AN: Sorry I'm so long between chapters. This is a short one, but there's more to come soon. Thanks for sticking with me.
Chapter 4
The Baron hated Hogwarts. Every smiling, happy child reminded him of his former life, of what could've been. But he had nowhere else to go.
The hospital wing was a frequent stop during his nightly wanderings. He liked to see what trouble the children had managed to get themselves in. Broken bones were the most frequent, but occasionally he would find someone marked by true cruelty and malice. That pleased him. Children were a curse, and this helped him see that.
He waited until after ten, when Madame Pomfrey did her last bed check and retired to her personal quarters. The baron had discovered long ago that the nurse would not tolerate his presence around her patients.
Tonight, he floated quietly through the doors at a little after eleven. The curtains around the beds were drawn and all was quiet. The room was nearly full. Busy day, he mused, looking at each child in turn. A small boy lay on his back, with burns all over his arms and face. Playing with a fire charm, no doubt, the baron thought with a small amount of pleasure. Children couldn't resist the things that were worst for them. The next bed contained a tall blonde girl with tentacles springing from every part of her body. Finally, he came to the bed by the window.
A ragged gash marred the ethereal beauty of this child's face. Bathed in the moonlight, her skin was creamy and her raven hair took on an almost blue tint. Her hands were dainty and delicate; her body was slim and beautiful. He wished her eyes would open. He was sure they would blue.
"Branwyn," he whispered.
1348
A small round lump had appeared in Branwyn's belly. It couldn't be seen, only felt, but it was there. A child. Someone to carry on the deForet name and run the manor after Gustave was gone. A child with Branwyn's eyes, Branwyn's hair, her smile...Gustave was lost in a dream of a future with his wife and child. He woke each morning with his hand on her abdomen. Nothing could ruin his joy. Except...
Branwyn had a fever. It wasn't life threatening, but she rose later each morning, retired earlier each night, and spent the day feeling weak and out of sorts. She insisted upon going about her daily tasks as if everything were normal, but Gustave could see the color in her cheeks fading a little more each day. Within five days, she was ashen and drawn. He ordered her back to bed when she appeared at breakfast looking as if she would faint at any moment.
A doctor would've been summoned, but every physician in the area had been out among the plagued peasants and none could be admitted into the manor. Gustave would have to tend his wife with his own hands. He prayed helplessly that she might find relief in his ministrations. He prayed for God's touch in his own hands, that his beautiful Branwyn might be well again. He prayed for the baby and the future.
Gustave lovingly undressed Branwyn and slipped her into a cool bath. The fever was raging now, and color had returned to her wan face. But it was too much. She was flushed and sweating. He bathed every part of her with a soft cloth. She screamed as his hand neared her thighs. She was too delirious to tell him what was wrong, but she didn't have to. A bump the size of an egg, purple and hard, had appeared on the inner part of her leg. She had contracted the disease.
Gustave prayed for a miracle.