Thursday 12th July, afternoon



If Lawrence had a clock in his room, he’d have checked it every minute. He’d requested a visit, not Hannah - that was a continual request that wasn’t necessarily honoured - but Andy Carter Miranda Storm. Instead, he’d been drafting, re-drafting what he wanted to say. Paper and self-inking quill were two things he had been trusted with on a longer-term basis the past four months. His right hand, never his dominant, was still slower to write than his missing left hand had once been, but at least it was legible.

Misslethorpe had brought the news with Morgenthau earlier that week. St Mungo’s could no longer justify keeping him there. If anything, he was fitter and more in control of his wits than he’d been in decades. Perfect for experiencing the horror that was Azkaban once more. He sighed, frowning at this passing thought. It had always been the eventual outcome. Getting better meant he would go to trial sooner. This room, although nicer than any Azkaban or Ministry cell, was still a cell. He would be a captive for the rest of his life, there was no avoiding it.

He’d not throttled[1] Misslethorpe, an improvement on earlier treatment the day the dementors had come to London searching for pentral hosts amongst the patients, but that was probably why he’d asked for Morgenthau to be there, just in case. At least, that was what Lawrence thought, and he only saw a very limited slice of the reality that surrounded him.

Tomorrow, Fendrel Stump and a team of aurors, or hitwizards, or both, (he was a dangerous criminal after all) would fetch him to Azkaban at long last. He’d be going home, of sorts, to the North Sea. Perhaps one of the guards would cut off his other hand this time. Such joys to look forward to. Probably solitary confinement too. Good he’d got used to his own company.

But there was one small piece of information that kept him going through all of this. Harper Graves had brought Evangeline Kuester to him some months[2] back, and they’d asked many questions about Edwin Glass, the current sitting Minister and one of Lawrence’s old associates. It was another of the reasons he’d been given parchment and ink again, so he could answer their questions in more detail, what he remembered, that Glass hadn’t forcibly removed before the Ministry had shipped him here for treatment. Those absent, blacknesses were less missing jigsaw pieces and more missing steps on the old Hogwarts staircases in the pitch black. They did the same to your stomach.

No, he’d turn his thoughts back to Andy. He had to attempt to make peace, everything they’d been through - everything he’d put her through. No he couldn’t fix it, but he hoped to at least settle her mind and try to minimise the damage if their relationship got dredged up in court for whatever reason. He didn’t doubt that the Ministry had put some of the best minds on ensuring he would stay in Azkaban until his dying breath and probably be buried there too. Well, he’d probably do the same if he was Head Auror Pratt.

“Afternoon,” he greeted the arrivals on his feet with a gentle smile, trying to cover his uneasy stomach. “Thank you, I really appreciate you agreeing to meet.” He set aside quill and paper and offered his left arm, then right hand to shake in reflex at his mistake. Then found himself looking down at it in surprise - Andy Carter wouldn’t want to shake his hand.

1.	17th October 2011 - Storm of Souls
2.	22nd February 2012 You Have to Hand it to Them

Tomorrow they would be finally sending Lawrence Musgrave on his merry way to the Ministry’s level 2 to await trial for his many crimes and misdeeds. Miranda had thought that might be it. She would then collect all of the reports on the research and begin to properly use the techniques on her own patients on the fourth floor. She knew that she’d doubtlessly be pulled as a witness in the trial so she would need to face him then, but that would be it and she would be able to finally move on.

One might have imagined her surprise then, when the request came for her to see Musgrave. Whatever he had to say, she did not know. What could he say when he’d nearly widowed her for the second time and then she’d brought him back from the brink of insanity and soullessness?

She’d told Ignan and they’d discussed it the preceding night. As expected, Ignan hadn’t been happy.
"Is it necessary? Nothing good ever comes of you seeing him."
“I think I need to,” she’d replied.
"Why has he asked to see you?"
“To thank me? I don’t know, love.”
"You won't be alone."
“Okay”

It wasn’t often Miranda would obey anyone, and this was not obedience. It was taking advice from a much wiser person. It was listening to someone that knew her better than anyone else in the world. So, she had asked for a chaperone for the meet.

This was why Yavin Morgenthau was behind her when Miranda stepped into Lawrence’s small hospital room. She was too distracted to take note of the book Fendrel Stump, his guard, was reading this afternoon. With this visit seemingly more personal than professional, the Head Healer’s emerald and gold robes had been left behind in her office. Her hair was scraped back into a neat ponytail and her reading spectacles hung from a string around her neck.

The first thing to remark upon was that Lawrence Musgrave looked really well. Miranda had barely been in his room since he’d arrived, choosing instead to heed her colleague’s advice and keep her distance. She observed from the window, led on the research and instructions. She hadn’t once, however, been inside Lawrence’s head. Now, without the enchanted mirror between them, she could really take him in.

His face had once more filled out and he looked healthy. Their experiment had worked and they had fixed him up to ship him off for a lifetime suffering in Azkaban. It would be a pity if he hadn’t hurt her so badly.
Miranda didn’t return the smile, she stood still in the doorway, glancing down at his hand. Gone was the arrogant witch that strut through the corridors of the hospital she directed. Instead stood a middle-aged woman who was trying to maintain her cool in the face of someone who’d nearly taken the husband she adored.
“I’m not going to shake your hand, Lawrence” said Miranda steadily with a tiny shake of her head. She wasn’t going to touch him for fear she would undo their hard work and set her hands around his neck.

“Fair enough.” He agreed with the slightest of nods. To say this was awkward, was a horrific understatement. But easy wasn’t always right. He mumbled “Not sure why I offered it…” thinking out loud.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he started, without taking a seat. He turned ever so slightly to the left and then back, considering grabbing his notes, but it didn’t seem right. None of this did. “You could have said no,” he persisted, voice wavering a little, but digging deep for confidence, “and I could have rotted in Azkaban for the past months, but despite everything I did - have done to you - you gave me the decency of an opportunity to recover.” He gestured with his remaining hand towards her, and pressed his lips together tightly, looking at her expression.

“I can never make up for what I did to you, and to try would almost be an insult to you… and Ignan.” It felt like he was speaking a forbidden spell to utter her husband’s name, and he swallowed, “I deserve everything that’s coming for me, and I know I didn’t deserve to be here, and don’t truly deserve an audience with you…” His words were falling over themselves in the stress of this encounter, and he caught himself. Took a deep breath, like Misslethorpe and Morgenthau had him do when the memories had caused that same constriction in his chest.

“I just hope you got a fraction of what you wanted from me being here,” he said, unable to look at her as he said it.

He was glad Miranda asked him to chaperone. The meeting request had come from Lawrence, which was also reassuring. It indicated a willingness to communicate on the wizard's side, and communication was healthy for someone in his position. He was recovering and about to be sentenced to an isolating experience. Better to reach out now, or risk regret.

"Fendrel," Yavin nodded when he signed in, sparing a glance for the Hitwizard's reading - Chicken Soup for the Soul.

Through the doors, the atmosphere was decidedly awkward. He entered behind Miranda and tactfully moved aside - walking over to the enchanted window with a casual gait. Yavin didn't need to stay close, though he could already tell that this interaction was trying for Miranda. It didn't seem much easier for Lawrence either.

             "I deserve everything that’s coming for me, and I know..."

He licked his lips and looked away, at a vista of hills. This wasn't the time or place for him to interject. Yavin hated the word deserve. When you fixate on what you deserve, there is so little space left for kindness.

Miranda found her heart catching in her chest as she listened to Lawrence speaking. He no longer sounded haunted and bitter. The legilimency and her puzzle theory along with Yavin’s expertise had brought back even his voice. He sounded like the man from 30 years before, but with less confidence.

She’d lay awake last night in bed considering what she would say if Lawrence’s intention had been to thank her. The rancorous side of her wanted to tell him that he’d been merely an experiment to help her own, more deserving patients. Perhaps she might even graciously accept the thanks.

Now, stood here, Miranda had nothing to say.

When Ignan’s name spilled from his mouth, Miranda felt her fingernails digging into her palms, and her lips pressing together tightly. He talked of what he did and didn’t deserve, as if she should take pity on him and tell him it was okay. All was now well. But it wasn’t because Lawrence was healed and Miranda still woke up in the night in a blind panic that the runes carved into her husband’s chest had failed in his sleep. She’d never wanted to find love again because of this paralysing fear that Lawrence had given her.

“I did.” What St Mungo’s had gained from his presence was something Miranda could respond to without losing control of her emotions. “Your willingness to be here as our patient means I now have the means to help others.” Dark eyes danced to Yavin at the window in his ugly shirt. In this short year, he’d learned so much about her and become what one might call a friend. Would Ignan be pleased with her choice of chaperone for this?

“You didn’t deserve to be left in that state, no matter what you did.” Miranda paused, closing her eyes for a moment to control herself. When she opened her eyes again, they met Lawrence’s. “I could have helped you before all of this.”

At her confirmation, he glanced in her direction, nodded and lowered his gaze respectfully. He was glad, when he’d arrived he’d quickly become obsessed[1] with the possibility his cooperation would help others the dementors had haunted. Back then he’d oscillated as often as a clock pendulum.


“You didn’t deserve to be left in that state, no matter what you did.” Andy spoke, and Lawrence was surprised. His eyebrows lifted, and his hazel eyes found her face. She’d closed her eyes, and that tightness in his chest was there again. That and the hard lump in his throat that he tried to swallow down with effort.

Their gazes met, held with an intensity - a regretful one rather than the heat and fury of previous meetings.

“I could have helped you before all of this.”

“I know,” he said, too quickly, and blinked hard, looking away again. “I can see that now, with hindsight.” He blinked hard again, refusing to let any emotion escape the corners of his eyes. “There are many decisions I should have made differently,” he agreed, his cheeks tense as he wore a smile which wouldn’t ever reach his eyes. It was a wince, politeness in the face of a possibility staggeringly obvious looking back. “You did the right thing.”

1.	28th August 2011 Lit with Ancient Fern

“I didn’t.” Miranda responded frankly. There were so many things she should have done differently. The arrogance that had brought her this far in her career might also be the undoing of her. Despite any reservations or understanding of her complete lack of skill in defensive magic, Miranda had let Lawrence in for a second time, foolishly believing that she could manage what the aurors could not. She’d lied to Ignan about any history between herself and Lawrence, and put her husband in danger. She’d even, in the desperation of the moment that Sunday morning, asked Ignan to kill him. None of it was the right thing and Miranda still felt an overwhelming guilt for how she’d behaved even before the night Lawrence had come with Hannah. She’d asked her husband to take another’s life.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Miranda glanced around the room he’d spent almost a year inside. She would write about it and use it all and possibly help countless people to get back to their families from her hospital wards. But it still didn’t feel like a triumph.

“I wouldn’t have had you here if he’d died,” said the witch plainly. She then fixed her gaze on him, choosing to ignore the fact that Yavin was in the room. “Know this, Lawrence. My husband checks my worst impulses. If those runes keeping him alive fail, I will personally drag a dementor to your Azkaban cell and undo all of the hard work done by Morgenthau and Misslethorpe.”

Miranda didn’t know how true the words were, for she never wished to find out. Her healer’s oath had been everything until the moment she’d nearly lost Ignan. What would be the point in being the Head Healer when you couldn’t even save two husbands? It would, she was quite convinced, break her.

Lawrence took a placating half-step backwards, his calf meeting the chair he’d previously sat on. There was the fury from the previous meetings, its absence had been less reassuring than its presence. Enraged Andy was expected. Like an angry animal, he diverted his gaze purposefully away from her, shying from the intensity.

He didn’t quite know how to respond to that, and there was an incredibly awkward pause between them, as Lawrence swallowed audibly. Months back he’d have retaliated, threatened all kinds of violence, just like he had in her kitchen at his worst.

“Equalling the score, I understand.” He uttered quietly, finding his voice. His foot returned to its original position, remembering that she couldn’t harm him in here. Morgenthau was behind him, and had put the leash on the Head Healer. All he had to do was tug. “Andy,” he addressed her, expression sorry and his voice matching once more, “the trial will be ugly enough. Say whatever you want to me now, save some column inches.” And some face.

Well that stopped the pitiful apology and thanks, Miranda thought as she watched Lawrence search for the words in response to her threat. There was a silence in the room where, mercifully, even Yavin didn’t deign to speak. He could think as he wanted in this situation, he knew Ignan, knew what he meant to her. In this situation, in this room in this moment, Miranda was not the Head Healer in charge of the hospital. She was the victim of some of Lawrence Musgrave’s crimes.

Miranda had always hated that word. Victim. Every definition of victim involved the person named victim as being passive. Whatever had happened was done unto them. They were helpless in it. Miranda Storm despised being helpless.

As Lawrence’s true intentions became clear, Miranda’s lips twisted into an uncomfortable, but knowing smile of realisation.
“Now I understand why you requested me here. Whatever I have to say, Lawrence, will be before the Wizengamot when I take the stand against you. You can stand there in that courtroom and face up to it, just like my husband and I have to look at what you did every day.”

There was the fire and fury once more. He had been misjudged to think she would take up his offer. That she might consider it rather than risk her history with him being dragged through the media. She might be defiant here with just the two of them, but Harper Graves was a force to be reckoned with.

Once he was out of here, how long would it be before Misslethorpe became emboldened to allow his staff to write something about them? Especially if the gesture shortened the time Andy would keep a grip on her leadership here. Misslethorpe was her deputy - he would be a potential successor. What about Josie - who had maintained her letter writing and insistence she wanted to tell his story. There would be no communication in Azkaban.

“As you wish,” Lawrence replied as evenly as he could. “I have nothing to lose.” He shrugged. “Graves and Kuester are fully appraised.” Fully appraised of many things, but he couldn’t help himself from planting a seed of doubt in the legilimen’s mind.

“So, thank you.” He mustered a smile, but it didn’t reach the crows feet at the corners of each eye. “Best of luck with your continued research.” He glanced over his shoulder at Morgenthau. “Both of you.”

Both of you. Miranda’s brown eyes shot up to fall momentarily on Yavin. She’d asked him here as a reminder to temper her impulses and anger. Despite being a notably calm and rather frosty woman, Lawrence Musgrave did something to her. Years prior, they’d been what one might refer to as ‘friends’. For several months, a now unspeakable intimacy had passed between them. But that had been a different wizard to the one now sat in this cell before her. This wizard had broken into her home and destroyed her feeling of safety and security. Such an invasion of her space had caused the witch to insist that she and Ignan purchase the Hogsmeade cottage which he even appeared at. Lawrence Musgrave had terrorised her and nearly taken Ignan’s life. Miranda had inadvertently given him a power that she was still unable to grasp back, despite his current situation as a detainee of the Ministry of Magic and St Mungo’s hospital.

“I suppose you’ve already lost everything.” Said Miranda quietly, crossing her arms. She had already decided that lingering to let the wizard offload would do nothing for her own peace of mind. St Mungo’s and its leader had gained what they needed from his attendance, and he had gained what he needed. Now, the sooner the trial came and went, the better.

With a sigh, the Healer turned to make her way back to the door and the small cell. She placed her hand on the door handle but turned to spare one more glance his way. “I’ll see you in court.”

The door way pulled open and she left without another word.