Mid-morning, somewhere in St Mungo’s


Two matronly witches with broad shoulders and round figures eyed him up and down. Their greying hair was knotted up in tight buns and they stood between him and a steaming bathtub in this stark white, tiled room he’d been ushered into with Fendrel.

“Binds too,” the second witch ordered, with a tone that suggested neither wizard disagreed. She sported an impressive looking wart on the end of her nose. The hitwizard exchanged a look with the witches and then glanced back to Lawrence, who accepted he wouldn’t ever remember what it was like to have some semblance of privacy. He shrugged and waited for the familiar weight and tension of the Ministry shackles to vanish into thin air.

Four hands submerged him in the steaming bathtub minutes later, and the brisk scrubbing began. This was definitely not the kind of welcome he had expected, and certainly not the kind he would have received if he’d been shipped back to Azkaban from Charon’s Point. It was decades since he’d taken a bath this hot and this deep, in a time when he had a home. One of them scrubbed every inch of his hand and nails, trimmed and filed them before attending to his hardened feet. He felt like royalty, even though they were rough and efficient. The blistering heat of the water reached parts of him he’d nearly forgotten about, and they too, were scrubbed relentlessly. By the time he was hauled out, Lawrence was sure he’d shed a layer or two of skin, like a snake. Everything stung just a little.

Once satisfied that no inch of Lawrence’s body had escaped scrupulous cleaning, they dressed him in hospital garb, simple patient robes. They lopped off straggly curls, which had grown untamed over months and shaved the short beard from his chin. They scrubbed at his teeth, and he tried not to fixate on the wart, head held tight.


He was to be held on the fourth floor of the hospital. Spell damage, according to the signs on the walls as they were hurried through. He counted the locked doors between them and the stairs, tried to memorise the route as Fenny tugged him along by the elbow. Lawrence suspected the hitwizard was doing exactly the same, aware of the new opportunities.

At last a door was opened to them, a room much larger than the cell he’d been confined to on Level Two, flooded with light and even colour. Three armchairs greeted them, in pleasant, complementary tones, set around a rug and before what could only be an enchanted window, such was the scene outside. Set back was a bed that looked rather more comfortable than the last he’d slept in, and a door at the foot of it suggested a simple bathroom beyond.

Still bound by Fenny’s magic, Lawrence turned on the spot in the middle of the room, taking in the sight of plants (probably harmlessly edible), and modern artwork (no people to talk to). The room would not have looked too out of place in a modern Muggle hotel, if Lawrence had ever stepped foot in one. A mirror, set on the same wall as the door through which they had entered, reflected his appearance. Lawrence hardly recognised himself, clean shaven, hair back to the length it had been in his auror days, not quite long enough to tie up.

“What now then?” He asked Fenny.
“This is it. St Mungo’s run this ship.” The hitwizard shrugged, and tapped his wand in the air. “Carstairs has been through the security, so don’t feel you need to test it straight away. I’ll be right outside like before.”

With that ‘reassurance’, he left Lawrence alone in his new ‘cell’.

While Lawrence Musgrave was being disinfected, shorn and made hygienically acceptable, the St Mungo’s Head Healer and Head of Department of Mysteries were several floors below conversing and discussing their plans for the newest long term patient of the fourth floor.

“I think that should be all,” The Head Healer stated, reshuffling the parchment on the coffee table between them. “Ah. But you shall need to wear this.” On the table sat a small golden and rectangular shaped badge. Morgenthau’s name had been printed onto it with the words below ‘Patient Consultant’ in capital letters.

“Security reasons, you understand. It will give you access to doors you need which are otherwise locked. It will also track your movements around the hospital for our security staff. We all have one.” Her left hand indicated her own badge pinned to her dress, the edge ornately trimmed in emerald. “It will also alert you to a problem with the patient. It burns.”

“We can remove such a facility if you’d rather.” The healer offered as she handed over the badge and stood. She was talking a lot, more than was characteristic. The nerves of being about to meet Musgrave again were affecting the witch far more than she thought she would. She’d had about 5 cigarettes in the hour preceding Morgenthau’s arrival just to calm down and give her hands something to do. Snardsworthy had also been victim to her temper as well as the healers on her rounds that morning.

Recognising her apparent verbal diarrhoea, Miranda silenced herself and crossed the large office to the door which she pulled open.

To Yavin Morgenthau, St.Mungo's was first and foremost the place where he had lost his late wife. It had been some time ago, now. Nearly ten years was enough for the sting to have worn off but not for the memories to lose their texture. Ultimately, however, this was a temple of healing.

He accepted the badge from Healer Storm and fixed it to the collar of his jacket. There had been no necessity to dress formally. They would be getting to know Musgrave on a much more intimate level.

            “We can remove such a facility if you’d rather." Miranda continued speaking as they left her office.

"No, ah, no that's why I'm here right?" the wizard laughed lightly, the door shutting behind him. If something happened to Musgrave, he was partly responsible. Clever badges. "I must, hm, must say this is a well run institute."

Yavin spoke casually as he let her lead the way towards their subject's living space. He was looking forward to finally meeting this infamous figure whose visage had graced the pages of the Daily Prophet so often. A criminal! The very man who had helped pluck Yavin's own pupil for his predecessor's experiments.

And now, himself an experiment. The universe had a sense of humour - and Yavin shared it.

"Shall I, hm, shall I let you do all the talking at first?" he asked, hands in pockets and searching gaze shifting back to the Healer walking next to him.

“That’s why I still have a job.” Miranda smiled at the wizard as they proceeded to the stairs. Enormous improvements in the hospital’s running had been made in the 15 months since Miranda had taken charge. People may have complained about her manner and intolerance, but she’d certainly made St Mungos a more efficient and self-sufficient hospital which would only continue to benefit it in years to come. The Head Healer wasn’t about to deny that despite not wanting a ‘minder’, having Yavin Morgenthau compliment the running of her hospital certainly felt good.

Upon their arrival on the fourth floor, Miranda led them out onto a corridor and turned left, approaching a large set of wooden doors with a sign prohibiting unauthorised access. Once within a foot, a click was heard and the doors swung inward to allow entry.

“Perhaps we should see how things progress.” The healer stated, her gaze following the movement of a few healers going about their business here on the permanent damage ward. The doors behind them were quick to close and once more lock themselves. Screaming could be heard no such a distance away. “I’ve been advised as to his state of mind but I’m not one to rely on the judgements of others.” Even if ‘others’ meant her oldest friend.

They turned right down another corridor, through another set of locked doors. The screaming faded. Another right, more doors. Their final destination was around a final corner where a hitwizard sat on patrol reading.

Dark eyes took in the title Crafting with Cat Hair - Cute Handicrafts to Make with Your Cat. A birthday present for Ignan, perhaps.

“Ready?” Miranda didn’t wait. She walked towards the door which, like the others, clicked and swung open inwards.

Heeled foot was stepped inside and the Healer stopped, her heart hammering against her chest.
He was really there. He was really in her hospital.
“Lawrence.” It wasn’t possible for the voice to have held any stronger a Devonshire accent as she spoke his name.

Alone, the anxiety had set in. Lawrence did three laps of the room, fingers exploring surfaces, fixtures, texture of the leaves of the plants, surprised to find they were real. He’d not touched a plant in over five months. He squinted back at the painting on the wall, convinced it had changed since the last time he’d looked. The inky blotches wanted him to interpret them, but he didn’t feel like a test yet. He circled back, to the bed, and sank down upon the edge.

Last night he’d hardly slept, going over the actions of the day behind him. What memories had he given to Harper? Had they been the right ones? What memories had Edwin and Morwenna wiped from his mind that afternoon and so well that his nose had bled and a healer had been called. Hannah thought he was a fool for agreeing to come. Had he made a massive miscalculation yet again?

He was tired, and this bed was a lot more comfortable than the holding cell’s had been. He curled on his side, in a ball, and stared across the room at the door, too mentally preoccupied to sleep.

It was so quiet.

The door opened inwardly, and at once Lawrence was tense on the clean, fresh sheets of the bed. He recognised Andy immediately, dressed in grand green and gold robes, fancier than Sandy’s. He did not recognise the strangely dressed man with her, who wore bright colours and sported glasses. Presumably he was the other name on all the paperwork, Morgenthau, Edwin’s new Head of Nine. At first glance he was a contrast to Mortimer Gamp’s habit of dressing like an undertaker.[1]

“Lawrence.”

The door slid back without a sound.

“… Andy.” He sat up, and swung his legs down to the floor, alert. He didn’t greet the other man, but eyed him tentatively from the distance as he got to his feet, arms by his side, one robe cuff empty.

“You wanted me.”

1.	’… He still looked and dressed like a ruddy undertaker. Nothing much changed. …’ - Through Grey Mist Creeping

“… Andy.” One word caused Miranda to be transported back years, decades. Such greetings had been the norm, ‘Andy’ the name everyone would call her because she was young and free and careless. She’d been fun. Now she was stood frozen near the doorway of no more than a nicely decorated cell facing the wizard who’d once held a far pleasanter association than being the wizard who tried to kill her husband.

He sat up, twisting his body before standing. The whole time, Miranda watched like a hawk, anticipating sudden movements and the need to act. This would be the first time, she knew, that people would be in a cell with him with wands since his arrest. They’d been advised on the security and the risks. The ever pessimistic aurors were convinced of the dangers. Miranda suddenly understood.

The Head healer was keenly aware of being the smallest in the room, but she was also, as of the present moment, the most knowledgeable about the situation. Yavin Morgenthau, to Lawrence, was an unknown entity and vice versa.

“You wanted me.”

A breath escaped perhaps too loudly as Miranda was reminded of the recurring uninvited guest in her living room. Blood drained from her face as she clasped hands together to stop herself from shaking.
“I want your help, Lawrence.” Mira’s voice was quieter than was usual, betraying the nerves that threatened to take over and send her into a mess. “Which you’ve agreed to give.”

“This is Yavin Morgenthau.” She nodded in the taller man’s direction, not releasing her hands from each other. “The New Head of Level Nine. Think of him as my minder; he’s here to make sure that I don’t turn your brain to soup and blame a slip of my wand.”

“Shall we sit?”

The door closed behind him. Yavin looked between the two other people in the room, as one of them addressed the other by a name he did not associate with Miranda. Ah. So that's how it was. Not an implausible overreaction from Solomon Carstairs then. He turned his attention proper to the man over whose life he had been accorded some influence.

"You can, ah, you can call me Morgenthau." The older wizard smiled and bowed slightly at Lawrence, hands behind his back. "Minder, yes. I also, hm, have, shall we say, a professional interest in these proceedings."

They moved to the corner of the room where the armchairs were set up. It was a well decorated space - impersonal but comforting in its own way, clear of clutter. He had no doubt that it was an improvement over prison cells. It would have to be. A paranoid or trapped mind would be useless to study. Their subject was already being overseen by somebody he had reason not to trust.

Lawrence was seated between the two of them, the department head on his left.

"I believe you have the right to know that, like Healer Storm, I am also a, aha, a Legilimens." Yavin leaned back into his armchair and crossed  his legs as he smiled pleasantly. "I assure you, experienced. Should you have any, that is, any objections in days to come, it falls into my, ah, my purview."

Yavin glanced at Miranda, nothing changing in his expression. "Isn't that, hah, isn't that right, Andy?"

“I want your help… you’ve agreed to give.”

Instead of going straight to Azkaban, Lawrence thought. He watched the Head Healer far more carefully than the other wizard. She was the one who had requested his help, Morgenthau was collateral, or as Andy described him a moment later, her minder. He gave the wizard another glance, trying to look past the glaring fashion. Dressed in plain hospital scrubs, Lawrence felt like he’d come to a party in a paper bag in comparison to both of them.

“… to make sure that I don’t turn your brain to soup and blame a slip of my wand.”

Nice way to break the ice. He would never put it past her.

Morgenthau was definitely quirky, accepting his unofficial title from Andy before they all found their way to the three armchairs. Lawrence took the middle one, flanked either side in a loose triangle. He fought a temptation to curl himself into a protective ball as he had so often in his cell. Armchairs were civilised and he’d almost forgotten how to act. Morgenthau crossed his legs as if they were taking tea in a front room, Andy’s posture seemed stiff. Lawrence folded his arms across his chest and glanced from one to the other.

“I believe you have the right to know that… I am also a… legilimens.” Lawrence didn’t return the smile the new Head of Nine delivered at this information. Instead his forehead revealed tension. From two matronly witches scrubbing his backside to two mind-readers. Nothing here was private, would ever be. “… any objections in days to come… isn’t that right, Andy?”

Even better. Two mind-readers who distrusted each other at the first minute. Lawrence looked to the Head Healer and raised an eyebrow. This was already more interesting than being locked up on Two, but nothing so far reassured him that he wouldn’t end up as brain soup. Only the fact Andy seemed rather less confident, forthright and revengeful than he had anticipated. He had accidentally maimed her husband and fight him to save Hannah.

“I’m sure you’ll hear them,” he told Morgenthau, looking back at him and tapping his temple, arms folding back tightly in defensive pose. “If soup’s not on the menu.” He gave Andy an uncomfortable scowl. “I take it that’s what you both want? To sit here and pick through my thoughts like a filing cabinet?” 

"Isn't that, hah, isn't that right, Andy?" Mogenthau addressed the Head Healer and there was a minute twitch of her lips, clearly unimpressed with the name being used. The American may have been a wizard that she’d always wanted to meet to talk late into the night about legilimency and the mind, but she’d never have wished for it in this manner. Becoming the Head Healer of Britain’s magical hospital should have meant no one person overruling her decisions anymore. A board, she could influence. A ministry employee clearly favoured by Glass and Carstairs, she could not.

The raised eyebrow wasn’t missed, of course Lawrence was nervous. He should be nervous. He’d been responsible for Ignan’s near death. He was the reason that she was still having nightmares, still terrified that at any moment, those runes marring Ignan’s chest would finally give up and he’d never wake again. Lawrence was the reason that Miranda once more felt helpless.

“It’s not that simple, Lawrence.” Miranda stated, trying to stop her voice sounding as harsh as instinct made it. “It’s not your thoughts that interest me.” It would be easier to jump straight into the magic behind it all, her reasoning. If Miranda could talk healing, she was less likely to want to get her wand out and stop the wizard’s heart. “Your mind has clearly adapted to having such exposure to the dementors. I want to know how.”

Standing, Miranda dipped her hand into her robe pocket and pulled out a pile of parchments bound together. She sat once more and offered them over. “Some light reading for you.” The bound parchments were made up of various information about her research and plans. Nothing that might influence his thoughts, but enough to make him aware of their plans.

“It’s not that simple, Lawrence.” It never is. “It’s not your thoughts that interest me.” Yeah right.

He didn’t care if they could hear his thoughts at this point, arms crossed tightly, brow furrowed sceptically as he scowled at Miranda. He could barely stop them from rifling through his thoughts if they chose to. He was unarmed, and the only means of escape could be preempted by any hint of hearing his thoughts. You couldn’t figure out how to escape without thinking about it unless you were rescued. Nobody was coming to rescue him.

“Some light reading for you.” There was more than a beat pause as Lawrence stared at the Head Healer, and then at the bound parchment. His mouth twitched to one side, a crack in his defensive body-language, and he reached his remaining right hand out to scoop the paperwork into his lap. He reverted to habit from his cell and folded his legs up onto the armchair, while his fingers clumsily flicked through the stack.

“You want to heal people who have been attacked by dementors,” he surmised, without properly looking at things, and looked up at her, “I’ve never been ‘attacked' by a dementor this side of the war.” He punctuated the description with two of his remaining fingers. “But,” he relented, head nodding slightly, “I am a case of prolonged moderate exposure vs. acute exposure.” It had initially been voluntary, of course, or encouraged. Then when Shufflebottom was arrested, voluntary and encouraged became a tug of wills and no protection at all from their invasion into his mind and possibly soul.

“These people still have their souls?” Lawrence asked, and finally glanced to his left to acknowledge Morgenthau’s presence. He wondered how many of them were victims of dementors indiscriminately feasting, or from the attacks he had carried out as he struggled to control them.

Lawrence paused, glanced down as if something uncomfortable had occurred to him and he wasn’t paying attention to either of them. He’d carried out attacks, and Willy had helped him, but there was something else about that time that he couldn’t put his finger on. He couldn’t remember something. It was like his memories were bruised, and then he remembered coming to the day before, blood streaming from his nose, dazed. They’d obliviated something to do with those attacks. He was missing some context. He wiped at his nose and blinked, mentally returning to the conversation.

Yavin observed, fingers interlaced and gaze quiet as the wizard and witch exercised what he assumed was an unGodly amount of self-restraint. They spoke like they were walking on shards of glass: rather, like two people who might have trusted each other once but learned to do otherwise over the course of years. Yet here they sat having to do the impossible again.

Miranda handed over information that would hopefully make it easier for Lawrence to accept their honourable intentions.

            "These people still have their souls?"

"To an extent." Yavin answered with a glance at the Head Healer, leaning forward in his arm chair with an unstudied air. "Cases vary and we would, hmm, would have to understand what symptoms you experience before we are able to estimate which of, that is, which of Miranda's patients can be helped."

He was more interested in Lawrence than in Miranda's study. Yavin was invested in the human condition, after all. Of course he hadn't made it obvious to any of the others involved - it was of no import to Minister Glass nor Solomon nor even St.Mungo's. They wouldn't care about how much Yavin wanted to explore a functioning mindscape who survived dementor influence.

But a faraway look in Musgrave's eyes concerned him. "Perhaps, for my, ah, benefit, you would like to..." Yavin trailed off, deciding that a more specific question would focus their guest. "Tell me, in your, aha, in your own words, what effects you believe these dementors have, um, have imbued."

If anything it would remind them both that he was a relative stranger to what must be an interaction tainted by years of complex interactions.

Lawrence fixed his gaze onto Morgenthau, remembering he was also in the room and here to study him. It wasn’t all Andy, and as much of a vendetta she might have, this one might be Edwin’s plant. This unconventional speech pattern a front. He shifted in the armchair, right hand fingers curled round the corner of the ‘light reading’, applying pressure.

“I hear them,” he began, trying to maintain eye contact but dropping it, “all the time, at some level.” Even now, just quietly, like they were chatting to Fendrel in the corridor. “When I was out they were never too far, and they drained me, emotionally, physically. Though, I was already exhausted from life, in the beginning I could shoulder it.”

He glanced sideways to Miranda, a guilty expression crossing his features as he thought about breaking into the house in Godric’s Hollow and demanding help. “They alter my mood, my judgement. Being inside the wards of the Ministry for a few months and hours of questioning has shown that.” He doubted he would have been such a shit at the start of the year if he hadn’t been tearing around with amortal beings trying to one-up Ira Almasy.

“I had to let them consume me, to exercise control over them. I can’t cast a patronus to defend myself, I’ve lost the ability. Can’t muster a happy thought. I had help in the early days, someone who could.” Someone thick enough not to question me, Lawrence thought as he thought of Shufflebottom. Yet another person he’d used, though from what Gladys-May had told the aurors, him being in Azkaban was the best thing for the children, so they didn’t do the same.

“At the worst I’m hysterical…” he looked to Miranda, uncomfortable with meeting her gaze, “… or violent.” He swallowed. “As you’ve seen.” He turned away, back to Morgenthau, the corner of the research now almost bent double in his grip. “I’ve found ways to cope.”

It was with reserved interest that the Head Healer watched her newest patient figure out her intentions and reasoning. He’d never had quite the same intelligence level as her, but he’d never been daft, either. Miranda remembered their sessions, her talking him through potions and him coaching her through her DADA spells. He’d always been bright, perhaps what had been happening over the past months was starting to addle that intelligence.

But no, he finally started to grasp the idea.

“These people still have their souls?”

The wizard in the ridiculous jumper chose to answer. He mumbled over his answer, words deliberate but seemingly struggled with. Miranda still had no clue what to make of Yavin Morgenthau in person. He, however, was not the main interest in the room currently. That was the wizard that had nearly murdered her husband who was being asked how the dementors affected him. She had a few choice suggestions. She kept them to herself.

Lawrence’s words began give the witch a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. She was being dragged back to his visits, to the fear and shock. Then he made eye contact, pointing out that she’d seen the violence. It made her feel physically sick.

But Miranda remained seated, calm.

“It’s how you’ve found a way of coping that we need to find out.”

He recognised the subtle prickle in Miranda’s body language. The three encounters they had had in the last year had left raw wounds between them. However, she had been the one to propose his involvement, so she intended to see past the violent interactions. Maybe with admitting it, she realised that there might be more ahead of them. Lawrence hoped not. The moment he did they would probably pack him off to Azkaban within an hour and this experiment would be over. Still, if they decided to bring a dementor close he would have to cope. If he could control one still, then he might have a future outside of here.

“Luck.” Lawrence muttered, in response to Miranda’s explanation, and shook his head. “No, you’re right, it’s more than that. But whether it’ll help your patients, I honestly have no idea.” He shrugged and looked back down at the notes, suddenly aware of what he’d done to them, and released his grip, smoothing the pages out futilely.

“But when you do, or when you have tried everything,” he asked, glancing back and forth from Miranda to the floor as it was uncomfortable for both of them to hold eye contact, “will you be able to help me?” He did not want to spend the rest of his days hearing what the dementors chose for lunch, or deeply depressed. Azkaban would do that without dementors.

Yavin has asked Lawrence to explain - so Lawrence explained, and he listened with the abstracted air of someone who wasn't quite in the room with them. Perhaps because he was also thinking of what he had read in the other wizard's folder: a thick collection of papers detailing traits pertaining to his condition. Hearing dementors all the time. Influencing and being influenced. Dreaming the dreams of those who were tortured by the amortal creatures.

It reminded Yavin slightly of his sole pupil, Virgil, who as a child had no control over whose thoughts or dreams he heard. It was also reminiscent of a temple in Gujarat where practitioners of dream magic would open their minds to other people's reveries.

           "I’ve found ways to cope."

His gaze, remote, snapped back to attention and to Lawrence's anxious face. Yes. Somehow, Musgrave had found a way. And in spite of her personal bias Miranda was right: they needed to find out what it was.

"Of course. We will try, Lawrence." Yavin answered on Healer Storm's behalf, his voice clear and soft. "Now - I understand that you experience, ah, experience unpleasant dreams as part of your... affiliation with Dementors. But not their dreams? That's, hm, that's unusual." He glanced at Mira, to indicate this was a thought he wanted to follow.

To feel the Dementors themselves was a natural consequence of symbiotic relationships. To experience what their victims felt was somewhat strange. "What, that is, what exactly happens to you during this, aha, states of unreality?"