupid. Instead, she settles for grasping lightly at the taller boy's sleeve with her fingers, still backing slowly toward the door on bare tiptoes. "..what should we do? We should fetch someone, shouldn't we?" Well, Anson did just foolishly tell about heading for her bedroom. Does he really want to be left in the very capable, neck-wringing hands of Oberon Lestrange?

"I'm stuck.." Anson manages to squawk intelligible words. And now he's down at ground level, managing to wriggle out of his pants on a pair of black talons. With the talons comes a remarkably beautiful tail — emerald and sapphire feathers, as long as a man's whole arm. Or perhaps even longer. He's pecking at his shirt, biting at it, trying to pull it off of him. "Help!" It's barely intelligible now.

His face is covered in feathers, his features almost completely birdlike, his hair replaced by downy, iridescent-blue feathers of its own. And his eyes are a golden, liquid, brown, completely different from his blue eyes. He staggers about on these tiny feet, clearly uncertain of what to do, still trying to disentangle himself from the knit shirt. When he opens his beak again, no words come out. Just a sharp, piercingly loud, cry.

It is now perfectly apparent what he is becoming. Anson is turning into a peacock.

Oberon does his best to keep Morrow away from the transforming Anson, frowning at that impulse, but at least she stops herself first. "Go get the orderlies," he says. "I'll handle…oh, Merlin. He's a peacock. Bloody perfect." Even in the midst of the tense situation, he cannot help a smirk forming on his lips. He steps closer to Anson, wand aimed. "Hold still, bird-brain. I will stun you into next week." He kneels, looking for an opportunity to slip his wand into Anson's shirt to cut it free with a quick Severing Charm.

Loosing her hold on Oberon's shirt as he moves forward, Morrow watches for a moment longer, warily. But when the Slytherin doesn't just bring his boot down on the bird's fragile neck she takes heart, turning to open the door of the room and wrapping her free arm around her rather overlarge nightgown. It must be a standard issue… Morrow would never own such a hideous garment. Pulling the door inward, she's about to step out, only to halt abruptly as she almost collides with the orderlies and their err… distinctly unhappy cat?

About the time that Oberon is calling for Morrow to seek the orderlies, and the girl opens the door, the group from the hallway is looking to step inside. There is one cute constable holding a cage with a rather angry wildcat hissing and spitting inside of it, throwing herself against the bars, along with a healer who's questioning the constable. Of course, this all comes to a stop when eyes fall upon the peacock within the room. "What…" The constable begins to question.

It's then that the wildcat manages to break the lock on the cage door, and escapes with a yowl that has to mean, "FREEDOM!" She tears away from the constable and healer, jumping from floor to bed, and growling the whole way. Wait, there's a bird? Well, at least Anton is safe. For now. Let her calm down enough to realize she's hungry, and he might not be then!

Oberon Lestrange is holding a wand to his chest? This cannot possibly end well. Anson jerks backward instinctively, his tail rising and spreading in a beautiful peacock display. He nearly falls over, still rather clumsy on his new legs, and he seems as surprised as anyone about the colorful array of feathers behind him. But when Oberon tries to sneak a hand into his shirt, Anson — already panicked, already confused — lashes out.

He drives down with his beak at Oberon's fingers, screaming his bird-call again. And he's still stuck in his shirt, which hampers his movements. His wings can be seen inside his sleeves, flexing, trying to spread. His long neck jerks sideways as he swipes again and again at Oberon's hand. And he's a big bird — a little shorter than Anson, but almost six feet long. There's some decent force behind his bites.

"GAH! Damn it!" Oberon howls in pain at the savage pecks from the Gryffincock…a term he mentally vows never to use again. The first he endures, even as it draws blood, but the second forces him to retract his hand. "You bloody twat! I'm trying to help you!" Not one to give up easily, Oberon lunges for Anson's neck to try to get that sharp beak under control, but undoubtedly looking like he's trying to strangle the bird.

What is going on here? That's a good question! The constanble pulls out his wand as soon as the wildcat gets free of the cage that he allows to drop to the ground. Pointing it towards the feline that goes bounding across empty beds, he tries to catch her once more, "Stupefy!" Red sparks jet from his wand, only to hit the wall when the feline jumps to the floor and slinks under a bed near the peacock. A paw darts out, batting at the tailfeathers that stick up into her face when the bird falls over backwards, still caught in the shirt. With Oberon yelling, the feline slinks away, darting under another bed.

The healer fusses at the constable, "This is a hospital! No need for that!" Orderlies are called to help.

Pissed is the wildcat, however, and after slinking under the beds back towards the open door where constable and healer both stand, she shoots out from under the bed, heading straight for them - she intends to get out of this stinky and loud place! Before she escapes into the hospital, the constanble brings her down with another flick of his wand, "Stupefy!" Once more, for a second time this day, the wildcat falls over unconscious at the healer's feet.

"I think I will leave her with you now…." Says the Constable, bending down to pick up the cage with it's broken door, "I should return this to the witch in the market who let me borrow it.." And with that, he turns and heads out.

Instinctively, Morrow hops aside as the wildcat streaks into the room, still holding tight to the door handle and balanced on tiptoe. With wide eyes she looks between the pair outside and the chaos ensuing within her formerly quite tranquil little recovery space. Well. This escalated quickly. As the nonplussed constable joins the dots between the growling feline atop the bed and the now empty carrier in his hands and starts after the other creature, she simply shakes her head in frustration. Let them handle that.

"Anson, stop." Morrow directs the instruction crossly toward the peacock as he squawks and flusters. "He's trying to help you." Too late, though. The bird's already laying into Oberon's hand with a vengeance. With a glance aside at the cat, the young lady flattens the striped ears poking through her dark hair in a warning gesture.. wait, what? Oh yes. Morrow has tiger ears atop her head. She doesn't appear to have noticed. Anyway. Abandoning the doorway as the healer starts calling for assistance, she starts forward to Lestrange, and the vicious Gryffin-.. dor. "Anson Abbott, stop that right now, or I'll sell you to the nearest quill maker myself!" Yes, no doubt those tail-feathers would fetch a fine price. Wincing as she notes the smears of crimson marring Oberon's hand - that's right, the one about the bird's elegant neck - she does at least try to gentle her tone. "Just hold still.." She'd cast the damn spell herself but.. she's not entirely sure where her belongings are.

Beyond her, out in the corridor, a voice of authority seems to be bringing some measure of order to the situation. Virg Goshawk is a pragmatic professional, regardless of the havoc currently being wrought. Scooping up the unconscious feline at his feet, the younger healer hurries out, presumably to seek advice on what to do with her.

Anson seems determined to break free of Oberon's grasp — until that voice cuts in. Blood dripping from his beak, he goes very still and — if it's possible for a peacock to look dignified — draws himself up, long neck stretching up and up. He'll endure this, then, it seems. The cat and all the commotion — and its paws on his tail — are taken in with a slight widening of those liquid-gold eyes. But then the cat's gone, and he's relaxing again. Back to just one threat. Oberon Lestrange has a hand around his neck.

He stares from Oberon to Morrow, then back to Oberon. Surely the Lestrange boy won't torture him in front of Morrow — that would backfire. And so, regaining his bird-like composure even further, Anson deliberately winks. It takes some effort, and involves a spasmodic twitch of his head, but he pulls it off.

"Finally," Oberon mutters as he once again slips his wand into Anson's shirt, this time even angling it into a sleeve to better cut the wing free. "Bloody maniac," he snarls, readying the spell…and then he balks, tilting his head. Did that bird just wink at him? That son of a… "DIFFINDO!" He declares, casting the Severing Charm as he slides his wand up along Anson's sleeve like a knife, cutting cleanly through the shirt material. But…whoops! The wand is angled wrong, and the tip drags along the wing for a good five inches, slicing into Anson's delicate flesh and feathers.

Stooping over the pair so she can watch - and, presumably, keep the Anson bird calm by remaining in his line of sight - Morrow rests one palm on Oberon's shoulder, ignoring his muttering. He does have good reason, really, what with the bloodied hand and err.. the winking. The charm is well cast, and she looses a breath she hadn't realised she was holding; dark-lashed eyes following the motion beneath the fabric. Bad couple of days for Anson's wardrobe, huh? She can't see, of course, that slice carving into the bird's delicate skin. But no doubt she'll hear all about it in a second or two…

Anson screeches in real agony as his wing is neatly fileted by Oberon's wand. The sound is so distinct that it really cannot be faked. Crimson beads of blood run down his beautiful emerald plumage. His wing is limp and useless, the delicate flesh quite damaged by those 'accidental' five inches. He lashes out with his beak toward Oberon's exposed face, still screeching, his plumage waving back and forth. If a bird can project rage and pain, this one is doing so.

But unfortunately for Anson, he's really not used to this long neck and his beak goes by Oberon's ear. Still, the intent was quite clear. The peacock would undoubtedly go pale if he were still a human. As it is, the bird tries to step toward Morrow, as though the girl will protect him from the ensuing payback.

Oberon recoils at the sudden attack, ducking his head to the side. The lad's years of fighting (all just misunderstandings, Headmaster, he swears) and Quidditch have honed his reflexes. Oberon's anger has surfaced, not into a wild frenzy, but a cold, predatory glare, barely containing the rage burning behind his eyes. "Morrow, get out of the way," he warns, pushing himself to his feet, clutched wand rising to point at the peacock.

Morrow never did take much interest in Care of Magical Creatures, let alone mundane ones. Well, aside from her beloved cat. But even she can see there's something wrong with the bird's wing. And she even has a glimmer of common sense about it, reaching for the light blanket lying in a crumpled heap upon her bed. Even a child knows the best thing to do with any panicking, small thing is to immobilise it. Of course, in those few seconds of distraction, she misses the swift altercation between the pair; turning to find the peacock behind her bare feet and a furious looking Oberon right in front of her. While her feline ears flatten against her dark mane in unease, she reflexively reaches a hand out, settling it, if she can, upon Lestrange's white-knuckled wielding hand in a staying gesture. The blanket is still held tight in her own opposite grasp, forgotten for the moment, and she quite deliberately seeks to meet Oberon's gaze with her own stormy eyes, intervening between that icy glare and the injured bird at her heels.

Would she have found the right words to pacify him? Well, we'll never know, now. A couple of orderlies hurry into the room, taking in the scene in surprise before settling their attention on the peacock. Presumably they're beginning to get a handle on how this thing works by now, if not the whys and wherefores. Regardless, still steadily searching the taller boy's features and holding her ground, Morrow addresses them calmly. "It would seem this.. condition.. is contagious. The young gentleman at my feet is one Anson Abbott. Do see he's made comfortable." Only then do her intense eyes flit pointedly down at Oberon's hand. Then back up. It's up to him if he's going to draw attention to it. Frankly, she's just trying to keep him from snapping the bird's neck.

This is wrong. Morrow is defending him. This is backwards. Anson opens his beak again to cry out, a sharply-piercing sound. But one of the orderlies — perhaps assuming that the peacock personality has taken over — promptly snaps his beak shut with a hand around it. "Enough of that, now," the fellow says, kindly enough. "There, there." He even clucks and makes other soothing noises, trying to keep Anson calm.

The second orderly crouches down and examines the wound in Anson's wing. "Crippled, I'm afraid. We'll have to heal him once he returns to his human form, but it will have a scar. This happened when you were trying to cut off his shirt?" The question is perfectly innocent, directed up at Oberon. "I'll have one of the doctors take a look at it, but we're simply not well-staffed for veterinary needs."

And maybe the orderlies are right. It's hard to tell for sure, but the gleam of intelligence in Anson's eyes is beginning to fade.

Though seemingly calm at a glance, Oberon burns with quiet anger. Even as the orderlies take control of the situation, his wand remains aimed at Anson, an unspoken hex lingering on the tip of his tongue. It takes some coaxing before he finally meets Morrow's gaze and allows his wand hand to lower. "Keep a close eye on that one, boys," he says flatly to the orderlies. "He likes to wander into girls' bedrooms. Can't be too careful."

In spite of herself, and the situation, Morrow's lips twitch to a smirk in the wake of the deadpan warning. And, the moment Oberon begins to lower his wand, she shifts her hand instead to settle at his shoulder, looking suddenly very weary. Well she did only wake up from multiple Stuns not so long ago. "Yes.. he wandered into my bedroom. And I attempted to rip his throat out. I'd say we were square." Venturing a half-step closer to Lestrange, quite aware of that simmering fury beneath the surface, the brunette musters the most enigmatic of smiles, casting aside the now unnecessary blanket and lavishing Oberon with a gaze of blatant admiration. Or an excellent impression of it, anyway. "I had no idea you were so protective, Lestrange. It rather suits you."

Perhaps unfortunately for him, it would seem the proximity has a purpose. No, not that sort of purpose. Leaning in, she murmurs in a soft undertone, "..let them look at your hand." She draws back again, solemnly regarding his expression, then looks aside at the orderly handling the bird, arching a brow. "..I thought he'd injured himself struggling?" There's the faintest shadow of a frown as she considers the implication.. but she doesn't challenge Oberon on it. Now is not the time.

Oberon inhales deeply as Morrow draws so near, taking in the scent of her. He boldy wraps his free arm around her back to support her. She looks so worn out, after all. The tall young man dips his head, briefly pressing his forehead to hers as he murmurs, "I'm protective of the people I care about." Undoubtedly a short list. He looks back to the orderlies to address their question at last. "Yes, I cut him. I tried to remove the shirt with a Severing Charm and he pecked at my face." He shrugs helplessly. "No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose."

"Oh, no, this is certainly a magical cut," the orderly says amiably, answering Morrow. And then to Oberon. "These things happen. I wouldn't beat yourself up about it, young man. Your friend was undoubtedly scared." He seems absolutely oblivious to the rage that practically radiates from Oberon. Or maybe orderlies see so many sick, injured, angry, insane, and otherwise unpleasant people that they're just immune to it. And they really shouldn't be, in this case.

The peacock tilts its head up at Oberon, then at Morrow. If Anson is still in there, it seems that he's struggling to maintain his own self. At Oberon's last words, the bird actually hops up and down twice. And then starts walking in a circle. And stops. Anson's fading. One of the orderlies begins to gently herd him out the door, and soon enough, he's gone down the hall.

Well. Aside from the almost maiming fellow students, or eating little old ladies, or.. having one's eyes nearly pecked out by an enraged peacock.. things could be worse. Anson's in safe hands, she has recovered quite well - and now she has lots and lots of flowers and Oberon Lestrange's arm around her. Morrow leans into the embrace, actually quite grateful for the support seeing as she'd really rather have still been snoozing in her bed, and, following a nod of languid assent at the statement of 'these things happen', she perhaps would have settled her head in that nook under Lestrange's chin. Only. There's.. something..

An ear flits once. Twice. Irritated by the touch, perhaps; just like any cat trying to get comfortable. Bewildered, the brunette straightens a little, raising one hand to smooth over her silky hair. It halts abruptly as it encounters the new addition. "Wh-.." Those dark-lashed eyes go wide as she stares at the boy before her. "Oberon, what.." Both ears are now twitching this way and that in consternation.

The hopping bird goes largely unnoticed, at least by the girl, as she tries to fathom what it is she can feel, but not see. "Do I have kitty ears?!" is the last thing Anson-bird would hear, as he's shoo'd out into the hallway.

"You didn't know?" Oberon winces in a performance of sympathy. "It's not so bad, Morrow. Actually…they're pretty cute." He gives her an encouraging smile. "But I'm sure the Healers will untransfigure them soon. Come on, let's get you back into bed. You need your rest."

"..really? You're not just saying that, are you..?" The young lady looks decidedly dubious, as well as quite perturbed at the sensation as she gently explores the shape of the tiger ears. There's no help for it - even pulling her dark tresses around them can't disguise them, and in the end she abandons the endeavour with a sigh. "Alright.." Following that flare of defiance a few moments ago, she's now apparently willing to concede to Oberon's suggestions without argument, pushing herself somewhat reluctantly away from the solid comfort of his presence and padding toward the rumpled and messy bed. Pulling a face at the disarray, she pauses to straighten out the sheets as best she can.

"Is your hand alright?" Casting a sidelong glance toward the young man as she folds back the bedding, Morrow arches a brow. That concern actually appearss genuine. "I'm sorry about that… you were just trying to help him." Trying to ignore her twitching ears, she tucks her hair back from her face, the downward angle as she works sending the locks tumbling forward lazily. "He probably didn't mean to do it.." She doesn't stray too far down the path of defending Anson, knowing better.

"He winked at me. He knew exactly what he was doing." Oberon offers a hand to help Morrow into the bed, slipping so easily from enraged predator to a young gentleman. It's as if there are two distinct Oberons, one stepping back to allow the other to come forward in a perfectly sychronized dance. "I have to ask, Morrow. Why do you still let him crawl around after you? You know what he wants, don't you?"

"..oh." That's rather an inarguable point. Accepting the offered hand, Morrow hops up onto the edge of the bed lightly, then swings her legs around and under the covers, which she draws up to her waist before curling on her side; setting her jaw in the cup of one hand, elbow propped by the pillows. Much better. There's even a vaguely feline stretch, under the blankets, as she gets comfortable. Then she simply regards Oberon calmly, not seeming overly thrown by the shifting demeanour. She does it herself, rather often. Just.. not quite so ominously.

"I don't let him do anything. He's a big boy, he can do whatever he likes." Offering a languid curve of lips in a smile, Morrow curls up a little tighter, resting her head down on the pillows now with her arm curving beneath them. The other hand strays idly across toward the edge of the bed, fingers playfully outstretched toward the Slytherin. Are these lingering traits of her predatory alter-ego.. or just Morrow being Morrow? "What is it you think he wants?" The enquiry is all innocence, those big eyes adding to the effect.

Oberon can play the gentleman, but it won't stop him from stealing a glimpse of leg as she climbs into the bed. He helps with the sheets to tuck her in snugly before taking a seat at the edge of the mattress. His eyes flicker to the hand stalking toward him, and he leave it unimpeded, curious to see where it will go. "He wants the same thing I want," Oberon states boldly. "But I won't follow you around like a whimpering puppy, begging for it."

Morrow chuckles, low in her throat. And this time, when the sound meanders into a velvety purr, she doesn't bother trying to disguise it. Well, why bother. She has fluffy ears, for Merlin's sake. "No, I don't imagine you're quite the 'puppy' type.." she agrees, looking all at once amused and pleased by the forthright words. Shifting her weight to accommodate Oberon perching on the edge of the bed, she cants her head a touch in order to keep him in her sights, arching a brow and revealing a glimpse of her teeth in a slight grin. Would it be interesting, or foolish, to tease him? Wisely, perhaps, she decides not to push her luck quite yet. But those fingers do continue to glide across the expanse of sheet toward his, slowing and drawing to a halt a fraction away, without touching. "And what is this dreadful desire you both have, hm? My attention? You know full well you have that." That's a simple statement, but no less true for it. Morrow simply doesn't waste time on people who hold no interest for her.

Oberon's lips slowly curl into a cocky smirk. "Oh, I know I have your attention, and you have mine." He glances to her hand, but rather than slides his into it, he picks hers up by the wrist, gently turning it over. With his other hand, he begins to draw little circles in her palm, all the while giving her that confident smile. "What I want is you on my arm. I want your lips, kissing mine. I want to find out just how clever that mind of yours really is. And I want to flaunt it all in front of everyone. I want them to be jealous of us, and afraid of us." He shrugs. "Alright, that last one might not be quite what Anson wants."

Toe to toe, figuratively speaking, Morrow smirks right back, eyes heavy-lidded. "I know." A glance flits pointedly to one of the enormous bouquets on the nightstand. Yes, she's equally confident, when it comes to his interest. She allows her hand to be turned, fingertips curling inward just a little to begin with, in reflexive response to the ticklish sensation of those drawn circles. And, as Oberon speaks, that twist of amusement playing across her lips smoulders slowly into a more genuine smile. That expression of hers.. maybe a wolf would have suited her better than a big cat? But either one is predatory. "Well. It's a grand things to have your desires so firmly in mind, isn't it?" Shifting a little, she resettles her head, not taking her eyes from him now. "And there's nothing really to prevent you from taking everything you want, is there." That part's not exactly a question. More likely she's invitingly daring him, to see just how bold he is. Or whether he simply enjoys the opportunity for rivalry, of course. It's always one or the other, with boys. After a moment, she unhurriedly pushes herself upward, braced on the hand that remains beneath her pillows, and arches a vaguely haughty eyebrow; a blatant expression of 'well?'

Even her ears are pricked.

Oberon takes in a deep, slow breath to maintain his composure even while every nerve is on fire. The dance of their flitting gazes, the electricity in the touch of their fingers, the palpable tension of attraction, all of it is on the edge of exploding. Then that tone in her voice, that look daring him to back up his words with action. Oberon Lestrange has never run from a genuine challenge, and he isn't about to start now. "You're right. I always take what I want." He leans over Morrow, his unbloodied hand going to slip behind her neck, fingers sinking into her silken hair. He lifts gently, tilting her head up to receive him as he presses his lips to hers in a slow, tender kiss. He lingers there, tasting her for much longer than a gentleman should before finally setting her free, lowering her gently back to the pillow. "Get some rest, Morrow. I'll see you soon." He gives her a wolfish smile as he rises, and without another word he sweeps out of the room.

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