The first day of the Hogwarts Spring holiday brought soft April showers to Hogsmeade, grey clouds blanketing the skies above the village and the school above it. The birds were singing in the trees behind the cottage, overjoyed by yesterday’s unseasonably warm day for Scotland, spring arriving.

It was a full week since Hannah Bombay had knocked on their front door[1]. Their modest home was quiet for mid-morning Saturday. Those who had wanted to visit had come to his bedside in St Mungo’s the past few days, but Ignan had thought he had heard the door more than once since arriving home the previous afternoon. Sleep had bit fitful, and tinged with associated memories of returning home for the first time.

Yesterday, he’d been discharged to rest. Miranda had pointed out how as it was the Easter holiday, so he would not be tempted to work. Ignan had agreed quietly.  He'd kept quiet about how Johann had visited straight from work on the Thursday, sympathetic to his kin’s workaholic itch. As Ignan dictated, Johann had penned down holiday homework for all seven year groups before transmitting the papers to Hogwarts. With the damage to his right shoulder, Ignan was still unable to wield a quill, or his wand with his dominant hand. The students might curse the fact he’d lived, but when it came to their exams in two months, they would hopefully take it back. Him almost dying was not an excuse for them to fail.

Upstairs, Ignan sat on the edge of their bed, facing the window that looked out over the sloped roof of what had become their little study tacked onto the side of the cottage. His left fingers tugged at the knot for his sling, freeing his arm carefully into his lap. In silence, with some discomfort, he gently rocked his arm repeating gentle exercises[2]. As he concentrated on moving his right arm with his left in smooth, fluid motions, he heard a patter of feet on the stairs, and watched Gerda totter into the room with some fresh washing which extended higher than her head. Ignan winced as he tested his arm and the elf shot him a look, so he straightened his expression and pressed his lips together as if nothing had happened. Once she had attended to the drawers and tucked everything away, the elf crossed over to her master and hopped up onto the bed behind him to assist in resetting the sling. Ignan let her fuss, it saved him a job, and she’d only inform on him.

“Thank you.”
“Yes Master. Can Gerda assist?”
“No, I’m alright.” She watched him with lamp-like eyes for a moment before disappearing with a pop. He heard her higher pitched voice address Miranda downstairs, confirming supplies they required her to fetch from outside. Ignan waited to hear another pop of their elf leaving before he made his way downstairs. His fingertips glanced over the locks on their front door at the foot of the stairs, and he glanced ahead to his right to the study door. He could hear small movements in the room beyond where his wife was working. On his armchair, their recently acquired feline resident watched him silently. Ignan had decided to stop calling it Lawrence on discovering it was still living in the cottage. It was no longer a palatable joke, even with their awful humour.

Ignan went left, into their kitchen, and nudged the kitchen door shut behind him with his left hand. His fingertips checked the back door before he found the kettle. His left hand wasn’t out of practice with casting, but he couldn’t help but feel his right arm tense with habit. The water began to tick and pop inside and he set down his wand beside the stove in favour of collecting a mug and tea under his own steam.

Five minutes later, he made it steadily across the living room, past the cat, and nudged the study door open with his foot. In the study Miranda sat at the desk with her back to the door. The small room was packed full of bookcases, their combined collection rammed into them (though many of Ignan’s had relocated to Hogwarts with the lack of space in comparison to Godric’s Hollow). Miranda’s authored books took pride of place, flaming bat bogeys and all. She had been working intermittently on another, he understood, happy to let her continue. He lacked the patience to consider his own, and teaching from one’s own text book seemed more arrogant than he was willing to pursue.

Without a word, Ignan stepped up beside her and gingerly reached the mug of tea to a small hole in the paperwork sprawled on the surface before his wife, before leaning over carefully to kiss the crown of her head.

1.	26th March When I Wake Up
2.	The things you read for AO

The Head Healer hadn’t benefitted from a decent and undisturbed night’s sleep in over a week. Saturday and Sunday nights she’d been sat up worried about her husband’s health. Between then and now she’d slept alone at home, fearful for another visit from Musgrave, catching an hour or so between nightmares. Last night had been Ignan’s first back home after being discharged the afternoon before. His sleep had been sparing and as a result she’d lain awake most of the night unable to switch off her mind.

It had been early when Miranda had risen silently, pulling on her silk dressing gown and slipping from the room after a quick wash in the bathroom. Her bare feet had carried her silently down the stairs and the elf had eagerly made her a cup of tea which was delivered to the study where Miranda positioned herself to busy her mind on her book.

It was a couple of hours before movement was heard above, and after dismissing Gerda to fetch some groceries, Miranda heard her husband making his way down the stairs in their living room. She didn’t choose to rise from her seat, instead deciding to give him the space he probably needed now that he wasn’t waking up to a busy hospital.
Instead, Miranda continued to scribble notes on parchment, her illegible scrawl inking out a more recent case study from the dementor attacks.

Both the mug placed in amongst her parchment and the soft kiss surprised the witch who looked up from her work to see Ignan towering over her, fully dressed and looking better than he had all week.
A tiny smile twisted Mira’s pale lips as she pulled off her glasses, placing them on the desk and twisting her chair to better face him.
“Did you remember how to make tea in your deathbed?”

“It’s too early for wine.” Ignan attempted a shrug with his comeback but regretted it with a grimace. His left hand went to his right shoulder to give it a little rub, cursing that Miranda witnessed it. Magic was all well and good but a broken collarbone and a dislocated shoulder on top of the curse was taking longer than he liked to settle.

“Besides, why have a dog and bark. She is a good elf.” That was the closest they got to ‘It’s the least I can do to say thank you’ at this point, what with the uncomfortable moments of speaking it in the first hour of being back. They didn’t do I love yous, sorries or overly sincere thanks. They used other words that meant the same.

Ignan blinked slowly, feeling awkward and averted his eyes past his wife and best friend to the parchment before her.
“Did your publishers give you a month’s reprieve, given that you almost had a close family member die?” He stepped back and leaned carefully against the doorframe to the cramped study. Pity one her patients was too unhinged to add as a detailed case study.

Miranda tried not to concern the concern when Ignan’s features screwed into a small grimace caused by the pain in his shoulder. The healing process had slowed down, the healer’s attention on bringing him back from the brink of death, no matter the condition of his shoulder. As Ignan’s body slowly regained its strength and health, the healing would speed up and his wife would keep a steady eye on it. for now, however, she said nothing.

From her crowded desk, Mira picked up the first tea made by her husband since she’d left Hogwarts and lifted it to her lips. Never having grown up with a house elf, the witch hadn’t been able to understand how someone could become so reliant on them for certain tasks. It had seemed horrifically lazy. Yet now she was part of a couple that did keep one and the time freed up by the little creature was astonishing.

“My publishers know that if they push me, they get nothing and I find another company.” The tone was matter of fact; Miranda had agreed to write the book, she was happy to, but in her own time. Work and family took priority over earning extra money and prestige.

Now it was when the witch’s expression changed as she studied her husband after a sip of suitable brewed tea. Her dark eyes ran over the sling tying his arm up to put relief on his shoulder, his pale expression and clothing choice.
“How do you feel?”

“More than my age.” Ignan admitted grumpily, only because Miranda was asking. Anyone else and he’d have lied through his teeth and pretended nearly dying was no worse than a common cold. “Nothing that won’t get better,” he followed up, inclining his head to add emphasis.

It was her job and her nature to observe and heal, but he was stubborn and a tough boot so he would rather be treated like his usual self than with concern and extra attention. He might want to sleep more hours in the day than he ordinarily did, but that was only part of recovery where his body redirected his energy. It would pass. He would make it pass.

“Marriage is proving dangerous.” He remarked with a straight face, “for us both I mean. It is good to be home. Your hospital is a marvellous place, but I prefer to lick my wounds in the company of the finest healer I know.” He fixed Miranda with his cool gaze, and the corner of his mouth curled, “After Hughes that is.”

He straightened up and placed his left hand gently on his wife’s shoulder before retreating through the door into the living room a step or so. He gestured to the cat sleeping on his armchair.
“We’ve no luck in getting rid of it then?” He asked Mira, “Whatever it’s name is.”

Miranda had learned a lot about her husband since the attack. Previously, she’d been more than aware of his stubborn streak, his pride and insistence on being ‘fine’. After nearly a week of watching him nearly die and then steadily recover from it, Miranda had seen just how stubborn the old wizard could be. He was eager to have people stop fussing over him, insistent that it was getting better but extremely frustrated that it wasn’t. For a wizard who’s profession demanded patience, he was showing himself up to being quite an impatient person.

At least he was able to joke. Mira’s brow rose, no smile. Her lack of amusement had nothing to do with the joke, Miranda had never claimed to be the best healer in the country or the finest. She was simply one of the most researched and specialised ones. Her plain expression came from the consideration of Flynn Hughes. Healer Hughes would be receiving a great deal of gratitude for his efforts. Most healers would have given up and called it a day, regardless of who the patient was married to. Hughes had done a good job and Mira had yet to thank him.

“It is a he and we’re not getting rid of him.” Miranda took another sip of tea, trying to supress the urge to nag him through drinking. It didn’t work. “Have you taken your potions yet?” Ignan should know his wife never really switched off from her job.

“Which ones?” Ignan replied, unable to suppress his sarcasm. The whole week had been a procession of potions, poultices, runes, salves and even damned crystals. Although he didn’t deny he felt better for some of it, he’d had more healing attention in that week than he’d had in over a decade and felt invaded and his pride battered for it. Yes, he was stubborn, but he hated being anything but himself. His patience for his own body was shorter than any he had for idiots. Merlin, he abhorred feeling old. If he could turn back the previous week and have punched Lawrence clean out in their living room, even while polyjuiced as Johann, he would feel entirely healed in an instance. Only that wasn’t happening.

“...the ones I take within half an hour of waking that taste like horse piss?” Ignan asked, genuinely recalling the list of potions he had to take from the hospital prescription, “or the analgesic which makes me forget what I said a moment before,” (admittedly that had been funnier for his visitors to witness than him to experience), "or maybe you mean the vile pink one that is meant to stop me bringing up the others? No, I’m forgetting one…”

Ignan recalled the potions with the usual distaste of most patients. Miranda had always responded that if they tasted good, they weren’t good. Medecine was supposed to taste bad, then you knew it was going to do the job. She supposed Ignan wouldn’t appreciate the comment and decided instead to listen to him list them grumpily.

“The one that tastes like gone off milk.” Mira’s expression was deadpan as she reminded her husband about possibly the most important of the lot. “If you don’t take that one, Ignan, those runes on your body might as well be a pretty tattoo because they’ll be no more useful than one. You need to take that every few hours for at least another week.” The witch’s tone had changed; less caring wife and more scolding healer.

“If you can’t remember them I’ll write you a schedule.” Without waiting for a response, the healer turned back towards the desk, placed the tea mug down and grabbed a quill and a blank piece of parchment.

“Yes, that one.” Ignan echoed, but let her reiterate the importance. “Don-.”

Miranda’s husband swallowed his words and pressed his lips together into a severe straight line and lowered his eyes to the cat occupying his armchair. If he let her write it, she’d feel satisfied she was keeping him organised and doing her healer duties. She might stop nagging him and just check it if he ticked them off during the day. She was more likely to get Gerda to nag him. Gerda had more chance of being able to read it.

“Analgesic might make me forget.” He agreed quietly, contemplating moving the cat, only he probably better go and take more of the tasty potion Miranda had described. “Sounds quite liberating at the moment.” He added, walking slowly and steadily towards the kitchen as she continued to scribble a timetable. It only took a moment to find the right bottle amongst the collection in the cold store of the kitchen. It had a cold charm on it to keep the temperature low enough, but it still smelled awful when he unstoppered it clumsily.

“I took some more of the vile pink one for good measure.” He informed his wife on returning to the living room. The dark grey cat stretched comfortably on his armchair, and the wizard took pleasure in unceremoniously usurping it, tarred only by the hair it left behind. He fancied doing the crossword, and then remembered he wasn’t able to write properly yet and felt deflated. The cat took up sentry on the end of the sofa perched on the arm, staring at him. “I forgot to ask - will you and Hughes be carving more of your patients?” He called to his wife in her study.

Miranda didn’t listen to her husband as he headed off to the kitchen. Instead, between sips of surprisingly well made tea by an out of practice wizard, she quickly scribbled a table of when he should take each potion. It was laid out much like she did for younger patients, for children. There were boxes to tick when it was taken. Ignan had predicted right, Gerda would be receiving this to keep an eye on her master.

“I forgot to ask - will you and Hughes be carving more of your patients?”

“Only the grumpy ones.” The witch responded dryly as she tapped the parchment with the tip of her wand, casting a simply charm to alarm every time potion was required and it wouldn’t stop until the box was ticked. Ignan would no doubt complain about it and consider ticking without drinking. Miranda would know.

“When you’ve made a full recovery I may ask him to speak on it to the staff.” It wasn’t often people impressed Miranda Storm. Flynn Hughes had.

Grabbing her tea cup, Miranda stood and moved into the lounge, leaning against the doorframe to look down at her husband and the cat that was staring at him from the arm of the sofa.
“I’d like to take a look.” She paused, realising what it sounded. “The dressings need changing now anyway.” They’d been left untouched since the carvings done. Neither of them had seen the scaring done to his skin.

Ignan wasn’t exactly offered a choice as Miranda’s kit bag floated over from the front door.

“Only the grumpy ones.”
“Hmph.”
“When you’ve made a full recovery I may ask him to speak on it to the staff.”
“Sort of thing he should write a paper on, as much as I dislike being the subject of news, he did save my life.” Ignan remarked thoughtfully, staring across their little living room. “And if he’s going to have to re-carve them in coming weeks, I might as well contribute my observations to publication.” It was a reasonable suggestion from the grumpy older wizard. Ordinarily he’d stay away from healers and fuss, but he’d had time to reflect in London about how he’d not be here now if he’d not been treated by healers.

He looked up and round at Miranda as she filled the doorway.
“I’d like to take a look.” Husband gave wife a suspicious look until she clarified about the dressings.
“Bit late now I’m dressed.” He grumbled, only to see her healer’s bag drift across the floor. “I never thought wearing clothes would become a novelty at this point in my life.” Last week at St Mungo’s he’d spent most of his time in a state of partial dress or in patient robes. Wearing his own clothes made him feel less ill and more his usual self.

Ignan got back to his feet with a bit of effort.
“Sit back in my chair at your peril,” he warned the cat, “not down here,” he added to Miranda in a less direct tone, “tempting fate that someone might impose themselves on us to visit.” He gestured away from her with his left arm and gestured upstairs. He wasn’t looking forward to wrestling his shoulder out of clothing again, but with luck Miranda would oblige to help without fuss in Gerda’s absence.

Miranda headed up the stairs in front of him, conscious he might not like her behind him watching as he still wasn’t recovered. As far as grumpy patients went, her husband was his own level. The tea being brought to her office had truly stunned her. She wouldn’t push it with heavy analysis of his recovery.

The scars, however, were something she needed to see. Having told Hughes that she’d deal with the dressings at home, they’d been able to leave sooner. With her bag trailing behind her, Miranda stepped into the bedroom and lowered it onto the bed. She folded her arms over the dressing gown as she watched Ignan come in behind her. It was terrifying to imagine he’d nearly died. To be stood at his bedside a few days ago staring at such a lifeless wizard had been horrific.

Little thought went into Miranda’s next action. When Ignan stepped into the bedroom, she came closer, wrapping her arms carefully around his waist and coming in closely, tiptoeing to press her lips against his. Her eyes, despite her usually hard exterior, had teared up.

“Oh!” Ignan exclaimed very softly, taken by surprise at Miranda’s actions. His free hand touched her back tenderly, an instinctive reaction to being shown affection. He and Miranda didn’t do public displays of affection. He might offer her his arm - of might have - but that was only polite considering their height difference. They didn’t do much affection even behind closed doors, though wine did encourage it. This week was a first in quite a number of ways, from stints in St Mungo’s, nearly dying, healing firsts, to communicating just with thoughts and then the unspeakable tears. By all rights, Ignan shouldn’t have been alive to stand here.

“I love you too.” He uttered quietly, leaving a kiss on Miranda’s forehead, and gently drawing them together with his arm. He turned to accommodate his arm in the sling without it coming between them. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ignan wrapping his free arm around her should have made her feel better, more secure. But it just made the witch realise what a mess she’d have been had he not survived and that thought terrified her. It was easy to remain stoic and thick-skinned for the majority of the time. She knew what her staff called her when they thought she wasn’t listening. Emotions were something she hid on a daily basis, preferring to maintain her reputation of being an Ice Queen or the Heartless Hag. But what she’d experienced the past week had highlighted to Miranda just how weak she really was and why she’d not pursued a relationship since Jonathon.

Being in love with another person opened you up to an expanse of pain that was indescribable. She’d gone into a relationship with Ignan thinking of him as company and someone that intrigued her. She’d loved his dominant nature and jealousy. He was a strong wizard with things in his closet that she still didn’t know, or want to know about. She’d been content to never let it get past a convenient relationship. They’d gone months without using the ‘L’ word and when he had, she’d freaked out.

The whole way through their relationship, Miranda had been scared of committing fully, her past greatly affecting her. Her feelings had crept up on her, surprising her how much Ignan truly meant. Over a decade of feeling she was better alone and now she was suddenly terrified by the prospect.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Ignan could insist all he wanted, he wasn’t immortal.

“Not for at least a week.” Miranda muttered, trying to push the emotion back. She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I slept terribly last night. I’m just tired.” Avoiding his gaze now, she grabbed the floating case and placed it on the bed, opening it up.

“Just a week now?” Ignan asked softly, sure it was two last she’d deflected like that. He wanted to avoid strong emotions as much as she did, even if he felt terribly guilty for being the cause of what Miranda was experiencing at that moment. Had he not stepped out to push Hannah Bombay out of the way, they could have just been at St Mungo’s for his shoulder last week. A minor inconvenience. It had been his instinct to defend, and in that split second, he’d thought it better his younger relative cause his own kin harm than someone else. It had been a convincing disguise. Not just to Ignan and Miranda, he had learned, but also to the Ministry who had let Musgrave escape, despite pursuit.

“Understandably.” Ignan acknowledged Miranda’s reasoning. Neither of them had slept well, which was why he had remained in bed long after she had departed. "No harm in taking a nap.” He had rather had to cope with the fact his body enforced them while it was healing. Sleeping was a good way to spend your time in hospital though. People left you alone and time slipped by swiftly.

He passed by his lover and sat down on the edge of the bed. At the angle he could see her downturned face, defiantly concentrating on her healer’s bag rather than allowing herself to cry. But he knew that downwards twitch of her mouth. Much as he might have wanted to try and find words, any of those he’d offered since waking had been cast aside. He wasn’t really worthy of her concern. It had been his own fault. He was a laughable wizard to be teaching future aurors when he was almost killed in his own living room. It was no wonder Miranda was upset. Their marriage hadn’t turned out as either of them had ever planned. Perhaps they should not have rushed into it.

With equally glum features, Ignan reached his left hand up to pull at the knot in the sling which Gerda had only tied half an hour ago for him.
“I’ll try not to keep you awake tonight… can always sleep elsewhere.” He added thoughtfully, lowering his right arm into his lap. “Would you,” he gestured with his left hand, requesting some help, irritated at the inconvenience of losing some of his independence temporarily.

It was a great mercy to Ignan’s sore shoulder that Miranda’s two hands made easy work of removing layers of clothing, revealing the bandages beneath and the pale shades of almost healed bruises. His eyes sought out hers for a non-verbal assessment of how he looked. He doubted pulling off the bandages over the runes carved into his chest was going to improve his appearance.