"I don't know who you are." Francis sat patiently beside his wife, sat in armchairs, his expression neutral. "They told me just now that will happen a lot."

"Its ok, they told me that too." Francis replied softly. "I'm Francis, it doesn't matter that you don't remember me." He took her hand gently. That still felt as it always had, soft, the hand he had clasped all through the years of being madly in love with her, the same hand he had clasped at their wedding, the same hand that had placed his wedding ring on his finger.

Smiling at his wife, he pushed the sadness away from his expression even though inside he felt like weeping. The last time he had visited, Claire had remembered his name when he had arrived, he had been overjoyed, even though the unknown reality was she had been informed moments before by a healer he was to arrive. Now they were back to where they were again, only through all these months, Claire had moved past the hysterical surprise at not being able to remember, partly due to the regular potions the healers dispensed to try and reduce the distress.

Tempted to ask her such trivial things as 'have you had a nice day' Francis knew his wife would almost certainly not be able to tell him what happened five minutes ago today, so he didn't ask.
"You look very well." He settled with, and squeezed her hand. She looked at him and smiled with him. He savoured the moment, a glimpse of his wife.
"You don't." Claire replied quite honestly. Francis laughed and lowered his gaze. It was quite typical of his wife's personality to tell him such things, especially to people she was in a muddle over how she dealt with them. Ambrose inherited the trait too.

"I'll be fine." He assured her. "Shall I tell you what Ambrose and Timothy have been up to?" Francis asked hopefully. His wife looked confused and Francis extended the well dog eared photo of their two children - Claire's first child not in the photograph.
"Ambrose and Timothy, our children." Claire began to cry, Francis cracked, got out of the chair beside her and wrapped her in his arms instinctively. Too much again.
"I don't remember, I don't remember..." Claire repeated over and over into his shoulder which was now wet with tears.
"Its fine, you don't have to." He told her. "I love you."

"I can't, I can't...!" Instinct was overruled. Struggling from his embrace, Francis let go and created distance between them. It had been a long week.
"Its ok, I'll go." He told her but his voice failed him, cracking, and he turned away swiftly, walking rapidly out of the ward, tears already clear on his face, but looking to nobody, determined not to break within view or earshot of his bewildered wife.

Outside of the ward, he leant his against the wall and wept behind his hands, today it was just too hard to keep it together.

Orbital decay, tornadoes in America, dragons in Africa, and breakfast burrito recipes--was the mish mash nonsensical topic for the rambling patient to spout off to the the tall chocolate-skinned witch, propped in the doorway and listening that day.

Delilah, while peering out into the hallway towards Claire Pepper's room, gave the routine amount of nodding and agreeing hums the patient wanted before he finally stuttered and ceased talking. His face finally furrowed and twisted, a sign of the medecine kicking in and him trying to make sense of what all he had just said. Before he opened his mouth the healer flicked her slim hand through the air to stop him.

"Droppit," Delilah stuck her head full of hanging dreadlocks back out the door to see Claire's husband in the hallway. Instead of heading to the office, as he usually did, Francis was against the wall in a drooping melancholy form. The healer bit back a sigh, "An' eat your lunch," she dipped her head back into the patient's room before making sure he did as told before she walked back into the hallway.

The distraught wizard was gulping sobs into his hands, each one dragging on from the loss of a loved one, wanting her back, even though she was hardly two meters away. Even occlumency couldn't hide the heart against the misery of the Pepper's, all Delilah could do was guard it. Delilah's long fingers pressed against Francis' shoulder, to alert him to her presence.

Once she held his attention she tilted her head towards a room towards the entrance of the lifts, "Can sit p'on th' bench in di office," she pressed her other hand against his back, to peel the pitiable man off the wall and direct him to the room they would sit in and go over Claire's condition every month, where they may talk about it every week, or where he'd just think about it about every once in a while. A simple and mindless routine for him by now,"Dere's a few therapies t'go over, potion mixtures, routines--we cin go over, once we're sat down."

Fingers pressed into his shoulder, and Francis looked up, suddenly very ashamed of his behaviour, his useless, pointless, tears to no conclusion and no assistance. It was Delilah, a face Francis had become very accustomed to since the beginning of last summer with spending so much time at St Mungo's since Claire admittance.

Delilah and all the healers had been exemplary in the way they had dealt with the situation, from Francis at an utter loss as to what to do and how to cope with his wife and becoming effectively a single parent to two young teenage sons, losing a step-son with such anger while knowing Claire's first child was probably deeply wracked with guilt for causing the incorrect memory charm and the subsequent damage. Delilah was particularly kind in ensuring she spoke to Francis regularly, though he conversed and passed the days with the healers throughout the hospital who helped, she was the one he had been able to speak to about the thoughts too heavy to share with his friends, and the temptations to meddle with time.

"I'm sorry." He whispered to Delilah, apologising for his tears. She seemed to understand, she had an uncanny knack for pre-empting thoughts he had discovered. He let her guide him away from the door and the wall beside it taking him back to the familiar room near to the lifts where they could talk.

"Thank you." He croaked, wiping his face and clearing his throat as they walked the distance down the corridor, Francis keeping his eyes trained on the floor, ashamed at his behaviour.

Once they were alone, he let out a shuddered sigh, and let his shoulders lower, looking up at the ceiling.
"I, I just hoped today might be a good day." He explained to Delilah, feeling foolish. "Thoroughly selfish of me." He shook his head and sat down, pushing his curls out of his face, and looking up at Delilah.

"I know there's been no change, but I'm trying Delilah, and I know you all are too. But, are you sure this isn't a losing battle?"

He had laid awake several nights in the past few days thinking about things in the empty house. It had been so long the smell of Claire had left, the house cleaned by him, the boys and friends who had come round when Francis was at his lowest after the boys had gone to school, and taken care of him, tried to keep him from getting black eyes picking arguments - which had happened.

Francis had sprayed a little of her perfume in their bedroom, closed his eyes and remembered.

"Tell me some good news?" He asked Delilah, "And I will push aside my pessimism."

As Francis spoke Delilah guided him to the office, only responding his apologies and thanks with two light and solemn nods, giving little attention to his efforts on his self-depreciation and attempted to keep his focus onto walking with her long and resolute pace, until they entered the office. Then she let him go and left him to beat himself up in whatever way he wished as she shut the door and moved across the room with shelves of old volumes and matted ornate binders closed behind glass.

She reached through the magical glass to one of the shelves, "Sometimes being selfish is all 'dat gets us t'rough th' day," her fingers tip toed across a row of thick volumes to finally grasp around a black heavy-bound cover containing the information she desired.

"You wanna give up?" she responded with an immediate calm as she slipped the black book from the shelf and balanced it against her waist, "Dere's still yer children," She moved by a shelf of binders and swiped a record from it, Claire's, with matted and uneven pages, and stacked it over her other book, "Your son," The next glance she gave Francis was heavier, weighed down by her tone.

The tall Jamaican then moved to then walked over to a desk in the middle of the room, circled by sofa-benches,  "I'm raised to werk on difficult problems, Francis, 'til I win or lose," she poured the ornate book and binder onto the table and smoothed out her green wrap-like robe before she tucked herself on the bench. "She won't get better if treatment stops," her tone finished off with a rusk candidness. 

Once he beckoned the for news she lilted onto the diagnoses, "You've all helped her to a point," she waved her hand before scooping open the larger book, "And she has her moments," calligraphic writing were sectioned in columns on the pages  she started to turn, that were pushed aside with animated pictures, little books, or pamphlets embedded in them as well, "details, bits," her dark eyes considered the new notes and annotations scattered along the edges and folded into corners, before going on, "she doesn't link 'dem together well, gets frustrated," she began flipping through familiar pages with more haste, "Then fear. Stress. Anxiety--feels better disregarding those feelings, so forgets, and loses her thoughts." It wasn't particularly optimistic, she knew that, but it was all they had.

Once she was finally on the information of the mind and emotions, she pulled a ribbon through the page, and opened the binder with Claire Pepper's records in her lap, still rattling off about the patient without needing to read the pages, "It's unstable, miniscule, falty--but progress. There needs to be a way to hold onto 'dat," Delilah pulled a bamboo pen from a corner of the desk, and let it presse itself on the binder's pages of mis-matched forms, parchment type, and script magically sealed into the seam of the book, ready to write any information on Claire. "Eet's a crucial step," she crossed her legs and opened the palm of her hand to a place beside her on the bench for Francis to sit, but then considered his emotional state for another moment.

"Of course, if you need your own method of coping," her tone was sincere as she tilted her brows, "nothin' to be noted, I can whip somet'in together fer you." She didn't usually approve of drugs for coping emotionally, but some situations couldn't wait until a person got their wits together.

"You wanna give up?"

He shook his head, eyes lowered. He wouldn't give up, no. It didn't mean they all didn't have days where they felt like it was a better option though.

"She won't get better if treatment stops,"

Francis raised his head, about to say that he wasn't necessarily suggesting that they should, but that it in its present, month by month timescale, nothing seemed to be changing, other than Francis was getting older at a statistically faster rate than Claire, for reliving moments of his life.

"You've all helped her to a point and she has her moments, details, bits," Francis could see her reviewing the familiar record book. "She doesn't link 'dem together well, gets frustrated, then fear. Stress. Anxiety--feels better disregarding those feelings, so forgets, and loses her thoughts."

He nodded again, agreeing with what she said.

"It's unstable, miniscule, falty--but progress. There needs to be a way to hold onto 'dat. Eet's a crucial step," Delilah gestured for him to sit with her, and he exhaled gently, relaxing his body language before he made a move.

"Of course, if you need your own method of coping, nothin' to be noted, I can whip somet'in together fer you."

"No, no that won't be necessary, but thank you." Francis replied swiftly. "I'm not going back to settling my thoughts with potions, makes me feel dead to the world and unable to feel anything."

The days after the incident, not only were Claire's symptoms agitated by the fact she had her first son were arguing and were both upset at the time the obligation was performed incorrectly, but Francis was wracked with the decision on whether to inform on his step-son as the responsible party, suspecting Claire had discovered whatever the matter was with her son, whatever he was up to, to make him leave Hogwarts so suddenly.

He hadn't coped at all well then, looking after Timothy, who was not yet of age to attend Hogwarts, Ambrose at school finishing his second year, distraught at knowing something had occurred, until a Professor could bring him to London to St Mungo's to be with them. Francis had agreed to potion then to ensure he could look after his sons when actually he had fallen apart. They clung to him, and he hardly felt them, as if he was living through a haze. It was a very disorientating time for them all.

"Would it help if I spent more time with her, if she wasn't here perhaps, if we took her home?" Francis asked, thinking how home reminded him of his wife's absence still. However, the logistics of the offer were poor, he would either have to give up his position at the Ministry - which was practically impossible, Britain would be forced to rely on foreign time turner purchase if he left for more than two weeks at a time. However many time turners he prepared in advance.

He sighed and shook his head.
"I know, it would be a disaster, too much." He gave a shrug of a smile to Delilah, "I just wonder though, even a visit. I surround her with as many things as I think will help here - but she's still here."

His mind began to clear from his earlier upset with discovering Claire had forgotten him entirely again, and had reverted back to as if she had just been admitted (well, not entirely, a lot calmer about her situation).

"There is always the other possibility we talked about." Francis added quietly, staring across the room, before his eyes crept to Delilah's expression.

She was the only person party to his thoughts about using the newer experimental time turners which could not only wind back, but once wound back, wind forward - to a point. Tested over sheer minutes and fragile, the thought of perfecting them to deal with months with adapting their size and winding had been the obsession of Francis for over six months.

If he could go back to just before the accident…

• "I'm not going back to settling my thoughts with potions, makes me feel dead to the world and unable to feel anything."

Delilah remained poised as the wooden pen tilted and etched away its medical interpretation of Francis's answer, "Shuld I propose a distraction, 'den?" her eyes fell to Calire's open record in her lap, checking the notations; Those about Francis nearly as numerous as those about Claire, and still growing. Sometimes the condition of the family was just as important as the condition of the patient.

• "Would it help if I spent more time with her, if she wasn't here perhaps, if we took her home?"

The healer lifted her gaze from the binder and peered cautiously at the man's expression for a moment. It was not the sort of distraction she was thinking of, however, he seemed quite certain of the answer himself, and she raised a brow to him.

• "I know, it would be a disaster, too much." He gave a shrug of a smile to Delilah, "I just wonder though, even a visit. I surround her with as many things as I think will help here - but she's still here."

"If I 'culd make it so simple," she raised a singler, "I'd grant your wish," then she looked to the door leading to the hallway of the patients and tilted her dark finger towards it, "but she alone cannae' care for herself, and you alone cannae care for her." Her finger pivoted toward Francis until he began a train of thought he shouldn't have. Her fingers braced the pen still as the chronomancer continued.

• "There is always the other possibility we talked about.""

The witch's voice was soft with honesty, even though she knew the impossibilities of time and altering it, "Can ye account for everyt'ing in 'di past year?" she raised the pen off the book and up towards her shoulder as she gave a nod, "Bring me an algorithm, a person to-each variable," she looped her pen around in the air, "an' show me wha' problems it'll solve and cause."

"It's your job, but can you lay claim to 'dis work?" She was curious to his reasoning, and the responsibility he may carry with it. At one point in time, closer to the accident, she would be more lenient on letting him rewind and alter that events in his life, but too much time had passed for Delilah to drill questions that were anything short of a thorough evaluation.

Francis saw Delilah seize the pen, preventing it from transcribing this turn of conversation. Her action made him pause, lips apart, as if he were about to speak but thought better of it.

"Can ye account for everyt'ing in 'di past year? Bring me an algorithm, a person to-each variable, an' show me wha' problems it'll solve and cause."

Francis pursed his lips together and lowered his head, his hands reaching down beside his legs on either side and gripping what he sat upon. She was absolutely right, it was a huge impossibility. The healer was of course absolutely correct. The prospect of going back and doing something which would change history, change linear time was incredibly dangerous. He knew the dangers very well - he had been the one to deal with incidents unmentionable even to other unspeakables in the department. Thought in his own mind he had been allowed to retain, whereas those involved lost the memories of what they had done to misuse time.

"It's your job, but can you lay claim to 'dis work?"

"I cannot." Francis replied, his head still lowered, face obscured by the angle and his curls brushing forwards. His voice was strained.

"But it doesn't stop me from dwelling on it, that in time I may be able to with far more accuracy." He raised his head, a determination set into his voice, mixed with frustration. His eyes turned to Delilah and the pen.

"Put it this way, if there is someone who can, it is me." Francis looked defiantly at her for a moment, and then his body language dropped, his shoulders rounded and he let go of his grip with a sigh, looking down at his hands which he flexed, realising how tightly he had gripped the edge of the seat in the ache from his tendons from the release.

"Forget I thought of it." He requested of Delilah bitterly, rubbing the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right thoughtfully. "I wish I could." He added in a whisper, though undoubtedly Delilah could read that from him anyhow.

"More waiting, more patience, more persistence. I understand." Francis changed his tone abruptly and sat straight, attentive to the healer. "You can let the pen dictate I'm co-operative to the treatment plan..." He added with a wistful smile.

Her expression was acutely and critically focused on Francis, "Never said t'stop dwelling on it," her voice sung out soothingly, "don't want 'dat." She smoothed out the book in her lap, "I want you to see th' complexity--understand what may not ever be understood. Eet's not a quick fix, or easy," her voice dropped cautiously, "could be somet'in you don't want."

She shook her head gently and raised the pen, "S'not whedder or not you can go on wit' it, it's more about what will happen." She knew he had to know that, probably better than anyone. "And th' longer you wait the more that can happen and the more that can change for your actions." Her voice lifted inquiringly, "Just think of all 'dats happened in th' past few months."

She laid the pen down in the crease of the Claire's book and tilted her head with a weight of concern, "'Ave you even gotten hold of your son, Francis?"

Francis nodded, Delilah, as always, spoke sense.

"Too much has gone on. It wouldn't just affect me and Claire, even our family, it would have other further reaching implications, which I could not control. A little knowledge makes you dangerous, they say." He sighed.

"Thomas, you mean, Claire's son?" Francis had once referred to the young man as his own son proudly, given Thomas had been a Ravenclaw, even though no blood relative of Francis, but Claire's son before they were married. These days, Francis considered himself to have only two sons, Ambrose and Timothy. Thomas Gregory was a tricky subject equal to turning back time.

"No, other than the healers here saying he's visited Claire at least once, alone. I don't think its wise I do." He admitted. "I still haven't told the aurors either." He added, "That Tom was trying to obliviate his mother on purpose. Well, he succeeded, rather too well. I didn't want to put Ambrose and Tim through that. Telling them it was all an accident, not meant, its easier for them. They loved him as an older brother."

His tone had become hardened as he spoke about it, defiant.
"I don't think I can contact him, because I blame him for everything. I still can't forgive him. I should be able to, but I can't when I see her like that, and know he was willing to risk that to protect himself. Ohh..." Francis raised both hands to cover his face and rubbed, frowning heavily before pushing his fingers into his curled hair and momentarily grasping it in frustration.

"This isn't helping Claire." Francis said resolutely, avoiding the subject. "What were the potions and other things that can be tried?"

The line between family and secrets was a hard one cross. Delilah was often sensible and honest, but she did have a habit of learning the truth in fragile situations, and holding them bath. This situation was no different, as she herself kept an eye on Thomas for the rare times he dropped by, but there was only so many lines she could cross before she was becoming too involved.

"As you wish," she responded as he rejected the option of talking to Thomas, "But I  recommend you go forward wit' t'ings before looking back." Delilah wasn't sure if that was a meeting that was ever going to happen, or if it was even inevitable, Thomas seemed to have the ability to fall off the face of the world, if he so wished.

Once he asked for other options she looked at the book with distastefully pressed lips, "'Dere plenty of other options, not necessarily anymore helpful 'dan what we've been doing," but she flipped through the pages a few times before she spoke up again, "But if you want experiments...," she stopped on a page about therapies, listing dramatic and involved roleplays, mental conditioning of or strange little nuances, all leading someone to eventual conclusions or bringing them back to their own reality; in short, near-mental conspiracies.

She faced the book towards Francis, "Planting thoughts and ideas--but not memories. Entirely dependent on Claire; risky like, but not as life-changing, as time travel," she leaned back in her seat and raised her eyebrows as she began to quote Francis with a sober expression, "but if anyone 'cin do it..." then it was her.

"Planting thoughts and ideas?" Francis asked, his brow furrowed as he tried to understand. "How risky?" He asked, hastily, before taking the book from her.

Lowering his eyes to the pages, his eyes flicked over the two pages together, summarising, before returning to Delilah's face.
"The risk doesn't matter, does it? I can't lose her any more than I have already."

Francis Pepper got to his feet, book in his arms and commenced pacing back and forth as he read.
"I promised her we'd try everything. Though she won't remember me telling her that, I don't break a promise with Claire." The unspeakable told Delilah firmly, scouring the page with the intensity he did a particularly difficult time turner.

Muttering to himself as he read through it all, pacing back and forth with his hair and blotchy face from his earlier tears, Francis looked every part the mad man. He would never let his sons see him this way, and never Claire, but Delilah never let it surprise her. She was seemingly unflappable, which was good since she was in charge of the whole place.

"I still think, perhaps, for an afternoon, an hour, visiting our home again, might bring memories. The smell, the familiar sounds. But we can try anything can't we?" He mustered a hopeful smile, setting the book back down.

"Perhaps at Easter, when the boys are back. If not, they'll come and visit, like at Christmas."

What a bleak Christmas day that had been, when the three of them had visited, to give Claire her presents, and for her to forget midway through the interchange who anyone was or why she was in the hospital. All the interaction and the excitement had set off her confusion and her mind unravelled just like a ball of wool.

"Only, we'll be careful." He added, his smile diminishing.
"The boys would probably enjoy the role-plays - see it as a game. They'd like to know they're helping, if you think it might help her too?" Francis asked softly.

Delilah parted her lips to answer Francis' question, but then he discarded his own question, claiming that it didn't matter. But the taller witch knew better, while this was less intrusive than altering time it did not mean that the resulting effects would be want Francis wanted, but knew better than trying to bash the same point into him again.

Instead she closed her eyes and gave an acknowledging nod, as she let the pen drop to the folder again, scrawling onto a new page. Delilah then brushed her fingertips across the wand and crossbone St. Mungo's patch,[1]  changing colors and signalling for another healer, before she continued speaking.

"Only when she's ready, or asks, should you take her home for a while," she narrowed a gaze down her nose at the man, "take it slow."

"Th' results be that she'll gradually remember, but it's her perception of eet all 'dat'll define th' risks." Delilah let an unsettling silence end her comment, having nothing else to add to it for Francis to form his own opinions. She wasn't going to persuade him away from one option and then push him into another.

"We're inspiring suspicion, doubt, questions, Francis. T'ings that'll linger in her head 'til she moves to action. Yer childrens' involvement will only forward 'dat endeavor."  She waved an open palm as the pen continued to scratch at the parchment.

"I'll be scant during Easter break, family get-togethur'. So I suggest you be careful," she folded her arms together, "S'a subtle method, but I 'cin check how she's doing, of course," she tilted her chin towards her shoulder, as the door opened and another witch walked in, "But th' finer details of what memories t'go after ferst and when to mark her progress, are yours to choose."

Delilah unfolded a hand towards the woman who just entered while clasping Claire's folder in her free hand, "'Dis is Vivienne Thorpe, 'jus transferred to th' fourth floor," she raised the folder toward the witch as she neared, pen still scrawling away in its contents, "She'll be good to monitor Claire and keep up wit' her, emotionally," It was simpler for Vivienne Thorpe to read over what had just been said, sans time-travel, rather than to repeat the whole conversation with someone lost in as many endless thoughts as Francis.

Finally the Jamaican's eyes fell on Vivienne and she nodded towards the table, "Come, sit."

1.	Something like this

"You don't have to worry Miss Leung, your brother will be fine."

Vivienne Thorpe stood across a young, worried looking woman in the corridor outside of the treatment ward. It had been a slow day on the Fourth Floor and this was the last patient for the evening. A child had gotten hold of his elder sister's wand and managed to hurt himself with an unidentified hex. There were no distinct symptoms: a headache, a few scratches on his temple and a sore looking bruise that must been acquired when he had fallen down from the shock. The sister was clearly frightened of getting into trouble with her parents:

"B-but he keeps saying it hurts. There won't be any permanent damage, right? I mean, it wasn't even a real hex or at least I don't think it was. You know?"

Thorpe smiled sympathetically and reached out to touch the witch's shoulder gently, "Nothing permanent. I have dealt with his scratches and the other aches would do well to heal on their own," she reassured her patient's guardian, adding: "Little boys are always getting themselves into trouble." It took a few more soothing words before Miss Leung was placated enough to collect her brother and leave for home.

Vivienne watched the pair leave, amused. Funny, what a little tragedy can bring about in people. She turned to head back into the treatment wards where but stopped haltingly at its doorway: the Healer's patch on the breast of her robes was tingling. Viv instinctively touched it and sensed that Healer Foley required her in the office.

There was always something annoyingly intimidating about Healers-in-Charge. Vivienne was convinced that they  knew something the rest of them didn't, some great secret about hospitals. When you weren't getting much sleep between shifts, pretty much all the conspiracy theories made sense. The witch had paused in front of the office and was wondering whether to knock or not when the door slowly swung open on its own accord. She entered the room with a curious expression in her eyes, observing Delilah and then the wizard sitting across from her.

"....But th' finer details of what memories t'go after ferst and when to mark her progress, are yours to choose." They were in a middle of a conversation and Viv stood patiently as she was introduced to the man. He looked sad, she thought to herself, a little lost and very sad. As soon as Claire's name was mentioned, a thought clicked at the back of Vivienne's head and she immediately knew the man to be Francis Pepper. Other Healers had told her, in brief, about the incident.

She accepted the folder from Delilah and obediently sat down, looking at the wizard with a soft and somber countenance, "It's good to meet you Mr. Pepper. If you'll bear with me a moment, please." This was a surprise- Vivienne didn't expect to be assigned to a long-term resident yet. Her eyes dropped to the folder in her hands, which she had quietly opened, and she wondered if she would one day thank or curse Delilah Foley for this opportunity. Claire Pepper's case file was not a cheerful one-- the long-term patients rarely had bright prospects.

The final note on the folder was Mr.Pepper's proposal for the Easter holiday. Vivienne looked back up and with calm directness, addressed the wizard:

"You understand, of course, that your wife may not be in a temperament to receive a large visit on whichever day you choose to come over? And even if she is, it is very likely that something will upset her during the event. There are... moods that we cannot recognize or prepare for, and your children must be aware that such an incident is not just possible but very probable."

Francis tried to look upon the entrance of Healer Thorpe as optimism. A fresh set of eyes to consider, to check everything had been done. He trusted Delilah's judgement entirely but it always made him a little apprehensive when someone new entered his wife's hospital routine - not that she noticed.

He waited patiently for the new arrival to catch up on the paperwork, rather glad Delilah had caught hold of the pen while they were talking about time travel. His gaze shifted from his knees to the window and back again to Vivienne.

"You understand, of course, that your wife may not be in a temperament to receive a large visit on whichever day you choose to come over? And even if she is, it is very likely that something will upset her during the event. There are... moods that we cannot recognize or prepare for, and your children must be aware that such an incident is not just possible but very probable."

Francis nodded.
"With respect, my wife has been here nine months, Healer Thorpe. I have seen her on her good days and bad." He gave a faint smile. "Ambrose and Tim only get to visit when not at Hogwarts now, and are well aware they cannot necessarily see their mother even if we visit. But, I understand their part to play in this recovery is as large as mine is as her husband. They are both her children."

He tilted his head, his tone melancholy.
"I know she may not ever recover, but I owe it to my wife to do everything I can, and for that I need St Mungo's help."

"I know she may not ever recover, but I owe it to my wife to do everything I can, and for that I need St Mungo's help."

Vivienne listened to Francis Pepper's melancholic voice intently, her face wooden but attentive. In her head, she felt reassured by his devotion-- not all relatives saw through their proposed treatments: some simply let it fade away, much like the memories of their loved ones. But Mr.Pepper was clearly a very dedicated and loving husband. In her heart however, Viv felt tremendously sad for the man. She silently kicked back the feeling that his efforts were in vain and suppressed her personal thoughts, to be pondered over later.

"I understand," the Healer replied and her countenance melted into a gentle, sympathetic smile, "You are very committed to this cause. I can promise you that I will take very good care of Claire." Using the first name was always a good way to connect with patient's relatives. It made the discourse personal and it conveyed some intangible intent of trust.

Glancing briefly at Healer Foley and then back to Pepper, Vivienne continued: "You should know that I practically live on this floor. If you and  your family require any form of assistance for the visit this Easter, I will be present-- and I will be prepared to help."

A little voice in Viv's mind murmured approval at this response-- and a tinier voice sighed unhappily for the sorrows of the Pepper family.