Title: Wilting Away
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or an of the characters so sue me not for I have little except for this mind in my head.
Other things: This came out rather morbid.. with slash nestled in it..
Pairings: Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott somewhat
Author's Note: This is a sequel to Will You Remember. And it's dedicated to Auto! Cause..she's the only person I know of that liked the first one.
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They found him of course. The very next morning. They hadn't even known that he wasmissing since prisoner patients were taking care of before the regulars. After all, the prisoners still has some role to play that loomed before them...once they got well enough to take it on that is.
And of course he was immediately removed and scolded like he was some horrid, disobedient child.
A nurse led hm back to his own far off room while idly chattering to him (or to herself) about how these lousy security measures were going to have to be improved.
Really, if an insane patient could wander into the restricted section of the hospital then what could happen if the lingering forces of the Dark side got it into their heads to attempt to free their members?
Oh yes, there were still Dark forces. There will always be a dark side and a light side no matter what, that is simply how nature works. This particular lingering residue of what had once been a grand army. And the Light side took up their job of weeding them out with a vengeance.
The same vengeance that they were using to the punish the ones they had their hands on. Already ten had received the fatal kiss their numbers included: Goyle, Adrian, Senior Nott and Bulstrode. And the number held within Azkaban was ridiculous as well as unsanitary. Hell, the public had even gone after Draco Malfoy and most had yet to be convinced that the infamous blonde's loyalty belonged to the Order. Perhaps his act had been a tad too convincing. All these people slain and countless lives destroyed. They needed their scapegoats. The bittersweet fruits rewarded to the victors.
Theodore Not's trial had been postponed.
They wanted to wait until the man had regained his health before he was forced to undergo a trial so that he might receive his just dues. Let him be able to defend himself. That was the false justification they decorated their reasoning with. In truth they only wanted him to suffer all the more. Didn't he deserve the pain? Didn't they deserve the sadistic, rightful pleasure of administrating it?
Blaise Zabini didn't know anything about the war.
Obviously he knew who had won out in the end, he wasn't so far gone to not realize that. But he didn't know the battles, the murders, the slaughters. All the vicious details that were going to be smoothed out for the history textbooks, the victory speeches, the trials, the newspapers, the retellings, the biographies. What it had all cost both sides.
Whose hands in this world were now stained with the blood of others? Who was the victim and who was the criminal? Which of his former classmates would be able to see the Threastels now?
Not that there was a Hogwarts to go and visit and see them at.
Even he, with his limited knowledge, knew that the ancient school was no more. It was gone like some many others, not even a pile of debris to mark where it had once stood. And all the individuals who refused to leave the building beforehand were no more. Children would never again have to fear Filch.
Soon enough Blaise was returned to his own bed and given the usual dreary breakfast upon a tray.
It was most reaction they had gotten from either patient. There had been no sign of the least bit improvement in the two cases before their unplanned encounter.
What to do, what to do...
White robes, scattered yet organized notes, hush voices as decisions had to be made, choices that affected the lives that they held so easily within the palms of their hands.
"He's a murderer, you know. Can we really trust him with another patient?"
"Of course he's a murderer. He's Theodore Nott for Merlin's sake. And do you have any better idea? It's our best chance to get him back to normal. Anyway, what's the worst he could do? Kill a man who already wants to be dead?"
Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott were moved into the same room the very next day.
It was a secluded room with a single locked door (a small barred window giving way to a view of a currently deserted hallway) and two more windows with countless charms upon them graced one wall, giving a peek into an illusion of a grassy valley in the midst's of flowering. As if one was expected to believe that St. Mungo's was set in the middle of the country.
Four white barren walls, two ailing beds, a dresser set between them with a clay vase (with an unbreakable charm upon it) that held several fabric daises that gave off no scent whatsoever. It was a room that could and would pass any regulation test.
Immediately after they were brought in a nurse came with matching trays. Both had a bowl of oatmeal, a piece of toast and three slices of apple. There were even two paper cups of water.
Nott didn't so much as glance at his food.
Blaise neglected to eat as well.
An hour later the same nurse returned and collected the untouched trays without so much as a scolding.
That evening Blaise crawled into Nott's bed.
He received no response.
So he just curled into the other's warm side, buried his face into the starved chest, the comforting steady sound coming from within it and shut his eyes. Perfectly content.
By midnight one of Nott's hands was entangled fondly in the other's hair and both were in a deep sleep, lost in the worlds their subconscious minds had created for them.
There's never an exchange of words. No conversation at all. During the day Blaise behaves as he always had within the walls of St. Mungo's. Nott merely acts if he was a shell. A listless, empty covering with absolutely nothing inside of him. At times it's unnerving, at others comforting. Blaise could simply settle beside the lump figure, hold him. Sometimes he brushes through the other's hair using his fingers, sometimes he just leans against him and whatnot. It is enough for him.
Neither eats. Food is constantly brought and then taken away three times a day without the least bit of change. The nurse is always the same woman, the food thankfully different each time around.
It was never clear if Nott felt any hunger. If he was past it or was truly wasting away. Blaise did though, an aching through the pit of his stomach that gradually wore away. Never a good sign.
One evening they were brought slices of strawberries with the rest of the dinner. There was always some sort of fruit in their meals. Had to keep up the appearance that the hospital was doing its very best to keep them healthy.
And this time Blaise didn't leave the food alone. Instead he took one of the small containers of strawberries and then joined his counterpart on what had nearly become their bed. Without a word or so much as a hesitation he plucked a piece of the crimson fruit, held it between his index finger and thumb and pressed the tip of it against Nott's lips. The mouth didn't slacken nor attempt to pull away. An air of determination arouse. Fingers retreated, taking the food with it and it was instead placed inside the hollows of his own mouth. Then he leaned forward and soundly pressed his lips against the other's, tenderly and then demandingly as the other was forced to open his mouth and the morsel went from one to the other even though Nott gave no outward acceptance of what had been done. Other than the tongue which had nearly pried open Blaise's mouth before the reverse had occurred. And the method was employed again and again until both trays were fruitless and both men's lips were stained the same shade of red
Fin