Everything Fades With Time
A lot of things happened when light yielded to darkness, as the shadows in the infirmary danced, writhed and stretched in purple pink light. In the morning, he went about his duties, now burdened by one more secret he gleaned from a witch that might or might not be all put together 'up there'. At nights, he sat vigil by this boy, who stubbornly clung to unconsciousness.
He had sat there for days. Or maybe more.
He had not measured Time so diligently as he would in the past, an inkling of breakfast there, a reminder to meet at the Ministry here. He measured time in the inconsequential turning of light and dark, often misleading within this pile of cavernous grey stones.
He had sat there maybe for a week, give or take a few days.
And maybe it was tiredness, as good, kind Pomfrey had insisted. But he thought he saw how Night would embrace the boy and took with it a sliver of dark from his forearm. He thought he saw what Night couldn't take, Day would bleach away. He thought he saw things shift and change.
He sat there for another three days, give or take. Approximate, nevercorrect.
Until he was almost convinced he was seeing things. Like staring into the same place for too long a time, like staring at the sun. He had sat there for another minute, sighing at the stubbornly sleeping boy.
He turned around as the sun began to set, as the shadow stretched from the window reaching for the fire sconces across the room. He was about to exit when he heard patient, earnest Pomfrey speak. Hushed and low her voice soft and strident yet. He turned around to listen better, as the last sliver of shadow touched the fire sconce furthest away; it's darkness beget light of magical fire.
"Pardon my old ears," he apologized, as she ambled back towards her, bathed in the healing glow of a hall of healing.
"It's maybe nothing," she said, smiling to him as she turned down a corner of the boy's sheets, shifting him here and there to let no rot find residence on those almost-never-there muscles.
"What is?" he tilted his head slightly as he followed the seemingly awkward crook of the boy's right arm against the bed.
"It's not as dark as before," she replied, as she manipulated the boy's torso, a calisthenic regime for a broken doll.
"What is?" he tilted his head the other way now, following her line of vision to settle against the ugly brand-like mark seared against his forearm.
"It seemed less... I don't know... less vivid, I guess..." she pondered, measuring her words slowly, as she bent legs and stretched long pale neck.
"It seems so," he said, straightening, looking at the boy's face almost at the same time as she did.
"He looked less appealing, too. More tired, even with all this sleep," she said, frowning, searching for words that would not insult her oblivious patient. Brushing cool fingers against the slightly fevered cheek, more gaunt and sallow, uneven and diluted, like a painted face of a statue fading with each brush of wind and time.
"Maybe," the Headmaster said, spine straight and eyes half-lidded with concern. Maybe you need your rest, too."
And after a while they left the boy, asleep on a bed at the end of empty rows, hidden behind a screen. Alone in the room created to cater for many. Maybe they should think of moving him to a place away from prying eyes. Eyes that would look at him in disgust, dismay, or fear.
Old, tired Poppy turned to look at her charge one last time and saw Night embracing the child.