He watched as she lay, unconscious, in the narrow hospital bed.
She didn't look younger or older, or any of those things you hear in cliche stories. She looked as though she were simply in a very deep sleep — which, he supposed, she was — her mouth stretched widely open, looking as though she should be snoring, but no sound was audible.
She looked like his mother, but … not. He'd always — not imagined, but assumed, perhaps — that she would look calm in sleep. Regal. She barely showed emotion on her face — unless, of course, his brother was involved — and he had thought it would be the same in sleep.
Walburga Black would never have allowed herself to be seen like this.
.oOo.
He visited every day; still no change, but the Healers assured him that she was doing well. That she was recovering. That was good, he supposed, though he would have liked for these improvements to have been more visible — something he could see for himself, just to be certain.
He left flowers some days, large bouquets of roses or tulips — anything red, her favourite colour — but he was starting to hate the display. It looked too much like blood, reminded him too much of death, and so he stopped bringing them altogether.
.oOo.
His visits became less frequent as time went on. There was no change in her condition — something the Healers said was strange, but he wasn't really surprised; of course his mother would be difficult, even in this — and he was fast losing hope.
.oOo.
Some days, he cursed the doctors, himself, his brother. Why wasn't she getting better? But there was only so much the Healers could do, and he knew this wasn't his fault — it wasn't Sirius' fault, either, though it took him longer to admit to that.
Now … Now, he blamed her.