The snow drifted down slowly outside. The stark white walls had been decorated with tinsel and colorful lights. Wreaths were draped over the ends of their beds. Messily crafted cards lined the walls, and disfigured attempts as paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling.
But the sheets were a dull white, as always. The floor was pale and checkered, gray and white. Curtains separated each of the patients, each of them lying silently in their own beds. It was a solemn room. No one stirred nor spoke. A deathly silence seemed to fall over the Janus Thickey ward in St. Mungo's.
The silence settled over them like thick blankets. Unlike the snow outside. It was a weak snow, which melted as soon as it touched the warm asphalt. Even so, as those pale, empty eyes peered out of the window, all they could see was white, flickering like a faint flame.
The noise was shattered as a person at the other end of the ward began talking. To no one. None of the patients needed someone to talk to if they wanted to talk. Very few talked, anyway. Only one man seemed to never tire of hearing himself talk.
"I think my hair would look fabulous if I had a nice trim. Perhaps I'll ask that lovely lady when she comes back. Goodness, I wonder where my fan mail is…"
A pale blonde woman lay in her bed. Her pale blue eyes stared at the ceiling. Something was wrong. She knew it. She slowly sat up. She slid her feet off her bed, slowly reaching until she felt the firm, cold ground beneath her toes.
She slid off the bed. For a moment, she stood at loss, in merely her gown, and cold feet. Then her gaze shifted to the man who sat in the bed beside her. He was chewing again. He always seemed to be chewing something.
His pillow. His sheets. His nails. Even something that smelled sweet and came wrapped in bright paper.
She shuffled towards him. His gaze slowly shifted towards her. She could smell that sweet scent on his breath. He had more colored paper, she knew. She felt odd. There was a strange stirring within her every time she looked over at him. She did not like it.
Sometimes it hurt. It stabbed her in her chest like a thousand needles. Sometimes it made water leak from her eyes.
She shuffled towards him hesitantly. She wanted the colored paper. She didn't know why. She just wanted it. Her gaze shifted to the small white bed stand placed between their beds. She recognized the bright wrapper on the table.
She suddenly knew why she wanted it. It was so bright in contrast to the dull room. It was colorful and vibrant, and it made her feel odd, too. But it was a better odd. It made her want to do something. She couldn't figure out what. But having the lovely paper made her happy.
She slowly reached towards it, but another hand closed over it first. She followed the pale hand to its owner. The man looked back at her. His hand drew back, the wrapper still clutched in it. He looked at her.
Their pale, empty eyes met. They stared in each other's eyes. They stared deep and saw nothing. Their own blank emptiness reflected back at them. Something painful stirred inside her again. She felt her eyes leaking again. What was wrong? Why was she hurting?
Slowly, the man held out his hand. It was still in a tightly closed fist. She could see the paper in his hand, small corners escaping from the cracks between his fingers. He slowly unclenched his fist, offering the crinkled paper to her.
She timidly reached out and took it from his hand. There was an odd sense of déjà vu about that moment. She felt she had wanted the same paper hundreds of times before. He had denied her the paper hundreds of times before. And then he had offered it to her hundreds of times before. And, like the hundreds of time before, she accepted his gift.
As she shuffled back to her bed, and looked at the paper cupped in her hand. For some reason, she felt pleased the man had given her a gift. She looked at the paper, standing beside her bed, feeling lost, again.
She did not remember ever receiving a gift from him. Yet, she felt she had. She felt he'd once been very important to her. She'd once felt something very strong for him. But such thoughts hurt to think. She shut her eyes and opened them again.
She couldn't even remember what had aroused her from slumber. Or if she'd even really been asleep at all. She stared at the crinkled paper, feeling oddly happy.
He had given her a paper that made her happy. Maybe she could give it to someone else… And make them happy too…
AN: Well, if no one got that, it was Alice Longbottom and Frank Longbottom, with the gum. And it's the Droobles Blowing Gum wrapper that she gave Neville. It's a bit of a sad look on the story. I dunno. I wanted to write something about them, so I did…
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter stuff belongs to JKR.