Sticky Toffee Pudding

~~~***~~~

It should be noted that Garreth Weasley was no stranger to accidents. Particularly those he was the center of. He had been trouble since birth, as his mother liked to recall—always toddling off, hands grasping, and head poking into the most unusual and most perilous of places.

He had on more than one occasion climbed to the top of the tree in the Weasley yard— only to be chased down and stung by several bees into the house. In another, his attempts to help his family be rid of the garden gnomes had led him on a long chase down tunnels and into a den of not garden gnomes but nifflers.

Upon seeing the stores of gold, his little hands grabbed two fistfuls into his pockets to take home— only for his mum to wake the house screeching the following morning at being accosted by a family of nifflers at the door.

In those instances, his mum had not been happy.

So, it was not an unusual occurrence for him to wake in a beige room, covered in a beige blanket, and staring at the beige and peeling ceiling of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries above him. Nor was it an odd sight for him to stir and groan at the heavy weight of fur atop his chest— purring its ill opinion of Garreth's latest potion project with each slow swish of its tail.

"Butters..."

"Mrow."

A gift for his too little brain as his beloved elder sister jested. But while Butterbeer the Kneazle did very little in the way of improving his common sense and knowledge (he had books and three years' worth of apprenticeship under Professor Sharpe thank you very much), Butters more than made up for Garreth's lack of impulse and self-preservation by always, always being the first beady little eyes, he saw.

However, beady eyes that glared and judged were not what discomforted Garreth as he sat up. It was, in fact, a certain hollowness inside when he caught sight of the figure at the foot of the bed.

Ominis Gaunt.

It was not the first he had seen the second son of the Gaunt family—they had, after all, been schoolmates. But the curve of Ominis' face and the catch of the sun in his hair made Garreth's heart thump, his blood pound in his ears, and his mouth run dry.

"Garreth?"

~~~***~~~

Memories, as one of those poets Sebastian Sallow liked to recall, were painful experiences. At least the forgotten ones. And while Garreth Weasley never placed too much stock in sage wisdom from any Sallow, he thought such a saying was very true in this instance.

He should have taken no issue or concern that very few memories were currently lost to him. He knew his name, what year it was, that Headmaster Black still terrorized Hogwarts, and he had kept all the happy moments with his long-time friends and family in between.

Healer Dagworth insisted that the rest of the newer memories would return in time.

They were friends— or so Ominis said— just friends.

Just friends, however, did not endeavor to sit by his side, fretting until he woke. Just friends didn't knock on his door every afternoon to say hello. And just friends didn't— wouldn't— smile politely when there were memories he couldn't quite recall.

Never mind that Leander Prewett and Andrew Larson had done the same.

But Garreth had seen it— was sure of it— the downward twitch of Ominis' smile each afternoon when he gaped in silence.

It hurt Ominis.

And, in turn, it hurt him.

"It'll come—"