Hogwarts was filled with the optimism of a new year. There would be yet more students there this year than the last, and more of the older students would continue on to do their NEWTs. The house elves had taken direction without complaint to adjust dormitory beds, help new staff to transport their belongings to their new chambers. The Deputy Headmaster was experienced at it all now, and yet again there would be a new Head professor settling in that week. Ignan knew the appointment was a return, though the name was being kept quiet for now.

The only damper on the working day so far had been the way the architect had sucked air in between his teeth as he looked at the damage to one of the East towers. It was the kind of air sucking that was associated with plenty of galleons. He was sure they added an extra zero on the estimates each time. He had sealed it off well, not keen for mischievous students to go careering through missing floorboards burned away in the fire.

Back home, however, Ignan’s mind returned to thoughts of Miranda. She had gone on a particularly long walk alone the previous day after almost biting his head off over nothing. He hadn’t dared draw breath to ask if it was the impending research with her newest patient, in case she had actually used her teeth on him in retaliation. Spending a long day at Hogwarts buried in paperwork and duties had kept him from thoughts of her being near the reprobate Musgrave. The only reassurance was that the famed Yavin Morgenthau would be working alongside her. He would keep her on a level, Ignan was sure. He knew his stuff about legilimency, Ignan owned his famous book, read it more than once.

So when he finally set eyes upon his wife of eight months, in their modest little cottage, he asked the brave question:

“...How was your day?”

 After her meet with Morgenthau, Miranda hadn’t been able to suitably complete any work. She’d not felt fit to face the floor, and had instead remained in her office to complete paperwork, orders and staff appraisals. Snardsworthy, judging by her boss’ temperament, had stayed out of the way unless called for, and Miranda had left the hospital through the fireplace in her office late afternoon.

At home, the distraction of parchment, data and work was gone and with that lacking, Miranda had opened a bottle of wine from the wine stand and broken into a new packet of cigarettes. She didn’t change from her work clothes. At least an hour passed with the witch curled up on the sofa with a refilling wine glass and a cigarette. There was no book to be seen, nothing to read and nothing to do but stare into the empty living room. Heels had been dropped onto the wooden floor beneath the sofa.

“...How was your day?”

Miranda’s gaze suddenly snapped to the wizard stood before her. When had he appeared? Dark eyes glistened with the threat of tears but she held them back.
“This is my third glass and my seventeenth cigarette.” Miranda only smoked a few a day, more a calming influence than an unbreakable habit.

“Do I…Do I seem stressed to you? Like…the traumatised kind?” Voice barely above a whisper, the witch’s tone held nervousness and anxiety.

He might have partly answered his own question given Miranda’s appearance. A number of things was amiss. Firstly, it was Monday, and Miranda was home before him, during the school holiday. This never happened unless she had worked a night shift, and in which case she’d either be on the way to bed, or on the way out of it to return. Secondly, there was a bottle of wine on the coffee table, and it was down to last quarter at a time where one should be considering dinner. Three glasses had been three generous glasses, or one had blurred into two somewhere. Thirdly, she was still dressed in the clothes she’d left in that morning. There were more indicators, but three plus her response were enough data to draw an adequate conclusion, even before the minefield of her question.

“Do I … Do I seem stressed to you? Like … the traumatised kind?”

Her husband blinked once, thoughtfully, and stepped gently away from the front door. In a matter of paces he had dropped onto the sofa beside her, without uttering a word in response. Every time Miranda saw Musgrave she was turned into some form of a wreck, whether it was packing in the middle of the night to abandon their home, or the long silent treatment in wake of potentially killing him. Ignan’s opinion was that he should have tried harder that time.

Ignan extended his arm nearest Mira along the back of the sofa, and held her when she moved to curl up against him. Emotional support wasn’t something anyone ever expected him to do, though like Miranda, he didn’t make a habit of it. But when it came to the one person he loved above all others, there was no question. However angry, however much she reeked of cigarettes, he would be there, as she had been fore him. He’d made a promise, even if it was one she said he couldn’t logically keep.

“Why do you ask?” He murmured, kissing the crown of her head as he held her close.

It was a rare occurrence for Miranda to actually take up the offer of comfort. She didn’t discuss emotions other than anger, and she certainly didn’t agree with expressing them. Whenever Ignan asked how she was, she’d reply something akin to ‘fine”, or brush it off with another comment. He was her husband, not her carer.

But today was different, and the witch curled up into his embrace and closed her eyes, head resting against his chest. It was easier when she couldn’t actually see him. Imagining the unimpressed expression on his face as she cried was far better than seeing it.

“The wizard I’ve idolised for 20 years is convinced I have…” her voice stopped, unable to form the words. It was ridiculous. Morgenthau was ridiculous. A therapist would be as much use as a muggle with a wand. Right now, Yavin may have been talking to Carstairs and Glass; perhaps he may already have.

“I fucked up, Ignan.” A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. “I’ve very possibly destroyed my whole career for one stupid mistake.” Another few tears fell and she lifted a hand to wipe them away.

Miranda clung to him uncharacteristically, and he drew her closer, protective. Something had happened, and he tried not to let himself jump to conclusions that Musgrave had got to her. He was still sure that letting her study him was a terrible idea, despite what results it might yield. There was no way he could be trusted.

“The wizard I’ve idolised for twenty years is-” For one very disconcerting moment, Ignan thought she might have meant her patient rather than her fellow researcher and author. ”… very possible destroyed my whole career for one stupid mistake.” Above Miranda’s head, Ignan frowned.

“It’s not like you to catastrophise,” he spoke gently, and rubbed her arm reassuringly. “What is Morgenthau, and why do you think you’ve made some mistake? Has something gone wrong with the research with Musgrave, you were only starting today were you not?” He knew very well that they were only starting today. That was the reason Miranda had been so irate the previous day and they’d narrowly missed a seething argument. He dug into his pocket and offered her his clean handkerchief.

“It’s not like you to catastrophise,” Ignan stated while trying to show her comfort. Why would he think that she was now if she never did? This was no overreaction, she had quite possibly destroyed her career with one stupid visit to Musgrave.

“We were.” Miranda took the handkerchief and pulled away from him, sitting back up and drawing her legs into her chest. The fabric was used to wipe away the stray tears threatening to stain otherwise pale cheeks. “But I went to see him yesterday.” She didn’t look at Ignan, sensing immediate disapproval. “Morgenthau found out.” She paused, letting it sink in while debating internally whether she gave her husband the entire truth.


How would he feel now to find out from someone else that she’d slept with him for months in their twenties?

“You were right…in March.” The words were clearly difficult to get out and Miranda stared into her glass as she spoke, voice barely audible. “There was something between us. Over 20 years ago.”

1.	And Swells the Thund’ring Horrors of the Deep

“...I went to see him yesterday. Morgenthau found out.”

To save their crockery from being hurled at the walls, or at Ignan, yesterday afternoon, Miranda had elected to remove herself from their cottage. Her agitation and stress about the research had reached a crisis and her husband was not the person to placate it. A particularly long walk alone had been the Head Healer’s self-prescription, or so her husband had thought.

Miranda wiped at her face with his handkerchief, avoiding his gaze. She was ashamed, and in Ignan’s eyes, rightly so. Instead of seeking some calm or consolation in the man she loved and married, she had left their home and gone to the crux of the issue. Gone alone, too.

The thought of Miranda in close proximity to Lawrence Musgrave left Ignan cold. The last time they had encountered each other was in the very room they sat now. Ignan had come to rest on the rug before the fireplace, shoulder dislocated, collarbone broken, and body slowing down under a curse. It was only hours before he had slipped into a coma, from which he was never expected to return. A curse that might still take him if the runes carved into his flesh did not hold it back to allow nature to take its course.

He had accepted the bitter pill that Musgrave held potential answers to Miranda’s research. He knew convincing the Ministry to relocate him to St Mungo’s awaiting a criminal trial had been difficult to say the least. She had assured him that it was not a decision taken lightly.

The newspapers had oft suggested Musgrave’s motives were romantic obsessions, whether they were supposing he brought down the Leaky Cauldron for it, or that Miranda had lured him into the cottage. Miranda had assured him that past the unfortunate occurrence of them being part of the same Hogwarts academic year, there was nothing between them. Yet… she had not even mentioned her deputy, Sandy Misslethorpe, another classmate, and another classmate, who had married Miranda’s cousin, was in Azkaban for aiding Musgrave with dementors.

Outwardly, Ignan stared at Miranda patiently, though uneasily.

“You were right…. there was something between us. Over twenty years ago.”

Those three words to start a sentence - those three rare words. You were right. As he stared unblinkingly at Miranda, sat rigid with hands in his lap, Ignan wished to Merlin he had been wrong.

“You lied to me.” If there was ever any heat in his words, it was gone now. His words, uttered with bleak disappointment. “You said there was nothing, and now you’re telling me you left me here yesterday to see him?” Behind the cold came disgust. “What exactly do you want me to conclude from this new information?”

“You lied to me.” Miranda didn’t need to look up to know her husband’s current expression. He wasn’t currently angry, she’d rarely seen him really angry. But he certainly could be a jealous man, she’d rather liked that. What she didn’t like, however, was having to be honest with him and explain her actions. It had been over a decade since Miranda had had to explain anything to a significant other and she was suddenly finding it excruciatingly hard.

“You don’t have to conclude anything.” There was a strange calmness to her voice. It was akin to an acceptance that she was now done. She’d lied to her own husband now he, too, would distrust her. “There was nothing. Nothing romantic. I was 21 and too busy to date so I went with easy. A few months which stopped as soon as I met Jon.” The healer continued to look into her glass while she spoke. That was until she decided to cover her reason for going yesterday.

Her gaze reluctantly met his.
“You’ve been saying for months that he’s obsessed and I haven’t believed you. I didn’t want to. I wanted to find out. I went to ask him why.” But apparently, that meant that she was unstable. What would Ignan really think once he’d gotten over the shock? Would he forgive the lie?

A few months. Nothing romantic. Easy. Yet enough to lie about and hide when asked directly. When Ignan was so sure that Lawrence’s repeated visits to Miranda had to be part of an obsession. Why repeatedly visit Miranda for healing when Musgrave could have turned to Misslethorpe or even his own niece - two healers he knew just as well, short of sleeping with them, anyhow.

Even if it was a few months, it was significant enough to Lawrence Musgrave. Ignan could not imagine ever trusting any of the women he’d seen in his twenties, or being desperate enough to return to them for help. But since when did he begin to believe that horror was capable of logic and reasoning? His wife was absolutely capable of logic and reasoning, but this was not the first, nor, he feared, the last time that Miranda had acted irrationally around Musgrave. And now he was in her hospital and she was making clandestine appointments with him.

“You went to ask him why?” Ignan asked, voice soft, tone incredulous. “You asked the Ministry to bring him to your hospital so you could ask him why?” He didn’t believe that for a moment. “Are you sure he’s the only one obsessed, Miranda?”

On any normal day, Miranda Storm would have told Ignan what a bloody idiotic suggestion it was that he’d made. She’d have told him to get over it, it meant nothing. She’d have insisted they move on, while pouring him a glass of wine in compensation.

Today wasn’t a normal day.

Miranda’s eyes watered as she croaked her reply.
“He nearly killed you.” Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper. There was an alien vulnerability to her as she pulled her legs back onto the sofa, hugging them close. Ignan didn’t understand. He’d never lost anyone like that, he’d never loved anyone like he did now. He’d never been paranoid that anyone he loved would die.

“The…” she took a calming breath, “the first time you said that you loved me, I told you I wasn’t looking for that. I really wasn’t. I couldn’t do it again. But…I…ah…I had little choice. We weren’t married a month before Musgrave came to our house. Like some omen.” She wasn’t explaining well, wasn’t sure if she could explain at all. “I stopped seeing him because I’d met Jon. Now…as soon as I find someone…” A hand came up, rubbing her face. She shook her head. “I wanted to know why.”

“Miranda,” Ignan replied, in a reasonable volume, given the circumstances, “with the best will in the world, you’re not making a whole lot of sense.”

He had to keep his patience, even though she’d clearly done something stupid. That stupid act was the only reason she was telling him about her true past with Musgrave. He’d almost prefer to going back to five minutes ago when she was just upset and shellshocked about her day than this. Knowing that they had been involved, decades ago, coloured his view of past events in new light, and he would not easily forget Miranda’s decision to withhold the information as context. But, at the age they were, and given the revelations of Sasha, he could hardly argue. They were as bad as each other.

“He’s not some omen, or fate. He’s a wizard. A resourceful, conniving wizard, who has ever increasing reasons to want to be close to you.” Ignan frowned, “Yes he nearly killed me, but remember we thought we’d killed him?” The two of them hadn’t spoken for days with the gravity of the situation, that Miranda had invited him in without backup, that the aurors might return to confirm a body, and ask questions.

“He was only ever going to come back twice as hard,” Ignan reasoned, “You tried to poison him, I throttled him and used dark magic.” Ignan hadn’t ever elaborated exactly on the methods hidden within the ring of fire in their back garden. He had been unconscious when the aurors had scrambled to their home that day. Miranda had asked him to kill Musgrave, and in the heat of the moment he had been on the verge of succeeding. He wasn’t excusing anyone’s behaviour - only that if the boot were on the other foot, he’d have done the same.

“Why are you telling me this now, Mira?” Ignan asked, trying to meet her gaze, “what happened yesterday, what did you do? What’s happened today - what’s the bastard done to you now?”

Frustration wasn’t an emotion Miranda was accustomed to feeling. She knew what she meant as she explained to Ignan, but she couldn’t find the right words to describe the feeling. It wasn’t like she’d ever had to describe anything like it before!

Ignan basically reasoned out why Lawrence had attacked and Miranda was looking back down at her knees.
“I tried to put him to sleep, not poison him!” It was beyond maddening to be constantly accused of trying to poison when she hadn’t. He’d have fallen into a deep sleep, perhaps a coma. He’d have recovered fine.

“He hasn’t done anything.” Miranda shook her head as she found her voice. Anger was a better emotion than sadness or fear, wasn’t it? Reaching down the side of the sofa, her packet of cigarettes was procured and she removed the final one. “Morgenthau found out about my visit.” She put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. The wand was thrown back on the coffee table.

“He read Lawrence’s mind, saw the visit. There was nothing between us, but… I guess something in Lawrence’s mind made it clear to him. He thinks I have a problem.”

Finally, Miranda looked back at her husband, eyes wide, concerned.

“I think he’s right, Ignan.”

“He hasn’t done anything, Morgenthau found out about my visit… read Lawrence’s mind… something… made it clear to him.”

Made what clear? Miranda was talking in riddles. The fact that Lawrence Musgrave had apparently done nothing to contribute to this new confusion was however, reassuring. Though, maybe just his presence even as a mute party was doing enough. He didn’t have to do anything other than survive to cause issues. In a wish to try and understand, Ignan listened carefully, thoughtful look intensifying as he watched her reach for yet another cigarette.

“… He thinks I have a problem. I think he’s right, Ignan.”

Ignan met Miranda’s wide-eyed concern with a level stare of mild bewilderment.

“What do you mean, are you bailing out on the research?” He’d be mightily pleased if that was the case. It would mean she was nowhere near him, and altogether safer. That they would not have anything further to do with an antagoniser who Ignan very much wanted to be violent towards if they saw each other again. “Or is the Ministry trying to convince you to give up?”

Past Morgenthau being an author of a book they both owned and consulted, Ignan knew little of him. What he knew lately was only through the eyes of Miranda who had at first been overjoyed at meeting a research hero of sorts, to a growing frustration that her hero was turning out to be more of a hindrance. But for all Miranda could bluster and call people idiots, she did tend to recognise real intelligence. Was she trusting the judgement of this wizard in this situation?

“Are you not allowed to ask Musgrave questions?”

Ignan didn’t want her to complete the research. Miranda hadn’t been eager to tell him about it in the first place. She knew, despite her own wishes and the need to help her patients, Ignan had a right to feel the way he did. Not only because of what Lawrence did to him, but because of the way he’d made Miranda feel. She knew that was his main concern but struggled to really comprehend it. It had been a long time of not having anyone to have such concerns over her.

“It’s not the fact that I asked him questions. I wasn’t professional.” She’d been angry with Morgenthau’s shoving himself into the situation, but, reluctantly, she understood the reasoning. “Musgrave is my patient and I ignored that. I know he’s there to be healed but I want to gut him. I want him on a slab in the morgue.” She took a long drag on her cigarette, staring away from Ignan. Yavin was right to keep her out of that room. Lawrence could be the reason she lost her entire career.

“Morgenthau is telling Glass and Carstairs. Carstairs hates me and Glass? There’s something really not right about the whole thing with him.” The obliviation demand had certainly raised alarm bells. “What I did might not seem like a huge crime to you, but if they tell the board of warlocks?” Her hands were shaking with anxious energy and she lowered them. “You can’t have a Head Healer who forgets her ethics.” Once more, the threat of more tears came and Miranda looked away. As far as the Ministry and the Board were concerned, Lawrence stopped being her aggressor the moment he became her patient. She was expected to be above reproach and it was something she was starting to realise wasn’t at all possible.

Ignan exhaled noisily, and looked away from Miranda and towards their front door in thought. He felt like she was throwing darts and expecting him to catch them. Bits of information, revelations, events, people. It was as if today had torn a hole in the seam of his wife and her stuffing was falling out in clumps.

“Forgive me for playing catch up, Mira, but can I get this straight?” He looked back to her, folding forwards on the other end of the sofa, resting on his elbows. His hands outstretched before him, illustrating blocks of time. “Some point in the what… eighties… you and Musgrave are…” Ignan’s mouth twitched into an unspeakable word, “you marry Elliot, Musgrave’s sent to Azkaban, what, mid-nineties?” He glanced to Miranda for confirmation he had the timeline right.

“You have him moved to St Mungo’s to study souls and jigsaws and whatever else, despite the fact he’s come for you thrice - or maybe more since we never got to the bottom of that obliviation.” A niggling thread that had refused to unravel. “Yesterday you go to him and ask him why he came to you? Why he attacked me?” He looked to Miranda again for confirmation this was correct.

“And this morning, Morgenthau, the Ministry’s appointed research partner, calls a halt because of your actions. And he says you have a problem?” Ignan sat up straighter. “While every other bugger around you could have told you that for months now.” He extended his arm away, voice louder than it had been before. “I know, and wholeheartedly appreciate your topic of research and abilities, Mira, but you know my view. He got too close, and this became too personal.”

He sighed, softening his shoulders. It was no good getting angry at her. She was punishing herself with worry as it was, and only deepening the damage Musgrave had inflicted since the start of the year.
“It’s too late to do anything about it now,” he reasoned, shrugging his shoulders. He reached out a hand to her elbow, fingers brushing her arm as he lowered his tone, “but you got answers, did you not?”