0200 hours, Private Ward
Fourth Floor, St.Mungo's Hospital.


There is always a way

always

a way

always a way, always.


"Arthur?" That was his name, is his name. Arty. Art. Arthur Lemon was sat at his bed, a rigid hand on one knee and his other raking at his beard. His blue eyes rose blankly to the doorway: it was a block of light and the outline of a woman stood there. The room was dark. "Can't you sleep?"

A Healer. Because he wasn't in Azkaban anymore and everything here was white or green or soft edges or lowered voices or small hands or bleached sheets or blood. They say there is none but he can smell it, the fetid and piquant tastes soaking into his pores. Blood. Filthy.

Arthur didn't respond and the woman left, closing the door quietly behind her. There was nothing but shadow and shadow was home. In shadow you can remember. Remember. There is always a way out.

He just could not see it yet.