A/N - A little on the short side, but so overdue that I thought I would go ahead and post anyway. I've had a chance to resume work on this recently, so hopefully I'll be updating a more often in the future - comments (including criticism) are always welcomed!

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Adrienne woke the following morning with a firm resolve not to allow the medi-witches to keep slipping potions down her throat. In fact, she intended to have some very strong words for the next one who tried.

Unfortunately for the relief of her indignation, the next witch who came into her room did nothing more than note that she was awake and send a breakfast tray in when she did – which was not really the sort of thing Adrienne could protest. She ate the bland, institutional fare with a vague sense of repressed irritation, finishing just before another witch swooped in to collect the tray.

As the morning progressed, Adrienne began to reconsider whether or not she really did want to be awake while she was stuck in the hospital. While she saw a number of members of the staff, each of whom seemed to have an assigned task, none of them said anything at all enlightening – about her condition, or her children, or when she could go home, or any of the other subjects of interest. Instead, they stepped briskly in to perform their assigned tasks and then left just as briskly. By the time Catherine arrived around lunch time, Adrienne was starting to feel rather put upon.

"Shall I ask how you are?" Catherine inquired with a trace of amusement. "I'm not sure it's safe!" Adrienne glared at her.

"No one tells me anything," she complained. "Do you know how many people I've seen this morning? I swear, this hospital has taken Ford's idea to the limit! Everyone has one specific assigned task, but for some reason whoever is supposed to tell me what's wrong with me and when I can go home never shows up!"

Catherine listened to this tirade very politely, but with a light in her eyes and a slight tilt at the corner of her lips. "That must be very frustrating," she sympathized.

Adrienne's glare deepened.

"You're laughing at me," she objected, and Catherine proved the point.

"I'm sorry," Catherine apologized when she got her expression under control, "but you sounded so much like one of the kids I couldn't help it." Adrienne's lips twitched.

"That's put me in my place," she observed ruefully, her sense of humor coming to the rescue of her temper.

"Speaking of the kids, I promised Tristan a visit with you today," Catherine began. Adrienne sat up immediately and leaned forward.

"Is he here?"

"Not yet – I wanted to see if you were up before I brought him," she explained. Catherine studied Adrienne's eager expression. "I'm not sure he's awake yet, but why don't I go check?" she offered dryly, turning around and leaving as quickly as she had come.

While Adrienne was waiting for them to return, she occupied herself in calculating what time it was in England and wondering how she would look to a boy of ten who had already lost his father. She didn't want Tristan to feel he had to worry about her, but having his mother hospitalized on top of everything else he had been through seemed brutally unfair. Nothing I can do about it now, she decided, settling back against the raised head of the bed to wait.

When Catherine returned with him a short eternity later, Tristan entered the room with obvious unease, his eyes flying to his mother immediately. Adrienne gave him a big smile and held out her arms to him, so that his face broke into a rare smile and he scrambled up on the bed to hug her. She murmured motherly nonsense and stroked his hair and his back as he clung to her, and finally his grip eased a little.

"You're really all right?" he confirmed anxiously, pulling back enough to regard her with slightly fearful dark eyes. Adrienne smiled away the lump in her throat and smoothed his hair back.

"I'm really all right," she assured him firmly, adding in a teasing tone, "unlike someone who's in need of a haircut!" Tristan gave her a half smile in response, and she settled him down next to her. "So what have you been doing?" she prompted warmly, then added, "other than growing your hair, that is."

Tristan chattered away to her more freely than she remembered him doing for quite a while, much to Adrienne's relief. She made appropriate noises and cuddled him happily, noting that Catherine – who had tactfully stepped just outside the door – was using her post to intercept the previously steady stream of hospital staff members with insignificant tasks to perform. She made a mental note to thank her later.

But one of the visitors who arrived did not leave, remaining with Catherine outside the door until Adrienne brought her visit with Tristan to a close and called for her friend to return as her oldest son – who was now much less tense, if not exactly cheerful – slid down off the high medical bed.

"I think he's ready to go," Adrienne said, her eyes lighting on the angel-faced boy that followed Catherine into the room.

"This is Dana Larson," Catherine told her, "he would like to speak with you if you're up to it?" The lack of any further information made it perfectly clear that this was a conversation Tristan was not supposed to hear.

"Of course," she agreed smoothly. "Do I get another hug first?" After this affectionate ritual, Tristan left with Catherine to head back to Stone House, and Adrienne was left with angel-face.

"Do you mind if I have a seat?" he asked politely.

"Please," she said, gesturing toward the only chair. "Auror?" she guessed, trying to keep her tone fairly neutral. He doesn't look old enough for an Apparition Ticket, and he's the one they send after evil wizards? Maybe it's me, maybe I'm getting so old that everyone else looks like a child by comparison. It wasn't a comforting thought.

Despite his youthful appearance, he seemed to be good at his job – well, to the extent his job involved setting witnesses at ease and extracting every possible scrap of information from them. In her case, that wasn't much, so they were basically finished when Catherine returned (again) without Tristan. Adrienne saw the other woman send Tristan a look of inquiry.

"I think I have everything I need," he said, gesturing Catherine in to take his seat as he rose, shrunk his notebook, and tucked it and his recording quill into a discreet pocket of his robes. He turned gracefully to Adrienne to take his leave. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"That's all very well, but what happened?" Adrienne demanded. "I know I was unconscious for a while, and there's a pretty big gap between my attempt to activate the last ward and waking up in the hospital. Don't you think I deserve to know what went on?" Catherine and angel-face didn't so much as glance at each other, but Adrienne had the sense that they had come to an agreement on how to respond to her question without exchanging a single word – one of those Auror things that she found so irritating.

"Mrs. Kearney, you may not be aware that the last ward was a Dead Man's," he told her with the air of someone breaking the news gently. Adrienne frowned.

"I'm well aware that my husband is dead," she began with an edge to her voice.

"No, Adrienne," Catherine interrupted, looking rather grave and reaching out to clasp her hand. The dancing light was absent from her eyes. "That isn't what he meant."

As Adrienne listened to Catherine's succinct explanation, she felt her anger building.

"You're telling me that a ward like that has been on my house – with my children inside – all this time, and no one ever bothered to tell me?" she asked dangerously. "I'm surprised it's even legal!"

"The use of a Dead Man's Ward is rare, and does require a special permit that needs to be renewed every year," the young man told her. "It was originally granted to your husband due to the nature of his work, and I'm afraid it's been renewed as a matter of course since then." He looked very apologetic. "I tracked down the clerk who has been handling the renewals, and I'm afraid he took a few shortcuts. There's supposed to be an independent verification of continuing need and an annual approval by your late husband's supervisor, since the original justification related to job duties, but the clerk thought it would be easier to confirm payroll status and let it go at that. As your pension payments are still linked to his name in the payroll account, the clerk assumed the status was unchanged and just entered the renewals as they came up. I'm very sorry about that, Mrs. Kearney. I've already had a word with his supervisor, and there will be more formal corrective action taken to make sure this can't happen again."

Unable to think of how to respond, Adrienne merely nodded jerkily and turned to stare out the window. A moment later she heard the soft sound of footsteps retreating and then silence.

"How could he do that?" she demanded, turning on Catherine angrily. "How could he take a chance like that with our children? Without even telling me? All those drills with Tristan – why didn't he tell me why it was so important?"

Why didn't I ask? Why didn't I demand to know?

There were painful tears pricking the back of her eyes. She wanted to scream, but her throat was clogged, and the object of her anger was unreachable.

"If Bobby wasn't already dead, I think I'd kill him for this," she said, barely aware that the hoarse voice she heard was her own.

Catherine's voice, when she replied, was much steadier. "If he weren't already dead, I think I'd let you." The gentle understanding was too much for her. Adrienne swore briefly in French and burst into angry tears.

Fortunately, her friend had sense enough to let Adrienne cry it out, merely handing her a supply of tissues when the emotional storm began to wane.

"Oh, god, that was horribly embarrassing," Adrienne said at last, dreadfully drained. Her face felt hot, her eyes burned, and she could feel the beginning of a miserable headache radiating from the base of her skull. She hated crying.

"Don't be silly," Catherine said bracingly.

Adrienne raised her eyes to Catherine's clear ones. "It's not just that I'm mad at Bobby for doing something like this – without even consulting me –" She suspected the pain was obvious in her voice, but kept going. "I'm mad at myself because I let him. I let him protect me from things I should have known about. I'm furious with him, but he isn't here to yell at – and the only one left responsible for how our marriage worked is me."

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Feedback is always appreciated.