Bellamy sat on the edge of one of the hospital beds, his shoulders hunched and curled protectively around the newest cluster of scars on his chest. All of his major and visible injuries had been tended to by Matron Longbottom when he was still in the Shrieking Shack, but werewolf inflicted wounds never healed well, so the scars still burned dully and grew irritated under his shirt. His fingers softly prodded around the edges absently.
When he heard the door to the Hospital wing open, he slowly looked up. His bed was out of the way enough that he couldn’t be seen by just anyone who happened to walk in, but he still made the effort to shift out of sight, and was rewarded with an involuntary groan when he pulled the sore muscles along his spine.