The mention of obliviation caused Ignan’s wife to once more look away. It was scary to not know where she’d been or what she’d done. Ignan had been mad that she’d not pursued it, but what was there to pursue? They’d literally had nothing to go on, no clues as to her whereabouts that night. Of course, they suspected Lawrence, but with no evidence, nothing could happen.

At the appropriate moments, Miranda nodded as she smoked her way through one of many cigarettes of the day. She probably smelled like an ashtray right then, poor Ignan.

“…While every other bugger around you could have told you that for months now.” Gone was the comforting husband who’d willingly drawn her into his arms and instead the frustrated man who couldn’t grasp his wife’s actions had appeared. He agreed that she had a problem and it only served to make her feel worse. Why had it taken this for her to really take a look at herself and how she was handling it all?

“Not the ones that I wanted.” Mira’s voice was quiet as she responded. “But I don’t know what I wanted to hear.” Perhaps Lawrence grovelling for forgiveness on his knees? “Yavin thinks I need to speak to someone…” she paused, the word unpleasant on her tongue, “therapy.”

“Therapy?” Ignan sounded as bewildered as he looked at that word. “Whatever does that mean?”

He was pretty sure he had heard his teenage students from Muggleborn families say it ironically in response to his more practical lessons, but he ignored them. They didn’t know what would save their lives in future. Talking about deepest feelings and thoughts was not something in Ignan Storm’s dictionary of life. Smashing something with fists or magic to expend angry energy or taking a long walk to be apart from all human life were his favoured ways to deal with life’s anger when he couldn’t box it away.

Miranda hadn’t ever wanted to discuss feelings, or even love. They were still not a couple to discuss emotions in any depth. Being so independent, so laden with unspoken baggage, they just didn’t go there. Now, a week or so working with her literary hero and Miranda felt like she needed to go and speak to a complete stranger about such private thoughts.

“And are you?”

Of course, Ignan wasn’t interested in the idea of therapy. Neither spouse ever would be. Every time he’d ever asked Miranda how she was, she’d brushed it off. She’d never asked him, knowing his opinion on discussing his feelings. She’d always liked his closed off nature and his quiet mind. There was no imposing of thoughts on anyone or the expectation to understand how he was feeling.

“I don’t get to continue the research if I don’t.” Miranda muttered. “I’m not in charge of this, Ignan. Yavin is.” It wasn’t easy after having over a year of being in charge and having her word to be law within St Mungo’s. “And that’s even if I don’t get reported to the board.” She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table, feeling her emotions rising again. “I can’t lose my job, Ignan.”

“No…” Ignan agreed, semi-automatically. Miranda was obsessed with her job, she’d been in post just over a year, starting a matter of weeks after they had got together. She was good at it, even if her leadership had been tested more than once. Life was rarely smooth, but he had been glad to be by her side through it, and have her beside him. He might not have been alive without her, but equally, he might never have been in such danger having not married Miranda.

“You’ve weathered worse,” the older wizard assured her, though he had no idea of Miranda’s odds against this new fellow and the Ministry.

He eyed her uneasily, not sure what to say or do about it. He had such little control or say over the whole situation. Miranda well knew his position and thoughts on the research and the plan to involve Musgrave. Now it had all started to go wrong, there was no point saying I told you so. It won nothing.

“If you hadn’t been found out,” he began thoughtfully, “would you have told me about yesterday, or about … before?”

“Eventually.” Miranda wasn’t going to lie; there was no point in it. She’d always had a habit of omitting the truth, of not mentioning things that she felt she’d rather keep to herself. She wanted Ignan to see the best of her yet now he’d seen some of the worst. He’d married the cold witch that kept herself in check and had ended up on the sofa with one who’d turned to wine and cigarettes as soon as things stopped going her way.

Miranda lowered her feet down to the floor, mirroring Ignan’s posture as she looked straight ahead towards the study door.
“I’ve been on my own for a long time, Ignan. Sharing things like this with someone isn’t something I’m accustomed to. I’m selfish, private.” She turned her head to look at him, brows furrowing into a deep frown. “Do you tell me everything? It’s not like you’ve given me a history of everyone’s bed you’ve been in, is it?”

And like that, she was taking offence as the best defence of her situation. She was in the wrong and she wanted to throw it back on him in order to protect herself. But she recognised it and shook her head. A hand reached out to his.

“What do you think I should do?” she knew the answer before he even spoke. “Honest answer, if you were in my position.”

Ignan levelled a stare back at his wife for her comment about the list of people he’d shared a bed with. It should be unspoken that this information was something they shouldn’t ever share. He hadn’t wanted to know about Musgrave, and he wasn’t enjoying the fact he knew. It just put several things into sharp context.

“What do you think I should do? Honest answer, if you were in my position.”

He looked down at their hands, swallowed down 'kill him, and make it look like a suicide’ as a retort and exhaled slowly, jaw shifting left and right as he considered.

“It sounds like Morgenthau has you by the proverbials,” Ignan began, “and you’ve fallen into a trap, so it would be damage limitation. You won’t come out of this smelling of roses. You pre-empt the board, you rally your closest allies.” He wet his lips, “and you submit to their terms, this… therapy nonsense, even. Though, you remind them that your expertise is unrivalled. So maybe your history, his violence, make you unsuitable patient and healer partners, but you can still consult. And he’s on your turf, well, as far as we know.”

Ignan squeezed her hand, offering a more supportive expression. Solidarity, a hint of a caring smile. “Musgrave threatened your life, almost took mine, but we survived. Don’t let the bastard beat you there, of all places, in your own hospital.”

Ignan’s advice wasn’t bad. It was surprisingly level headed and Miranda nodded, finding herself agreeing. Her husband had years of experience on her and thought things out a lot more clearly. Miranda’s current thought process was clouded in emotion, wine and nicotine. He could be angry with her but caring at the same time, something that Miranda genuinely appreciated in this moment.

“I’ve not exactly made any friends on the board.” There were those who avidly supported her as Head Healer despite her personality, and then her father. The others put up with her because she got the job done. But as soon as they found out about this mistake, things would change.
Giving his hand a squeeze, Miranda turned her body more to face him.
“I have to play this so carefully, Morgenthau wants him on Level 9, that much is startlingly clear.” Murgrave would be no help to anyone deep in the confines of the Department of Mysteries.

She paused, eyes dancing over his face. “Thank you.” She shuffled closer. “I need more of this advice and you need to give it if I’m going to keep my job.” With the hope came the return of a more usual tone of voice. “You wouldn’t cope if I lost my job.” She’d drive him up the wall, they both knew it.

At last, Miranda seemed to be coming to her senses, and had begun to think more rationally. It was still a bewildering conversation, and Ignan would reconsider whether to ask how her day was without taking precautions in future.

“If he did, then why did they send him to you?” Ignan asked in an echo to her statement about Morgenthau. “Would have been easier to keep him.” He shrugged and held a thoughtful look with her.

“… need more of this advice and you need to give it if I’m going to keep my job.”
“Er, well…” Ignan began to reply, not wanting to wander into that trap. If his advice backfired, Miranda would not hesitate to let him know and blame him wholeheartedly. Such was her love.
“You wouldn’t cope if I lost my job.”
“Hrmm…”

Ignan reached for the bottle of wine, drizzling the last of it into Miranda’s glass. “I think, my love, I’d cope better than you.” He put he empty bottle down and took her hand in both of his, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead gently. “Why don’t you take that up with you and run a bath. I’ll ask Gerda to prepare dinner, and then find the hangover potion, because tomorrow, you’re going to need a clear head.”



End