2.

Several miles away and several hours later, in a small fishing village on the coast of Ireland, a woman awoke from the most restful sleep she'd had in ages. The light filtering through the curtain was brighter than it had been for the past week, and she knew the storms had passed. She stretched luxuriously, like a satisfied cat, savoring the feel of her warm blankets and the soft bed beneath her. A sound disrupted her cosy reverie. The alarm.

She sighed, rolled toward the sound, and turned it off. The clock radio was ancient, but it did the job, it's bright numbers proclaiming the hour to be 7:00am. Now that the weather had improved, it was time to decorate the pub's storefront for the holidays, as her father before her had done. Full-time pub owner by the age of 35. That hadn't been on her list of goals, but she couldn't complain.

She pulled a jumper over her head and drew the curtain open to take a look at the sea. Her little flat was directly over the pub, which faced the shore where the fishermen would moor their boats every evening. The sun was creeping above the watery horizon and the few clouds that were left streaked across the sky like wisps of silk. The sea was calm and bright as a mirror.

As the sun continued its lazy journey toward the apex of the sky, the woman pulled out a fresh roll of velvety red ribbon and a cardboard box full of plastic holly and ivy sprigs and brass bells. Her assistant would arrive with the ladder soon, and she wanted to have finished putting together a garland by the time he arrived. She had spread everything out on one of the long tables outside the pub. No one would be sitting out there with a pint for another eight months or so, but they came in handy during the brief warm season and they were definitely handy when it came time to hang the Christmas decorations.

She had gone no further in her preparations when she heard shouts coming from the dock. Turning around and shielding her eyes from the sun, she saw a group of fishermen carrying what at first appeared to be a bundle of rags. As they approached the main road, she dropped the pair of scissors she had been using. That was no bundle of rags - it was a man! She ran toward them.

"Oi there!" She called out, "Is he breathing?"

"Dunno, Viona," one of the men answered, "he's cold as death. Set 'im down here," he gestured to the table next to the one with the Christmas decorations spread out on it.

She elbowed her way through the wall of fishermen and took stock of what lay before her. He looked like a drowned rat, long dirty hair, scruffy beard, and whatever he had been wearing was tattered beyond recognition. She took hold of his wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak and erratic. Now that she was near enough to him, she could hear him taking shallow, struggling breaths, and she wished she knew where her old stethoscope had gone.

"He's alive, but only just," she declared to the waiting group. "Let's take him inside and I'll search out some towels and call the doctor."

Their town was too small for a hospital, but they did have a resident doctor who had an office and would occasionally perform house calls. One of the quaint aspects of village life. This was the modern age, though, and he did carry a cellular phone. She left the fishermen to take care of wrapping their foundling in towels and rang the doctor, who had already been on one house call that morning. He would be on his way shortly, though, he told her.

True to his word, he pulled up in front of the pub 15 minutes later. The fishermen had already left to continue their own work, but Viona remained by the side of the unconscious man. The doctor went quickly to work, examining, poking and prodding as was his custom.

"He's in a bad way," he proclaimed, his examination complete. "He's got severe pneumonia, hypothermia, and a pretty bad case of malnutrition. They said he just washed up, did he?"

"Yeah, old Connell spotted 'im on the rocks just as his boat were leaving the cape. They thought he was dead at first. Where do you think he came from?"

"Nowhere I'd want to be, that's for certain," the doctor showed her the man's right hand. "Look at his fingernails - they're practically gone! He must have dug his way out of somewhere. I wouldn't fancy to think of what kind of place would make a man so desperate to get away."

"He had no identification and his clothing - what I could make of it - seemed institutional," she mused, "Do you think he's a mental patient or a prisoner?"

"There aren't any prisons or mental wards near this area, certainly not near the sea," he sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand, "I haven't the faintest idea where he might have come from, but one thing is clear, he needs someplace to stay and someone to nurse him. I'm loathe to move him across the county to the hospital, I'm not at all sure he would make it."

She smiled grimly, "I know what you're going to ask me, and the answer is yes."

"Are you sure? It's convenient for me, since your flat is already equipped to handle the care of an invalid, but it hasn't been that long since your da passed."

"It's been at least a year," she said softly. "I'll be alright. Didn't I train for nursing? I'd meant to make a living out of it. Let's find out if I'm made of the right stuff."

They arranged him comfortably in the second upstairs bedroom - her father's old room - and Viona returned to the task of constructing and hanging the Christmas garland. She tried to ignore the feeling of trepidation that assailed her when she thought of how quickly she had agreed to nurse a stranger in her home; a stranger who might be mad, or criminal, or both.

The sounds came to him first. A faint humming, footsteps on a squeaky wooden floor, soft voices, the clatter of silverware and porcelain, a radio. He attempted to move and found that he was snugly wrapped in blankets and resting on a soft cushiony surface. His arms were free, but he couldn't move his left arm very well. It seemed to be attached to something that twinged painfully when he pulled at it.

He attempted to open his eyes, but flinched at the unfamiliar brightness. He groaned. Footsteps approached and a hand gently smoothed over his brow while another hand grasped his wrist at the pulse point. Unaccustomed to the touch, he flinched and pulled away, his eyes blinking open, taking in his surroundings.

"Calm down, you'll pull out your IV," a female voice spoke at his side.

He stared at the woman. He'd never seen her before. Nor had he ever been in a room like the one he currently occupied. The walls were a pristine white, broken up by framed photos and paintings whose contents did not move. Muggle artwork.

"No - don't touch me!" The sound of his own voice was shockingly hoarse and weak. He tried to recall the last time he had really used it.

"Please calm down," the woman pleaded, holding fast to his wrist, immobilizing it. "We're going to help you, but you must lay still."

He regarded her hand with the same sort of glare he would have reserved for an impudent house elf. Then, he noticed the tape and what appeared to be a liquid filled tube running from the crook of his arm to a bag of some kind, suspended on a hook above the bed.

"What in Merlin's name is that?" He cried.

"It's your IV," she told him slowly, as though speaking to a child, "have you never had one before?"

"I've never seen one before!" He raised his voice. This was a bad move, as it reinvigorated his cough.

As he tried to regain composure, a white-haired man poked his head in the room.

"Everything alright?" He queried.

"It's fine, but we might need that tranquilizer after all," Viona gave him a meaningful glance.

"Right you are," the man nodded and left.

Lucius tried to wrench his arm free of her persistent hold, "Get your filthy Muggle hands off me!"

"My what?" Viona glared at him, affronted. Though she didn't understand the term "Muggle" she was sure it wasn't good.

"Get this - this thing out of my arm," he raged, "What are you doing to me? You have no right to keep me here! I demand to be released at once!"

"Dr. Gleeson!" Viona shouted over her shoulder. "Hurry along with that tranquilizer!"

"Here it is -" the old man rushed back into the room with a haste that belied his age. He thrust a syringe into a valve at the top of the IV bag and pushed the plunger down with finality.

Dr. Gleeson and Viona watched the medication take effect, and the frail man in the bed drifted into a calm and dreamless sleep. His onlookers released a collective sigh of relief.

"Are you certain there's not an institution nearby?" Viona turned to the doctor, putting her hands on her hips. "That was quite a performance, don't you think?"

"Well, maybe there's a few private hospitals, but inland, not on the coast. He definitely has a high and mighty way about 'im. Maybe he came from a wealthy family, though if that's the case, he's a far cry from wealth, now. I'll leave you with a bottle of this stuff and a few syringes, just in case."

She nodded and they left the room, closing the door behind them. The doctor explained how to measure out the correct dosage of the tranquilizer and left her with a short course of antibiotics for her guest's pneumonia.