A/N: Hello, everyone! It has been such a long time since I've posted anything here. I've had the most horrid case of writer's block, and this is the first thing I've written in months. So those wanting an update to A Change In Circumstances, that is the reason I haven't posted anything. I'm hoping that by writing a few little one-shots/ficlets, I can shake the cobwebs loose and get back to my WIP.
I would like to thank araeofsomething for the beta-read, and a whole slew of ladies for encouragement. Bonnie, Kyrsten, Teddy, Alexandra, Jennifer, Mandy, Tina... and probably more that I'm forgetting. You know who you are, and thank you.
And as always... I own nothing. If you recognise it, it belongs to JKR and I make nothing.
Enjoy!
He slowly and precisely chops the herbs on the make-shift table, pausing ever so slightly as a tremour shakes his arm. He waits for it to pass. It happens often, but luckily the spells don't last long. He unbuttons his collar, somehow hoping the released pressure on his neck will slow the tremors, but it doesn't. It never does.
This recipe doesn't need to be precise. Long gone are the days of powerful potions that need precision and perfect timing. He only needs to be steady enough for a few healing potions nowadays.
Not potions. Medicinals and herbal remedies, he reminds himself.
People, all Muggles, come for miles to see La Nganga.
Le Guerisseur.
The Witch Doctor.
Depending on how local the visitor, he will respond to anything of that variation. Anything except Professor. And he is more than fine with that. That title was in the past—a past he is more than happy to leave behind.
He lights the Bunsen burner and carefully puts the flask on it. It might not be as elegant as a cauldron, but its all he can find easily in the Muggle shops and thrift stores. He won't set foot in a Wizarding shop; he hasn't since his old life.
He laughs hoarsely, all he is able to do with the damage to the nerves in his neck and vocal cords, as he pauses momentarily to think of his old life. He isn't retrospective very often—there is very little of his old life he wishes to remember.
Two masters... both equally evil in their control over him. No more.
Teaching. It was never something he wanted to do, but was forced to do it anyway.
The only bright spot was his saviour. The Malfoy boy had returned to the Shack and found him, teetering on the edge of death. No healers or Muggle doctors were summoned... he knew he would be thrown in Azkaban if anyone would have known of his survival. He had committed too many sins, too many crimes.
After a slow and painful recovery, he enacted his plan B. The plan he never thought he'd survive to enact, but was prepared nonetheless. Muggle passport, Muggle money, and a plane ticket soon after. He might have been a wanted man in the Wizarding world, but in the Muggle world he was just a man.
He returns to the present as he hears the knock on the door. Quickly cleaning his hands and workstation, he walks to the door, thinking about how different his life is now.
Here is solitude. At least from the Wizarding world. Nobody would think to look for him here. Not only was he an ocean away from his past, but he was in a location where he would fit in with Muggles and still use what little magic he could conjur. He was a healer, of sorts. He was finally useful... and free.
Not a perfect life, but it was his own. Finally.