She’d felt him dip into her mind. Had been too wrapped up in her own thoughts of getting him to somewhere else to truly comprehend what was happening. It felt…like nothing. She’d known his presence was there, knew it was stirring the memories of faces she knew were impossible to forget but she didn’t quite care one way or another who accessed them.

So when they both landed in her flat, she let Mr. Iago collapse to the ground, watching with vague interest. She could see him struggling with something, wondering if she was about to get told off about apparating someone somewhere without their consent. But no — he vomited on her brand new carpet instead.

Oh, Merlin.

The witch turned and walked into the kitchen. She tapped her wand, praying her magic would behave itself, and summoned a towel and a cup of water. “Pain pays the income of each precious thing,” She recited back, kneeling beside him and dabbing at his brow with the towel. “Should I take that to mean pain is necessary for everyone?” She scourgified the remnants of his sickness from her carpet (it would still need to be treated with some sort of potion), and then handed him the glass of water.

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