One thing Daniel was good at (besides being a pain in the Healers sides and sitting around brooding) was pacing. And thinking. And pacing.

His shoes were quiet as they padded across his room, one way and then another. He had to remind himself of his parents misfortune most days, and it always brought on more inner turmoil, more thinking. Some days, he didn’t remember his parents at all.

Glancing over at the voice that was beckoning to him, he continued another four steps, counting them out wordlessly. Then he stopped, turned, and strode past the hired help. Meal time.

Hands loosely clasped behind his back as he made his strides, left, right, counting as he went, one, two, three, four, finally making it to his usual area. Eyeing some of the others around him, frowning, Daniel finally eased himself down at a table, checked his socks, and then clasped his hands on top of the table.

There he waited. Fleeting thoughts of rain and darkness flooded his senses, and he could smell the shepherd's pie that was being served. Finally he stood and made his way, the line dwindled to nearly nothing, accepting his meal and spoon before finding his spot once again.

It wasn’t nearly as tasty as he remembered it. Frowning, chewing, he poked his spoon in it. Did he forget to put the pepper in it? Blinking suddenly, he looked around. Wait, no, he hadn’t made it. Rubbing at his head, he closed his eyes and tried to remember where he’d gotten it as he brought another spoonful to his mouth.

Aah CHOO!

Vivienne Thorpe gingerly held a handkerchief to her nose, frowning. Had she caught something from her last patient? The boy had come in with a hexed arm and a rather irrelevant cold. Irritating. She sniffed and tucked away the cloth, her nose a bright shade of red. Fortunately, Daniel Pratt didn't seem to have noticed her untimely sneeze. It had been over a week since she had begun administrating a change of sedatives into her patient's meals. In that time, little contact had been made with him... she only observed as he went about his days, pacing and thinking and brooding.

There had been no outbursts. This evening most of the (relatively) stable patients of the Janus Thickey ward were having their supper in the fourth floor dining area. It was really more of a very comfortable canteen-- not quite so depressing as its muggle equivalents. Viv sat a table away from patient Pratt, holding a clipboard in one hand, her wand and a quill in the other. He took a bite of the shepherd's pie and paused to look around, confused-- in the few seconds of that pause, the Healer held her breath; a knot in her stomach. Could he taste it?

He returned to to the meal and she breathed out quietly, relieved. There was clearly something about the potion that threw of the taste of certain foods but none of the medicated patients appeared to have noticed yet. Yet. Vivienne put down her board and continued to monitor Pratt with her calm, grey eyes. She knew that she would have to approach him soon; there was no point in making observations if she wasn't going to incite some other response. They needed to know if there were mental side-effects or triggers. The witch got up quietly and walked over to his table... she stood there for a moment before very casually sitting across from him.

A few gazes shifted towards her. Fellow Healers and hospital staff, mostly. They more or less knew about her work with Daniel, her ongoing work with various potions. And of course they knew about her patient's violent record. Even the other patients did not always sit very close to him here. Vivienne decided to speak as soon as she sat down: "Good evening, Daniel," she smiled at him warmly as she folded her hands on her lap: "Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering how you were doing today. We haven't talked in a while, have we?"

As opposed to other days, Daniel was able to focus a little more on each thought. It wasn’t a maelstrom in his head. He could have a complete thought and move on. Daniel didn’t notice the difference, per say, but maybe others had. It allowed the usually overactive brain a small respite.

After the next bite, Daniel rubbed at his eye, wondering when he could climb back into bed. Until he heard a woman’s voice surprisingly close. His head came up suddenly, eyes blinking lazily as they focused on the healer across from him. He glanced over her uniform, confusion setting into the area between his eyebrows as they drew together. “Good... Evening.” Glancing to the window, he tried to gauge what time of day it was. Did it matter? She said it was evening.

But when had he taken the word of someone else as gold? Frowning and letting out a huff of air, he tried to calm down the angry but somewhat muted voice in his head. The protest was as if it were coming through a pillow, muffled in its venom. Once again he looked back at her, setting his spoon down into the shepherd’s pie.

There was something about her... something he couldn’t quite put his wand on. Or, wait, no he didn’t have a wand did he? Patting his pockets a moment, he frowned again. Had he ever had a wand? Yes, of course he had... He’d been a... He was a... well.

“Uh, I guess...” Glancing side to side, as if thinking his answers would be there, Daniel finally flittered his gaze back to the woman across from him. He decided at that moment to skip the fact that he couldn’t quite remember her, exactly. “I’m tired. I thought maybe my m...” His voice trailed off as he recalled his parents’ death. Eyes fell again, downcast as he contemplated that. His mum wasn’t coming around.

“This Shepherd’s pie reminds me of me mum’s cooking.” A small half smirk slipped across his lips. “Except it tastes better.”

Vivienne observed the wizard across from her with her calmest, most nonchalant expression. All the time with her heart in her throat and a nervous tremble in her chest, tightly restrained. He did not recognize her... not immediately. She could tell from the way he answered, like an old schoolmate trying to place a face that they rightly ought to know but can't recollect. Merlin, he'd seen her around the wards.

The medication might be keeping him calm but it was not pushing his memory to its natural limit. But no... one thing at a time.

His  mother. Daniel Pratt trailed off before he could mention her and it felt like the memory of his brother's last visit hung in the air between them; the knowledge of his parents' death was a veil that neither could penetrate. It was a terrible thing to happen to anyone, much less someone in his condition. What did it feel like, she wondered, to recall that tragedy with newness? Viv swallowed and forced herself not to empathize with the idea. She didn't want to look like she pitied him. So many of the patients detested that look; it made them feel too vulnerable.

“This Shepherd’s pie reminds me of me mum’s cooking," Daniel suddenly said with a change of mood-- more amused, though morbidly: "Except it tastes better."

Reminded of previous references to his mother's kitchen skills, Viv smiled distractedly: "I'm glad you think it's edible," she replied, "The cook doesn't always get positive feedback." Or any solid feedback at all really, until recently. It miffed the kitchen staff a little to have Healers coming in, muttering about suitable potion/food combinations.

Leaning forward very slightly, Vivienne attempted to change subjects as talk of food only made her more anxious about the sedative: "What have you been doing lately, Daniel? Picked up any new hobbies?" If they were lucky, he'd have calmed down enough to concentrate on more than just socks.

What was the use of remembering if all he had to remember were regrets and sadness? Eleven years of it, and that was just his time in St. Mungo’s. Merlin, he could hardly remember the day before. It was probably just as well--he’d feel a bit useless, realizing he’d spent a good chunk of his life, doing nothing inside a locked unit. It was not something you could plan for. Being an Auror meant he was willing to lay down his life. How ironic that it meant he could still be left behind in a shell.

Not that any of that was on his mind. His spoon dipped into the meal for more. Nodding at ‘edible,’ Daniel demonstrated his opinion with taking the bite, swallowing it down quick enough. If it sat too long on the palate, one was likely to disagree with it. “Mmm, mmhm.” Positive feedback all around.

Her question came at him in the middle of another bite. Pausing in his chewing, Daniel frowned and looked at her. Hobbies? Setting the spoon down in the Shepherd’s Pie, he rubbed his chin for a moment. “I don’t... know. Organized my sock drawer... I’ve been keeping a journal.” Kind of. He jotted down random things, sometimes an occasional coherent thought, and other times, mumblings from the other noise in his head.

Still Daniel was having a hard time placing her. Grimacing, he shifted on his chair and glanced down into his meal. She knew his name, why couldn’t he remember hers?! Gritting his teeth, he picked up the spoon. He snapped, however slightly, and his fist came down on the table clenching the utensil. “Usually I’m good with names, but...” He hadn't been good at names in a long time.

Socks, again. Was there something to this hosiery obsession that she simply could not get her mind around? The journal came across as much better news. They would have to come around to that later.

Patients and colleagues sauntered about the fourth floor canteen, all of them leaving the wide margin of space around the two of them. The former because they knew of Dan Pratt's booming temper. The latter because they felt it in the awareness that he was responsible for the death of their own kind. Also, maybe, because they knew that she was amidst making direct contact with the primary subject of her sedative changes. It made them almost as nervous as her, not knowing the effects yet.

So when he banged his fist heavily against the table, it was no surprise that several people in the room had jumped. Someone had nearly dropped their tray.

Viv's jaw tightened slightly but she made no other move... her gaze remained steady, her calm smile only vaguely forced. “Usually I’m good with names, but...” Daniel trailed off, spoon still in hand. A feeling of distress pricked at the Healer's chest and the look in her eyes softened.

This here was somebody's brother, somebody's son. Being around him made her both terrified and sad; she tried to meet his eyes: "It's okay. Not everyone remembers," her voice lowered a little: "Vivienne. I'm your healer now, Daniel." A small part of her hoped he didn't ask what happened to his previous one. The man seemed pained enough as it is.

Very slowly, she reached out with one hand to touch her patient's clenched fist: "You call me Viv, non? We talk about socks sometimes."

It was the building frustration with himself that forced the somewhat violent and sudden reaction. Violent towards the table, or the spoon. It wasn’t (yet) focused on anyone. After a moment of staring at the spoon, Daniel finally glanced up towards the woman opposite him.

His own jaw clenched--it wasn’t okay. Not to him. But at the same time... he wasn’t as worried about it. As if there were other things to think about. Or... just to enjoy the comfortable place he was sitting at. The chair wasn’t the worst seat he’d ever had. Had he remembered to check her socks? Why wasn’t the spoon being used to shovel in more food?

“Vivienne. I’m your healer now, Daniel.”

Blinking as his eyes moved back to her, his reaction slower than when she first sat down, he nodded slightly. Now? Was she something else before then? A yawn escaped him as his fist relaxed under her touch. “Viv...” He tried it out for size, slowly, digesting each letter as he watched her face. The mention of socks made his eyes light up. “Wh-What are your favorite kind?”

Daniel did something he rarely did: he grinned, spoon now set aside as he shifted on the chair and focused on Vivienne. Hands lightly clasped in front of him like an expectant child. He did love a good sock debate. Or, he had since ending up in St. Mungo's. Before his attack, Daniel didn't care much about his socks, except that they matched.

If all patients had a key word that could distract them from their troubles, treatment on the fourth floor would have been a far less stressful matter. As it was, Vivienne felt relieved to know that at least Dan Pratt had such a word-- such a subject. Not that she cared much for socks.

In fact, it took her a moment to remember what kind she was wearing today. Regulation white. Probably. There were a few bizarre pairs in her drawer; seasonal socks, rainbow stripes, bright red. A favourite kind? The Healer watched her patient with an amused, untroubled gaze as his expression brightened. She didn't have a favourite. But if she had to choose...

"I like knee high socks," it was hard to believe they were having this conversation: "The plain kind. My favourite pair is purple." Somewhere in her head, she wondered if anyone in the canteen was eavesdropping on them.

Hopefully they would see it meant that the sedative was helping Daniel to come down from his outbursts.; and not that she was stalling on more significant subjects. Significant was relative. Nothing was trivial, not really. Vivienne's smile widened a little bit: "You must have much less feminine preferences, oui??"

He seemed to approve of his brother's dark socks, those months ago. There was some logic to this, maybe. Or maybe it was as arbitrary as most of Dan's leanings.

Nodding in agreement, Daniel could see why knee high might be preferred. They definitely helped keep the lower legs warm in the cooler months. There was no chance of awkward leg showing if it bunched down too far during a day. They definitely had some benefit for keeping the calves constricted as well--blood flow wasn’t impeded. Helped reduce risk of clots...

Making a face at the color mention, he merely shrugged. Couldn’t win them all, he supposed. Scratching his forearm, Dan figured purple fit her. It wouldn’t clash with her skin tone, or her eyes, and it might actually accentuate... something.

As the idea filtered away from him, he frowned and rubbed at the side of his head. “Knee highs are nice.”

Hearing her question, slightly, he focused once again on her. Daniel was confused, at first, before finally nodding. He wasn’t the biggest purple fan. “Argyle. Blue and brown. I like over the calf...” A frown once again slipped on to his features. “As long as they aren’t unmatched, it’s fine.” Blinking, he stared down into the food in front of him. “What were...”

Then he saw his spoon, and he picked it up, taking another bite. “I think the only thing that would make this better would be some oatmeal cookies.” Daniel was confused why he was having a hard time putting thoughts together, or why he couldn’t focus as much as he thought he normally would. “What’s your blood status?” Eyes suddenly snapped to her face. He would know if she was hiding something, he was sure of it. Then again, there were times Daniel thought he was pureblood.

Much like most patients under any kind of sedative, Dan Pratt was apt to lose focus of the conversation. Vivienne didn't like this and she was sure that Greenburg wouldn't either, whenever she got around to telling him. They had agreed to treat the patient... not simply circumvent his violent outbursts. If that had been their intention, then any kind of sedative would have been suitable. Merde. She wasn't pleased at all with this prototype.

He was going on about matching socks which, she guessed, was as sensible a peeve for anyone regardless of mental condition. Would he become agressive if he spotted someone with unmatched socks? Best not to test that theory quite yet. The Healer only smiled compliantly at the comment and then watched as he returned to his shepherd's pie. A part of her almost wanted to stop him from eating it (what was the point after all, she was back to the cauldron).

And then, just as she thought this, Dan looked to her sharply.

"What's your blood status?"

That was... out of the blue. Non, everything was out of the blue with him. Viv looked at her patient carefully, pulling back her  hand from its place on the table  and brushing a lock of hair behind her ear: "What does it matter to you?" she responded almost too quickly. It wasn't a very friendly question, not even coming from a mentally unstable wizard.

Just as quickly, as if to make up for her defensive tone, Vivienne answered: "Halfblood." She could feel herself tense, the other hand ready to reach for her wand. Unnecessarily. Other Healers in the canteen would probably be quicker than her if anything happened. Maybe it was a good thing that the sedative was presently disturbing Dan's focus.

It was such an odd conundrum. Daniel himself was halfblood, but some part of him was infected with someone else’s thoughts. Someone else’s desires. Hatred. It wasn’t enough that this part of him hated himself, however-it hated everyone who wasn’t pureblood. Tormented with it since the day he was admitted to St. Mungo’s permanently, it could easily become a nice cloak to hide behind.

It was like being schizophrenic: someone else talking to you in your head, telling you what to say and do, threatening you. Sometimes it could take over, and Dan could retreat to some dark, quiet place in his own head to rest.

“What does it matter to you?”

It didn’t matter to Dan, but it did. His spoon was held tightly in his hand and he watched her carefully. He felt dull and unfocused, but he was concentrating as best he could on this. Defensive all ready, was she? A slightly demonic smirk lifted at the edge of his lips before it fell back into a state of waiting.

“Halfblood.”

He blinked before it registered. Suddenly he was on his feet-no, he was struggling to his feet, feeling like his arms were the heaviest noodles he’d ever seen. His spoon came up as if it were his wand, and he flicked it at her. “Crucio!” His voice was booming (or it felt like it was), but it lacked all the anger he felt surging through him. Nothing came out of the spoon, and he let out a frustrated noise.

By then, however, he was surrounded, and as he attempted to launch across the table, he was held in place by a different spell. “Filthy! Tainted! You’re not fit to breathe the same AIR as ME!” He struggled against the ropes, but couldn’t break free.

Vivienne was right not to worry. The moment Daniel Pratt had managed to pull himself up from the table, two other Healers and three Mediwizards found themselves at his side-- wands drawn. Unnecessary. Not only was the patient armed with a spoon, he was also sedated. The effects of her elixir were apparent now more than they could ever be in conversation.

“Filthy! Tainted! You’re not fit to breathe the same AIR as ME!” Dan boomed across the table but even then his yell was not so thunderous, not so intimidating. It sounded like he was struggling to draw from a depleted pool of energy. It sounded sad. Standing up when he did, Viv almost flinched at the words.

There were some things even she could not reconcile herself with; pureblood elitism, though not uncommon, was an ugly social strain that reared its head on the fourth floor more often than anyone would like. She looked away from the wizard's face, contorted with frustration, to her colleagues who had so efficiently restrained his limbs with binding spells. "Merci," the witch murmured. This was all she needed to see of the brewed sedative, for now.

Staying here any longer only aggravated him. "I'm done here," Vivienne told them in a tight voice and then, reluctantly, met Daniel's gaze. The look in her eyes was steady, though only barely. "Desolé, Daniel. I'm so sorry to have upset you today."