How did he always know?
It was hard to believe the couple had been married for less than a year and together for just over. Her opinions on it were contrasting, feeling like she’d never known someone so well but so little as she knew Ignan. She couldn’t help but wonder if the husband who read her so expertly felt similar.

It was with narrowed brows that Miranda now looked down at her husband from her perch on the arm of his seat. Her lips pressed together to form a thin line as she considered if and how she might broach the subject she’d much rather avoid.

“You’d be better unaware.” She found herself mutter, removing herself from the seat and leaving the room for their small kitchen. In there, she lingered, procuring a wine glass and filling it for the husband who was about to call her a mad woman. When she paced back into the room, the wine was offered and she sat back on the sofa, reaching under the cushions for her cigarettes.

“You’re aware of the dementor situation worsening, obviously.” Mira’s attempt at keeping her tone composed was unsuccessful. She plucked a cigarette from the packet and placed it between lips, lighting it with the tip of her wand. “I’ve developed a theory about how to help my patients and the muggles affected.” The healer began after a calming drag.

“You’d be better unaware.” If ever that statement would bring Ignan reassurance from his wife! Either she had done something he wouldn’t approve of, or was intending to do something that would cause him concern, or a stronger, uglier emotion. Hopefully it was something that wouldn’t make him regret allowing an insane criminal’s secret child attend Hogwarts in a fortnight. Hopefully she had persuaded her best friend from school, who was now her second in command, to sack or silence that irritating reporter. He wouldn’t find it as easy to dangle them over the edge of something high.

The armchair shifted gently as Mira hopped off to go into the kitchen. Ignan paused, watching her go, wondering if it was required of him to follow. The cat rolled onto its back on the sofa, and stretched. Ignan had learned to be cautious of stroking the stomach because it would engage all four paws worth of claws in a trap.
“Comfy?” He asked it, and it gave an indifferent meow in response before rolling up into a sitting position to stare with him at the kitchen door.

Miranda returned with two glasses of wine this time. It was a placating gesture that Ignan didn’t mind accepting. She resumed her original position on the sofa and the still unnamed cat sniffed the air as she went to light a smoke.

“I’ve developed a theory about how to help my patients and the muggles affected.”
“That’s positive,” Ignan replied, sniffing the glass before sipping the wine, trying to decide if she was on the original bottle he’d left, or had swapped it. She wasn’t loose enough to be on her second. “What’s the theory?”

“That’s positive,” The clearly naïve wizard suggested. His wife took another drag of the cigarette, slowly blowing out smoke as he asked what was involved.

With the stalling tactic of tapping ash from the tip of her cigarette into the tray on the coffee table, Miranda thought over exactly how she could explain it to her husband.

“I’m going to fix the broken jigsaws.” It sounded like madness, but the only way that she’d found to describe to non-specialists was using such an analogy. “I think I know the missing piece.” Her voice was thoughtful and she now leant back, dropping her spare hand onto the black cat, giving his head a rub behind his ears.

“I have a meeting on Monday with Edwin Glass and Solomon Carstairs to discuss taking Lawrence Musgrave at St Mungo’s in the immediate short term.” Dark eyes flashed up to meet his gaze, nervous for how he might react. Lawrence had nearly murdered him, Ignan had tried to kill him before that. “He’s the missing piece I need to fix them.”

“I think I know the missing piece.”

This was good wine, so definitely the bottle he’d left. He settled back in the armchair again, not intending on getting too comfortable given he was still dressed for work. Miranda had been working on the dementor cases for months now, and writing them up in her book manuscript. Ignan had kept a general interest in it all, not only because he loved her, but because it was genuinely interesting.

“… Lawrence Musgrave … he’s the missing piece I need to fix them.”

“Musgrave.” Ignan repeated, levelling a stare at Miranda, “In your hospital.”

He lifted the wine glass and drank a large mouthful, as if swilling down cheap wine. It was a horrible taste, it was Lawrence Musgrave. Infatuated, repellent, abhorrent former classmate and odious, contemptible, deceitful former auror whose disgraceful and infamous behaviour had put Miranda’s life in danger three times. He had threatened her, hurt her, and made her fear to live in their home. It was safe to say that Ignan would throw every deplorable adjective at that sorry excuse for a human being.

“No.”

It was as if she’d invited him to dinner with them. Of course no. The thought of that horror anywhere near Miranda made him want to tear the other man limb from limb. But when did Miranda truly do as he asked? She was her own person, and the expert. He had to rely that her demand for Musgrave wasn’t some obsession.

“How can you trust he’s your missing piece?”

“No.” Ignan stated while his wife considered that she certainly hadn’t requested permission; not from him, at least. The response was, however, calmer than she’d anticipated.

Miranda took a long and steady drag of her cigarette. She reached forward, tapping it over the ashtray on the coffee table between them.

“Are you looking for a long winded and thought out response complete with evidence from my research? Or reassurance that this is for purely medical purposes?” Her dark gaze locked onto his. “I’ll be fine. They won’t let me have him without adequate security in place. The ministry might be run by morons but they have some common sense.” Something Miranda had a habit of lacking occasionally.

“I’m going to make that scum useful.”


End