Terry Boot pretended to consult his clipboard, but was actually watching his partner closely. He knew that Blaise could sense him, but he didn't care. This is Ward 16, and Terry had to monitor Blaise; Augustan Oath and all. He had to make sure his partner wouldn't do anything wild, like kiss the patients.
Truth be told, he didn't really want to—Blaise is a brilliant Healer, and you had to allow a certain degree of madness for brilliance to flourish. But this wasn't art school, it was St. Mungo's, and the senior Healers would kick both their bums out in a cinch if they got wind of them trying anything less than conventional.
With the situation at hand, even less than conventional is preferable to nothing, Terry thought. He could recall the first news articles, which were inconspicuous two-paragraph reports on the bottom left corner of the Medical News section of the Prophet. "Fledgling Wigtown Chaser Snoozes in Game 7." "Hitwizard Falls Asleep on the Job." They were written with a humorous slant, probably chosen to fill the page with fluff. But the reports became grave—people getting accidentally maimed or killed because they fell asleep on the job. When the operator of the Hogwarts Express passed out mid-trip, the Ministry knew to take things seriously. So far, no luck.
And it was Day 33.
"Keep a close look on her," Terry heard Blaise say. He didn't have to look to know whom he was referring to. Blaise caught his eye and said nothing, heading out the door.
"No good news for Percy and Audrey, eh?" Terry said lightly. Blaise shook his head, a shadow on his face. Let it go, Terry wanted to tell him. Too young, too innocent, and—asleep.
"No good news for anyone, other than nobody seems to be dead yet," Blaise said. "I keep going back to my readings in folk Healing techniques. I found something, but I'm not sure if…"
Blaise trailed off, and Terry nodded, assuring his partner that he knew what the other one was saying.
"If the Senior Healers would allow such irreverence," he finished for Blaise, who smirked.
"Come on. That ground Gurdyroot did Mrs. Waters a ton of help. It actually made her breathe better, which is more than could be said of the potions our Apothecary has been making."
"It just can't be with the Slumbering Jack," Terry said, rolling his eyes and quoting a supervisor. The Prophet nicknamed the disease the Slumbering Jack, and Terry found it offensive, to say the least. But it stuck.
"Wish I could get a chance. Then they won't make me stop in the middle of administering my medicine. It would work, you know it."
Well, he was right. This is Blaise Zabini, potions master. Terry turned to his partner.
"Tell me what the cure is. I'll help you." Memos be damned, Terry thought.
Blaise hedged, and Terry pressed on. Eventually, Blaise told him of the cure. When he was finished listening, Terry roared with laughter.
"No wonder you're raring to implement this," he said. "Playing prince charming for Lucy Weasley?"
Blaise refused to answer, and Terry was almost sorry he said that.
They were never in the same circles in school. Blaise ran with the "cool kids," and Terry was a drifter. Sometimes with Ernie, others with Justin, never with the same people for more than once a day. But right now Terry saw a look Blaise seldom wore. He took his partner's wrist and shook it.
"Please, Terry," was all he said. "She must live."
He kept quiet for Blaise many times, but this one surprised him the most. He wasn't supposed to see it—the ward was quiet, no more visitors, just the steady breathing of sleeping patients. But Terry saw a figure over Lucy Weasley's bed. He almost hit the stranger with the tray of wolfsbane he was carrying, only the stranger spoke in a familiar voice.
"Calm down, it's me."
"Blaise? Why are you here?"
As if in response, his partner looked at Lucy. Oh, no, Terry thought then.
"Since when?" he asked his partner, whose eyebrows were fraught with misery.
"Months ago. Her twentieth birthday, I think. I caught a glimpse of her in a mirror, and I haven't forgotten since. And now she's here."
And now she's a patient, and you're a Healer, Terry wanted to spit out, but he bit his tongue. He didn't understand his partner, and he never will. Popular with the girls, especially female Healers (notoriously hard to impress), but snubs them all for a kid barely out of her teens. One who hasn't even talked to him. Or maybe that's the attraction.
He could forgive his partner's many eccentricities, but this bordered on unethical. They could both get their licenses revoked, if anyone found out.
"Kissing the infected? You do realize that it violates so many Healer laws."
"It's not a kiss. It's transference of wizarding energy. The pixie dust saps them of their energy, putting them in this state. I don't know who got this much pixie dust, or why—I guess it's for the Aurors to worry about. But the cure is transference."
Terry had an idea who it was. He'd been corresponding with Dean Thomas, hasn't stopped since Seamus contracted the disease. Jealous ex-penpal, working on pixie dust, sends Seamus a vial and makes him sleep. And starts an epidemic in the process.
"It's just hard to realize he won't write me again," the girl said. At least, according to a furious Dean. "I will miss the Chocolate Frogs the most," she reportedly added, which only angered Seamus' best mate further. What person in their right mind would do this, he said to Terry.
Well, Blaise Zabini's not your partner, he thought.
"Are you ready?" he asked Blaise, who didn't reply. Terry didn't expect him to—if he were in that situation, he wouldn't even be breathing. At least, if it doesn't work, no one will ever know.
"Why do you have to borrow mine?" Blaise snapped, looking at the Healer robes in Terry's hands. Lucy was wearing nothing under her paper shift, and he thought she'd appreciate something to throw on. In case she woke up. Terry shrugged at her partner.
"Your thing, your clothes," he said, and Blaise glowered at him before facing Lucy. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and brushed her lips on hers, jerking back up as quickly as he swooped down.
Her eyes fluttered open and stared at them and at her surroundings incredulously. Blaise looked like he was scrambling for something to say. And for the first time in his life, Terry had no commentary running in his head.
Written for the Points and Prompts competition (Prompts 1 & 2, 4-12).