In over 24 hours, Miranda had barely moved from the seat beside the hospital bed. She’d changed into a clean set of clothes brought in by a very quiet and exhausted looking house elf trying to do what she could to help. The jumper was oversized, comfortable. Mira felt she could almost hide in it as she moved further and further into herself, terrified to become a widow for the second time.

In over 24 hours Miranda hadn’t eaten or drunk more than half a cup of tea insisted on by one of her staff members. The catering staff brought food which lay untouched until they collected it again. She simply sat in the cubicle as the healers came and went, stabilising the wizard slowly dying in the bed. Piled up on the table was a mountain of parchment and large tomes, spell and potion books that she’d enlisted her weekend assistant to find on dark magic and the Desinoviscus curse.

She knew the curse, knew what had happened to him. Ignan’s organs were slowly dying, shutting off. What was yet to be found was a reversal, a cure. According to the literature, no one had ever survived the spell. The reality sat in Miranda’s stomach like a tonne of dragon shit. It made her feel far worse than any dementor could. Grief and hopelessness was all engulfing and it certainly wasn’t a temporary feeling.

The approaching voices were familiar, expected yesterday when Ignan had collapsed and her assistant had owled. As Mira heard them closer, she pushed herself up from the seat, surprised at the lack of energy she had. Regardless, she pulled the curtain back enough to step out in the corridor, seeing the two tall men making their way through the ward towards her.

“Johann.” Her voice was weak, starting to break as she addressed him, unwanted tears once more formed in her eyes. “He’s not good.” She shook her head.

Johann had returned from Edinburgh with Balfour wearing a soppy smile. Little Cam was a bundle of small human, and Johann supposed it was beautiful, but babies did just look a bit odd. It was more amazing where it had come from. He’d never quite get his head round that, even with all the magic in their world.

It didn’t matter that they hadn’t slept a wink in their anticipation of her arrival. Between dragons and battles the pair of them had done more than a few all nighters. All nighters for new life and family were happier ones in all senses. Still, they’d have to go to work eventually, it was Monday morning.

So home to change, and pick up the post...

The St Mungo’s crested one tore open easily in Johann’s fingers. He anticipated it was a response from the hospital about an upcoming appointment, but as he read the opening line he realised it wasn’t and his smile vanished in front of Balfour, and his backside found the end of their bed.
“Shit…”

After Merik, Ignan’s father had died, and Johann had moved into Ignan’s house in Godric’s Hollow, he had a vague recollection of the wizard mentioning he’d changed his next of kin on Hogwarts paperwork.

“Ignan,” Johann managed to speak, looking shocked. He was pretty sure Ignan had joked that he was more likely to be summoned to Johann’s untimely death.

“This must have arrived when we were in Edinburgh.” He extended the short, formal summons from St Mungo’s to his partner, notification of serious condition of his cousin as next of kin, postmarked yesterday. “I need to go, will you come?”

Johann hoped that one day he’d be coming to St Mungo’s for a positive reason. Miranda’s appearance up ahead hurried his feet.
“Miranda,” he echoed, taking in the detail of her expression. She looked as if her world was ending, and Johann thought for a split second they were too late. “We only just got the owl, I am so sorry.”

Without hesitation, and on instinct of how she looked, he swept her into a tight hug. This was the woman who had joked about tattoos, perched on the arm of Ignan’s chair when they’d visited for dinner, who had shown him mercy when he’d been distraught after the werewolf fights, had taken care of his parents in his father’s last moments. Miranda was family.

“What happened?”

Balfour had anticipated a short nap before the day would begin in earnest - a well-deserved rest to recover from the waiting, waking aches of their night. Dreamless sleep in a comfortable bed. It wasn't meant to be. They had come from news of one life being brought into the world to this: the possibility of a life leaving it. Ignan Storm was one of the more important people in Johann's life.

And, by extension, in Bal's.

       “I need to go, will you come?”
"Of course," he had replied without hesitating. Johann would have done the same.

Miranda Storm wasn't looking herself. He knew her to be a strong, commanding witch who spared nobody's feelings and made rational decisions. The woman Johann was taking into his arms was the wife of a dying man.

Quietly, a jacket hanging over his arm, Balfour hung back at first - uncertain of where to place himself amidst this recent tragedy. But he remembered himself presently and approached the two Storms with a gentle expression.

"Let's not, here..." they were in the corridor still - he was worried someone's legs might give way.

How could he have only just got the owl? Someone was losing their job for that. The Snardworthy weekend replacement had been told to owl. She should have done it immediately. Ignan’s family should have been there immediately. If he continued to deteriorate at a similar rate, he wouldn’t make it through the night. Johann needed to see his cousin before he died. He needed to say goodbye. His son needed to say goodbye but Miranda didn’t even know his name.

It was impossible to stay calm when the taller wizard put his arms around her in a tight hug. Miranda found the tears begin to freefall and she grabbed Johann, clutching at the fabric over his back as sobs began to come freely, heavily. It felt like the ground had been pulled from under her as she let herself fall into the hug, grief and powerlessness overwhelming her. It didn’t matter that her staff were there to see it. It didn’t matter how exposed and vulnerable she suddenly was. She couldn’t lose him.

"Let's not, here..." Balfort spoke, reminding them of where they were. Miranda pulled back from her husband’s cousin, trying to calm her breathing as she wiped her face with the sleeve of the jumper.

“He’s right.” Voice barely above a whisper, it sounded foreign to the witch. She gave Johann’s arm a squeeze and looked between the couple. “Before we go in…” A deep breath as she folded her arms protectively over her stomach. “He’s not conscious. His organs are shutting down.” She tried to speak as if Ignan were a regular patient. Not her husband.

“He’s dying.” Another wave of emotion struck like a bolt of lightning and Miranda’s hand clasped over her mouth as she tried to breath, to control the emotion.

Miranda was weeping. Johann’s stomach felt like lead as she gripped him. If someone had asked him yesterday to imagine Miranda Storm was ever the sort to cry he’d have laughed at how silly the notion was. Miranda, like Hannah Bombay, was cut from sterner stuff. Yet, here she was, shaking in his arms. He looked lost above the witch’s head, and gave Balfour a wide-eyed look.

When they parted, Johann listened carefully, dipping his head to regard the shorter healer, allowing her to keep his arm. It centred them both, made it feel real than allow for a disassociation. Johann’s reaction to run was only ever a breath away at a time like this, but not this time.

“He’s dying."
“Merlin,” Johann croaked, her emotion catching him, “Miranda.” He didn’t know what to say. He had words of some semblance of comfort for Balfour when Nidhug’s fire had finally gone out. A mighty beast, brought down by illness. Not so dissimilar, one might flatter Ignan with comparison.

The back of Johann’s hand covered his mouth on seeing his cousin. He was so still. It wasn’t like he was sleeping, for he had seen Ignan take an impromptu nap. It was unnaturally still. They might all joke at his age and white hair, but that morning his cousin looked far older than he was. The lines on his face were deeper, his cheeks looked hollow, eye sockets darker. It was hard for Johann to swallow down the hot feeling in his throat, which burned behind his eyes as he stood at Ignan’s bedside.

“I don’t,” Johann’s voice squeaked unnaturally with the tension. He swallowed audibly, a hand to his throat, willing his voice to settle. He looked to Balfour and Miranda, like a lost little boy. “I don’t understand.”

It was early morning, though it didn't feel like it to Flynn. Between copious amounts of coffee and an urgent case, he was wide awake.  Some (likely inexperienced) healer had discharged Ignan Storm after healing his shoulder, but had failed to notice the fact that something far more serious was going on. Although he was frustrated about that oversight, he didn't show it.  Instead, he had spent the last few hours trying to keep Ignan Storm alive.

He had confirmed with the big boss lady that her husband did not have any amulets. Good. 

After the basic dispelling and counter curses, Flynn delved into deeper territory. He had tried the usage of peridot healing crystals  to stabilize him, which only served to slow down what seemed to be the inevitable. The simulacra he had put together seemed promising at first, but Ignan Storm's health had declined again. He had left the area for a short period of time to throw together another hopeful treatment. The work he did himself with other experienced healers. He wouldn't let trainees touch this case-- they could observe from afar.

There were only a couple of options left. He did not want family around for either one.

He approached the scene, pulling the curtain aside before stepping in. In his hands, Flynn held a couple of fresh jars of poultices. He had made them himself using some of his own experimental healing herbs and succulents. Some of the ingredients, such as silver, were commonly used in healing with blood magic.

Balfour was a familiar face, a family friend of the Hughes'. Flynn wished they were seeing each other under different circumstances. He acknowledge him and Johann with a nod and a short, appropriately sympathetic, polite greeting. Then he continued on, the healer had no time to waste.

"We are going towards last resorts here," He said, eyes on Miranda and tone gentle yet firm, "More advanced blood magic. I can't allow any family in the room, but I will make sure you stay updated." Flynn couldn't afford to have family in the area, watching. Especially not if the family included his boss. Not only was it a distraction and he required all the focus he could muster, but he wouldn't want any family to witness it unless they had to.

Inside the cubicle, Miranda’s breathing was calmer. The extreme surge of emotion had come from a lack of anyone to really express her heartache and frustration to. Nowadays Ignan was the first person she considered when stressed, sad, happy. Her rock, ‘old man’ as she affectionately labelled him, was the stabilising force that kept her grounded. Ignan was the wizard that offered calm advice and let her rant when mad. He was the person that could calm her but then make her so damned mad with his stubborn arrogance. Yet he’d never seen her cry. Very few people had ever seen her truly lose control of her emotions. Very few situations could cause it. Losing her rock to a madman’s curse had dragged out her heart and laid it bare to be burned and torn apart.

For two days, Miranda had struggled to keep it together. But she’d not screamed or shouted or sobbed until seeing Johann and Balfour. The release had been a relief following a mass build-up of grief and fear. Being a healer was the worst possible job to have when you had to watch your loved ones suffer. She knew what was going on inside his body however couldn’t do anything but stand back and let her staff work.

“I don’t understand.” Johann’s voice was weak, evidently bowled over by the sight of his cousin laid up in bed. Stood near the curtain in the corner, Miranda closed her eyes, trying to push the emotion back as a few calmative breaths filled her lungs. She said nothing.

The healer’s entry into the cubicle left the space feeling extremely crowded and Miranda rather claustrophobic. All 3 wizards stood at over 6 foot and she had lost all height and her usual presence, arms folded in her oversized jumper, jeans and flat pumps. As Hughes nodded to the other wizards, Miranda allowed her dark gaze to travel over what he’d carried in with him for a hint of what he had planned to try next.

Ignan’s life was in the hands of what Miranda knew was a very capable healer. He was her successor to lead the Spell Damage Floor and one certainly didn’t become the lead of such a tough floor at such a young age unless they were exceptionally good. He was a hard worker. Despite how much she trusted him, however, she struggled not to try and advise, not to do her own research.

Flynn Hughes spoke to his boss, or rather, patient’s wife, with a tone she knew too well. It was a tone she used with patient relatives every day. The tone of someone that knew better so you needed to back off and let them do their job.
Her first instinct was to refuse to leave, to pull rank. But that wouldn’t help Ignan. She knew too well the pressures of having relatives watching you work. She knew the meaning of ‘can’t allow family in the room’. This wasn’t going to be something she’d be comfortable watching.

“Do what you need to.” Her voice sounded alien, strangely calm as her eyes didn’t leave her husband in the bed. In truth, terror filled her at the prospect of leaving him for any longer than it took to visit the bathroom. The understanding of the distraction she’d cause to Hughes is what drove her to agree without fight.
“If anything changes in his condition, burn my badge.” In her pocket, the Head Healer’s badge remained, contactable by both aurors and healers through burning.

“... last resorts ... blood magic. I can't allow any family…” Johann felt like he was reading a misprinted book, a whole chapter missing from the binding. Why was Ignan dying? What by Merlin had happened?

“Do what you need to.” Miranda agreed. Johann, temporarily rendered speechless gestured with both arms to Flynn, to go ahead, baffled. Their friend’s arrival in his official capacity cemented the situation in Johann, and he realised nobody had time to explain. They had to act.

He swallowed hard, eyes returning to the bed for a second before he withdrew, leading the departure from the space around Flynn and his patient. He had no wish to watch Flynn do whatever last resort it was that involved blood magic. Every encounter of late with blood magic had not been positive for Johann.

Outside he turned to Miranda, eyes sweeping up and down her pale, haggard appearance. He looked to Balfour, who should have really been at work, happy and merry about becoming an uncle. If Ignan wasn’t going to pull through whatever this was, he had to rally the family for the worst. He just couldn’t imagine - it was like some awful nightmare. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep on the sofa in Edinburgh.

He bit the inside of his cheek, rubbed it with his hand. No. Awake. Step up, young Storm.

He drew a deep breath, mind already three steps ahead.
“In a minute, I will need you to explain what’s happened, why Ignan is dying in there.” He uttered quietly to Miranda, exhaling, doing his very best to keep calm. If Balfour hadn’t been there, he very much doubted he would be fairing much better than Miranda had when he’d pulled her into a hug.

“My love, have you got your cigarettes?” He didn’t look away from Miranda as he asked Balfour, “Good. Miranda when did you last eat?” His blue eyes narrowed a fraction, not waiting for a clear answer. “Too long.” He remarked, blinking and addressing them both.

"Food, tea, tobacco, fresh air. We’ve not much time, and need you to bring us up to speed.” He decisively slung an arm around Miranda’s shoulders, putting her between him and Balfour, and swept her along, heading for the stairs.

Exhausted as he was Balfour felt discordantly awake now. It was the way his lover had gone: “I don’t understand.” The look he had given the two of them, wan blue eyes alert and confused by an emotion that Bal had only known in his youth. Both Mira and Johann were deeply affected, so he had to keep his head screwed on tight for the rest of the day at least.

As such, Flynn was a welcome sight. The Healer's blatant efficiency was even more welcome.

He did not know if - put in similar circumstances - he would have had enough self-restraint to step away from the bed as Miranda did but he was glad that there had been no resistance. The curtain was drawn behind them three and strange magics to be worked by nimble hands.

Balfour thought what now? His lover, much more precocious, rightly asked why?

      “My love, have you got your cigarettes?”

A dark, emerald green pack was drawn from his back pocket in response and the pair of them bookended poor Mira whilst making their way up to the fifth floor. Balfour offered cigarettes to his companions and stuck one behind his ear. The elevator would bring them up to the tearooms, where hot pasties and paper white cups of steaming tea were quietly acquired; it was early yet for the place to be busy.

"Here, let me." Balfour had opened the door to the roof, allowing Johann and Miranda to climb the ladder up before he followed up - a wand handy to keep their nourishment afloat. Daylight had barely broken across London city - golden light catching on the clouds that dominated London's skyline.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he squinted at the view, the river gleaming beautifully but ominously below. "Right then." A lighter was procured and its flame leapt to life. Balfour lit his cigarette (he needed it more than food) and breathed in with relief. Why. More and more, worried for Johann, he wanted to know why.  "Let's hear it."

"Let's hear it." The tall wizard didn’t mean it, but it sounded as if she was in trouble, she needed to own up. She was suddenly required to bare all to the younger men, explain their situation. If only it was so simple.

Miranda sank down on an upturned crate, closing her eyes as she took a long and much needed drag on her first cigarette in over 30 hours. Both wizards were eager to find out what had happened, Miranda was eager to enjoy her cigarette and have a second before she went down to the horrific reality on the fourth floor of her hospital. Tea and pasty sat ignored on the floor next to her.

“Lawrence Musgrave broke in.” Her voice was calm, slow and detached as she stared at the expanse before her; it was years since she’d last been on the roof.
“Ignan was struck in the arm by a curse.” It wasn’t the time to mention Hannah and Lawrence. She knew Johann’s relation to the young witch. “Normally, when hit directly, it shuts down the organ it’s hit immediately. Instantaneous death. Barely hitting his body decelerated its effect. His organs are slowing down, gradually dying.”

“There’s no…” She took a deep breath, calming the emotion as she closed her eyes. There was a long pause.
“There’s no recorded cases of survival.”

Dark eyes looked up to Johann and she shook her head, messy hair falling over her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, Johann.” Tears began again as she threw the cigarette on the floor. “Musgrave hadn’t come for him but he got in the way.”

“He was protecting you.” Johann replied, understanding. He had used Ignan for protection more than once - it was one reason he had come to Britain. “Because he loves you Miranda.” He exhaled, blowing smoke above his curls into morning air. Present tense. His cousin wasn’t dead. Yet.

His feet carried him across the roof, deep in thought. They’d given Miranda time to explain without interruptions. He needed a moment to consider what to do. He turned his back on them both and took another drag of one of Balfour’s cigarettes. The smell of them on his hands and roofs stitched to moments in life when fellow Storm men were dying in this hospital. First his father, now the wizard who had as good as replaced him. He didn’t look forward to his turn.

“I suppose he got away.” Johann spoke eventually, angry. It went without asking that Lawrence wanted Miranda’s help. He turned, livid expression visible to Balfour alone. Level Two had so much to answer for. Last he’d heard, they were hoping to find Lawrence dead in a ditch. Who the hell was putting the monster back together?

“I’ll go to Hogwarts,” he spoke to Miranda, turning back and stubbing out what remained of the cigarette. “Crap way to meet your step-son.”

Flynn gave Miranda a brief, agreeable nod. “Of course, I’ll let you know as soon as I am done or if anything changes.” Hopefully for the better.

He offered them a half-wave before pulling the curtain around them.

Ignan Storm looked like he belonged in a casket, not a hospital bed. He was still alive, but just barely. Under normal circumstances, Flynn would have alerted family to come and say goodbye as they sat by his side. But he was determined to try to keep that from happening, yet.

Gently, he pulled Ignan's hospital down off his shoulders, leaving his chest and stomach bare. Gloves on, Flynn applied a paste that was both a numbing agent and an antiseptic. It was immediately absorbed by Storm's skin. He pulled out his oak wand and went to work. The tip of his wand glowed a deep, burnt orange as he carefully carved a healing rune into Ignan's chest.[1] He worked slowly, moving from one rune to the next.[2] Wounds still open and welling blood, he quickly opened up the second jar of poltice. As he rubbed them into the runes, the blood began to smoke, and then the bleeding slowed.

Still, Flynn was certain they would scar. 

He let out a slow exhale through his nose. It was over. All they could do now is wait. In the meantime, Flynn was going to continue work on some healing potions incorporating Storm's blood.

Once Ignan was properly bandaged and everything properly cleaned or discarded of, he signaled Miranda's badge.

Well. At least her husband didn't look worse.

1.	Defodio Parveo
2.	From left to right, Wolfsangel, Ul, and Sól

He tried to picture what Miranda was saying: Musgrave coming into their home in Hogsmeade, Ignan throwing himself before the small witch, the sheer inanity of it all somehow senselessly resulting in the fact that someone Johann dearly cared for was slowly turning into a corpse just a few floors below them. How could something so drastic happen in such a short time?

Ah, but he knew that even worse could happen in briefer moments. All handlers did.

The sheer anger that flowered across his lover's face came as a shock to Bal's present state, which was gently trying to come to terms with this new grief. He knew this anger, knew that there was enough of it in Johann to equal Wolfgang Storm maybe.

       “I’ll go to Hogwarts. Crap way to meet your step-son.”

Balfour - still nursing his cigarette in one hand - approached the other two from where he'd been slowly pacing, and he perched himself on the other end of where Mira was sat. He'd been told about Sasha before and didn't see any urgency to the act. "Eat first," he ordered levelly with a gesture at their makeshift picnic; small, trivial part of him worried their food would go cold. "Then everything else."

He hesitated a second before reaching for Joh's hand, to indicate he sit down. They were both tired and he didn't wish either of them to wear themselves thin on the adrenaline of anger or fear.

"There's nothing we can do just this moment," Bal reminded them - he had proven before that he was good at blocking out implications in a harried situation, so now he ignored the problem that was Lawrence Musgrave to be discussed later. He picked up his pasty and bit into it grimly.

Hot, flavoursome beef and carrot stew: a taste likely ruined forever if Ignan did not pull through.

“Crap way to meet your step-son.” Sasha Schlagenweit was the last thing on Miranda’s mind when her husband was lying in a hospital bed slowly dying. She knew of Ignan’s son. They’d argued about it months ago. She’d not mentioned it since, not shown any inclination to meet him. No interest in what didn’t directly concern her. But perhaps it should have concerned her considering his father was dying. Not that Ignan was much of a father, that was one of his faults.

In response, Mira said nothing. She simply nodded, numb. Engaging in conversation took energy that she barely had. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, the witch was struggling enough to keep it together without invited unknown and unwanted family to see the show of her husband on his death bed looking a decade older and very much like a corpse.

Balfort suggested eating, Mira’s gaze moved slowly to him, watching as he lifted his pasty to his lips. she hadn’t considered food, not in the sense of being hungry. Grief made one feel sick, stomach too volatile to consider nourishment. Yet she daily told patients and families to eat. Starving oneself was ridiculous and only a way to make one sicker.

With this in mind, the healer picked up the cooling tea and pasty. Cornish pasty and English breakfast tea, one sugar.
“He thought I should take it as a compliment that he remembered how I took my tea in the staffroom at Hogwarts. He’s not made me a cup since.” It was a random thought, voiced through fear of her husband suddenly becoming past tense.

As she lifted the tea to her lips, Miranda could smell something other than overcooked and tasteless hospital food. The pasty was thrown down on the crate and she slipped her badge from the jean pocket, hand involuntarily shaking as slim fingers enclosed over the hot metal.

It only took a few minutes to get back down to the fourth floor, Mira’s legs carrying her far faster back than they had away. She’d not touched the pasty. She didn’t care if Balfour and Johann were happy to leave the roof immediately.

The curtains were pulled back to the clean cubicle, Flynn Hughes stood near the bed, Ignan still unconscious with the sheet pulled up over his chest. He still looked dreadful. He still looked dead.
Dark eyes met Flynn’s and Miranda felt as if she was transported back 13 years ago.
“Is he still dying?” She asked, trying to keep it together. Her fingers found a hand nearby, grabbing it for a small margin of support.

“Eat first,” Johann’s angry outlook was punctured by Balfour’s response. It was directed at both him and Miranda, though of the two of them Miranda was the one near wit’s end. He took Balfour’s hand and swallowed down the rant. His love knew Johann so well he knew how to tame that ugly side before it got going. He watched Balfour bite into his pasty with a suspect expression, and then looked to Miranda commenting on tea.
“You’ve tasted his cook-.” Johann began but Miranda was scrambling to reach for her badge with shaky hands and bolted.

“Crap.” Johann uttered, scooping up what was left of Miranda’s tea after she’d thrown it down, and drank it dry in one go. His mouth felt like cotton wool, and he shoved his breakfast into his coat pocket with resignation and a shrug to Balfour before following his cousin.

Knowing her hospital, Miranda’s inferior height was no drawback to her vanishing back to her husband’s bedside. Johann was last of the three, brooding over whether Layton or Ira were harbouring Lawrence, given they employed him. So wrapped up in his thoughts he smacked straight into a healer coming out of the next ward and had to apologise. He reached a hand to the pasty in his pocket, and found it flattened in the impact. By the time he caught them up, he was busy wiping flaky pastry from his hands with a deep frown.

Miranda, in her stressed state, had seized Balfour’s hand. Johann gave his other half a look of surprise, sucking a trail of gravy from his middle finger knuckle at this. His cousin was still comatose on the bed, but the sheets were drawn further up. Had Miranda not asked still dying, Johann might have assumed he’d died. With a cautious look to Flynn, he stepped forward towards Ignan’s shoulder.
“Miranda explained,” He spoke quietly to their friend, "How does the blood magic work?” Johann asked, uneasy.