A/N: Just an idea I've been entertaining, finally seeing the light of day. I hope you'll find it interesting! Obviously, a lot of stuff is AU (there is no Ward for the Criminally Insane at Mungo's, as far as I know). Also, I'm not a doctor in any sense of the word so please be patient with some of my slip-ups and mistakes. Thanks!

PS. The story takes place in the 80s.

Chapter 1

There was certainly a lot of commotion on the Fourth Floor that morning. Nurses and medics were talking in hushed tones in front of the bulletin boards. They seemed to be debating a matter of great concern.

India Stephens walked past them to the changing rooms. It was too early in the day for her to ask what all the fuss was about. She slipped into her lime green robes and opened her mail-box. Fresh patient charts were waiting for her careful perusal. On top of the thick stack, however, there was a special note from Miriam Strout, the Spell Damage Senior Healer.

Dear staffers,

As I am sure you will soon find out, a new patient was brought in last night in the C.I. Ward. His notoriety will be a point of contention for many of you, but I wish to stress that we are professionals first and civilians later. Our job is to heal and improve the lives of witches and wizards. Should any disruption be caused by the new arrival, I invite you to come speak to me personally. Enclosed you will find his personal file and the mediwizards I have selected for his care.

M.S.

India frowned. The C.I. Ward, better known as The Ward for the Criminally Insane, was almost perennially empty. Not because there was a shortage of mad men in the wizarding world, but because most of them were deemed fit for Azkaban. This was a rare occasion.

The C.I. Ward had been set up near the Janus Thickey Ward, which housed wizards and witches who were suffering from long-term spell damage. Both Wards remained closed at all times, and only a small handful of staffers were ever allowed in. The difference was that the C.I. Ward did not usually have occupants behind its locked doors.

India opened the attached file with an eagerness that might have made Madam Strout frown. But she was very curious to see who the "notorious" patient might be.

Sirius Black

Birth: November 3, 1959

Age: 25

Sex: Male

Race: Caucasian

Blood: Pure

Current Residence: Azkaban, Solitary Confinement

Permanent Residence: 12 Grimmauld Place

Next of Kin: Cygnus Black III, Andromeda Tonks, REDACTED, REDACTED

Present Condition: psychoneurosis, mental alienation, obsessive-compulsive disorder manifested through violent intrusive thoughts, psychopathic disorder

Medical history: fractured fibula at age 13, fractured ribs at age 21, usage of magical opiums up to incarceration.

The file went on in a similar fashion with all manner of prescient details.

India continued reading methodically, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.

Sirius Black.

No wonder people out there were gossiping furiously. This was beyond unexpected. Of all the famous convicts and criminals the wizarding world had to offer, Black was the most notorious in recent years. He had single-handedly betrayed half of the Order of the Phoenix to the Dark Lord, leading to the death of the Potters and Peter Pettigrew. Everyone knew the sordid details. All that had remained of Pettigrew was a finger. Black had been found at the scene of the crime, laughing maniacally, saying he'd kill him six ways from Sunday. He had not shown a lick of remorse. In fact, he had claimed innocence for a short while. And then he had given up on defending himself. His trial had been a thing of nightmares. He had acted out so violently they had to restrain him with spells and devices which had long been considered obsolete. And now, three years after his conviction, three years after solitary confinement in Azkaban, he was coming to stay at Saint Mungo's.

The reasons must be unfathomable. Why would such a transfer be authorized?

She reached the end of the file where several healers' names were stamped in red.

And sure enough, India Stephens was among them. She was the only Junior Healer on the list. She was Madam Strout's protégé, after all. This could be good news; being selected for this task might mean she was ready to move up the ranks. But it could be equally bad. What if this was some kind of test and, should she fail, she would remain a Junior forever?

It was rather daunting. In fact, it was overwhelming. How would she even approach this case?

She had vague memories of Sirius Black. Vague was perhaps not the right word. "Terribly inaccurate" would be better. She had been a shy First Year when he was already a cocky Sixth Year, ruling the school with his Gryffindor band of troublemakers.

The Gryffindor band he had betrayed.

She had never spoken to him in person, but she had seen him in the Great Hall and around Hogwarts. It was hard not to notice him. He had been so magnetic as a teenager. You knew, just by looking at him, that he was destined for great things; a successful career and a life filled with adventure. Yes, he'd had trouble with his family, everyone knew it. No true Black had ever been sorted into Gryffindor. But no one believed he wouldn't land on his feet.

Well, he proved his family legacy right, didn't he?

India felt a bitter taste in her mouth. She remembered Peter Pettigrew too.

She closed the file shut.

The drip, drip, drip of the I.V. was like a regular rhythm in an otherwise chaotic medley. India couldn't stop staring. She had been allowed into the Ward after an hour of briefing. Madam Strout had made it clear they were there to help, but also learn. Learn what they could about and from Sirius Black. She had made it sound like a great educational experience.

"Think of it as a controlled experiment."

Madam Strout was nothing if not eternally confident.

So far, India's notes were empty. She was too captivated by his face.

He was sleeping – or more accurately put, had been sedated since morning. The nurses had tried to trim his beard, but stubborn patches of coarse hair still shadowed his features. Even without them, Sirius Black looked ten years older than he should have. His cheeks were gaunt and the colour of his skin was a sickening yellow. His hair was brittle and his bones protruded sharply out of his skin. No one could say Azkaban didn't take its toll on a young man.

She wondered, of course, what he would do when he woke up. How would he react?

Madam Strout had told them that Black had been made aware of his relocation. No one knew, however, if he would respond well to it.

India did not feel afraid. Even if he lashed out, his hands and legs were fastened with magical chains, invisible to the eye, but stronger than cold steel. And there were other restraints made available to them in the Ward.

The C.I. Ward was a large room split into four smaller areas, each sealed off from prying eyes by a magical barrier in the shape of a rudimentary hospital curtain. The air was fresh and clean, despite the lack of windows and the light was cool and comforting. It wasn't an unpleasant room, by any stretch of the imagination, but it gave one a sense of foreboding, since the furniture was minimal, and the walls were adorned with a plethora of strange Dark Objects – a security measure which was not encountered anywhere else in Saint Mungo's.

India stared into a slanted mirror above Black's bed and saw dark shadows instead of her own reflection.

She started jotting down a few observations, since she was certain Madam Strout would ask to see them later. From what she could glean, malnourishment and exhaustion (physical or otherwise) were the most telling symptoms of his condition. She had also noticed an inflammation in his right leg. His fever was elevated, too, which could be due to a myriad of factors. His pulse was also weak. The relocation must have caused some damage, internal and otherwise. She squinted at him. Was that a swelling in his throat?

She tiptoed up to him and deposited his chart at the foot of the bed.

India inhaled quickly and, before she could change her mind, she reached out and felt the ganglions at his throat. Just as she had suspected, they had swelled, which could be a sign of neuralgia or laryngitis –

She almost jumped out of her skin. He had opened his eyes and was staring at her.

India dropped her hands quickly. "Sorry."

She immediately felt stupid for apologizing. She was only doing her job. Not to mention, he was a deranged murderer.

She looked up at his vitals board. Magical strains were running back and forth, charting the changes in his body. His pulse should have quickened after waking up, but it had only spiked a little. That was not good.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, stepping away from the bed.

Sirius Black kept staring at her, his face impassive.

"Can you talk?" she tried again, holding his chart like a shield in front of her chest.

He gave the briefest of nods. He could talk, he just wouldn't.

"You're in Saint Mungo's, Spell Damage Unit, to be exact." She wasn't about to spell out the name of the Ward.

He nodded again.

"I am your Healer, India," she continued, going through the rote lines she had memorized. "We will try…"

To make you better.

"… to improve your situation."

This time, he did not nod, but his lips seemed to draw back into a grimace.

"How does that sound?" she asked, shifting on the balls of her shoes.

Black opened his mouth an inch. One word came out, ragged and hoarse.

"Lies."

India blinked. "Lies? I am not lying."

There was an awkward silence after that. India contemplated continuing the argument and telling him she had no reason to lie, but he beat her to it.

"Water," he muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

India chewed on her lip. "Of course."

She took out her wand and approached the bed once more. He kept his eyes forward. She parted his lips with the tip of her wand and performed a silent Aguamenti. A small jet of water shot out into his mouth. He drank slowly, letting some of it dribble down his chin.

India stepped back again.

"You…are…the first," he managed to say, gritting his teeth.

"The first?"

"To give me water…when I asked…others wouldn't."

India opened her mouth to protest. What did he mean by that? Surely her colleagues would not have deprived him of water. Perhaps he had been particularly violent the previous night and they'd decided not to humour him. Or maybe he was lying.

Lies.

She closed her mouth. She shouldn't start a conversation with him anyway.

"Try and rest," she said, jotting down "slurred speech" in her observations.

"Hands…" he said after a few moments.

"Yes?"

"At my…throat."

India scratched at her arm. "Yes, well, I was trying to see if your ganglions are swollen –"

"Warm," he muttered and closed his eyes again.

India waited with her lips parted. The vitals did not indicate any change in his pulse, but soon, he was breathing regularly. He was, by all appearances, asleep.

Still, when she turned around and started walking away, she felt eyes on her back.

She rubbed her hands together. They were, indeed, warm.

"What was he like? Did he have that crazy look in his eye?" Rose Angley, a fellow Junior from the Second Floor and her best friend in all of Saint Mungo's, asked during lunch break. They were sitting at their usual table, away from the crowd.

"Did he rave about killing Pettigrew again? I read in an article that all he ever talked about in Azkaban was revenge," Rose added, biting into her apple.

India shook her head. "You can't trust the papers. I'm pretty sure they weren't there in his cell with him. And I can't say much about his mental state. But…no, he was quite normal."

"Normal?"

"He didn't rave or give me the crazy eye, is what I mean. He just seemed like an ordinary man."

"Well, he isn't. I hope you remember that," Rose pointed out.

"Hard to forget," India mumbled. "Everyone's talking about his murderous history. Although, he didn't strike me as particularly murderous."

"He doesn't have to strike you as anything, he just is. You'll be careful, won't you?" Rose appealed to her, dangling her spoon like a pendulum.

"I'm always careful," she protested.

"Right, but you've got that pesky Ravenclaw tendency to prod into stuff you should leave well alone."

India rolled her eyes. "And you've got a Gryffindor tendency to over-dramatize. I'm one of his doctors, I can't not prod."

"Fine, but don't cry to me when the only thing left of you is a finger…."

India hit her friend in the arm. "Jokes like that are why you work on the dragon pox floor."

It was well and good to make jokes with Rosy over lunch, but India did feel a bit queasy. She hadn't lied to her friend; Sirius Black did not strike horror in her veins. But he was strange.

She wasn't exactly looking forward to her next shift with him, but she was determined to do it well and find out the most she could about him as a patient.

She had heard whispers in the staff rooms that his arrival here was Dumbledore's work. The Headmaster had always been "woefully" partial to Black and his charm.

India didn't know what to believe. Sirius Black had long ago stopped being charming. But she supposed, if anyone could succeed in removing a high-profile convict from Azkaban, it was Dumbledore.

She just couldn't figure out what would happen next. Would they simply "treat" Black and send him back to Azkaban? It almost seemed cruel to heal him of his current ailments only to send him back to an environment that was meant to slowly kill him. Cruelty was what he deserved, yet…even in practical terms, it would be a waste.

Then, was he supposed to stay here forever, like the patients in the Janus Thickey Ward?

Madam Strout had been infuriatingly enigmatic about his sojourn. She had told them to do their jobs and keep their heads low.

"All will be made clear in time," she had said.

But India suspected nothing would be clear and simple about Sirius Black.