It was nine long months since Dazmond had spent any time with her dear, Azkaban-bound husband in the flesh. 

The last time they touched he had pressed a lovely, stubbly kiss against her cheek as he hurried out of their room at #76, first for a shift washing dishes at Calaveras, then for a nice little neighborhood heist; just your typical start of the working week for the laboring classes of Knockturn Alley, they'd joked.  She wished now that she'd have not wanted him to do it; that she would have realized making good with Cinaed and the Alleyway lurkers out their front door wasn't worth a full turn of the Sun through the Zodiac apart from him.  Daz had been blinded by one too many complications, the both of them knocked off their centre of balance for one moment too long, wanting to make things right over blown up store fronts and some slips of tongue, all that time ago; it seemed so far away now, all so terribly inconsequential compared with their time away from each other. 

All the same, her journey to see him was not a simple one.  The road was paved with trauma triggers and fears - how would he handle seeing her, how would he handle her being taken away again?  Returning to his cold damp cell at the end of the visit?  It was Dominik encouraged her, more and more lately in their conversations.  He made it seem so much simpler than it was in her busy mind - the way he said so definitively, 'Daz, you've got to go, made her understand - it was so simple and stupid, but somewhere in that obvious statement spoken by her older brother was the courage she'd needed to gather - to make this voyage on the wispy sea.

And to seal that fate, a package had arrived in the mail for her.  A thick arrangement of official court papers worthy of Theodora Kingstreet's filing cupboard.  And with this sheath of stamped and ordered parchments came a nearly incomprehensible surprise - she'd had his release date wrong this entire time!  She'd stared at those loopy cursive words for a lifetime - due for release from Azkaban Prison on the 16th day of April in the year 2010 - and she couldn't believe it until she'd had it run by both her brother and her parents, and when they all agreed she wasn't reading it wrong she owled in to confirm with the Ministry.  It was true, it was bloody true!  The sly bastards'd counted his initial time in lock up towards his sentence!  He'd be home exactly 126 days sooner than she thought!  This was the revelation of the century for Daz; she didn't know how she hadn't known the correct date of her own husband's release but it changed everything.  A thousand pounds disappeared off of her shoulders and she felt Brave, braver then she'd felt all year. 

Yes, brave enough even to board the ferry to Azkaban.

It was as terrible a voyage as you would expect it to be; she was sure they'd just crossed over some threshold between the worlds.  If it wasn't horrendous enough all on its own, memories of her snapped cocobolo wand and close brush with death in the cold open waters of the Inner Hebrides helped make her more than a little sea sick and kept her sitting on the verge of panic as she watched the rolling waves.  Out of the sight of shore's safety, the waters churned and rollicked.  It was February, frigid and windy and misting. 

Dazmond was almost relieved when the ferry docked, though the delusion that she had somehow reached safety was completely antithetical to everything she knew about Azkaban Prison.  It was spellbinding to look at it.  The look and feel of that old stone fortress was thoroughly unnerving, and Dazmond imagined that she was sensing some echoes left behind by the dementors that used to float around here icily, preying on the souls of prisoners, or perhaps it was merely the residue of despair that clung like moisture to the air.  It had never seemed as real as it did now that she was standing here.  A potent shiver ran over her, giving her goosebumps; the thought of her brother very nearly ending up here, the fact that Nathan of all people was within those walls right now....  She fingered the evil eye pendant hanging at her neck, feeling spooked, and followed the lead of the stoic guards who quite easily towered over her.

He wouldn't know she was coming, was the impression she got from this whole process.  Though she wondered if he would, after all, somehow sense her closeness sometime before she was led into the visitation chambers where he waited....

The passing of time was only marked by meals - otherwise, the daily routine seemed to have no rhyme or reason.  The same things happened often enough, apparently at regular intervals.  But they changed order, their durations varied.  The sky was always the same kind of grey and drizzly.

So when he was interrupted from a meal, he didn't know which one it actually was.  But he did know that today was #150.  Or maybe #151.  Or #115.  He'd always been shit holding numbers in his head.  The guards took him between them and as usual, he didn't know why.  It could be an inspection of his bunk, a health check against hexes or insomnia, or perhaps they were just rearranging the pieces again.  He'd stopped asking somewhere around #75.

"It's a visitor," one of the guards told him.  "Lucky dog."

He couldn't allow his spirits to brighten all that much.  It could be Jowd again, the batty bloke from the Dept of Mysteries who still had a bone to pick.  Could be Trevelyan, the keen Auror who liked slumming it with Good Will Huntings like himself.  Could be his lawyer.  Could be Cinead Tawse come to kill him in disguise. 

---

"Ma'am, this way.  You know the rules."  The guard began to drone off a list of instructions that had become rote, the sounds coming rapidly and without inflection.

"Your cousin is a prisoner of Azkaban.  Your visit here today is a privilege and can be revoked at any time for reasons security, punitive, or administrative.  Do not touch the barrier.  If you attempt to touch the barrier or pass anything through the barrier the visit will be over and you may be injured.  You must check your wand and any loose objects at this time.  All items in your pockets or person, unless they have been inspected and pre-approved prior to you arrival here, must be placed in this container at this time.  You may retrieve them when you leave.  Vulgar language and gestures are prohibited at all times.  Violation of any of these rules will result in the visit being over and charges may be filed against you. Do you understand, check this box and sign here."

She held the clipboard out, an inkpen dangling by a chain.

---

They led Nate into the empty room.  The shimmering magical Vidris Curtain illuminated everything in acid green.  The door in his side was barely closed before the one opposite was opening.  At first, he didn't see who it was come to visit, but as soon as he did, he sank against the back wall. 

Dazmond.  His love. His wife.  His shining black star.  His curse.  He was filled with relief, shame and pain to see her.  All bound up in happiness and contentment.

He was aware of what he must look like to her.  Thinner, ragged, and dressed like a prisoner.  There were stripes on his clothes and a number on his chest.  He was a nightmare they'd both dreamed of. 

"Is it my birthday?" he asked, his voice cracking.  He'd been trying very hard to not care for one hundred and fifty days.  he shock of feeling it again was disorienting.

Following the guide of the guards, all the proper paths and procedures, Daz was made hyper aware of everything around her, half distracted by her mind's imagining of Nate and his experiences of this place, her subconscious grabbing onto every detail. 

They made quick to strip away any remnants of security she had on her person, the sources of strength and power she'd brought along with her.  It was the work of Azkaban Prison to take away, wasn't it.  Into the box went her wand, a satchel of herbs, a handful of gems, crystals and moon-glass.  She made like she was finished and the guard motioned to her pendant. Really, she thought, they must never have been hugged as children!  So in went the gold rung nazar disk from round her neck as well.  Perhaps they thought she'd enchanted it.  That or they were trying to punish her for her way of life by taking away, taking away, taking away.  It was easy to be paranoid in such a place.

But they gave her the one most important thing, and that was Nathan's pretty face.  To look at, but never to touch. 

On entering the chambers she was distracted by the bright, translucent barrier glowing green in a sea of drab grey, crackling and moving subtly in a way that suggested volatility - stability through motion - a biting barrier that demanded the compliance of mere mortals.  But her eyes refocused to the world beyond, the world he was a part of now, and after a fleeting moment of cognitive dissonance, she realized fully that it was him.

Her heart worked quickly on all the worries consumed her these last nine months, as she went forward to make the distance disappear as much as possible, to see him better.  Her mouth parted; words failed.  She came as close as she could without testing the fortitude of his prison's boundaries.

"Yes," she said; she didn't know why she said it.  Was it just the most comforting choice of word for such a moment?  She'd missed his last two birthdays.  She was really rubbish as a wife.  She'd only just learned she wouldn't miss his next one.  When he got out she vowed that would all change - she'd not tolerate forces keeping them apart any longer.  Not Mister Malvivicus, not Azkaban, not her ambition nor her purist relatives and friends.  Nothing.

She shook her head to correct her strange lie, glittering gaze held on him - her shaggy bearded husband in the anonymous garb of the punished.  "February 15th," she said.  "Valentine's."  Yesterday's holiday wasn't her reason for coming but it did add some momentum and significance to the existent catalyst.  Aside from the obvious sentiment for wanting to pay a visit to her sweetheart at such a time, she was - very much her father's daughter - aware of the mythology of martyrdom associated with the holiday... and it was an interesting symbolic overlap that appealed to her Witch's storybook brand of imaginings.  Saint Valentine imprisoned and executed for marrying lovelorn soldiers.  And theirs was a love that was frowned upon, a love that was smarter and prettier than all the other loves in all the world, which were only counterfeit by comparison.  It was a love which would easily survive All This!

"Nate," she said sadly.  "Nathan, you handsome devil, I've missed you terribly.  You're coming home soon.  I haven't burned it down yet."  She peered beyond the barrier at him, trying to discern how he was.  Was he really all right?  Had they broken him?

They'd always threatened to arrest Dazmond.  She was full on criminal and had a sheet, or so they'd told her.  He'd never hoped that she'd risk herself and come here.  But there she was on the freedom side of the green screen.  He looked on the edge of crying.  He looked at the ceiling and back at her. 

She was there, each part of her in its spot.  The black-as-coal hair, curly on the ends like she liked it.  Dark shadows around her eyes, elbows pointy.  Her feet were there at the bottom in boots.  Her nose.  She was unadorned.  They would have taken her things, wouldn't they.  He pushed himself up to standing again, crossed his arms and came up to the curtain.  He had to keep his fingers in check lest he destroy himself to have a touch.

"I didn't get you anything, Dazmond," he said, his voice a whisper.  A joke that didn't need telling.  They'd never cared for Valentine's.

She'd said something about their home.  The single room in Knockturn - two if you counted the bathroom.  The fireplace big enough for three cauldrons or a full-grown person to Floo into (if it had ever been connected to the Network).  Their round table with the mismatched chairs.  The bed.  Dazmond's shelf of bottles.  The plant that sat in the window.

"How'd you come here?" he asked, his eyebrows all concerny.

A wry little smile.  Only Nate could do it to her here.  It was sad and bittersweet - no real joviality behind it, but it didn't matter.  She recognized him.  This moment, she wanted to live it to the fullest.

How she came here was quite the question though; Dazmond wasn't sure she understood it herself.  By ferry was the most obvious answer, but she knew that wasn't what he was asking.  She'd assumed in the beginning that there would be no avenue for her to come visit, though for months that had been her prerogative, to find out how to do it, how to come to him and to be at his side during this the most terrible of circumstances - the greatest fear they both lived with for years.  Only they rightfully expected it would be her behind that barrier.  Certainly not Nate.  He was not a criminal and he certainly didn't deserve this.  Not even for what he'd done!  By her logic, it was the system that was in error.

"I'd gone to Jonas," she started.  "What was it?  Back in November I think.  Said he'd have a talk with Cameron Rosier to get the papers signed.  Merlin was smiling down on us with Rosier, too, because Dolly was in bed with the bloke and, wouldn't you know he's very fond of Dominik!"  Always nice to capitalize on familial connections.  Wasn't that the Wiedman way. 

There was more to it than that, though.  The question for the longest time was whether or not she, too, with her colourful rap sheet, would be given the privilege of visiting her closest family in the most restricted environment Ever. If she was allowed visitation, there came the second question:  At what price?  For a Witch like Dazmond, a little extra assistance was usually called for.

She was a wealth of information.  She knew the black market like the palm of her own hand.  It was hard to tell with the crimson guard - what their play was.  Naturally they looked after their own interests.  The fact that they often let her alone to live so freely when they obviously suspected she had a hand in nefarious business was sometimes worrisome.  Cushy!  But she was always wondering what they were up to.  They'd used her before for their own purposes, made deals and the like.  There had been close brushes.  It was a strange balancing act she'd had to learn, just to not lose her good reputation among others who considered themselves anti-Ministry.  Luckily, she hadn't had to compromise any of her personal connections.  The information they'd wanted had to do with some bigger fish she'd encountered in the Hebrides.

"In exchange I cooperated in giving some - pertinent Information," she finished.  She was quick to add - "Nothing that should at all come back to us.  Or compromise anything.  Actually I'd feel a whole lot safer if it does help the Aurors and what they want to come out of it."  She gave a little sigh.  Ironically, she was capitalizing off of her own traumatic experiences here.  She wouldn't have had the information Jonas was after if she hadn't been abducted twice and bloody tortured; thankfully that awful Wizard Terry Katsaros was no longer in the employ of Mister Malvivicus, so she could give Jonas all the facts she had on him and pray it didn't get back to her boss.  Really, what would he care if his former employee bit the dust?  Even if he did, it wouldn't look to be Dazmond's fault!

"They've been very civil and normal in dealing with me since," she explained, attributing their leniency to the opinion that she had people on their side.  It was a precarious belief to hold, that one could actually, legitimately trust an Auror.  But what else could it be?  Jonas Trevelyan really was an asset thus far in their interactions, other than the whole Working for Kronos bit.  At the very least Jonas had helped her believe that she, too, would have the privilege of visiting her closest family, and gave her some backing to pursue it when she was feeling much less bold than usual.   

"I could have come somewhat sooner and I'm horridly sorry I didn't.  It isn't that I was scared, it's just...."  She looked at him.  Shrugged sorrily.  "Yes I guess I was.  Scared." 

Jonas? Nate narrowed his eyes, distracted for a second from Dazmond's tale.  Wait, she meant Jonas Trevelyan, The Cheerful Auror.  The one he'd recently sent to bother old Mrs. Sellaphix.  He'd forgotten that Dazmond and Jonas were acquainted and again an upwelling of distrust for their so-called protectors in red surfaced.  But it sounded like this capable tiny which he'd cloven himself to had them all strung along, neat-like.

He was paying attention to what she was saying, but most of his brain was consumed by her face. Her moving mouth, her careful eyes.  Her neck, her stance, the sound of her voice, a series of syllables in her particular tone.  He was drinking her in, missing her with abandon.  It was dreadfully difficult to stay here in this moment.  He kept picturing her walking out the door.

Then she told him she was scared.  He shrugged and shook his head.  "This is a scary place."

But he had a question that had been bothering him.  "Tawse."  He swallowed a lump in his throat.   This robbery had been a way to pay of his debt for destroying Tawse's pub and pup, but the caper had been a bust.  The object of desire was in the wind - or if all had gone well, back where it belonged.  And more to the point, Tawse hadn't ever received it. 

"Have you seen him?"

Dazmond nodded shortly.  She had. 

A shiver of shame ran through her on recalling the Werewolf fights.  Somehow looking Nate in the eyes and recalling all that made guilty pleasure less than a viable excuse for her attendance. 

"Don't worry," she said firm and gently.  "Not about that."

She believed that she had the great runeclaw bear of a man, Cinaed Tawse, entirely on her side; that Nate would always remain protected as her dearly wedded partner.  They hadn't had a chance to discuss it, though.  Actually Dazmond had been hoping to reach out to Cinaed again soon and 'catch up' as he had suggested.  It was just... difficult to contact the Wizard fugitive in months past, at least for a social visit.  Now there were some whispers on the wind and she thought that she could very well get through to him again.  But she did understand Nate's concerns, and they weren't unfounded.  In times past, many a threat was made.  Something about turning Nate into an adorable little trench coat for Seamus?

"He - didn't mention you, but it was clear he and I are on best terms," assured Dazmond.  "We'll have a chat and it will all be done with, I'm sure.  You've paid in time.  He's sure to understand that."  If nothing else, given their peculiar relationship she could have carte blanche in begging Cinaed not to bring any harm upon her cherished and well-meaning husband.  Her confidence in such a scenario working out in their favour was quite high.

"It'll be all right, love; I'll see to it." 

Nathan watched Dazmond closely.  Tried to take in every hint of content from her face, her shoulders, her eyes and voice.  The way she said don't worry only made him worry.  What was she sad about?

She was being so reassuring.  Why? Should he feel reassured? Or should her assurance only serve to assure that nothing was as sure as it seemed?  What was going on in Knockturn? Nate had to suppose, though, that what Dazmond said about Cinead Tawse had to be true, that he'd understand the price that one paid in Azkban.  If his tattoos and wandless status were any indication, if the rhetoric of the Wizarding Blood Alliance was genuine.

And yet... it was hard to tell the frying pan from the fryer. 

She said she loved him.  That she had him sorted.  Dazmond's shadow didn't cast very long, but it was a solid sort of place to be.  He frowned and sighed shakily.  Shit.  He felt fecking fragile and disarmed.  He wanted to feel happy to see her, but he just felt...stress.

"That Auror said he might be able to get me a Daily Prophet once in a blue moon," he said, trying to make conversation happen.  Sort out business while he had the chance.  "You know anything about that?"