Harry Potter: Fire Lord Black

The days that followed moved slowly, as hospital days did. Healers came and went with potions, questions, and the proud expression of people paid to tell a patient what his own body was doing. Edward answered when necessary and lied when useful. No, he did not feel dizzy. No, the dreams were not worse. Yes, he would rest. Humans had invented bureaucracy and then taught it to medicine. That seemed unfair to sickness.

Narcissa sent sunflowers.

They arrived in a tall vase carried by a trembling house-elf who bowed three times and almost walked into the doorframe. The flowers were bright, ridiculous things, too cheerful for the ward. A note came with them in Narcissa's elegant hand.

For strength, sunlight, and a little stubbornness. You already possess the last in abundance.

Edward read the note twice, then put it beside his mother's letter.

He did not become cheerful. That would have been excessive. But he stopped staring at the wall for hours as if the plaster might confess something. Instead, he spoke.

Kreacher listened.

Edward told him about the memories from the Pensieve. Not all immediately. Memory did not come out cleanly when it had been forced into the heart. It came in pieces, some warm, some sharp enough to draw blood.

He spoke of Isabella Shacklebolt with a dark blue scarf in her lap, frowning at the knitting as if the yarn had insulted her family line. The stitches had been uneven. Regulus had worn it anyway. In the memory, his ears had gone red when she laughed at him. Edward told that part carefully, because Kreacher made a sound halfway between a sob and a strangled kettle.

He spoke of the rose garden, where Regulus had tried to charm lilies of the valley into blooming early and turned them into dandelions instead. Isabella had teased him for a week. Regulus, being a Black and therefore unable to admit defeat without making it theatrical, had learned enough Herbology to grow her a new bouquet by hand.

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"He was not good with flowers," Edward said.

"Young Master Regulus was good with many things," Kreacher muttered.

"Not flowers."

Kreacher wiped his eyes with a handkerchief old enough to have opinions. "No. Not flowers."

Edward spoke of the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where his parents had sat together on the grass and shared a Sherbet Lemon from Honeydukes. It was a small memory. No duel, no prophecy, no Dark Lord lurking behind a tree for once. Just sunlight, grass, hands joined where they thought no one could see, and two young people stealing a little happiness before the world noticed and corrected the error.

Those memories should have comforted him. They did, in a way. They also hurt. Warmth was dangerous like that. Cold only numbed. Warmth reminded the body what it had lost.

Kreacher sat on a low stool beside the bed and said very little. That was new enough to count as a miracle. His cloudy eyes stayed fixed on Edward's face, and when Edward paused too long, Kreacher would nod and whisper, "Yes, Master," as if agreement could hold the boy together.

At sunset, Edward's voice finally gave out.

Golden light slipped over the blanket and touched his lashes. His fingers remained curled over the pocket that held Isabella's letter. He fought sleep for a while, because sleep had become less a rest than a room full of doors he did not trust. But his body had limits. It made this known with the blunt cruelty of all honest things.

He slept.

Kreacher did not leave.

He tucked the blanket around Edward with great care, then moved his stool closer to the window. When moonlight replaced the sun, the elf looked at the sleeping boy and folded his hands together.

"Young Master Regulus," he whispered, so softly even the portraits would not have heard, had any been present to be offended. "He knows now. He knows of Mistress Isabella. He knows what you did. Master Edward is thin and stubborn and does not rest properly, but he knows." Kreacher's mouth trembled. "You may rest. Both of you may rest."

Edward woke once before dawn and saw him there, hunched and small against the pale window.

He said nothing.

Some loyalties were too old to be thanked without insulting them.

On the day of his discharge, the wind had softened. Early spring had not arrived, not truly, but it had sent a scout ahead to see whether London deserved mercy. The answer was doubtful, but the air was warmer.

Edward wore one of Regulus's old robes. Kreacher had found it, cleaned it, repaired two seams, and removed three defensive charms that might have objected to a new owner by strangling him. The robe was black, plain, and well cut. It fit better than it should have. Cedar clung to the fabric faintly, beneath the smell of old storage and preservation magic.

Kreacher looked at him with unbearable pride.

Edward pretended not to notice. It was kinder.

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