For the first time in many years Miranda Elliot felt mildly nervous. 15 minutes ago she had stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, staring at the reflection. She looked tired. The makeup had somewhat covered the bags forming from long hours sat at a desk going through paperwork but she was also acutely aware of the multiplying strands of grey highlighting her otherwise dark hair. Mira was getting older; her current living situation with an adult daughter and a grandchild in the house was proving to highlight this fact very well.

Now she was stood at the gate, the address Ignan had given her in hand. The house looked practically abandoned, something left alone for years to become unloved and untended to. The area that had once been the front garden was overgrown, weeds sprouting between slaps and long grass growing, a haven for insects and creatures. Miranda was not quite so sure she wanted to touch the gate, neither was she certain this was the right address. She hadn’t been sure what to expect of Storm’s home. He wasn’t the sort to have frilly pink cushions or a fountain in the garden with perfectly laid cobblestones leading to a flower surrounded door. Neither, she had thought, was he the kind to live in a house as unloved and uncared for as this.

Nevertheless, the witch slowly made her way up what was left of the path and raised a hand to knock on the door. Whilst waiting for the wizard to come to the door, Elliot stepped back and started to survey the property with pursed lips.

The door began to swing open.
“Not too early I hope.” Miranda was in fact half an hour later than the time he’d invited her for. But the wizard stood at the door wasn’t Ignan.

“Thank Merlin…” she muttered under her breath. “He doesn’t live here.” Then her eyes met the wizard at the door once more. “Sorry to be a bother. Ignan Storm. Which house is he?”

"You're cooking?" Johann's jaw hung slack in the kitchen doorway. Late afternoon light fell in through the short windows beside the back door that led out up onto the hillside.

"What of it?" Ignan asked from the stove, tending to mismatched pans, even wearing a tartan apron. Johann had to raise a hand to stifle a laugh.

"I've never seen you cook anything here - you let Gerda cook." He gestured to the house elf who was polishing cutlery and piling plates while keeping a sharp eye on her master like a cookery teacher.

"That's because I'm hardly ever here, and you don't cook either."

Gerda hoisted the crockery and passed Johann in the doorway, nudging him accidentally with the plates in the thigh.

"Gerda's setting the dining table. We never eat at the dining table." He pointed out of the door behind him into what was once the classroom that the ghost upstairs had taught his students in before meeting a sticky end with a hippogriff.

"Are those flowers?"

Turning away from the stove his older cousin looked irritated, his white hair ruffled.
"Yes, and I've one more thing to show you," flicking his wand to turn down the heat, he stalked across the kitchen and Johann had to hurriedly retreat into the living room.

"The door." Ignan spoke firmly, pointing at the front door which led into the living room, beside a line of hooks and a shoe rack that was full of boots.

"Hmm, yes, it's been there all along, I use it daily." Johann replied, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I mean you need to go out tonight, and stay out."
"Are you evicting me?"

Ignan waved a hand hurriedly, not wanting to discuss details it appeared.
"No, just for the night, I've got visitors."
"And there was me thinking I'd forgotten it was my birthday." Johann replied, figuring it was probably some meet up of professors or boring farts over fifty. Still, bit of a pain to be kicked out of the house at such short notice. He'd have to find a sofa - insomnia would be very handy to have back.

"Alright. How long have I got?"
"About fifteen minutes." Hearing a pan clatter from the kitchen, Ignan vanished again, and Johann grumbled to himself in Gerda's earshot, about to stalk off to change quickly when there was a knock at the door. Curiosity getting the better of him, he went to answer it without telling Ignan his boring mates were here already. With any luck, he could persuade them to let him join them so he could have some food and then vanish upstairs.

Hauling the front door open, it had been sticking and they hadn't fixed it yet, he revealed a tall, slender built woman with long dark hair and gave a start.

"Not too early I hope." She remarked from the doorstep. Johann wasn't able to make his mouth form words for a moment, really not having expected to have seen a witch on the doorstep, nor one that was probably classed as 'good looking' due to her symmetrical features, slight build and keen gaze.

"Sorry to be a bother. Ignan Storm. Which house is he?"

"He's not a house but a wizard, and in the kitchen." Johann eventually replied, "He's expecting you?" He pulled open the door, feeling rather under dressed even though he was in an open necked shirt and trousers with socks on his feet. He had inky hands from working for private clients all day, and was unaware he'd smudged it on his chin.

"Come in, sorry." He ushered the strange lady inside, wondering where he'd seen her before, and then it clicked.

"Professor Elliot, isn't it?" He asked, shoving at the door to get it to budge shut again. "You're with the Durmstrang team at the Tournament." His mind was already leaping six jumps ahead as to why Ignan was shoving him out of the door so soon.

"You must be here to talk about the Tournament I guess, the fourth task and all being next weekend."

Gerda purposely pinched the back of his calf. Ignan had given her instructions to do that to him, argh!

"Master Storm requests you leave now."
"In a minute!" He hissed at the elf, who pinched him hard again, so that Johann's polite smile to Miranda because a grimace of pain.

"He's not a house but a wizard, and in the kitchen." The lanky wizard in the doorway responded and suddenly Miranda’s nerves at seeing Ignan outside of the castle vanished. She failed to stifle a surprised laugh, raising her hand to cover her mouth, eyes bright with amusement. Language was a funny thing and this obviously foreign wizard hadn’t seemed to have grasped part of the English one.

“He is.” Miranda responded to his question and stepped past him into the house. As she stepped in, the German wizard decided he knew her and she turned back to him, eyebrows raised. She was about to correct him about being with Durmstrang when he made an assumption about the reason of her visit. Perhaps Ignan would prefer for him to think so. Therefore the witch offered a small smile and nodded assent.

A house elf suddenly appeared and told the wizard to leave. And he was suddenly grimacing at her. Miranda frowned and looked past him towards the rest of the house.
“Professor Storm!” she called. “I’m here to discuss the fourth task!”

Dark eyes scanned to the grimacer once more, a look of mild concern on her features. “Are you quite ok?” Was he hurt or just slightly unstable? Was Ignan housing someone who would do better at St Mungos?

In retrospect he probably should have said something to Johann earlier, but he had been banking on the younger wizard having a social life, or perhaps, going out on a date with his boyfriend[1], though Ignan never quite knew how to broach that subject now he knew.

Still, he'd be out of the house in fifteen minutes, Gerda had instructions to apply her fingers to nip him out of the door if he was slow about it. Least Johann could expect considering Ignan was letting him stay in the place for minimum financial inconvenience.

He stirred the gravy once more, wondering if it was a disaster, if he'd be able to walk down to that shop that was open late at night - Johann had explained it was a 'chip shop' and Muggles and wizarding kind alike, as the village had both, would purchase battered fish and chips. He knew where Johann kept a stash of Muggle money in the house, he would reimburse his relative.

"Professor Storm! I'm here to discuss the fourth task!"

Mira's voice rang out from the next room and the bottom of his stomach fell out. Please tell me the house elf let her in, his mind thought, as he seized a nearby metal spoon, inspected his reflection and straightened his white hair with the sweep of a hand. She was early!

Almost forgetting he was wearing the apron, he stopped just before he was visible and discarded it.

"Professor Elliot how good to see you," he greeted smoothly, taking in the scene, his eyes lingering most on her appearance than his house elf inflicting minor pain on his extended family.

"Johann was just leaving." He gave a forced little smile.

"Apparently so." Johann near yelped.

"You can stop pinching him now Gerda." The forced smile turned into a genuine smirk. "Sorry, I didn't want to put you in a position Johann, seeing Miranda here when you work for the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Miranda, my apologies, this is my cousin Johann, he's been house sitting while I'm at Hogwarts."

Johann dipped his head respectfully making his way to reach his coat by the door and find some shoes, perhaps finally realising the longer he stood there, the higher the chance Ignan would feel inclined to obliviate him.

"Pleasure to meet you, though can't stay." While everyone was nicely distracted, Gerda snuck past and tended to what remained of the cooking in the kitchen.

Once the front door had closed with a jolt behind Johann, Ignan let out a sigh of relief and approached Miranda at last.

"I'm so sorry my dear, here let me take your cloak."

1.	April 13 I Prefer Badgers These Days

The interaction between cousins made it difficult for Miranda to school a plain expression. She found herself smirking in amusement as dark eyes danced between both wizards. Ignan explained Johann’s presence there and practically tried to throw him out of the front door. Mira was happy to watch the two for a moment before Johann was pulling on his coat and stepping out of the door.

“Pleasure…” She murmured before the door was shut and Ignan was moving closer.

"I'm so sorry my dear, here let me take your cloak." Now Miranda’s eyes took in her host carefully. It was most bizarre seeing him in different circumstances yet she had actually found herself missing him this past week. She wasn’t sure how she felt about such thoughts or feelings!

“Don’t apologise. It’s good to have your cousin confirm you’re not a house.” The healer grinned and shook her head, evidently still amused.  She stepped forward, closer to Storm and leant forward, her lips pressing against his for a moment.

Turning her back on Ignan, well-practiced fingers undid the tie of her cloak (this taking a slight longer than usual due to a still bandaged hand[1]) and she released it from her shoulders, allowing it to fall into Ignan’s grasp. She removed her hat and reached towards him, placing it on his head.
“Your front garden needs work, Ignan. Most unwelcoming.” And without further invitation the witch left the entrance and followed the direction of the smell.

1.	Miranda was bitten by a patient on her first day back at St Mungo's

"Not a house?" Ignan echoed, at a loss at to what she meant, but well conversations with Johann could end up in the oddest places. His thoughts were interrupted by her lips meeting his, and he reciprocated, eyes closing for that instant.

Now everything was right again.

As his lover turned to take off her cloak he noticed her bandaged hand. First week on the job and she was already her own, or someone else's patient! He caught her cloak and swept it away with a well-practiced sweep, folding it over his arm and straightening the collar, looking for space to hang it. Miranda landed her hat on his thinning hair and he looked up at the brim above his eyebrows in amusement.

"Your front garden needs work, Ignan. Most unwelcoming."

"It all does," he admitted, hanging up her cloak and taking a surreptitious glance of himself in her hat in the mirror before hanging it up too.

"Come end of term, it will be an occupation for summer to right it all." He followed her through towards the kitchen where she had already progressed.

The ceiling height was lower, the beams only a few inches higher than Ignan's head, and the window was low and only a foot and a half high, just above the line of the sink. It looked out on the hills and the equally ratty back garden, which had a gate set into the wall at the very far end, that was hanging off its hinges.

Several hooks above the window were empty, their pans on the stove, and a mixture of copper and other alloys, none of them matching. But the tiled floor space was dominated by the kitchen table, which was where ordinarily the Storms would eat, and above the kitchen hearth on the thin mantle was a stack of post (one from an electricity supplier, such chancers considering no electrician had ever stepped foot inside). The pile was propped beneath a large cream-faced kitchen clock whose ticking was barely noticeable until one realised it was there. Altogether it was homely, and one area of the house that had seen some paint. Gerda kept it spotless, well, until Ignan had taken charge of cooking that afternoon.

"Ah, Gerda, thank you for stepping in there." The house elf was upon a stool at the stove, checking and hastily hiding the pots of seasoning she was adding, critical of Ignan's cooking and knowing she could do far better. She didn't want to offend her master by him witnessing her seasoning and fixing the dinner. 

"Wine?" Ignan asked, more to Mira this time, drawing his wand to chill the bottle of elf white wine that would go with the chicken pie he'd been fretting over for the past Merlin-knows how many hours.

He poured two glasses, handed one to her, and put the rest on the dining table. His gaze once again lingered on her hand before ushering her out of the kitchen and into the living room, where as Johann had noticed earlier, he'd actually gone as far as buying flowers.

"To tell you the truth," he lowered his voice as she passed close by, "I was cooking up until just then, but it's been a while. Would you think terribly of me if I let her finish things for us?" Ignan asked, looking genuinely sheepish.

"Now, tell me about how things have been? I can't help but notice you've already tried to lose your fingers?"

Now this was better. Unlike the overgrown garden and the rundown entrance, the kitchen was homely and cosy. It showed signs of use, a room that was frequented and appreciated enough to keep in a pleasant manner. It was wizardly and haphazardly put together but she liked it. More than the garden at least. Heeled feet made their way to the window which she glanced out of. Past the disappointment of the garden, the view was pleasant. At least he was planning to work on the place throughout the summer.

She didn’t need to judge him after all.

"Ah, Gerda, thank you for stepping in there." It was only when Ignan spoke to someone else in the room that Miranda turned and noticed the house elf propped up on the stool, concealing something from her master. Yet Mira said nothing. She gratefully accepted the wine from Ignan and followed his signalling towards what turned out to be the living room. Another bare and masculine room. There was no doubt that no woman lived here.

“Let her save the day?” The healer’s brow rose as she watched Ignan. “I didn’t have you down as a cook, Storm.”

But then he made mention of the bandage and dark eyes glanced down at her right, injured hand.
“It’s not been healing as fast as it should. Just a bite. I’m out of practice on defensive spells and body binding. No harm done.” She brushed it off with a shake of the head and lowered her hand. She was out of practice with them because she’d never been any good in the first place. “There’s a lot to be done there. I’ve not had a decent night sleep since Saturday.”

"Well, I trust your judgement on that, healer." Ignan gave her a nod, though his expression still looked a fraction concerned. 'Just a bite' was what werewolves said after they'd been bitten and were in denial.

"You must be dead on your feet. Though, you look well." Was that the right thing to say? She did look good. Well, too late now. The house elf was in the nick of time with dinner, further evidence that he was going to overcook it after all.

Putting down his wine, he drew a chair at the dinner table for Mira while Gerda landed the pie and assorted bowls of vegetables onto the table between them, bowing out and closing the kitchen door behind her. Had Ignan known that Miranda had taken more of a liking to the kitchen, he'd have stopped trying to impress her quite so much and have them eat in there.

"What have you discovered so far, that's kept you awake at night?" He asked as he sliced the pie into portions for them both. "Or is it going to put us off dinner?"

“It wouldn’t put me off my dinner.” Mira smirked across the table at the professor. It would take an awful lot to put the healer off her food considering what she’d encountered almost every day for 30 years. The gruesome, blood and gore was her life stock. To say she enjoyed it may have been overkill. Yet she was undoubtedly used to it. But what she was finding out she was not used to.

Before going into any detail, Miranda allowed Ignan slicing up the pie to be an opportunity to consider an answer. They didn’t really share things. Or they had only really done so once and that had been short and not something either had fancied repeating. Talking about work had been different when it had been the same for each. Now Ignan was continuing to terrorise teenagers and Miranda was drowning under mountains of paperwork and hysterical healers who all wanted a piece of her and her budget.

“Being the boss isn’t as rewarding as I’d hoped.” She commented honestly, fingers encircling the wine glass. “The previous head healer was…” the witch looked down, searching for the right word. “Well, the records are a mess, it looks like a troll has organised the funding and the governors want me to have shown progress by the end of June.” He didn’t need to know her father was one of these governors.

The wine glass was elevated into the air. “I have a feeling I will be turning to drink. You don’t mind dating a borderline alcoholic do you?” It wasn’t exactly clear if Miranda was joking or being serious. One rarely could tell. She took a sip of the wine and reached to start placing some veg on her plate.

“I’m impressed Chef Storm, the pie looks edible.” She smiled across at him, eyes mischievous. “Perhaps even pleasant.”

He smirked a little at her comment about it not putting her off her food. It might him, he'd diverted his mind from visualising some of her healing stories in the past.

The food made a steady path between both plates with the gentle scrape and clatter of spoons and cutlery against bowls and plates. Eating together and serving each other wasn't entirely foreign given that was the norm at the Hogwarts staff table.

"… you don't mind dating a borderline alcoholic do you?"

"No, as long as you share the bottle." Ignan remarked, letting Mira serve herself vegetables before he did, poking his slice of pie with trepidation. It had been so long since he'd cooked properly - last summer he'd been back and forth and guest or tenant abroad or with family who had cooked or had elves. He had potentially tried too hard - cooking had never been his distinct talent, just a necessity and no real joy.

"… the pie looks edible…"

He mirrored her smile, and raised his glass to meet hers.
"The proof of the pie is in the eating."



The walk to the chip shop thankfully was not a long one, though Ignan could not recall feeling so mortified in quite a long time. The pie might have looked impressive, had unfortunately seen the best part of the salt somehow during its creation. It was beyond him how it had happened, and it was unlikely the elf had sabotaged it later. It didn't take it well when he had explained they would find food elsewhere, but at least they'd be out of the house for however it chose to tell itself off.

"Now you know why the elf does the cooking." Ignan remarked, embarrassed as they walked. He had offered Mira his arm, and had even donned his top hat to match her hat. It had escaped him that Muggles didn't wear these any more unless they were at horse racing on a special day or attending some royal event.

"It's not because I enjoy it, but because the food is actually edible. I'm sorry Mira, you must think me a fool." 

A tart salty taste lingered on the Head Healer’s tongue despite the glass of wine she’d emptied in an attempt to rid herself of the aftertaste. Thank Merlin Ignan hadn’t had a hand in making the wine! He had a lot of things in his favour; the dark sense of humour and intelligence were the forerunners. Nevertheless, cooking was something the wizard certainly had yet to master. Miranda pondered that he’d not become a virtuoso anytime in the near future. It was most fortunate the wizard spent the majority of his time at Hogwarts being fed and had inherited the house elf. Indeed, the pie had looked deceptively edible. The crust had appeared flakey and delightful, the filling warm and well cooked.

Still, despite the appearance of his creation, the couple were walking arm in arm through the small half wizarding village in search of the chip shop. Now Miranda had sampled the merchandises in these shops as a child. Her older brothers had brought her along as a secret, not to tell their parents. They’d enjoyed handling the muggle money and pretending to be those dim witted muggles their folks had always talked about. Such chip shops were dotted practically everywhere in Devon. Miranda had believed as a child that muggles sustained themselves with greasy chips and fish surrounded by crispy brown coats.

Now Mira could have told Ignan he didn’t need to be sorry. He’d made the effort and that was what had counted. She could have insisted that she liked rectangular potatoes and fish in coats, anyway. She could have kissed him and said he hadn’t gone down in her estimations when he said she must think he was a fool.

Instead the healer laughed.

“I suggest you let the elf continue to do the cooking.” She grinned, evidently finding the situation amusing: especially his reaction to the event. “When the recipe says a pinch of salt, they don’t mean a giant’s pinch. Just a regular wizard’s.”

Now they’d arrived at the destination. The sign above the door proudly read ‘The Good Plaice’ in bright glimmering illuminated letters. People inside stood in a queue, all facing one direction much like muggles always seemed to enjoy. Yet as they stepped inside, a few heads turned from their very exciting staring at the back of one another’s head. Several pairs of eyes widened, especially when Miranda walked straight to counter.

A muggle woman started tutting and shaking her head in distaste. Mira’s lips pursed and she glanced to her side at Ignan.
Of course! Muggles had strange manners. Miranda remembered the book she’d read at school in third year.
“We should take our hats off in here. Muggles find it rude.” She muttered quietly to her companion and removed her own hat.

"A giant's!" He echoed and chuckled at her explanation, eyes creasing up at the corners of his eyes as he gave a genuine smile - an expression most people never witnessed, but Mira was able to tease out of him.

Mira led the way in, Ignan noting a few of the people inside staring at them. It was quite noisy inside, and bright. Behind a great big metal counter there were a few more people who were staring down at what they were doing. The air was filled with the smell of cooking fat and it was very warm indeed.

He followed suit as Mira took off her hat, though the Muggles didn't stop staring, and the one who was tutting received a very odd look from Ignan, who assumed she was tutting about Mira's appearance.

"There's a queue y'know!" Eventually one voice piped up, belonging to a spotty young man who looked young enough to still be at Hogwarts, had he not been a Muggle.

Ignan touched Mira's elbow on realising what he meant.
"Might be easier to pretend we're foreign, they seem more unforgiving here if you do, Johann told me."

Despite the wait, it didn't take all that long to be served, and it was Mira's turn to stare as Ignan's accent changed dramatically towards his German roots. Brought up bilingual and working and living in Britain the German only tinged the edge of his accent and only tended to really stick out on certain words or when he got angry.

However, he had adopted the strategy when forced to converse with Muggles to give them an easy reason to understand his inexperience with money, or Muggle ways of doing things.

He had to repeat the order a couple of times to be understood, and the Muggles in the shop continued to have a good gawp in the process, the tutting woman retrieved her order from the counter beside them and muttered to the others waiting,
"Germans now, as if we don't have enough weird people here."

"There's a queue y'know!" a teenaged muggle blurted out and Miranda’s head snapped around to him, her eyes narrowing and expression evolving into the look she gave disrespectful students back at Durmstrang or Hogwarts. Ignan muttered to Miranda about his new plan but she continued to stare across at the rude teenager who wanted them to stand behind the rest of the muggles and stare at the back of their heads. She understood the fact that witches and wizards should dress like muggles when out with muggles. She and Ignan had done exactly that. But to participate in their weird rituals? She was rather uninterested in that.

The muggle appeared uncomfortable under the harsh gaze of the strange witch and she only looked away when her companion was suddenly giving his order in a surprisingly thick German accent. Her head shot around to him, eyebrows raised.

Upon realising exactly what the wizard was trying to do, the witch opted to stay silent. She had never felt the need to practice or use a German accent. Neither had she really done very well at learning any German. It was most fortunate German didn’t have to be the language used when teaching at Durmstrang. She never would have gotten the job! Therefore this specific move was best left to the surprise expert.

In reality, it was a struggle to not betray any amusement at Ignan’s method of dealing with the muggles.
"Germans now, as if we don't have enough weird people here.”

Now it was Miranda’s turn. She turned around to look at the muggle tutting woman and frowned.
“Weird?” She asked, trying to betray her own Devonshire accent.
She next switched to the Norwegian language; one she had been learning since her twenties and been well practiced with over the past year. “We’re not the ones who stare at the back of heads for amusement.”

“That’ll be eight pound, twenty, mate.” A spotty man in his twenties informed Ignan and Miranda couldn’t help but smirk at Ignan being called ‘mate’. She stared across at the man with interest. The florescent, quite unusually bright lighting only served to highlight his bright spots and greasy skin. Hair was slicked back under a white cap and his teeth were stained a yellow shade. Did she really want to eat whatever cost eight pound twenty?

“Eight….pound…twenty…two….oh” The man tried again, this time painfully slowly to Ignan as if her companion was exceedingly stupid as well as foreign. He even aided visually with his fingers! This time Miranda did let out a laugh and she had to turn her back on the muggles in the shop. Yet they were everywhere! Therefore the witch very quickly moved closer into Ignan, burying her head against his chest as she tried to hide the laugh with a cough.

Whereas Ignan was trying to ignore the Muggles, not because he felt intimidated, but because he didn't want the evening to be more of a disaster than it had been so far. He was still figuring out a lot of Muggle culture, and didn't want to risk looking like an arse in front of Mira.

It took a bit to keep his face straight when she adopted his tactic and switched to the language of Durmstrang. Luckily the greasy bloke behind the counter distracted him in the nick of time and he had to figure out the notes and coins, forgetting that the bronze ones were not as much as the silver ones at first. Johann had not left much change at the house - but it was enough to cover it with one of the paper notes, and a stack of dull gold ones and some of the silver ones. The copper ones seemed pretty useless. Everything was in tens.

Beside him Mira did eventually laugh and he blushed ever so slightly, figuring out that the silver heptagonal piece was twenty pence, and the large copper coin was a tuppence. He hadn't been prepared for her to suddenly come close and press her face into his shirt. As the greasy lad behind the counter passed the coins across his palm to add them up quickly Ignan saw to his great relief that they added up, and he started pressing on a till that made odd noises and whirred.

When they turned round, carrying the paper bundles, the whole shop of Muggles was staring at them without any shame. Mira was still stifling a laugh, so he gave a shrug, seized his top hat, gave them all a half bow and swept them both from the shop, not sure how long he could keep a straight face.

Outside on the pavement he joined her in a proper laugh, and wiped his eyes, inhaling a cool breath of fresh air.
"Merlin, you'd have thought they'd never been out of the village by how much they stared." He cast a look back over his shoulder where a little boy was stood with his face pressed the glass beneath the painted window decorated with fish and shells. He was tugging at the cardigan of his mother and pointing. She turned, glanced up to the couple and then shook her head and placed a hand on her son's head to discourage him from staring.

"You don't know how hard it is to count those coins when a woman presses herself to you in the middle of the process." He wagged his finger at her as they turned away and set off down the road. He was in considerably higher spirits and ruddy-faced from dealing with Muggles in an unfamiliar situation and surviving. It felt much better to be outside, and the two of them meandered back down the high street.

"Well, I had plans to cook you dinner, open another bottle of wine, let you tell me all about whatever it is you're up to at that bloody hospital, but clearly fate had other plans. You will forgive me a disaster of an evening together, won't you?" He reached out an arm to her, encircling her shoulders and giving her arm furthest from him a squeeze, the parcels of chips nestled in the crook of his right arm.

It was rare for Miranda to really laugh and actually allow herself to enjoy something and have fun. She spent most of her time being that cold witch people expected, buried in work and taking herself overly seriously. From afar, Ignan had seemed similar. He too took himself seriously and was seen as the mean foreign professor by students and staff alike.

And now these stern adults were walking out of a muggle chip shop, both struggling to stifle a laugh. Yet when Ignan did finally allow himself to laugh at the situation, Miranda grinned and glanced over her shoulder at the muggles continuing to stare at the couple as if they’d never seen anything like it before. Muggles had always been something alien to Miranda. She was a half blood but only because her father had been a muggleborn. She’d rarely had much exposure to muggles and was quite content to keep it that way. They were a strange sort.

“Well, I had plans to cook you dinner, open another bottle of wine, let you tell me all about whatever it is you're up to at that bloody hospital, but clearly fate had other plans. You will forgive me a disaster of an evening together, won't you?” Ignan commented, his arm slipping around her shoulders and bringing her in close to him.

“I’m really not sure if I can Ignan.” Miranda’s expression had become more serious once more and she looked up at him as they continued to walk. “You can’t cook, you wear your hat indoors like some primitive being and that accent…” eyebrows raised, the witch looked away again, shaking her head. “I’m not sure that I, as a Head Healer, someone in a position of responsibility, should be associating with such a wizard. Nothing personal I hope you understand.”

“You’re just…” her lips pursed as she searched for the words “a disappointment.”