She’d been thinking about it for several days, even before the article had been in the Daily Prophet. Miranda hadn’t kept it from Ignan that she’d been advising on policy and regulations for if the Ministry did choose to legalise consensual feedings for vampires. He’d not had much to say on the matter, and, besides passing comment or mild irritated mentions about her suggestions being ignored, Miranda hadn’t either. Her conversation with Yavin the day before, however, had given her a location. She was set on it, she needed to know. She also needed, unfortunately, to share this plan with her husband.

Saturday morning had been spent following usual routines, with no mention of vampires. Ignan had walked to the nearest muggle village for a muggle newspaper (they liked to follow the news and were partial to the rather impossible crosswords). Miranda had thrown on some scruffy trousers and a jumper and brought her tea outside to repot a few plants that were ready to join those in the beds. It was late morning when she finally came back inside and kicked off her wellington boots by the back door. There was dried mud on her trousers, and her hair was in a messy bun high up on her head. One of her cheeks, too, had been victim to a muddy hand swiping hair from her face.

 Padding bare feet through the kitchen, Miranda stood in the doorway to the living room to find her husband, as anticipated, sat in his armchair with The Times open on his lap. The still nameless cat, having clearly been kicked off his favourite chair, now lay across the back of it, tail lifting to tickle the wizard’s neck.

Without a word, the witch crossed the small living room, plucked the paper from her husband’s grasp, and lowered herself onto his lap. Lips pressed against his for a kiss before she drew back, dark eyes dancing between his blue. “You smell good.” She muttered. And so, it began; the buttering up before she yanked off the plaster.

Friday night and Saturday morning were sacrosanct in the Storm household. For a pair who held roles dealing with people, they preferred this time to be solitary, either within, or without, each other’s company. Rituals of wine and reading one night, then the morning constitutional, a pilgrimage of sorts, to acquire reading matter. Muggle news had initially been baffling, but with persistent attempts to read it, one started to recognise the recurring themes and characters. Tapendra Trishna would be amazed, given Ignan had once described a television as a haunted fish tank and wondered where a car kept its brain. He ought to write the wizard soon.

Instead he had taken a pause from the crossword to read the latest on the shooting of a muggle girl in Pakistan. She was as old as one of his fourth years and was speaking up against a militant group.[1] Muggles seemed to always be at odds, and so violent. You didn’t see wizards doing that sort of thing… Ignan turned the page and glanced to the ceiling where the repair to the paintwork didn’t quite cover the damage from the fight between him and Musgrave to the informed eye. He rubbed at the runes carved into his flesh without consciously realising his actions.

The cat, who Ignan had dubbed Lawrence which Mira steadfastly refuted in preference of no name at all, had taken to sharing the armchair like a fluffy scarf. Breathing and purring it was marginally warmer than if it was ended and made into an actual scarf. It interrupted its begrudging owner’s passing memory by sneezing explosively and licking its paws. Ignan frowned, and made to wipe the back of his head, suspecting he had been an extended handkerchief.

At the same moment, the back door opened and closed, and he heard his wife drop one wellington boot after another onto the kitchen floor. Suspecting she would be another minute or two washing up after a morning’s gardening, he turned his attention to the next article. Miranda had other ideas, appearing near instantly, crossing the living room to relieve him of the newspaper. She was one of the only people, if not the only person, he would even allow the gall to do such a thing. That was only because they were married. One of the clauses they’d vowed, wasn’t it. I will not swear when they interrupt…

… for good reason. His wife provided with a further action only she was permitted to do. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve it, but one could never truly predict a witch.

“Piquant,” he replied softly. Then after a pause, gestured a hand in the direction of the pilfered paper: “one of the crossword clues.”

Drawn apart, the two of them studied each other. Husband reached his handkerchief (for wizards carried those, and cats really should) to wipe her muddy cheek. At least she’d left her boots in the kitchen.

“Your granddaughter is sorely missing out on making such a mess,” he remarked, though in the rarely seen kindly manner only induced by the smallest relative and her insistence on adoring her new grandfather. “How is your garden?” Hers, most definitely.

1.	Articles from the week leading to the 13th October 2012

Miranda didn’t move to bat her husband away when he used the (presumably) clean handkerchief to relieve her cheek of the mud. It was a quick moment of the sort of caring act that only she saw in Ignan. Perhaps that was part of the reasoning for such strong feelings towards the wizard over the years they’d been together. Perhaps it explained how quickly they’d fallen into one another’s arms and hearts. To each, they revealed a part of themselves no one else got to witness.

“Better for little hands not helping.” The witch replied in regards to the garden and her granddaughter. “I’ll be able to harvest more dittany soon. The Moly has also started flowering.” Being out in the garden had always been a powerful relaxant for the Healer who had enjoyed getting her hands in the Earth and working with plants since she first studied Herbology back at Hogwarts. For Miranda, the two best subjects had been Herbology and Potions. It had been clear then the sort of career she would find herself in. In her Devonshire cottage, where Maya still resided, the garden had been full of helpful herbs and plants along with beautiful trees and flowers. While not yet at a similar level, Kaldfjord’s was becoming far more useful and beautiful. It just took a little love and patience.

Dragging her gaze from Ignan to the paper, Miranda flicked back to the crossword and snatched up the self-inking quill. She remained on Ignan’s lap, and scribbled in his suggested answer. “Piquant.” It took another moment to scan what was left before her lips twisted into a smile. “Have you even tried this? XYZ. They come in last. 3 letters.” She glanced back to him, raising her brow. “3 letters.” He may very well have just left a few for her to be kind, but Ignan wasn’t kind, and his wife preferred him that way.

“I would like your…support with something. Tonight, ideally.” Requested the witch, filling in X,Y and Z into the suitable gap.

His support? Ignan raised a silver eyebrow at his wife, still poised in his lap. She was filling in the crossword. If it had been the Daily Prophet then this would have been a serious irritation but since they were equally clueless about Muggles he secretly preferred them to work together on this one. However, he didn’t let on to Miranda as he knew she enjoyed trying to wind him up.

“If it’s to do with the garden, you are better asking Gerda when she’s back.” Their house elf with grey skin and eye like crystal balls was out of the house. Rather than working they had suggested she actually take a day off. Ignan had near resorted to ordering her to do it, such was her confusion. Gerda had eventually elected to visit one of her relatives, which meant travelling back to Germany where she’d been born. She had left the cottage spotless, naturally. He supposed Mira’s muddy appearance was to give the elf something to do when she returned and make her feel useful again.

“Or,” he could see from her expression that was incorrect, “is it finally time to proof your book?” She had been writing up her research on dementors for months, hoping to publish again. Given her main study subject had been the one to cause the damage to the living room he’d been trying to forget, Ignan had little input or invite to read it.

“Don’t rush perfection.” Miranda shook her head, her gaze still firmly on the incomplete crossword. The book was now a collaboration with Yavin, bringing together the research that they had done in order to repair the mind of Lawrence Musgrave following his extended exposure to dementors. This research, Miranda had already started to put into practice again with several of the long-term residents of the fourth floor, yielding very promising results. It was a lifetime’s work finally reaping rewards. “It’s not that.”

Not intending on playing a guessing game with her husband, Miranda lowered the paper and twisted back to face him. Had she been more nervous about her proposal, she may have put some space between them. As it was, she was rather of the mind that it wasn’t his permission or approval she was after. No, Miranda would do as she felt necessary, as Ignan likely was fully aware. He knew that, while occasionally impulsive, his wife wasn’t a reckless witch. It would just be more comforting for her to know that her husband was there with his wand if need be.

“Have you ever been bitten? By a vampire?”

There was confusion across the older wizard’s face. Bitten by a vampire? What? Where had this come from? Of all the questions he had guessed, this was not even in the top thousand question list.

“Why would you ask that?” He asked after a moment’s baffled hesitation. “Have you?” He turned it round on her, without realising he’d neglected to answer. He’d hunted them, helped rid a muggle village of them once, but he’d never wanted to be chewed by one. Ignan lumped them in with snakes, fangs and nothing he particularly wanted latching onto his limbs.

“Is a case weighing on your mind?” He ventured more reasonably, given that this was more often the cause for spontaneous out of the blue questions.

Ignan didn’t answer the question. Miranda didn’t miss that. So much of his life she didn’t know about; a fact she’d accepted a long time ago. It was an agreement between themselves. Whatever came before they’d met didn’t matter. Miranda had her private matters, and so did he.

“You could say that.” She responded, patting a hand on his thigh before she pushed herself up from his lap. She stepped back, perching instead on the arm of the sofa. The space was good, it allowed her to properly study his face and think more carefully about her words and reasoning.

“Imminently, we’re to be getting a lot of cases of these legalised vampire bites going wrong. A lot of youths testing out the new exciting high that comes with risk. Some youths have no willpower and ability to stop themselves, and some vampires have little self-control. My creature injuries ward is about to be filling up quickly, and…” Miranda frowned, crossing her arms. “I want to know why these people are offering themselves up. Is it really all that incredible?”

She relinquished her perch, keen to study him, or perhaps this wasn’t the sort of conversation one had in their husband’s lap. Ignan studied her in reverse, not for the first time, glad he had practiced occlumency for most of his life. His legilimens wife did not need to read back through his thoughts on vampires. Not see the pictures of staking vampires in his mind’s eye and the fear of those muggles who were plagued by them.

“.. A lot of youths testing out the new exciting high that comes with risk…”

In all of his years the thought of pleasure from a vampire bite had never featured in his plans. Then again, he hadn’t ever pursued highs of any medicinal kind. Well, firewhiskey aside. His highs had been from magic, lust and power… The slop of Venetian canal water underpinning it all. Miranda must never know.

“… Is it really all that incredible?”

“Hm?” The canal water dried up almost as quickly as it had flooded in. “I cannot say first hand, my love.” He tuned back into the conversation, speaking a little quicker than his norm, trying to cover up the fact his mind had wandered while she was talking to him. “But I met pockets of society where vampires were accepted. It was a trade of sorts. Then others where they were most definitely not accepted and there were bounties for staking them.” Miranda was curious now, however much they’d agreed their pasts were their own. He’d have to offer her a drop of something to appease her appetite.

“Not bitten by one, no,” he confirmed, “but staked a few… Are you trying to tell me you want to have one feed off you?” He fixed her with a look he might give his students when they had suggested something foolish. “Do you try everything your patients might?”

Ignan was clearly distracted, or at least that was what it seemed to Miranda. She put it down to the possible surprise at their topic of conversation. Five minutes ago he’d been attempting the muggle crossword while she’d been outside in the garden. Now, she was talking about vampire bites and reckless youths.

What her husband did have to say, however, bewildered the witch who’d not spent much time wondering in detail about her husband’s past. She’d always liked the quiet of is mind, his stoicism and the mystery he came with. Ignan Storm was a forceful man and powerful wizard who’d lived many years before meeting his wife later in life. She’d never wanted to know about all of those years. Therefore, hearing of him having staked vampires caused her lips to part slightly in surprise.

There was little time to question the staking, because he realised why she was asking the question. He wouldn’t improve, and that was fine. He didn’t have to approve, just support and protect.
“I’m curious.” The witch shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t going to explain herself or ask for permission. “Come with me. Make sure they don’t bleed me dry and leave you a sad lonely widower.”

“Come with you where?” Ignan asked, not because he was confused at the whole vampire biting part, more that he meant it literally. Where was this experiment going to take place?!

For a brief moment, Ignan wished his legilmens skills were such he could just read her, but he had always been the greater occlumens. Maybe then he’d understand his wife, or understand her better. This had definitely come out of the blue .

“You’re serious?” He asked, forehead crinkled. “You’re actually serious about wanting a vampire bite you because you’re curious about what your patients get up to?” It sounded more ridiculous when he said it out loud. “Have you heard of secondary evidence?” He asked his wife, the day job never far away,”asking people who have? Reading the literature?”

He was polite and accommodating to vampires these days because they couldn’t sink their teeth into anyone indiscriminately.

Ignan was perplexed, and Miranda wasn’t surprised. It was a strange request from a witch that otherwise seemed pretty level headed. She may have said it was solely intrigue about her patients, but it was curiosity for more reasons than that. Enough people were putting themselves in this position for Balfort to push the law to the Wizengamot for approval. The idea of having a vampire sink their fangs into your flesh was popular enough that the Wizengamot had approved it. Miranda herself had spent months talking through regulations that would ideally stop more people taking up St Mungo’s beds. She was unashamedly intrigued, and Ignan hopefully wouldn’t dwell on it for too long.

“I’m not writing a paper on it.” Miranda retorted with a roll of her eyes. “But I have researched appropriately, thank you for the suggestions.” Her tone, despite not intending to irritate him, came out quite sarcastic. Miranda sighed, a hand lifting to brush some messy hair back from her face.

“I’m curious, Ignan. I’ve spent months working through regulations and I want to know why. You can come and make sure nothing goes awry or you can stay here and stew. It’s happening. I’d rather have you by my side. If Yavin comes, he’ll likely tear off his jumper to give them a good munch. Not a good wingwizard.”

For once his wife didn’t issue him with one of those glares, but just rolled her eyes at him and applied sarcasm. They were definitely more accustomed to each other and their ways almost two years.

“… I want to know why.” Miranda pressed, much to his unease. Then she issued an ultimatum. Come or she’d take Yavin with her instead.

“… he’ll likely tear off his jumper to give them a good munch. Not a good wingwizard.”

“Thank you for that image,” husband interjected, wincing. They had grown close friends with Yavin Morgenthau, if one could call it close. It was for the Storms, any closer and they would all be married - something Yavin would be far more comfortable from their understanding.

“If you’re set on this then…” better she did it with his knowledge than behind his back. “… you know I will stake the bastard if they try anything…” He grumbled, though a small part of him was just as curious as his wife. He’d not been practising his wandwork in private for nothing since coming back from the edge of death. He might not be a young man any more but he felt just as powerful now as he had in his heyday.

Ignan begrudgingly agreed. His wife knew he would, in the end. Her husband was a lot of things but what won out in this moment was possibly his possessiveness. Being possessive was a trait most witches would find a turn off, in fact, it might have them running in the other direction. Miranda wasn’t most witches. She enjoyed it. She loved his stern manner and dominance. It was all too predictable that he wouldn’t sit back while she let a vampire sink his teeth into his wife.

Dark eyes had been staring at his blue with quite the intensity for several moments before she finally looked away and a small smile of triumph twisted her own pale lips.
“Exactly what I’m hoping for.” There was only one wizard she could rely upon to stake the vampire who took it too far, and it certainly wasn’t the one in ridiculous jumpers.

Satisfied that she’d now gained her handsome and powerful escort, Miranda pushed herself back to her feet.
“We’ll go tonight.” she had no work tomorrow, a chance to recover should things go awry. “You can take me to dinner first. I fancy Italian.” Gerda was away and neither were particularly good at cooking.

Before leaving the living room, Miranda gave her husband’s arm a squeeze. There was, as ever, a certain attitude she exuded, but she was glad he’d agreed to come. Ignan was her rock, it would feel wrong to try such a thing without him there.

“… I fancy Italian.”

His surprise at her timing nearly made him miss the irony of her cuisine choice.

“Of course mi amore,” he muttered to the empty room, reaching for his newspaper once more, “yours with extra garlic…”

End