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“Dr Hibbard!”

Robbie bit back a sigh and answered, “Yes, Dr Bascomb?”

“When, exactly, are you going to release the screaming woman in Bay 8?”

“I’m not, Dr Bascomb.”

“She is demanding to be released.”

“She’s also a danger to herself and others,” Robbie said, signing yet another form.

“I hardly think that you have any right to—”

“Here you go, Dr Hibbard. Just like you asked,” said Constable Derry. He was remarkably adept at ignoring Bascomb’s spluttering over the interruption.

Robbie glanced at the paperwork then waved it at Bascomb. “You’re absolutely correct. I don’t have any right. OPG, however, have every right, and they’ve filed an emergency custody order until we can sort this out.”

“We are a private institution—”

“Which has accepted public funds for the past two years to support our research and continued operations,” Robbie said.

Perhaps one of these days, Bascomb would accept that they were no longer the darling of Harley Street physicians and that NHS was the only thing keeping their doors open.

Then again, perhaps one of these days, a pig would wander into A&E and dance a jig on top of the head of a pin.

“Nevertheless—”

“Thank you, Constable. We’ll take care of Mrs Dursley from here.”

“If you please, sir, DI Lestrade asks when he can speak with her.”

Mrs Dursley let loose with a particularly loud and foul string of invective, questioning the parentage of everyone who was keeping her against her will.

“DI Lestrade will have to wait until we can stabilize her. You have a card? I’ll call.”

“Dr Hibbard, I must protest this!” Bascomb’s face was turning an alarming shade of red, and Robbie wondered if this would be the day the man stroked out.

“Dr Bascomb, I have a court order delivered by the redoubtable Constable Derry. This not only authorizes this institution to provide emergency care to Mrs Dursley but also to become her temporary custodians as she is, in their words, a vulnerable adult. Her status as a vulnerable adult is obvious to anyone with eyes to see, given that it’s mid-January, and she was found wandering barefoot along Euston Road in a threadbare dressing gown. If you are unhappy with this fact, I strongly urge you to have a discussion with the Board,” Robbie said, his patience gone at last. “Am I clear?”

Bascomb drew himself up into Offended Pose #3 before saying, “I shall have your license for this!”

After he stalked off, Derry asked, “Are you in trouble, sir?”

“No. Bascomb retired fifteen years ago. He shows up whenever his daughter gets fed up and leaves him here.”

“Should I go arrest her for abandonment, sir?”

Robbie laughed and said, “I’d rather you not. My wife dropped him here so she could get some shopping done. I’ll take him home later.”

It took Constable Derry a moment to work his way through the implications of that, and then he said, “You seem to have a very complicated work-life balance, sir.”

“I do at that.”

“And Dr Bascomb, should I bring him back here?”

“No need. Security will direct him to his old office if needed and keep an eye on him. But thank you for your concern. Now if there’s nothing else, we can take care of Mrs Dursley from here.”

“Yes, sir.”

*~*~*

“Dr Hibbard?”

“Yes? You are?”

“Sergeant Donovan, sir. With Scotland Yard. I’m here about Mrs Dursley.”

“I thought I would be hearing from a DI Lestrade,” Robbie said, looking up at his visitor.

“He assigned her case to me. I understand she was combative when she was brought in? Can you tell me about that?”

“Only if you can present a warrant authorizing me to discuss her case with you,” he said pleasantly. He’d found it was an effective way of thoroughly irritating officious twits who should know better.

“Mrs Dursley is a possible witness to a violent crime—”

“Correction: Mrs Dursley is a victim of a violent crime. Several, in fact, given the quantity and ages of the injuries on her body. If you wish to talk to her about who repeatedly injured her, get in touch with OPG and ask them to send along her deputy, who can decide, with my input, whether your interview with her is appropriate at this time,” he said, maintaining the same pleasant and slightly vapid air that seemed to be sending Sergeant Donovan around the twist.

“OPG?”

“Office of the Public Guardian. Surely you were in touch with them before you tried to come here to interview Mrs Dursley?”

“Why would I do that?” she asked.

“Because at the moment, they have guardianship over Mrs Dursley, something you should know already, as it was your Constable Derry who engaged them on behalf of Mrs Dursley,” Robbie said. “Please see yourself out, Sergeant, and come back when you are prepared to follow the proper procedure.”

Sergeant Donovan looked like she was ready to commit violence on him, but she turned to leave.

Just as she reached the door, he said, “And Sergeant?”

She stopped and looked back at him. Glared. Same thing, really, with some people. “What?”

“I suggest you talk to your dentist. Clenching your jaw like that isn’t particularly healthy and it can do serious damage to the enamel on your teeth.”

At that, she stormed out and tried to slam the door behind her. It didn’t work—not with the soft close hinges—but Robbie gave her points for the attempt even as he started digging through his desk. After a half hour of fruitless searching, he gave up and paged his PA to return to his office.

Laurel popped her head in five minutes later and asked, “What is it, Robbie? It’s only that we’re working on next year’s budget, and they’ll have my head if I’m gone too long.”

“And I can’t begin to thank you enough for deciding I’m hopeless at such conversations,” he said. “I’m looking for a business card I had two days ago, for a—”

“Attached to the front cover of Mrs Dursley’s file, which is, if I’m not mistaken, approximately a third of the way down the stack to your immediate left,” she said.

“I’m not sure which is more frightening. The fact that you knew exactly what I was looking for with very little information, or the fact that you’re right,” he said, pulling the file out without disturbing the rest of the stack.”

“Trust me, it’s the fact that I knew exactly what you were looking for. If there’s nothing else?”

“No, no. Thank you,” he said, even as he reached for his phone.

*~*~*

“How’s she doing?” Robbie looked into the secure room and saw Mrs Dursley sitting on her bed and staring out the window.

“The haloperidol is keeping her quiet,” Dr Jenkins said, “But the staff end up going in periodically to check that she’s breathing. I don’t think it’s the right answer.”

“But it’s the only thing that’s calmed her down.”

“Yeah, to the level of a clam. About as communicative, too.”

Robbie looked at her chart and noted the delivery of the last round of medication. “Understood. You’ll cancel the order?”

“I’m changing it to a lower dose. I don’t want to stop it completely just yet,” she said.

Robbie nodded. “Going to start today?”

“No. Tomorrow morning should get enough out of her system to see if a lower dosage works.”

Before Robbie could respond, the hospital’s paging system pinged and was followed by, “Dr Hibbard, please return to your office. Dr Hibbard, please return to your office.”

“Right. Lowering the haloperidol and preparing for a possible return of delirium. I hope the new dosage does the trick.”

When he returned to his office, Robbie was greeted with the sight of an extremely tall man with a blush that ran from his forehead down to his wrists. Laurel had a wicked look on her face, and he wondered what the man had done to earn her form of justice.

“You rang?” Robbie said, taking the message slips Laurel handed him.

“Sergeant Weasley is here to talk to you about Mrs Dursley,” she said.

“As I explained to your Sergeant Donovan, I won’t discuss Mrs Dursley without appropriate authorization,” he said, without looking at Weasley.

“That’s all right, then,” he said. “I’m not here for the police. I’m here on behalf of my brother-in-law.”

“And who might your brother-in-law be? DI Lestrade, perhaps?”

“Who?” Weasley was finally losing his Laurel-induced blush. A good thing, really. Gingers never did well with blushing.

“Never mind,” Robbie said on a sigh. “Come into my office, and we’ll talk.”

“That’s not—I mean, we don’t need to. When I said I’m here on behalf of my brother-in-law, it’s because he’s been trying to figure out who he needs to talk to to get custody of his aunt.”

“And his aunt is Mrs Dursley?”

“Yeah. Petunia,” Weasley said, his nose wrinkling enough to give Robbie a very good idea of what Weasley thinks of the woman.

“And why isn’t your brother-in-law here instead of you?”

“He’s been working with Scotland Yard on trying to sort out what happened to Marge Dursley.”

“His other aunt?” Robbie asked, as he relaxed a bit. Weasley, at least, was providing more information than he’d been able to get from anyone else, including the mysterious DI Lestrade.

“Cor, no. Marge is Petunia’s sister-in-law. Just as much of a whale as her brother was, from what Harry said.”

“Harry?”

“Oh. Yeah. Harry Potter. He’s Petunia’s nephew. His mum was her sister.” Weasley looked uncomfortable at the topic as he rubbed his neck. “Anyway. Harry’s working with Scotland Yard to try to sort things out. I told him I’d come over to find out what he needs to do.”

“Come into my office, Sergeant,” Robbie said. “This is a longer conversation than I expected.”

Weasley didn’t sit down until Robbie told him to, and even then, he was hugely distracted by the office, apparently. “You said Mr Potter is working with Scotland Yard? What happened?”

“Shouldn’t you know this?”

“Mr Weasley, until you told me just three minutes ago, I didn’t even know Mrs Dursley’s first name. She came in without identification but was perfectly willing to tell us all to call her Mrs Dursley if we knew what was good for us,” Robbie said. “I haven’t been able to convince DI Lestrade to return my calls, and Sergeant Donovan, who was here yesterday, wasn’t helpful.”

“Right. Well, Harry got involved about a week ago, when Dudley called to ask him to check on Petunia.”

“Dudley?”

“Her son. Hasn’t heard from her in a while,” Weasley said.

“Is Dudley out of the country?”

“Does Wales count?”

“Wales?”

“Yeah. Harry said Dudley just got transferred to Berwyn to serve the rest of his sentence.”

Robbie blinked and asked, “What did Dudley do?”

“Killed his wife. Harry said he was provoked something awful by that woman, and I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t have done the same. Amy and Al deserved better than her.”

Almost. Robbie almost asked about Amy and Al and then decided not to. He had a feeling that if he wasn’t careful, Weasley would end up taking him down the rabbit hole of family connections, and he still needed to update Mrs Dursley’s records and medication orders.

“So, Dudley hadn’t heard from her, and Harry went investigating?”

“Yeah. Marge was supposed to keep an eye on Petunia, but when Harry started checking on things, he found out that Marge had cleaned out Petunia’s bank accounts and disappeared. Petunia was found in London—you know about that bit, right?”

“Yes. I was in A&E when the police brought her in.”

“Right. Anyway, Harry’s helping Scotland Yard try to track down Marge. No guarantee he can get Petunia’s money back, but he wants to do what he can for her. God knows why,” Weasley said.

“Bad blood between them?”

“Petunia Dursley doesn’t deserve to be in the same county as Harry, but the git is on a forgiveness kick.”

“What did she do to him?”

Weasley was about to answer, Robbie could tell but then visibly stopped himself. “You can ask Harry about that when you see him. Not my story to tell.”

Robbie waited a beat before saying, “Right then. Mr Potter needs to reach out to the OPG—Office of the Public Guardian—” He sighed when Weasley gave him the same blank look Donovan had given him then wrote down the contact information and handed it off. “The number is there along with the name of Mrs Dursley’s deputy.”

“Erm. Deputy?” Weasley now looked confused and uncomfortable.

“Yes, the person who is currently managing her health and legal issues in the absence of a viable family member. Mr Potter will need to provide proof of his identity and a letter from Mrs Dursley’s son authorizing Mr Potter to act on the family’s behalf.”

Weasley at least looked like he had found solid ground again. “Right. Got it. Harry’s got a letter from Dudley. Will that do, you think? Or should he get Dudley’s solicitor to come up with something more official?”

“Better all around getting the solicitor engaged,” Robbie said. “Now, is there anything else?”

“Can Harry call ‘round to see Petunia himself?”

“Not without OPG and I talking before approving it,” Robbie said. All things considered, he didn’t think Mrs Dursley should see anyone until they could get her into a stable state, and if their past relationship was as fraught as Weasley had indicated, a visit was not likely to be in anyone’s best interests.

“Yeah. Right. Can I give Harry your name?”

Robbie appreciated the courtesy offered and responded in kind. “As long as he knows I won’t answer without authorization from OPG or confirmation that he is her new guardian of record.”

“Thanks again Hea—er—Dr Hibbard. Harry will be happy to know she’s in good hands,” Weasley said, standing up.

Robbie thought he heard Weasley mutter, “Merlin only knows why,” as the man left his office, but he shook his head and focused on updating Mrs Dursley’s orders and record.

~*~*~

It was another three weeks before Robbie heard the name Harry Potter again, and this time, it came from Mrs Dursley’s deputy with OPG.

“We’ve validated her son’s request to have his cousin take guardianship of Mrs Dursley,” said Mrs Wescott said. “OPG is comfortable with Mr Potter’s particulars, and we have confirmation from Scotland Yard that Mr Potter was instrumental in locating the sister-in-law and bringing her in to answer questions.”

“I trust this means he’ll arrive with paperwork in hand?”

“He left with it five minutes ago and said he was heading in your direction,” she said. “I’ve already faxed the order to your office so your records will be all ticked and tied.”

Robbie smiled. “I do enjoy working with you, Mrs Wescott. Thank you for the update. I’ll let my PA know to expect him. Have a good day.”

“And you as well, Dr Hibbard.”

After that call, he lost what little control he had over his calendar and ended up spending two hours in A&E providing back-up to another physician who had been hit in the head by an angry grandmother wielding the equivalent of a 20-pound sledgehammer in a relatively small handbag. Dr Rao had been due to go off shift soon anyway, so it was easier to fill in until the next shift arrived.

The hour following Dr Smith’s arrival was spent finishing up paperwork from his stint in A&E, because Robbie knew full well if he didn’t deal with it then, it would be six months’ worth of Laurel’s passive aggressive—with an emphasis on aggressive—remarks about his apparent inability to manage a bit of record-keeping whilst still somehow being thought of as a highly responsible and well thought of physician.

He still hadn’t recovered from the last round of that nonsense, and his wife had no sympathy for self-inflicted wounds.

By the time he came up for air long enough to have a tea break, he’d forgotten that Harry Potter was expected—until Laurel announced him. She was pleasant about it, which meant, thank all that was holy, that he’d remembered to tell her the man would be coming around.

“Mr Potter, please, have a seat,” Robbie said. “Would you like some tea?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” he said, twisting around to Laurel. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

“None at all,” she said. “Back in a tick.”

“I understand you have paperwork with you,” Robbie said.

“Yeah. Let me just—” He put his satchel on his lap and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork, handing it to Robbie across his desk. “Mrs Wescott said this would be what I need to show you.”

Robbie looked through the stack, pausing only to thank Laurel when she brought in a teapot and extra cup. As promised, everything was in order.

He looked up finally, saying, “I understand you located Mrs Dursley’s sister-in-law?”

Potter’s jaw clenched briefly. “Yeah. Marge somehow got it into her head that if she was in Wales, she couldn’t be brought back to London.”

“Wales?” He couldn’t remember why that was relevant.

“My cousin Dudley was transferred to Berwyn a few months ago, and for some reason, Marge thought he would welcome her back into his life with open arms if she was waiting for him when he got released.”

Robbie blinked. Twice. “That makes no sense.”

“Marge Dursley is the poster child for why certain families should never reproduce. She’s been detained and will not be seeing the light of day for quite some time.”

“She confessed?”

“Freely and loudly, telling the local constabulary that she deserved every last penny she’d taken for having to ‘deal with that freak for the last five years.’ They were less than impressed with her logic,” Potter said with a grimace.

“Hence, poster child?”

“Poster child,” Potter agreed. “You’ll never guess where she hid Petunia’s money.”

“Under the mattress,” Robbie said, after giving it a moment’s thought.

“No, that might have been construed as mildly clever.” Potter shook his head, a faint look of disbelief crossing his face. “She somehow came up with the scathingly brilliant idea that if she washed all the cash in a mixture of lemon juice, water, and ammonia it would be cleansed of all things Petunia, and she could safely keep it locked away in her pantry.”

“Erm…” Robbie stared at Potter for a long moment before the penny dropped. “Money laundering?”

“Give the man a prize,” Potter said. “When I spoke to her, she tried to claim that no one could prove the money wasn’t hers, because it was all clean money. I pointed out that regardless of the godliness of the cash, I had all the transaction records from the bank and could prove malicious fiduciary malfeasance on her part in the matter of Petunia’s care. She wasn’t best pleased with me by the end of that discussion.”

“I can imagine not,” Robbie said. Overall, his impression of Potter so far was a good one. The man looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in too long but seemed to genuinely care about seeing justice for his aunt, which reminded him of Weasley’s comments. “Mr Potter, when I spoke to your brother-in-law, he said a few things that make me concerned about you taking guardianship of your aunt. He also said it wasn’t his story to tell.”

Potter sighed, clearly following along. “Petunia and her husband took me in when I was a toddler and sole survivor of a home invasion. My parents died to protect me.” Potter paused for a long moment. “Unfortunately, a decision was made at the time that put me with my mother’s sister, and Petunia felt they were given no real choice in the matter.”

“Sounds like you had a rough go of it,” Robbie said quietly.

“They didn’t want me and made no bones about despising my very existence. While I didn’t have a happy childhood, I also didn’t starve and had a place to sleep at night.”

“Still abusive.”

“That’s…” Potter took a sip of his tea. “Yeah. I’ve been in therapy for a number of years, and I’ve finally started to admit it, much to everyone else’s relief.” He paused again. “My own, too. Still, I wasn’t beaten bloody by any adults, so small favors and all that.”

“Your cousin?”

Potter sighed. “And his gang, yeah. Learned to run, though. Lazy sods couldn’t keep up with me after I turned nine.”

“Yet with all that, you’ve managed to forgive not only her, but your cousin, too?” He could hear the skepticism in his own voice.

“Forgiving someone isn’t about giving them a gift or forgetting what happened,” Potter said, sounding more confident. “It’s about making a positive choice for yourself…choosing to stop letting the anger consume your every waking thought. I forgave the Dursleys for my own sake, not for theirs.”

“Wise words,” Robbie said. “That said, I should warn you that Mrs Dursley is not fit to be out of a regulated living situation. We’re still working with Dr Jenkins—”

“Erm. Who?” Potter interrupted, the apology in his tone of voice.

“Sorry. While I’m your aunt’s physician of record, I’m not a psychiatrist, which is very much what she needs at the moment. Dr Jenkins—Elizabeth Jenkins—is working with me to sort out her medications to find a balance that keeps the emotional outbursts to a minimum whilst allowing her a degree of autonomy.”

“Sorry. I’m still not sure I understand. Don’t pills just work?”

“For a significant portion of the population, the answer is yes, and there’s not much tweaking involved. Unfortunately, for the remainder of the population, their biochemistry doesn’t mix well with the medications, or what we think we need to treat isn’t it at all, or they’re just so far into their illness that drastic measures are required,” Robbie said.

“And Petunia falls into which category?”

Robbie sighed. “Potentially a mix of all three or some other possibility. At this point, we have tried her on various anti-psychotics that a majority of patients have traditionally done well on, but none of them are working as hoped for.”

“How bad is it,” Potter asked hesitantly.

“The regimen we’ve been following either leaves her catatonic to the point of needing a mirror to confirm life or manic to the point where she’s trying desperately to get a hold of the Prime Minister to warn him about freaks that will take your memory for no good reason,” Robbie said.

“She said that?” Potter asked. Robbie looked up from Mrs Dursley’s file at the curious intensity to Potter’s question.

“Said what?”

“The bit about freaks taking away memories?”

“That, or something similar, why?”

“Old history,” he said, sounding rather grim. “Is she in one of her manic states now?”

“No, but we’re reducing her dosage to see if we can get her to a more appropriate and communicative level without the paranoia.”

“Right,” Potter said, standing up. He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it off. Could you call me at this number when she’s talking again? I don’t care if she’s ranting, and in fact, it might be easier if she is.”

“Mr Potter? I don’t understand.”

“Unfortunately, I think I do,” he said. He paused at the door and added, “But I need to do some investigation first. Could you please just let me know when I can talk to her? Seriously, the ranting isn’t an issue. I grew up with it, so I know what she’s like.”

~*~*~

The next day had a full moon coming up, and as usual, all the naysayers would have it that the full moon had no effect on anyone beyond media hype. Robbie, however, like every other medical professional who has ever worked A&E, knew perfectly well that the naysayers were complete idiots.

Unfortunately, the moon also had an effect on his most problematic patient, Mrs Dursley, who was screaming about how the werewolves were coming to get her and was attempting to barricade herself behind her bed.

Whilst he observed the staff attempting to help Mrs Dursley calm down, he heard an announcement asking him to dial the switchboard. He ignored the previous two announcements and would have ignored this one if a security officer hadn’t tracked him down and pointed at a phone.

“It can wait,” Robbie said.

“Mr Potter is asking if his aunt is having an episode this afternoon,” said the man—Officer Drake, according to the name badge on his uniform. He looked in at Mrs Dursley and added, “I really think it cannot.”

“How did he know?” He was genuinely concerned. It was bad enough when his own PA knew more about his life than he did. Having a patient’s family member do so from elsewhere seemed like it should be beyond the pale.

“No clue, sir, but I think you should talk to him,” Drake said, continuing to watch Mrs Dursley. “I wonder if some chocolate might help her.”

“Chocolate?” Before Drake could respond beyond pointing at the phone, Robbie said, “Fine, I’ll talk to Mr Potter.”

He put aside the question of why Potter reached out to Security to track him as being irrelevant to the moment and called the switchboard, which quickly connected him to Potter, who asked, “Is Petunia having an episode this afternoon?”

“She is, how did you know?”

“Did anyone tell her it was the full moon, or did she seem to know it?”

“She—I don’t know,” he said, trying to remember if anyone had said anything about it.

“Alright, look, I’m about fifteen minutes out, and I’m bringing a specialist with me. You need to get everyone out of her room and lock it behind you. She isn’t safe at the moment, and your people are in danger.”

“Mr Potter, I can’t just—”

“You can and you must,” he said. His urgency was quite real. “Thirteen minutes. Get everyone out of there and lock Petunia in. We’ll be there soon.”

By the time Robbie turned around, Drake was already doing a rather fantastic imitation of a drill sergeant and ordering the two nurses—both male—out of the room. As soon as they left, Drake slammed and locked the door behind them, with Mrs Dursley screaming bloody murder.

Panting slightly, Drake said, “Please tell me Potter is going to be here soon.”

Robbie looked at his watch. “Eleven minutes, but—”

“Thank bloody Merlin,” Drake muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Drake said. “Never mind me.”

“Right. I need to get in there,” Robbie said, taking a step forward. “She’s going to injure herself.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let you do that,” Drake said as he planted himself in front of the door.

“Excuse me?” Robbie didn’t often play the overbearing doctor card, but there was a time and place, and this situation fit both criteria.

“I’m fairly certain Potter told you to lock her in on her own,” he said. “Mrs Dursley is more dangerous than you realize right now.”

“Officer Drake!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to step back and wait for Potter to get here with his healer.”

“I—Healer? What?”

Drake held out a stick and pointed it at him. Robbie was tempted to make a joke but the look on the officer’s face suggested he not. “Please, sir. Potter needs to be here.”

They remained in a tense standoff that left Robbie feeling like he wasn’t so bloody old that he couldn’t assert himself, but between poor eating habits, a worse exercise program—non-existent, really—and being approximately ten years older than Drake—well. The unhappy reality was that he was in no way able to assert himself physically.

That wasn’t nearly as bad as the fact that he couldn’t even intimidate the man verbally, something he’d learnt at his mother’s knee. Robbie could live with the vague embarrassment of it all, but he was having a hard time listening to Mrs Dursley rapidly decompensate without any degree of support. Worse, she was now banging her head against the door and making shockingly animal-like sounds.

Robbie was just about to try to storm the door when Potter arrived with someone—in a lime green gown?

“Dr Hibbard, thank you,” Potter said. “We’ve got this now, Drake. Please set up containment on this hall whilst we deal with Petunia.”

“Erm. What about Hibbard?” Drake asked.

“He stays. He needs to know what’s going on, because St Mungo’s refuses point blank to accept any Muggles. Bloody hypocrites,” Potter said.

“But what about—?” Drake made a vague motion with his hand. The one with the stick.

“I think we’re a bit past that now,” Potter said, with a significant look. At the stick.

“Oh. Um. I could—”

“That’s what got us into today’s mess,” Potter said, looking through the narrow security window in the room door. He winced at what he saw. “Regardless, I have DMLE authorization to bring him in, particularly since Petunia may not be the only case, and we need to keep them in one location.”

“There are more like Mrs Dursley?” Robbie spluttered.

“Sadly,” Potter answered. “Healer Jenkins, you’re sure you’re up to this?”

“Not a problem, Auror Potter,” the woman said. “Muggleborn, class of ’68. Never had much patience with the prats at St Mungo’s, so I’m quite willing to take this on. Will you be able to stun her as soon as you open the door?”

“Should do, yeah,” Potter said, pulling out his own stick. “Drake, stand aside a moment. I want to see where she is before we open up.”

Potter waved his stick at the door and muttered something that sounded like a bastardized version of Latin. To Robbie’s disbelief, the door disappeared. Or perhaps it didn’t, because Mrs Dursley was clearly pounding her head against a barrier and leaving a smear of blood behind.

“Damn it,” said the woman—Healer Jenkins?—and Robbie briefly wondered if she was related to Elizabeth Jenkins before deciding it was a coincidence. Even if they did seem to share a resemblance. “Auror Potter, we need to get in there now.”

“Understood,” Potter said. “Drake, on my signal, remove the door. As soon as I stun her, full body bind, and for God’s sake, remember to use the Muggle-safe version, got it?”

“Sir!” Drake said, somehow coming to attention and being at the ready in one odd posture.

“Ready—steady—go!”

Too much happened in the moment for Robbie to keep track of, but somehow, the door disappeared, Mrs Dursley went down like a sack of potatoes, and then she was constrained in some odd fashion using linen cloth. She looked like a partially wrapped mummy, of all things. Robbie had no idea where the linen came from, and frankly, it was the least of his worries, as Jenkins stepped into the room and started waving her own stick around.

The least odd thing, in Robbie’s view, was a roll of parchment hovering in midair with a quill writing down what seemed to be a diagnostic. After a moment, he admitted in the quiet of his mind that it was all bloody odd, but a diagnostic was a diagnostic, no matter the tools, and that was something he could get behind.

Whilst Potter and Drake conferred, Robbie stepped into the room and started looking at the parchment. Upon which the quill was writing in a beautiful copperplate that he had never, ever seen outside of the reading room of the Oxford library.

Name: Petunia Liliane Evans Potter
Age: 49 years, 5 months, 13 days
Lunar, Birth: Crescent moon, waxing
Lunar, Current: Full moon, rising

Magical Status:
Squib-born Muggle (Father: Muggle; Mother: Squib)

Magical Injuries:
DES, untreated
Curse, major, lycanothor, unresolved
Obliviation, multiple, unresolved
Curses, minor, undifferentiated, unresolved

Physical Injuries:
Battery, recent
Poisoning, Muggle chemicals

Robbie asked, “What’s DES? Obliviation? The hell?”

“Auror Potter,” the woman called. “Were you aware of the DES?”

“Not until just now, no,” Potter said, pulling out a—mirror?—from his jacket. “Bennet!”

“Sir?” said a man’s voice. From the mirror.

“Put a hold on Preston’s release hearing and start the paperwork for another veritaserum interview.”

“Reason?”

“Bloody lying to my face repeatedly,” Potter said, clearly irritated.

“Sir.”

Potter took a deep breath. “Right. Hang on.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “Purpose is to determine the extent of Auror malfeasance during the end of the war. Recent evidence has come to light of a Muggle having been left untreated for DES. The Muggle’s record in the DMLE does not include a listing of injuries that, as a whole, has since been classified as Death Eater Syndrome. Further, former Auror Jacob Preston lied to the Muggle’s nearest magical blood relative, Harry Potter, when he told Auror Potter that the Muggle, Petunia Dursley, Auror Potter’s maternal aunt, had been rescued and treated at St Mungo’s for minor injuries. Got that?”

“Got it, Sir. A quick clean-up, and I should be able to get this in front of Justice Row before they leave. What about St Mungo’s?”

“Get Preston’s done first. We’ll work on St Mungo’s when I get to the office.”

“Got it, Sir.”

“Go to it,” he said, putting the mirror away. To the woman, he said, “Anything else, Healer Jenkins?”

“Lycanothor is confirmed. She’s also suffered minor curse damage over the years as well as multiple obliviations.”

“Not really a surprise, that,” he said. “Dumbledore wasn’t shy about making sure his secrets were kept.”

“That man,” Jenkins muttered. Mrs Dursley started stirring, and Jenkins waved her stick at the woman, again using the not-quite Latin. The linen disappeared, to be replaced by a cotton nightgown that looked straight out of the Victorian age.

Robbie, having had enough of this—whatever it was—cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me. Dr Hibbard here. Mrs Dursley’s physician of record. Remember me?”

Potter and Jenkins both looked at him, with a flush rising on Potter’s neck, and Jenkins’s ears turning red.

“Erm. Sorry about that,” Potter said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s been a difficult day.”

“Difficult decade,” Jenkins muttered, and as Mrs Dursley rose into the air and moved toward her bed, Jenkins added, “Above my paygrade and out of my remit, Auror. I’ll just be over here. With Mrs Dursley. Continuing my diagnostic.”

Drake coughed, and it sounded a bit like, “coward,” before he cleared his throat.

“Right,” Potter said. “No easy way around this. What do you know of magic?”

Robbie was about to answer that he was, of course, a tremendous fan of Derren Brown, and what the bloody hell did that have to do with anything, when he remembered both Drake and Weasley using “Merlin” the same way he might swear.

“You aren’t talking about stage magic, are you?”

“Nope,” Potter answered with forced cheer. “More along the lines of wands, spells, charms, curses, and the like. It’s real but hidden.”

“Real. And hidden,” Robbie repeated. He blinked a couple of times as the ramifications started streaming through his mind. “Obliviation?”

Potter nodded. “A spell that removes an individual’s access to specific memories. There’s a very limited number of reasons to use it, and I wouldn’t call any of those reasons good.”

A longtime fan of political and spy fiction, Robbie thought about what would happen if a dictatorship had a few witches on staff who were able to start shifting memories with no regard to the ethics of the thing. What could—

"Oh, dear god!” Robbie looked at Mrs Dursley with a vague sense of horror at what she’d likely been through. “And Death Eater Syndrome?”

“Death Eaters are terrorists,” Potter said. “They don’t much like anyone who isn’t a wand-waving Magical, and Muggles have always been a fun target for them. Petunia, by virtue of being my aunt, was a high-priority target during the war.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Civil, within British Magical society. It ended fifteen years ago, when I was able to turn back a curse on the leader of the Death Eaters, and he died.” Potter took a deep breath before continuing, “Petunia, her husband, and their son, Dudley, were removed from their home in the summer of 1997, to a safe house, from what I was told. Near the end, however, that safe house was found, and Petunia was taken. Her husband didn’t survive the home invasion, and Dudley was out when she was captured. I’d been told that she was retrieved within six hours with minor injuries, but given the DES, I was lied to. Repeatedly. By multiple groups.”

Robbie considered the care with which Healer Jenkins was treating Mrs Dursley. “What are the specific injuries?”

“Most of them are magical in nature and won’t mean anything to you but suffice it to say that gang rape would have been the least of it,” Potter said grimly. “Six hours is a very long time to survive when you’re being held by a group of bored death eaters with nothing else to do.”

“Auror Potter,” Jenkins said.

“Yes?”

“I have to take her to St Mungo’s whether they like it or not. They’re the only ones with a proper ritual space set up for curse management.”

“The lycanothor?”

“She’s still suffering under DES. A ritual space will let me positively ID the participants, and happy news all the way around, I can deal with the lycanothor and ID the caster at the same time.”

“Right. Portkey work?”

“Yes, but not until you confirm they won’t try to kick me out.”

“No worries on that score,” Potter said. “They were the ones who signed off on the minor injury report fifteen years ago. They’re about to pay that particular past-due bill.”

With a bang, Potter disappeared, and Robbie said, “What?”

~*~*~

Mrs Dursley had been gone for a week, and not a single one of the staff questioned it. Nor was her bed reassigned to anyone. The only person to say anything at all to him was Elizabeth Jenkins, who stopped into his office to say, “Heard from my cousin that you got read into the whole Magical Britain thing.”

“Healer Jenkins, I take it?” At Elizabeth’s nod, Robbie then asked, “How is Mrs Dursley?”

“On the mend as much as she can be. Julia told me Potter gave the healers at their hospital an offer they couldn’t refuse: treat the Muggles harmed by Magicals or be forsworn by Magic.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

“No clue. Julia seemed a bit bewildered by it as well, but she said the threat was enough to get the twats over there onside in actually providing treatment where appropriate. All of which means that contrary to everyone’s concerns, St Agatha’s won’t be flooded with Muggles suffering from magical injuries,” Elizabeth said.

“Right. And the reason my staff don’t remember Mrs Dursley being gone or being an absolute terror? Was it obliviation?”

“Cor, no,” she said. “Potter is absolute death on that option. He went to their mysterions or some such after the war and demanded a better option than removing the ability to remember something, because he was tired of reading about the inexplicable rise of early Alzheimer’s in post-war Muggle Britain.”

“You can’t mean—!” Robbie stared at her, not even able to work up a good splutter.

“Exactly,” she said. “The group came up with a spell that essentially deflects attention from the thing Muggles don’t need to think about. From our standpoint, it’s much, much easier on the non-Magical brain and does a far better job of keeping the Magicals out of sight. I—erm—I may have helped Julia and the mysterions work it out a few years ago. Not that I can ever claim credit for it on either side of the Magical divide, but still. The point stands.”

At that, Robbie just shook his head and huffed. Elizabeth was one of the best psychiatrists he knew, and she had a healthy ego to match. That statement was perfectly her.

Elizabeth harumphed then offered a wry smile.

Robbie asked, “Any idea when Mrs Dursley will be back? And what kind of support do we need to offer?”

“She should be back in her room in three days and much calmer overall. From what I understand of DES, Muggles can’t recover without a specific healing ritual. Some of the damage is irreversible, but with the right pharmaceuticals, she’ll be able to live outside hospital.”

“That reminds me—one of the physical injuries listed was Muggle poisoning. Do you know which poison it was? And was it contributing to her delirium?”

“Ah, that. Yes,” Elizabeth said. “That’s how their spells read our pharmaceuticals. It’s not entirely wrong, given some of the high dosages patients need, but their healers generally don’t have sufficient knowledge of Muggle-developed medication to be able to generate a nuanced diagnosis.”

“Lovely,” Robbie said on a sigh.

“So. Are you going to take them up on being a Muggle-in-the-know?” she asked.

He’d been thinking about it for the last week, weighing the pros and cons. It sounded like they could get him to stop thinking about it easily enough without destroying his brain, but on the other hand, “I think so. Honestly, I think every A&E in the country should have at least a couple of staffers in the know, if only so we can get better help when needed.”

“Actually, you would be the fifth one in the know at St Agatha’s,” Elizabeth said. “However, since you’re one of the muckety-mucks, it will definitely be a help in managing the computer system.”

“If that’s what you need, Laurel should be in the know more than I should,” he said.

Elizabeth stood up and headed to the door, saying over her shoulder, “What makes you think she isn’t already?”

~*~*~

Exactly eight days after his conversation with Elizabeth, Mrs Dursley was ready to be released and not shy about telling him this.

“I can’t imagine what the neighbors must think, with me having disappeared like that,” she said, fretting. It was a consistent refrain and one she seemed to fall back on whenever she realized that she was living a much different life than she remembered.

“You do recall that your nephew will be picking you up today,” Robbie said.

Mrs Dursley winced. “Can’t imagine why he would, after—after—” Her voice trailed off as she started to lose herself in memories. These moments still showed up on occasion, but overall, they were decreasing in frequency and intensity.

Robbie reminded her, “Mr Potter told me once that he forgave you. I believe him, and I think you can trust him to do well by you.”

“Right. Yes. Forgiven,” she said, her voice trailing off again. And then she looked at him and was present in a way he hadn’t seen from her before. “He shouldn’t have. We did nothing for him. I did nothing for him. Just blamed him for my sister’s death.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Petunia. I forgave you for my own benefit, not yours,” Potter said from the doorway. “But no worries. We have time to sort through all that and a good therapist to help us work it out.”

Mrs Dursley had startled at Potter’s voice but settled soon enough. “So, I’ll be living with you?”

“Not in the same household, no,” he said gently. “Amy and Al don’t have good memories of you, and I won’t set them back by having you move straight in. We’ve added a small guest house in the back garden with all the mod-cons. You’ll have your own living space, but Ginny and I will be there daily to make sure you’re getting on alright.”

“The children—they must hate me,” she said, and Robbie could see the genuine contrition.

Potter could, too, because he came in and squatted down in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Ginny and I have had a number of conversations with them, explaining that who you were before is not who you are now. They’re also working with our therapist to understand that you had been suffering under magical injuries for a very long time, and that now that you’re healed, you will be finding your way back to who you should be.”

With bitterness evident, she said, “And that’s a person who loves magic?”

“No one is looking for a personality transplant, Petunia,” he said firmly. “But acceptance that your grandchildren aremagical and nothing you do or say will change that basic fact would be a reasonable expectation, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” she said.

Potter stood then, and said, “I need to have a word with Dr Hibbard, and then we can leave.”

“Leave your way?” she asked suspiciously.

“If by my way, you are asking if I have a car waiting, the answer is no. We’ll take a taxi to the B&B where we’re staying for the night, and then in the morning, we’ll take another taxi to Paddington and then a train to Yeoford. From there, Ginny will pick us up in the car. Good?”

At his recitation, Mrs Dursley visibly relaxed and nodded. Potter added, “That reminds me. Ginny picked up a few things to tide you over until she can take you to Exeter for a proper shopping trip.”

After handing her the overnight bag he had on his shoulder, Potter jerked his head at the door, and Robbie followed him out.

“Look, thank you,” Potter said. “This could have been much worse all the way around if you’d been any less dedicated.”

Robbie blushed, something he didn’t think he’d done since he first hired Laurel. “It’s—well—look—it’s—”

“It’s not nothing,” Potter said, quite firmly. “After having to deal with multiple cockups at both Scotland Yard and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you were just what I needed to restore at least some faith in humanity.”

At that, Robbie could only stammer his appreciation for the recognition.

“I understand you’ll be going through the orientation in a couple of weeks?” At Robbie’s nod, Potter continued, “The card I gave you is still good. If you ever need me, please call.”

“Thank you, I will,” Robbie said.

“There is one thing, though. I understand Sgt Donovan has been by to see you?”

“Just the once,” Robbie answered. “It was before you made contact.”

“Sally Donovan is, unfortunately, resistant to our magical deflection spell, but we’ve got a workaround for her and others like her.”

“Not obliviation, I hope!”

“No, not that,” Potter assured him. “Post-hypnotic suggestion. If she shows up again, suggest she see a dentist. That should get her back on track and out of your hair.”

“Did Laurel tell you about that?”

Potter chuckled. “She did, in fact, tell us about it, and using that phrase it works like a charm. Pun fully intended.”

Robbie blinked. “Just assume that went straight over my head and move on, shall we?”

“Erm. Right.”

“Let’s talk about Mrs Dursley’s medications and what the nutritionist recommends for her meals, shall we?”