Warning: This is a frightfully judgemental story, so you may not be able to appreciate it without reading Chapter 10 Afterward. This was posted almost nine months after finishing this story, and provides a better context for the content. There's nothing really graphic sex-wise; that's not the issue at all. I just recommend that you read Chapter 10 before anything else. Don't say you were not warned. Thanks so much for reading, and do review if you have time!

Disclaimer: I'm not kidding when I say that I'm not J.K.

Yeah, this is kinda based off the Simon and Garfunkel song, "Mrs. Robinson". Well, more like inspired. It's a little four chapter story that I've had written for a good long while but hadn't typed yet. Have a great read!

Ch. 1: The Discovery of Mr. Robinson

As a selfless, compassionate, altruistic personality, Ms. Jennifer Beeton always made sure to treat every person she met with an undiscriminating dollop of sweet kindness and respect. This, in addition to her patient temperament, optimistic outlook on life, and lack of practical realism provided her with the best bedside-manner in England and, thus, she became one of the most sought-after of nurses. She endeared the elderly, who decided she was definitely a 'nice girl' and silently regretted that their own children lacked her enthusiasm for taking care of them. Women saw her as chummy, a good soul upon whom they might impart their burdens, upon whose shoulder their tears were welcome at any time. Men saw her as the comfortable wife or sister they had at home—or, in most cases, they wished they had. The youngest of children smiled before her without a thought; her happiness was contagious to their susceptible, inchoate minds. Awkward teenagers felt a bit overwhelmed with her inordinate brightness, but could not deny the awesome, fluent power of the woman. Never had Ms. Beeton borne an enemy, and simply no one could refute her good will.

The little woman carried her daily dollops of sweetness everywhere she went – from the moment she awoke in her empty bed, down to the sidewalk in her daily promenade to work at the mental institution located a quarter-hour away from her house in Liverpool. Her brightness permeated throughout the hours until she arrived home in the evening, at which point she sat herself before the tube, had a TV supper, and maybe read a bit from a romance novel before nodding off to sleep. Though not a particularly shrewd woman, she marinated in goodness, civility, and a no-nonsense style of business. She offered a lumpy, soft figure for the optimal amount of huggable comfort, and a willing ear.

The day she discovered Mr. Robinson began like any other. May 20th, 1998.

Ms. Beeton sipped her morning tea, took two aspirin for her back pain, and leisurely collected her purse before going out the door. The sun shone muggily even at eight in the A.M., promising a long and hot almost-summer day. She smiled as she saw the lad and lass next door trudging to school, recalcitrant.

Only a week or two more, duckies, and you'll have the whole holiday before you, she thought good-naturedly. One of the children saw her, then, and alerted the other; they both waved genially.

Such nice kids.

She waved back to them with one of her best smiles.

As she turned the corner from her street, she nearly tripped over a crack, barely escaping a flop upon the pavement.

Mercy me!

Fluttering her hand anxiously over her belongings to be sure she lost nothing—she had not—she was about to leave when, all of a sudden, she spotted a bit of black hiding on the dilapidating stairwell just ahead of her. The stairwell had used to belong to the Evans' family, she remembered . . . they had moved out a good many years ago after the mother, named Lucy, died. It was a sad case, she remembered, the lady had taken on badly after the death of her daughter in a car accident and departed from this world not after two years. Mr. Evans was obviously heartbroken, having lost both his youngest daughter and his wife within a very short time span, and the older daughter had taken him to live with her and her husband or somesuch thing. She had not heard of them since, and the house had not sold, either, almost remaining empty as a testament to the tragedy.

Did someone drop their wallet? I'll bet some teenage hooligans were trying to break in and tag up the place at night, if I'm not mistaken.

The black scuffled leather was foreign to the surreal bliss of the early morning, she decided vaguely. Really, that little dark blotch just did not belong. Besides, no one could really get into the abandoned house very easily—everything was boarded up tightly, since it was a good house. It probably never sold because it looked so sad. Or so Ms. Beeton had decided.

Supposing she should stop and pick it up as she passed, to see if there were any identification cards inside, Ms. Beeton advanced, unruffled as ever.

As she bent to get it, almost too late she realized that her short-sightedness had deceived her. It was not a wallet. It was the toe of a man's boot, with a foot inside it.

The man himself was curious, she contemplated, looking the somber being over with great dignity. He definitely did not have a mother, or a good wife, she could tell; he appeared fragile and emaciated, his skin so ashen that he might have blended in to the granite pavement like a chameleon. Perhaps he had just come from a funeral . . . otherwise, who in their right mind would wear so much black with summer on the verge of blossoming?

Already on her knees, she scooched her curvaceous bulk up the steps to get a better look at his face. Leaning in, she was almost startled by the severe lines when it came into focus—his jawbone sharp and piercing, his cheekbones high and supercilious, his nose in a cruel Romanesque arch worthy of Nero. The gray unshaven stubble along his upper lip and chin did nothing to soften his appearance, and rather augmented the whole neglected-by-his-mum manifestation. His hair hung straggly, long, charcoal-colored, and probably the mortal enemy to combs, simply clamored for a great and massive attack from a bottle of shampoo. A serious set of lips, so tightly pressed together that the poor man might have been in horrendous pain, and several barely-healed scratches (amid the many long-standing scars) upon his face completed the picture.

It would be an understatement to say that her heart melted at that moment.

He needs someone. Oh, Lord almighty! Let me help this man! Please, God, let me be the one to help him!

Her eyes flitted to look at his closed eyelids again, but immediately became aware of the fact that she had forgotten to brush the morning breath from her mouth. The man's previously relaxed face tensed as the sunlight of a new day attempted to caress him, and, in an instant, a hundred years of anxiety and pain came over him.

"Are you looking for the Evans family, mister?"

The sunlight still overpowering him, the man blinked furiously, then settled for closing his eyes once more. In an instant, he realized that he was practically prostrate before the little woman in a yellow jumper, and made a vigorous effort to stand up, surprised. He succeeded only insofar as being extremely exhausted would get him; he raised five inches up and dropped back again quickly, his hand grabbing his neck.

She caught his head before it dashed against the corner of the concrete step, setting it down gently on top of her plushy pink purse for a pillow.

"That would have hurt," she said, smiling. The man looked puzzled, and his hand remained firmly around his neck. "Do you speak English?" she prompted. He might be from the Continent, of course . . .

"I speak English," he replied in dulcet tones that signified that he was indeed a Britisher. He drew his hand away from his neck, then touched it again, feeling the unbroken skin that lay under a torn spot in his collar. He seemed as perplexed as if he had dreamed being bit by a vampire, but found no sore the next day.

"Are you all right?"

Ms. Beeton surveyed the man again, as well as she could without her glasses, and realized sadly that he probably was. Likely this wretched overgrown guttersnipe, dirty and worn, was just kicked out by his wife after coming home drunk, stopping to litter the doorstep of a house eyewitness to tragedy before his lights went out as one last sacrilege. Ms. Beeton was a tolerant soul, but fearfully religious, and she did not abide with drunkards, nor with disrespect to the dead.

"The definition of 'all right' is relative." The luster of curiosity, at this point, disappeared from his eyes, and at once turned a dull, almost opaque hue. Ms. Beeton sniffed as the breeze drifted towards her, over him—she was satisfied that he did not smell of alcohol, but simply of sweat. His stomach growled, too, testifying that he probably was in need of a good meal.

All her faith restored to him, she queried, "What do you mean?"

Never was she more surprised in her life than when he suddenly burst into tears before her!

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Lily's . . . mother . . ." murmured the wretched, ragged man, regaining some of his composure. "I want to see her before I die."

"Darling, ducky, you aren't going to die." Somehow, she had wedged herself halfway beneath him, and now her arms encircled the torso of the very thin but nevertheless dead-heavy man. At first he had been stiff and uncomfortable, as though full of contempt for the touch of Ms. Beeton's gentle plump figure, but now he had lost all sense of forced pride. His head lay on her shoulder, and she rocked him back and forth with all the fortitude of a nanny bearing her infant ward. "Shh, darling ducky, it's all all right. I'd be a fool to promise you anything but. You're not going to die, except maybe slowly by starvation if you don't get some food into you."

"I ought to be dead. A snake only attacked my jugular vein. I'm amazed I even made it here from Hogwarts."

Hogwarts? I don't suppose that's the name of any town I've heard of. Since she had been a bus driver in her early twenties, Ms. Beeton could say with some certainty, too, that there was no such place as Hogwarts anywhere near Liverpool!

The poor man's delusional. Oh, poor man. I suppose he knew the poor Evans daughter who died. Which, that would explain why he was here, to some degree. I guess he was in love with her. Was her name Lily? I could have sworn it was Rose, but, then, I never have been any good with names.

"Did you know the Evans family?" Ms. Beeton voiced her question. Any friend of the Evans is most certainly a friend of mine! Such nice people, they were . . .

"Knew her?"

The man laughed amid shedding the hot tears Ms. Beeton felt seeping through her jumper sleeve. "Knew her?" he asked again, almost mockingly. "Good Merlin, bloody hell, I knew her. I murdered her, and her son as well!"

This certainly put a new light on things.

"How did you kill her?" Ms. Beeton was uncertain how to go on, feeling internally conflicted to the utmost. If this man had done such evil as murder, should she show him mercy? He did show repentance, of course, which is what God wants, but even from murderers? Round and round inside her head, the thoughts spinning like a merry-go-round in peril. Then she remembered: Lily (was that her name?) Evans died in a car accident. Most definitely and inexorably, in a car accident. No one had murdered her, to use that ugly word!

She pulled him closer to comfort him. Doubtless, his delusional state was causing him to think so many odd things; there was no reason to suppose this was not another defect of his brain.

"Shush, ducky. You didn't kill anybody. The poor dear Evans girl died in a car accident, I remember very well. It was a terrible affair. I went to her funeral," she added, almost proudly. "My godmother had just died a few years before, and I bought the house on this street with a legacy from her, and then the tragedy happened not five weeks after I moved in."

"Car accident my foot," spat the man, angry. "I killed her."

Ms. Beeton gazed at the shoulder of the piteous man, who had not as of yet made a motion to even get up after his first initial attempt. She was nearly fifty, and still a virgin, she remembered almost bitterly. Although she hated to call the emotion she experienced now 'love', she nevertheless knew there was something about this man that made her never want to let go of him. He was, she decided, almost like a little boy who had lost his mother, and, going to the first lady he saw resembling his mother, would discover that the lady was not his mother, but still trust her anyways. If that made any sense.

Silent sobs began to once again rack his brittle bones, and, if it was possible, Ms. Beeton drew him further into her shoulder. He was raving, she heard, muttering and cursing under his breath between desperate gasps.

"She thinks I can drive . . . no heavens, I can't drive . . . not a god-damned car accident at all . . . I don't look like I could drive . . . I can't drive . . . wasn't a blasted car accident damn it! . . . Oh god! . . . why did Nagini not do her job properly? . . . how am I still even alive . . . god-damned car accident . . . god-damned VOLDEMORT! . . ."

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," chastised Ms. Beeton carefully, but forgiving him even before she voiced the words. It isn't his fault, really. It's his mind. He's ill, very ill.

"I good as killed her. I killed her! I murdered her!" The man faltered, repeating himself almost unconsciously, his mind undoubtedly reeling in chaos.

She sighed. "You didn't, ducky," Ms. Beeton insisted, hugging the form of the distressed man as he began to tremble and shiver compulsively. He's not getting any better like this, she realized unhappily. He's just too set in his poor mind to allow truth and reason to confront his weary soul.

"I should have died last night!" the man murmured, his teeth chattering.

Oh dear. I sense he's got hypothermia. Or is it hyperthermia? Well, the Doctor will know better than I.

"I nearly died," he repeated, a bit louder.

"How did you almost die? Were you nearly hit by a motor car?"

A dire laugh erupted from his affected bosom. "Snake bite. Voldemort's snake. Not that you know who he is, crazy Muggle."

This brought another round of sobbing, but they were also accompanied by heartrending whimpers of pain. "I killed her, I killed her," the man repeated over and over.

In a matronly response, automatic to her personality, Ms. Beeton coddled him closer, now taking the role of a mother attempting to console her young boy against the mental tremors he faced. Good lord, she prayed, have mercy on this stricken man.

She paid no attention to his 'crazy Muggle' comment—she knew nothing of what a Muggle was, but, for all she knew, it was a compliment.

"Do you have a name," Ms. Beeton asked, once the man seemed to have cried himself dry for the time.

"None of any importance," he whispered mournfully. "I loathe its very mention."

She cast a glance over him, wishing she could reach her glasses in her purse, which was a half foot beyond where she could reach it comfortably.

"May I call you something, though?"

" . . . Whatever you want." He was so miserable that he did not even flinch with interest at the prospect.

"How about . . . Mr. Robinson?"

"I don't care. Anything is as good as any other."

"Dear, dear Mr. Robinson," Ms. Beeton replied, stroking the poor man's gangling locks and smooth neck. He needed a bath, badly, and his oily hair testified to the fact. "Mr. Robinson, I am going to take you home," she demonstrated kindly, "And then you're going to have a good wash and a hot chicken pie. You are going to sleep in a proper bed, and I will read to you from the book of the Lord."

The man's body was unresponsive in her arms, not moving, but then Ms. Beeton realized that he had again subsided to tears.

"You . . . you oughtn't, you know," he gasped amid the rain of his despair, "I'm a murderer, responsible for the deaths of my only friends. My hands are forever tainted with the blood of my mentor, the woman I was forbidden to love, and her son. I betrayed them all."

His vocal chords could not allow him to pronounce another word. Ms. Beeton drew him away from her just enough so that she could look at his face clearly.

"Dear Mr. Robinson," she began, "Don't you feel that anyone loves you?"

From his outward appearance, she figured his answer would likely be no. Two heavily-lidded black eyes, a German brow, his butcher-knife chopped hair, and the vulture's beak of a nose gave him a somber, ugly appearance, and his black clothes did nothing to enliven his look. She found herself impressed, though, by the tragic pathetic beauty that befell him as his tears pummeled against his sallow skin, contorting the face of the man about Ms. Beeton's own age or older.

"No, madam," the man replied, "No one cares enough about me to even try and salvage my life. Even as I died, two of my world's most gifted did nothing to try and save me." He paused. "Well, one was talented, anyways. The other just lucky. Still, doesn't mean they mightn't have tried."

Dear dear God! He is living a world inside his own mind! That explains many things!

"Do you want to leave your world, Mr. Robinson? It does seem as though there's nothing for you, there, anymore." Her direction was careful, imitating the Doctor. She had not dealt with a patient like this before, but she had seen enough cases over the years to know generally what to say.

He digested the idea for a moment, turning it carefully in his brain. Then, in an impulsive reply, he ducked his head and dove into her shoulder, a frightened bird seeking shelter from lightening.

"Yes."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

I stayed up late to write this up. Please review and make it worth my while. If people are interested in seeing more, well, I'll type up more.