It was the last Saturday before the Hogwarts term began, and the office that overlooked the back garden (transformed the past few months by Miranda and Gerda the house elf) was full of haphazard stack of books, paperwork and charts. He could put it off no longer, lesson planning was fully in progress. It was a waste of a sunny day, though Ignan had never been overly fond of sunshine, if he was honest. Any darkening of his skin from it had been from being out beneath it doing one thing or another, rather than lying back and 'enjoying' it.

He had risen early to tackle things, and had sent Gerda out to run errands, fetching items for the term ahead. The house was pleasantly quiet, even the resident ghost respected the need for no interruptions, though Ignan suspected he was lurking in the bookcase and wall behind him, waiting for an excuse.

At 11 o'clock, Ignan's had reached out instinctively to his mug of tea, finding it empty. He reached for the teapot poised on the windowsill, but it too was empty. Disaster. The lack of tea made him think to call Gerda, and then he realised she was not in. One thing led to another, and he made the decision to take a break, stretch his legs, return a little later and rest his mind.

Living in Godric's Hollow had perks of having somewhere to live in Britain at last, but it had drawbacks of living amongst others. As the village was not entirely wizarding, the Muggle postman would make it up the garden path and shove junk letters through the letter box in his front door, and the occasional football would also make it over the garden wall,. Of late, these would mysteriously bounce back out into the road. Then, there was the drawback that he lived amongst others that recognised him. Muggles suspected he was one of the weird ones especially with the accent holding on to his voice despite his immersion, and that time he'd turned up to the fish and chip shop in a hat with Mira after a horrendous attempt to cook. Then the wizarding population would either nod, cower away, or worse still attempt to strike up conversation.

Between living here, and Johann's time at the house, Ignan had discovered an interest in Muggle newspapers. Periodically, he would walk down to the newsagents in the village to pick one out, with their regular spacing, adverts for mystical objects that required electricity, and their static photographs. They even had crosswords, though Ignan was not as good at these as the Daily Prophet by any stretch. Tapendra would be proud of his efforts, he was sure.

The newsagents was always rammed full of things on shelves from jigsaws and magazines to confectionary and essential groceries. There was a Muggle post office jammed at the back which always had a queue, and behind the counter were packets of cigarettes of the bad kind, so Mira had explained once, and potions and powders for Muggles to treat maladies with. The place had a particular smell about it, a mixture of processed bread, damp parcels and fresh newspaper print.

The Muggle behind the counter recognised him, but made no comment, but didn't huff and puff at him counting the change of the Muggle coins, having grown used to the fact it took him a little time and he occasionally got it wrong. After demanding a fifty pence, and not the smaller twenty pence coin to meet the cost, they parted company, Ignan with a copy of the Guardian under his arm (he'd chosen at random each time, but had so far avoided The Sun as it looked like a comic).

It was as he stepped out of the newsagents, the bell above the door ringing, that he locked eyes with a familiar face.

It was too late to pretend he hadn't seen her.

He paused, his mind considering several things all at one moment - what was Flickwick doing here? Was she alone? Were there more students? This was potentially the most muggle he'd ever looked to his former student, but was he unintentionally dressed awfully (he was, in truth, rather mundanely attired in a shirt, light jumper and trousers, and looked like someone's grandfather), and was she going to acknowledge him or make conversation?

The newsagents door clicked shut behind him, and he opted for the safest option of a nod in acknowledgement, cleared his throat, just in case.

Summer was drawing to a lazy sort of close, the final summer Sophie would ever have as a carefree teenager. Of course she probably could have stood to be a little less carefree. She really should have had a job or an internship (it seemed everyone else had if they hadn't been on the school trip). She had been the only one of her friends to just wile away her days being a complete and total bum. Well, that wasn't totally true, the first part of the summer had been spent with her father touring. It had been good for the both of them, but once she came back to London she hadn't had the desire to do anything productive. She only really felt guilty about it when she talked to Jordyn, who was a notorious overachiever but still.

Of course all of this was really the furthest thing from her mind as she made her way down the street from her Uncle's pub. It was her final Saturday of freedom and she wanted to enjoy it to the fullest extent possible. In that particular moment Hogwarts, her grades, the wasted summer were the furthest things from her mind. The only thing that was possibly even more forgotten was the Deputy Headmaster who struck such fear in the hearts of first years. It was safe to say Sophie hadn't considered Professor Storm in a good many weeks, which was exactly why it felt like an extremely unfortunate hallusination when she saw someone who looked exactly like him exiting a shop.

Well, he sort of looked exactly like Storm, if Storm was someone's dotting Papa in a jumper looking as unassuming as a Puffskein. Clearly this was not actually Storm, it was his...non-evil twin. Clearly. It was only when she realized he had spotted her and was giving a nod of recognition in her direction that she realized, indeed this was Deputy Headmaster Storm. Perhaps he was suffering from a stroke... and then she remembered the salacious gossip Jordyn had shared with her about the date auction at Mungo's and Sophie had to choke back a visible shudder. Obviously there was nothing to do but meet this head on, lest she look ill mannered. Clearing her throat she raised her hand in a hello sort of motion, "Afternoon Professor," she felt exceedingly awkward, "What brings you to the Hollow today"?

(Closest I can get to what I'm imagining him dressed as)

Flickwick acknowledged the nod. There was a raise of a hand. That had to be it. They'd pass by each other and forget they ever saw each other, and never speak of it. That would be all, and he'd return to the house to finish off the planning. He could picture it now in his head.

"Afternoon Professor."

The easy, non-sociable visualisation playing out in his mind's eye was shattered instantly. Sophie Flickwick had drawn breath and addressed him verbally. This was not part of the game plan. What on earth was she doing? Was it not an unwritten rule that one must not address a professor outside of the Hogwarts walls and out of term time? If it wasn't - he would damned well propose it to Minerva in the coming days.

He paused, despite his terse treatment of students in general, he did have manners, and the reflexes often kicked in first, in moments such as this. The Guardian newspaper adjusted itself under his arm so as to obscure the fact it was Muggle. Lessen the opportunity for a talking point, aside from the weather, the start of term and the fact they had bumped into each other.

"What brings you to the Hollow today?"

His mind was silently deducting points from Gryffindor in his head as she uttered this question. She had moved past greetings to questions. This was the beginning of conversation. He should not have ventured out.

Now, how to answer? The information that he lived here was not something he'd planned on making common knowledge merely for a peaceful life (and so as not to impact on house sales in the wizarding community locally, of course) but this was not the first time he had been recognised from the wand-carrying community in the village. For all he knew, it was common knowledge, however Flickwick did not seem to know.

"Flickwick." He cleared his throat. Deciding honesty was easier. "I live here." There was an awkward pause. "I was not aware you did." He was contemplating diverting the conversation on purpose by bidding her a good day, but he feared he might not get off so easily.

Either way, he was not inviting her for tea. Even if a small part of him considered that it might be one way to persuade her to run away, screaming.

"You look well." This was cringeworthy small talk. "Ready for your final year?" At once his memories helpfully provided another incident from the turn of the year where he had spoken to former student, Brett Abraham who had suddenly felt rather underdressed for seeing her old Professor at the St Mungo's event. All in all, he wasn't having much luck with fundraising events for the hospital, despite his ties with Mira.

Sophie wished she had kept walking. Why hadn't she kept walking? This was absolutely ridicouslous. She suspected that no amount of time would ever take away from the memory of Storm using Unforgivables to torture frogs (well a frog) or the perverse sort of glee Kit had taken in it, or how Sasha had run out of the room like a baby. Whenever she looked at him she remembered the chill that had run down her spine, the way her voice (not of her own volition she was sure) cried out he was a big giant bully. She also vaguely remembered the thrill and sense of pride she felt when he shook her hand and agreed.

Clearing her throat she flustered a little at the question, "No, my Nan looks in on a few of the folks in the retirement community. She's got a bit of a summer cold so I told her I would today..." her voice trialed off lamely as she shrugged her shoulders. Storm did not need to know that she had a Nan who was poorly or that she went around looking after people. She could have said just visiting, why hadn't she said just visiting? It was such a nice simple concise answer, no fuss, no follow up. Now he'd have to ask after her Nan next time she saw him because of the politeness pretense.

Gordic's Garters! More questions! What had she done? Now he wanted to know if she was excited for the school year, of course not. She'd much rather be traveling around...w ell anywhere than facing down a NEWT year. She couldn't say that of course, he would judge her. He was probably already judging her. Bugger. "Oh, very! Ollie's coming back, so that's exciting. One final hurrah before we're set loose on the Wizarding World at large I suppose," how could she sound so cheerful about it all? Acting, obviously she had a future in the theater, "I'm sure you'll be happy to get rid of the lot of us, eh"? Why couldn't she just close her damn mouth? This was getting even more ridiculous.

"No, my Nan looks in on a few of the folks in the retirement community. She's got a bit of a summer cold so I told her I would today…" Flickwick explained, and the Professor attempted to rearrange his face to convey that he felt that was a somewhat admirable purpose for crossing his path.

He tried to ignore the thought at the back of his head that one day he might be in said retirement community if he didn't keep up with his students.

"Oh, very! Ollie's coming back, so that's exciting. One final hurrah before we're set loose on the Wizarding World at large I suppose," Foley - the werewolf one that had been at the sharp receiving end of Snark, yes, he recalled that amongst the correspondence he'd received over summer.
"Merlin help it." He remarked though not overly clearly.
"I'm sure you'll be happy to get rid of the lot of us, eh?"

"Certainly." The Professor confirmed, drawing himself up and looking more his usual self (apart from the less formal attire), studying Flickwick with his sharp blue eyes. "I mean, who else will be able to drive the teaching staff to distraction but next year's seven years of students?" They were all the same, really, in the grand scheme of things, but faces stood out. He wished he would be able to recall more of them as they grew up, but the truth of the matter was you learned the names of the badly behaved and idiots first, and the rest later, and often forgot those first too.

"The year will pass by all too quickly, I guarantee, Flickwick." There was an awkward pause. Was that enough of a conversation to abandon her? Was she genuinely interested in this conversation or were they both just playing the polite game?
"It's er," Merlin, what was a safe word to use? "…pleasant…" that sounded awkward, but too late now, "to see you, but must get on. Unforgiveable curse lessons without frogs won't plan themselves."

He lifted his rolled up newspaper to his temple and gave her a sort of salute or acknowledgement, side stepping, attempting to move in the direction of home.


End