It was Sunday morning before Ignan was discharged from a spell damage ward on the fourth floor. It had taken a while to very precisely set his right shoulder, given the damage. Musgrave had very purposely wanted to incapacitate his wand arm for some time.

As the healers had fussed forwards and back, giving him different potions, numbing his shoulder until they could pull and manipulate his arm and reset his collarbone he had replayed the scene in his mind.
“She won’t see me again old man.” Miranda’s old classmate had said just before he had left. Ignan very much doubted this was truth - Mira hadn’t seen Musgrave arrive. She had let him in believing he was Johann in a state of potion-induced drunkenness. Would she see him next time before it was too late?

He’d not spoken much throughout the treatment, locked in internal fury at not breaking the wizard’s neck. How the hell had he recovered so well from last time? He had good professional help. Maybe even one of the healers in Miranda’s employment, or ex-employment, considering his appearance with Hannah.

As the night progressed, Ignan felt less and less well, but put it down to the potions, and the battering. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, as he was often reminded. “… old man.” Sat on the edge of a bed, right arm bound up in a sling, he looked to Miranda and uttered quietly,
“Take me home.”

The entire night was now a panic induced blur. As she watched her staff go to work on her husband, Miranda let her mind swim over the events that had brought them to her own hospital with her husband as a patient. Musgrave was gone; the third time he’d escaped after being so damned close. But this time Miranda hadn’t been under any illusions of getting him. This time she’d had two lives to focus on.

Having gained consciousness upon the arrival of the aurors, Hannah had been taken into custody. Too frightened about the state of her husband, Miranda had let it happen. She’d needed to be with Ignan. It was her former classmate that had caused this. It was because of her that he’d nearly been killed.

“Take me home.” 

From the uncomfortable armchair, Miranda was snapped out of her thoughts, exhausted eyes landing on Ignan. He looked horrendous. His skin was almost green, face and body bruised and battered. While she hadn’t been injured, Mira supposed she didn’t look much better. Her jeans and cream jumper still had Hannah’s blood on, long almost black hair fell down over her shoulders in a scruffy mess. Her usually pale face was red, tear stained and her eyes, fortunately covered in glasses, were bloodshot and sore. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks.

There was little reason they couldn’t go home now. Ignan was healing, despite looking a sight, and they’d spoken to the aurors earlier that morning. Miranda would stay with her husband if there were any problems. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a couple of days.

“You’ll do exactly as I say if we go home.” Her expression told him not to challenge her. “No work. No trying to fix anything.” She stood, surprised by how heavy her own body felt. “Bed. Rest.”

“Home.” Ignan replied, the single word sounded more like a plead.

He observed his wife, who hadn’t moved from beside him all night. This was her hospital. It was the most important thing to her, and she spent more hours of every day here than anywhere else. She would leave in the dead of night to attend to it, consider it the moment she woke to the moment she slept. Yet, she hadn’t left him in nearly twelve hours. She must really love him. He was meant to protect her. She looked awful, upset and just as tired as he felt. As much as he wanted to go home, it was also that he wanted to take her home. They needed to recover, in private without prodding and poking and reporters sniffing around.

The thought of work was far from his mind. He had entertained it in the first hour of arriving at St Mungo’s, considering his duty to the school. He was due to round up delinquent teenagers absconding from the delights of a panel of adults discussing a topic every teenager seemed excruciatingly fascinated by. Rounding them up was far less painful than sitting and listening to it. Minerva’s dwindling hours at the castle due to her Wizengamot duties had been piling on the work for him. Lately he’d not been much better than Miranda at keeping late hours and even bringing work home, something he had vowed to himself not to do when they had moved to Hogsmeade.

And fixing things! He hadn’t a clue how badly their living room had come off after the struggle. Miranda had performed surgery on the floor. He’d not given the newly painted room a second thought while trying to kill the faster man. Duelling Musgrave reminded him of how he had been knocked out by his closest friend and travelling companion, Georg, who was a champion duellist. Ignan had always accepted he wasn’t a cup-winning duellist, but a knowledgeable, intelligent mind with a wider repertoire. He was a better duellist in tandem with others, or by using surprise and traps.

“Whatever you prescribe, Head Healer.” He attempted to nod and stopped, realising that was a bad idea when bones and muscles were still mending. He reached his left hand out to her, fingertips trembling of their own accord.

The smile twisting her lips was slight, barely noticeable as she took Ignan’s hand and put a supportive hand on his opposing arm, delicate due to the pain.
“Steady. You’ve had a lot of potion so you’ll be heady, dizzy.” The witch directed as he started to twist to sit up on the edge of the bed. Her dark eyes were intensely watching him for any sign of him not being well enough to leave. Past the curtain, she could hear the general noise of the rest of the ward going about their business. Around now, the night shift would be clocking off, making way for the day workers. Fresh faces would be arriving all through the hospital, smiling at weary patients. Yet of all Miranda’s focus was on the wizard in front of her.

“Stay still.” Mrs Storm ordered her husband before stepping out of the cubicle, calling to a porter to bring over a wheelchair. When it arrived, Miranda wheeled it to the foot of the bed, dark eyes studying her husband. His expression revealed just how difficult it would be for the wizard to be a compliant patient, causing Miranda’s brows to lower, her eyes narrowing.

“This is the agreement. Get in.”

His wife’s validation of the symptoms made him feel a little more sure of himself. He’d dislocated his left shoulder once in his forties, falling from a tree on a werewolf hunt alone. He’d met a future colleague as a child as a result. He hadn’t detailed, just replied to the question from Miranda’s staff about a previous dislocation with ‘not that shoulder, no.’

“My legs still-.”

Miranda’s brows drew together a fraction more. Enough to shut up her husband. This was humiliating, he thought, beaten twice in a month by the same wizard before his wife, and now she was going to push him out of the hospital in a wheelchair. If anyone from Witch Weekly was out there...

Rather than verbally protest he stood up properly. Every inch of his back ached from the battering and his arm felt like a dead weight hanging off his left shoulder which felt as numb as the right despite any complicated charms. He took a step forward and the room spun.
“Uhmmm.” Alright. She won on this one. “Just do us both a favour and break the camera lens of any reporter.” He requested as he sank down, grimacing as he negotiated his arm.

It didn’t take long for Ignan to relent and sink into the wheelchair. Neither did it take long to leave the ward, descend in the elevator and enter her office past the weekend assistant that Miranda also called Snardsworthy. The younger witch said nothing, merely offering a weak smile to her boss before Miranda let the door close behind her.

Abandoning the chair and her husband near the fireplace, Miranda made her way to her desk, collecting various files and sheets of parchment and throwing them into a box. She would be staying at home with Ignan for at least the next day or two. Work needed to be done at home because her reports and orders wouldn’t fill themselves in.

Despite the exhaustion, both emotional and physical, Miranda knew she wouldn’t sleep at home. She’d need a potion to do that and she certainly wasn’t going to take one when Ignan could barely stand. No, she’d work in the office at home, Gerda checking systematically on him as he slept.

With the files gathered, Miranda looked back at Ignan. Not having believed it was possible, he was looking more pale, lips taking on a purple tint as he stood beside the fireplace.

“Ignan…”

Ignan closed his eyes for much of the trip downstairs. The motion of being wheeled was sickening. Moving around after all the potions was definitely making him feel worse. He would be very glad to get home. As Miranda wheeled him into the lift he could feel a sharp stabbing pain, and his heart seemed to skip another beat. He just needed rest, in his own bed. The lights in here were rather dim.

He felt like he was nodding off to sleep as Miranda walked them both along the corridor on the ground floor, heading for her office. He couldn’t wait to go to sleep, but Merlin he ached. Another sharp stabbing pain shot through him, worse this time. It took his breath away and he clutched at his chest with his left hand. The sooner he got out of this chair, out of this hospital the better.

It had only been last week he and Gerda had been in this office, trying to convince Miranda she’d not been home all night. Whatever had happened was still unknown, but Ignan was quite sure his wife’s gut instinct on Musgrave was right. Had he lured her out to discuss or ask for her help? Had she declined and he’d decided to go for plan B?

Was it Sunday?

Home. He needed to go home.

Miranda had left him pointed towards the fireplace, making it easy to get up and step into the fire, but she was busy at her desk gathering work. Back to her old self. Despite seeing her thinking about work, it pleased Ignan. Augh.

Another, stronger strike of pain this time. He made an effort to muffle the involuntary vocal expression. Standing seemed a monumental effort.



“Ignan…"

Slow motion was what it felt like. Stood watching all colour drain from Ignan’s face as he hit the floor. Every muscle in his body gave up and he dropped, legs beneath giving way and his head slammed against the wooden fireplace.

“Ignan!” The shriek was loud, guttural. The large box full of parchment and files was dropped to the ground creating a similar thud to that of her husband collapsing to the floor as files and parchment scattered over the carpet. Miranda sprinted around the oversized desk, snatching her wand from her pocket and blasting it at door to her office. The wooden door flew off its hinges as Miranda fell to her knees, dropping her wand and pressing fingers to his throat, feeling for a pulse.

“S-Snardsworthy! Spell damage! Now!”

Cassandra Bingham bolted from her desk when the door flew into the air, landing against the opposing wall. After recovering from her own shriek, she ran to where the door had been, face pale in shock at the sight beside the fireplace. Now certainly wasn’t the time to tell her boss that she would appreciate her own name being remembered.
“Yes Healer.” From the desk, she snatched the magical loud speaker, her voice suddenly coming to life around the entire hospital.


Beside the fireplace, Miranda’s wand was trailing over her husband’s chest, sensing for the internal damage they must have missed upstairs. His heart was slow, painfully slow compared to hers beating faster than a bludger covered in energy potion. His breathing had almost stopped. He was dying in front of her.

“D-don’t you dare die on me o-old man.” Tears were filling her eyes, hands shaking as she grabbed his hand, squeezing. “You can’t die.”

It was only a minute or so before several mediwitches and healers burst into the office to take over, checking his condition and lifting him onto a floating stretcher as Miranda stepped back, out of the way. She watched helplessly as her husband floated out of the office, following far enough behind that she wasn’t in the way.

“Owl his closest relatives.” The order was given to her assistant in a shaky voice before she left the office behind her staff and dying husband.