Miss Sprout would not die.

That much he knew before he had even left his offices, for the summons noted she had already been given the antidote to whatever toxins she might have inhaled, entering the poison gardens without a respirator. The attitude, though, was one of better safe than sorry, an approach that Dr. Wystan Pomfrey agreed with wholeheartedly.

"A deep breath in, please, Miss Sprout," Stan directed quietly, both his beard and the angle of their respective bodies hiding the blush on his cheeks from view as he placed the end of his stethescope to her back. Until a week ago, this task would have been performed with professional detachment, but his fool sister had gone and suggested Philomena Sprout as a potential wife.

And he was in her bedroom.

And she was in her bed.

Thank Merlin for more than a decade of professionalism, and also the maid the Sprouts had installed in the corner by way of chaperone.

"And then, if you would," the physician added with just a hint of wry humour, "an explanation as to why you entered the poison garden without a respirator in the first place?"

Stan did not know Miss Sprout particularly well, but his work saw him visit the Evergardens with enough frequency to be deemed infrequent rather than once in a while. His impression of the witch, among other things, was that she was well-versed in the gardens and the plant species they held, and at least half as intelligent as she was welcoming. To take such a dangerous risk was at odds with the young lady he had met in the past, and with the young lady his sister's letter had described.