Twinsensibility Part Seventeen

[dysonrules]

Whoa, can you believe it's been seventeen weeks since I started writing this? That's not really that long, is it? I think I'll shut up and post now.   This is not beta-ed because my beta's interwebs decided to be EVOL and not work on her.  Plus she was tired of waiting for me.  WTF time is it?  *only nine-ish?*

Lorcan sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his brother’s hand so tightly it would have hurt, had Lysander been awake to feel it.

“Lorcan. You need to go now,” Madam Pomfrey said gently.

Lorcan ignored her. His eyes were on Lysander’s still face, so pale he nearly blended with the white pillow. His sun-bleached hair was barely darker.

Hands gripped Lorcan’s shoulders and he turned to snarl at whoever dared, but his words died when he saw that it was Chan, Madam Pomfrey’s new assistant. The students had quickly decided that Chan was the terrifying descendent of Attila the Hun. Rumour had it he had agreed to work as Pomfrey’s assistant only to practice new torture techniques on unsuspecting students.

“You go now, boy,” Chan said in his singsong voice that brooked no argument. “Come back tomorrow. Your brother will be fine.”

Lorcan’s gaze snapped back to Lysander, who was anything but fine. He was still as death and looked frightfully broken. His brilliant, vivacious brother, lying in a hospital bed. It seemed unnatural, like black snow, or trees growing upside down.

“You go,” Chan repeated and Lorcan forced himself to move, up and away from Lysander. He walked steadily toward the door, not looking back, moving faster and faster. By the time he hit the hallway, he was running, racing to find Hugo Weasley.

Lorcan slipped through the doors of the hospital wing, drawing the attention of Chan, who was more like the resident pitbull than assistant Healer. The Mongolian got to his feet and padded toward the door. Lorcan would not have been surprised to hear him snuffling at the air as he approached.

Lorcan moved away, glad he had taken the precaution of removing his shoes. He padded silently toward the bed, keeping partial attention on Chan, who flung the door open and snarled, “Who is there?”

Lorcan sighed and made his way quickly toward Lysander’s bed, giving thanks to the Potters and their wonderful cloak of invisibility. Lorcan knelt next to Lysander’s bed and gripped his hand. He watched as Chan gave up looking for offenders and stomped back toward his guard post—a small desk set close to Pomphrey’s office door.

As soon as Chan was occupied with scratching away at a piece of parchment, Lorcan slipped onto Lysander’s bed and pulled his brother close. He rested his head on Lysander’s shoulder and traced over his features with one hand.

“Please wake up,” he whispered. He shut his eyes against the sting of tears, determined not to let them fall.

It should never have happened. A freak accident, they called it. Even Lorcan had to agree, although his rage demanded someone to blame, someone to destroy. It was simply the fucking game. Lorcan hated Quidditch. He thought it was a stupid waste of time.

Lysander, of course, loved it. He loved to fly, loved to spend time with his teammates, loved to compete. It was ridiculous and foolish, but Lorcan had never begrudged Lysander’s need to play. Until now.

It hadn’t really been a hard crash. Lysander had been flying toward the goal, holding the Quaffle. Simonson on the Hufflepuff team had been trying to stop him, but he saw the Bludger at the last moment and swerved—straight into Lysander. The jolt had knocked Lysander just enough off course that he was unable to avoid the goal post. He hit it with a sickening crack that Lorcan could almost feel from his position in the stands.

Lysander had dropped like a stone. Several professors and students had halted his fall before he hit the ground, of course, but the damage had been done.

“Broken neck,” he had heard muttered as he had shoved his way through the growing crowd.

Lorcan swallowed hard, remembering the horrified panic. He tucked his face into Lysander’s neck and breathed in the familiar scent. He wrapped an arm around Lysander’s chest and pulled him closer.

His parents had been called. They were on their way from South America where they had been tracking some ridiculous imaginary beast. Lorcan had little patience for that shit, but Lysander always kept an open mind. He thought there really were such things as Moogblurks and Scorgabs. Or at least, he thought they might exist.

Lorcan admitted he had thought Lysander a bit foolish for believing in such idiocy.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured now. “I’m sorry, Lys. You could be right. The Shivering Deelonkers might have taken your toy dragon when you were eight. I was wrong. Okay? I sincerely apologize for ridiculing you. Please come back.”

He snuggled closer to his motionless brother and felt his heart constrict with terror at the thought of Lysander never waking up. He held him closely.

“I brought you something.” Lorcan pushed himself away for a moment and fumbled beneath his cloak and robes. He pulled out a stuffed kitten—Lysander’s favourite since they were children. He pretended he did not still sleep with it by maintaining a Glamour that disguised it as a book, but Lorcan had never been fooled.

He tucked Mewfurs beneath Lysander’s ear on the other side and then snuggled back against his brother’s warm body.

“I’m here, Lys. Just wake up, all right? Just wake up.”

Lorcan remained next to Lysander all night, not sleeping, and slipped out just before Pomphrey began her rounds in the morning.

There was no change in Lysander.