The whiskey burned her throat as it slipped down and recovering from the surprise, Miranda’s eyes watered marginally. Yet it was still an improvement on the wine the pub offered and it certainly went to her head a lot quicker!  Ignan seemed to find her surprise at the alcohol’s strength amusing but then he seemed to find pleasure in most things that caused mild misery or discomfort to others. That was something the couple appeared to have in common. Miranda never professed to be a particularly nice person.

And now Ignan was sat beside her, offering to pour another and asking a difficult question. The witch glanced to her side at him, thinking on her response. Well she wasn’t particularly sure. So she turned away from him for a moment and took out a packet of cigarettes. The beauty of these particular magical cigarettes was their lack of smell. Instead of the unpleasant lingering aroma of regular muggle ones, these released a pleasing, relaxing aroma that the healer very much appreciated on occasion.

So instead of responding to Ignan immediately, Elliot offered him a cigarette and busied herself with placing it between her lips and lighting it with the tip of her wand. She took in a deep breath; eyes closed as she inhaled the fumes and released them into the air.

“I don’t exactly have friends.” The witch commented, lowering the cigarette to grip between her fingers. She turned her head to glance him over with dark eyes. “We get along well. I like you. Your ability to recall how I drink my tea demonstrates the feeling is mutual. It would be wholly inappropriate to engage in relations with a colleague. Especially considering we currently reside in the same castle.”

Her eyebrows rose somewhat. “I suppose one could say my change of career has caused this turn of events.” After a pause, the witch’s eyes found his once more. “Unless you are uninterested.”

He declined the offered smoke with a gentle motion of his hand, not meaning to cause offence.

".. Your ability to recall how I drink my tea demonstrates the feeling is mutual…" Ignan gave a quiet snort at this, and nodded, it was very true. He would often forget the way people liked their tea if he didn't care much for them as colleagues.

"… wholly inappropriate to engage in relations with a colleague…" He glanced round in confusion - what had been the whole legs, the flirtation in which case?

"… my change of career has caused this turn of events. Unless you are uninterested."

"I agree," Ignan replied without hesitation, "engaging in relations with a colleague is wholly inappropriate, though not unheard of." His expression was rather schooled as he spoke, until the corner of his mouth curled.

"I'd be a fool not to be interested, Miranda," he assured her softly and raised his glass to take another sip. Sensibly speaking, he should have put the glass down earlier. Getting up in the morning was going to be more painful than usual.

"But I admit I am a little surprised you are interested. I can't say I was actively pursuing you, or anyone for that matter. This is not to say that you aren't a … highly intelligent, witty, incredibly astute and… beautiful woman, because you are all of those and far more, just that I thought you would never look twice at a wizard who spends his days terrorising teenagers for a living." He raised his hands in a shrug, now leaning at a bit of a tilt towards her, his arm brushing hers as he gestured.

"I'm not against the idea my dear, quite the opposite in fact."

It was surprising how much the two had become interested in each other’s company that Miranda hadn’t been aware of the goings on in the quiet pub. As Ignan spoke his peace the Healer rested her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and took her refilled whiskey tumbler between her fingers. He complimented her and stated how surprised he was by her interest. Miranda avoided his eye contact for the moment, not sure how to take such words. Obviously she knew how intelligent she was. She knew that she was attractive and witty. Even nearing fifty, with the streaks of grey appearing in her hair she looked good. She didn’t fake modesty about that point. But it was strange hearing this wizard say so.

He gave a shrug and his covered arm brushed her bare skin. Lips just above the whiskey tumbler, the healer offered a smile. “Someone needs to terrorise them.” Her dark eyes took in the wizard who seemed to have become even closer. Storm was older than her; he had a penchant for being grumpy and cold. But her healers when she’d been in charge had called her the ice witch and many other names to do with having a lack of heart. Ignan also had a similarly dark sense of humour, a brilliant intelligence and those piercing eyes.

“Well if you’re not against the idea, Professor Storm, you are for it.” Elliot’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

She took a long swig of the liquid and her features screwed up as it burned her throat. Her head was definitely starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. Suddenly a grin appeared on her features and she started laughing, covering her mouth with her spare hand. She leant forward closer to the wizard, glancing up at him.

“I don’t want to teach tomorrow.” Her hand dropped down to his knee. “Hangovers and age rarely mix.”

"… not against the idea, Professor Storm, you are for it." He nodded twice with more vigour than he might have before the drink.

The wizard watched the witch take another drink and smiled to himself at the way her features screwed up like a teenager trying alcohol for the first time. She laughed and leaned towards him, and their eyes met.

As she expressed her wish not to teach, she put her hand on his knee.

"Well, you'll never guess," Ignan explained in a hushed tone, putting his hand over hers, now close enough to inhale the scent lingering on her skin, "but you don't have to." He turned his head to his lips were close to her ear,
"Tomorrow's Saturday." He eased back ever so slightly to enjoy her expression at this revelation.

Squeezing her hand, he added,
"Fine wines improve with age, my dear."

With a raised eyebrow and a smirk, he took another sip of his whiskey to finish his glass and reached forward to place it down firmly on the table before them both, and used his now free hand to rub his lined forehead.

"But hangovers certainly don't, you are correct."

"Tomorrow's Saturday" The wizard's breath ticked Miranda's ear as he whispered.

Elliot's eyes widened and she sat back from Ignan for a moment. Well that was a turn-up for the books! A wonderful surprise.
"Really...?" Her lips twisted into a smile. Storm agreed about hangovers but Miranda decided she could worry about that in the morning.

So she used her spare hand to top up their glasses from the bottle they'd been happily working their way through.


So the continued to work on the bottle until they were on their final glasses.


The final empty glass was placed on the table and Miranda sat back on the seat, glancing over at her companion, her lips pursed.
"I think it's time to be sensible." She stated calmly. Next she looked at the empty tumbler once more with a look of concentration. "Right."

It took another few moments for the healer to pull her hand away from Ignan and push herself up from the chair. Her hands placed themselves on the table before her to stand up straighter but the heels were suddenly rather less comfortable. Therefore, without a moment's thought the witch slipped her feet from the heels and bent down to pick them up. She would not have made it back to the castle without a broken ankle. Even the drunk healer understood that.

"You're a bad influence." Elliot told her colleague with a grin. "I'd only agreed to two drinks."

"Sensible?" Ignan echoed, less coherent than ever - not at all helped by the tinge his accent left on his English. "Why by Merlin do we need to be sensible?!"

But she was really being sensible after all. The bottle was empty and the hour was drawing on, as Ignan realised when he consulted his pocket-watch from his waistcoat pocket. She stood up beside him and his hand instinctively reached out to let his fingertips touch her back over her dress. After what they'd drunk it wouldn't surprise him if she ended up back beside him on her chair.

His gaze lingered far longer than he would have let it before the two of them had become more friendly that evening, as she slid her shoes off.

"You did?" Ignan queried when she mentioned a limit on drinks. "But you were the one pouring them?" He gestured to the empty bottle and up at her and shrugged.
"What's done is done!"

He creaked to his feet beside her, his left hand found the small of her back and he gestured to her shoes.
"I'd suggest you charmed your feet, but in the circumstances, transfiguring your shoes is the safer option so you don't lose a foot." He chuckled. "How by Merlin you walk in them at the best of times, I do not know."

With his right arm he gestured to the door, so they could make their way out between the increasingly empty tables.
"Daren't apparate, might leave part of me behind. Don't want to do that again."

It was a couple more minutes before the couple stepped out onto the lane in Hogsmeade. Miranda’s robes were wrapped tightly around her and her shoes had been shrunk to fit in her pocket. Bare feet stepped onto the paving stones and the cold sensation felt somewhat refreshing. She linked arms with Ignan and they began to walk slowly in the correct direction.

As they walked through the village, Miranda leaned closer into Ignan and started to speak quietly.
“Tomorrow…” but now they weren’t sat beside one another and she was lacking the extra height her shoes had afforded her, he was too tall. So she stopped walking any further, planting bare feet still on the ground and she tugged him down perhaps a little more roughly than intended.

“Tomorrow…” she began once more, looking up at the German wizard. His accent had become stronger throughout the night yet so had hers. Her Devonshire twang had reared its head through alcohol. “I have to tell Eisenberg.” A smile soon appeared, revealing mild amusement at the idea. “He won’t be happy.” Her spare hand lifted up to her mouth, placing a finger over her lips. “I don’t think he likes me.”

It had been quite clear from the start of her time at Durmstrang that Elliot was different. She was the only English professor and she was perhaps a little too nice. She’d hadn’t agreed with specific Durmstrang punishments and had therefore been seen as soft while her peers in the UK thought of her as heartless. Trying to reach the happy medium was an endeavour she was glad to be giving up.

“You know…” The healer considered for a moment and turned to walk again. “I might enlighten him as to the martinet he is.”

The two of them stepped out into the night air, and despite himself, Ignan felt rather lighthearted about it all. Normally this walk was alone, or with male colleagues, not the rather lovely Miranda. She leaned closer to him, and raising his eyebrows he inclined a little to her to hear better, only to pulled to a stop.

"Tomorrow, I have to tell Eisenberg." A smile appeared across her lips, which Ignan enjoyed - as had been tugged down more to become nearer to face to face.
"Oh?" He asked,
"He won't be happy, I don't think he likes me." So easily he could have just told her not to worry, and taken her mind of it, but a finger touched her lips which Ignan's own fingers twitched by his sides to sweep away a moment so he could -.

"You know, I might enlighten him as to the martinet he is."

Ignan wondered as to how that would go down. Auberon might well enjoy being told that, rather than hating it, because he knew he kept a tight ship, and liked to have people ask how high whenever he told them to jump. That was the perk of being a headmaster at Durmstrang - your word was final, and everyone respected you. Elliot however, she probably gave him quite a bit of irritation if she decided not to give him the same respect. Not so different to Ignan, perhaps, who Auberon had undoubtedly danced joyously over the departure of two years previous, even if now they were on opposing teams and somewhat happier to work with each other. When one wasn't working in the other's pocket, it helped.

"You prefer to be disobedient, do you, Miranda?" Ignan asked, as she turned to walk back to the castle. His tone was reminiscent of his teaching tone, and he hadn't turned with her, but raised an eyebrow instead.
"Are you banking on him sacking you on the spot, perhaps? Not requiring you to work your notice?" His grasp on her arm was firm enough to demand her to stay a moment longer to hear him, but not so harsh as to alarm her or be downright impolite.

"Do you dislike a disciplined man?" He asked in a lower voice, closing the gap between them further in the dark road, his eyes bright amongst the shadows. He felt a younger man for the drink and the company - and didn't they say you were only as old as the woman you felt?

"Are you banking on him sacking you on the spot, perhaps? Not requiring you to work your notice?"

Ignan’s grip prevented her from stepping any further and Miranda turned back to look up at him. The alcohol had destroyed her ability to maintain a pokerface and instead her dark eyes betrayed her intrigue at the prospect. His fingers wrapped around her arm and his tone of voice surprised her. Yet it didn’t put her off. She was instead rooted to the spot as his bright piercing eyes stared down at her.
Of course the witch hadn’t considered the option of being fired. But it might have made life simpler. How she would have relished the delight of finally sharing her distaste for Auberon Eisenberg and the ridiculous demands he put on her as a member of his staff. In her drunken state it was an intoxicating idea.

"Do you dislike a disciplined man?" Storm asked quietly, deeply, as he leaned forward, closer to her in the darkness. Rouged lips parted and her eyes didn’t move from his. It was very possible her heart had stopped beating for a moment. Ignan Storm’ presence was powerful and his gaze made her feel weak at the knees. In this moment she was no longer the powerful healer that had just become the leader of the hospital and had spent the last 18 months torturing teenagers. Instead she was a witch in the arms of a wizard who made her feel very on edge. She’d not experienced this in many years.

“It depends on the man.” Her voice was a whisper.

"Hmm," the silver-haired wizard replied softly just to the witch before him, "even a martinet would not be wise to cross you."

The fingertips of his right hand curled gently, and found just beneath the point of her elegant chin. His sharp gaze held hers, though he could see her red lips were ever so slightly ajar. This was probably helped by the empty bottle back at the Hogs Head, but also helped by so many years alone with women disinterested.

"What about this man?" He asked, though the action was pretty much set before he uttered the question, and he leaned down, his lips reaching hers, and his left arm encircling her slender waist to allow for them to draw together further in the dark.

He'd hex anyone into St Mungo's if they dared interrupt. He just only hoped he hadn't lost the touch after so many years. But either way, that thrill that prickled when one was so close to another, when the anticipation led to the final action, danced across his flesh, and he decided firmly that even if Miranda pulled back and slapped him clean across the face, it was worth it.



End