There was a time Hannah Bombay wouldn’t have been seen out of her little flat looking anything but perfectly put together. This time seemed to have faded into the distant past. The witch who had always looked every bit the wizarding professional was stepping through the doors of the Royal Opera House looking decidedly muggle and decidedly not as well off as the patrons who would frequent this grand building. Hannah’s muggle jeans were worn with faded denim clinging to her legs as a baggy jumper hung over her upper half. Her face was drawn and tired thanks to a full moon two nights before and her mane of bushy hair had been scraped back into a messy ponytail.

The point is; Hannah Bombay neither looked her old self, nor like she fitted in in the Royal Opera House.

Yet she had followed her research to this building. The name left on the card hadn’t given her many clues as to who Ira Almasy was but she was certainly a witch with connections. She was also a witch that thought it acceptable to break into people’s homes and hex them, not to mention kidnap them and force them to take part in werewolf fights. Hannah certainly wouldn’t have been here had she had the choice. She very nearly found herself turning on her heel and running from the foyer at the look the wizard who came to collect her gifted her with.

“This way, if you will.” Was all he said before he turned the stalked through a set of doors, expecting the shorter witch to follow. She was fairly certain that had been irritation in his voice but she decided not to think on it a great deal. She needed to be calm and level headed for whatever this exchange was to be.

They climbed the stairs together, or rather; he was at least a few steps before her. He stopped outside a door and looked expectantly at Hannah who pursed her lips, uncomfortable in his gaze. Upon realising this was no gentleman to hold the door open for her and lead her into the dragon’s den, Hannah stepped closer and pushed it open herself, stepping through into what turned out to be a box overlooking the theatre.

Bright eyes settled on the figure and she felt the hairs on her neck spring up as she recalled the events of their last encounter. Her thoughts went to the wand in her back jean pocket.

“You tell me you’re behind the werewolf fights and you give me your name. Do you have a wish to go to Azkaban?” Her voice was calm for the moment.

Contrary to typical appearance, Ira Almasy was looking rather relaxed today in tight black denim and bare feet. A finely knit cream sweater was draped across her elegant frame and hung loosely over the shoulder. She sat at leisure in one of the gilded velvet chairs with an arm across its back. Hannah's arrival was preceded by a soft, mental nudge from the general direction of her assistant.

The balcony oversaw the theatre's main stage. Young, supple dancers moved across it silently as a bare Orchestra played an Italian score to help them keep time - a gentle flurry of chiffon skirts eddying on the black surface. Several art directors sat in the stalls below and called out inaudible  instructions at intervals.

When the she wolf spoke, Ira didn't turn her attention away from the performance except to gesture at the seat next to her.

"Miss Bombay. Very kind of you to join me," she ignored the poorly worded threat for now. "Come sit. Someone will be along with drinks in a moment." An afternoon treat to smooth the discussion - or derail it, depending on how nervous her guest felt. It was difficult to tell just yet.

The witch finally spared a glance, shifting her gaze from the stage to give Hannah a warm and friendly smile. Almost maternal. A markedly idle air pervaded her manners. She looked like she might just stretch at any moment, a combination of lethargy and liveliness.

"Nobody would believe you." Ira drawled sweetly. "And if they did, they would not for long. Now, please. Tell me how I might be of assistance."

Not that she didn't know - she just wanted to hear it.

For this second meeting Hannah wasn’t a terrified dog trapped with no manner of escape. She’d ventured in Almasy’s domain willingly; or at least as willingly as someone with no choice was able to venture. She even took the offered chair, slipping into it with ease and far more grace than she’d had when being thrown against the wall in her flat.
This meeting may not have been on even terms, but Hannah needed to at least feel like she had some control over her own fate.
Every possible shred of control was quickly spinning away from Hannah’s grasp as she found herself falling further into a pit she would never climb out of. The ministry had once more branded her a criminal, St Mungo’s had branded her too dangerous and unsuitable and Ira Almasy thought of her as an interesting shewolf to toy with.

Nobody would believe her if she went to the aurors about Almasy. The witch was right. Hannah’s word no longer meant a thing within the ministry. Once she had been a respected professional. Now she was a monster.

“Your offer.” Hannah twisted herself in the seat to regard Ira in her analytical stare. Now she wasn’t being ambushed in her own territory she could study the witch far more easily. She had prepared herself for this. She knew her name. She knew her public persona. She could handle this.
“What is it?”

The dancers onstage froze as the orchestra halted, each witchling holding her position while the art directors in the stalls made disparaging comments. Ira watched this exchange as her guest came to sit next to her. She could discern the sweat on their brows - the stench of powdered ballet slippers mingling with that of bloodied toes, of musky violating colognes and young cynicism. Discipline disguised by pastel pinks.

Hannah Bombay did not put on so convincing a front as the young girls of cutthroat theatre. But she was collected. Direct. Qualities appreciated. The older witch felt those appraising eyes on her and she turned her head to meet them with calmness. Would the girl find what she was looking for?

"My clientele are predisposed to injury." Ira stated in a level tone, obviously unimpressed by this susceptibility of criminal workers. "And you, I understand, are a Healer with no post. These are problems that solve one another."

A Werewolf Healer. Even Layton could respect the artistic value in that, considering the events to follow this Christmas. The door to the balcony swung open quietly and a short wizard in dress robes entered - he carried a tray of tea things. Everything in plain white china, already poured.

He leaned over politely whilst addressing Hannah. "Jasmine, Madam?" The space between them was flooded with the sweet, floral scent of the herbal tea.

Somehow it had come to Almasy’s attention that Hannah was without a job and a career. Either she had eyes everywhere or she’d simply guessed from the fact Hannah had finally shown up to discuss the offer nearly 3 weeks after her home had been invaded and she’d been thrown against the wall. There would have been no reason for Hannah to finally come seeking help unless she’d been sacked. Had Almasy orchestrated such a turn of events? The younger witch had no real clue what the criminal was capable of and she regarded her with slightly narrowed eyes at the prospect.

The need to resist making a sarcastic comment of her unemployed status being with thanks to Almasy was subdued when the overpowering sweet scent of warm jasmine invaded her nostrils. It was only a couple of days since the last full moon, her senses, while less acute than in the preceding days, were still in overdrive. She pulled back, unpleased with the strong smell, the sweetness contrasting with her own feelings in this moment.

“No, thank you.” A hand was lifted to wave the offensive offer away and her bright eyes once more settled on the witch who still appeared to believe it normal practice to break into people’s homes and catch them unawares.

“You would employ a werewolf to heal your…clientele?”  Hannah was more than aware this meant criminals; else Almasy would have simply sent them to St Mungo’s. In the past Hannah had had little problem illegally healing witches and wizards, her and Knox helping unregistered werewolves out of his house and a basement in diagon alley. She’d never refused to heal anyone at St Mungo’s. But to be doing it permanently for a job? To be working for Almasy after what she’d done? Hannah wasn’t biting at the bit to sign up.

“What would I get?”

Ira accepted a cup of the tea, leaving it to float on the side as the brew cooled. The server disappeared as she turned her attention back to the matter at hand - or the wolf at hand, as it were.

"They are not a fastidious collection of persons. To most, you are only a werewolf when the full moon bares her face, Miss Bombay, even if you and I know better than that. Don't we?" she pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, eyes engaging the other witch's intelligently. "I will not be requesting your services for myself."

There were other Healers on retainer. Ones less likely to want to rip out her throat out. Reaching down the neckline of her sweater, she secured a long white quill. Its nib was sharp and gold. Many had seen it before, or at least those so unlucky enough to merit the necessity of a blood bound contract.

"Comfortable lodgings. Money." Ira extended the quill to Hannah before retrieving her tea to drink. "And should a price be put on that magnificent head, I can assure you that my safe-houses are much more reliable than that of your Ministry's." A pause as the jasmine brew went down.

Not at all as sweet as its scent. It warmed her insides beautifully.

"Unless there is something else you care to stipulate?" she asked in a charmed, curious tone. "A child to be taken care of, a wizard whose life might need to be claimed? I am open to suggestion, you see."

Throughout the entire time words spilled smoothly from the witch’s mouth, Hannah kept her eyes alert, analysing. In the light better than the flat that night, she could truly take in the witch that had towered over her; from the blonde, almost white hair, the pale skin that had barely seen sunlight in its years. Her body was somewhat masculine, slim and long, no accentuating curves to truly define her as a woman. Her legs seemed to go on forever, graceful and regal. Hannah very nearly envied her with the graceful composition. No longer was the healer graceful.

The quill pulled from beneath Almasy’s jumper was offered and without considering it, Hannah’s hand reached out to grasp it, her eyes still not straying from Almasy’s face. She still expected a flick of the wand to perhaps have her suspended by her feet above the theatre. She couldn’t relax. Perhaps the entire offer had been a plot. But then, if Almasy had have wanted it, she’d surely be already dead, her head mounted on a spike for all werewolf haters and lovers alike to see.

Very briefly Hannah’s mind considered lives she’d want to be taken. She fought a tiny smirk that threatened to twist the corner of her lip. However, it wasn’t long of considering that before the horror of the events before came back to her mind and as she fingered the quill, her brow creased considerably into a frown.

“I won’t be a part in anymore werewolf fights.” Regardless of her attempts at schooling her expression, Hannah’s anxiety was evident. “You and your people leave me well alone around the full moon.” It didn’t matter if she was in the position to bargain with the intimidating witch, Hannah was agreeing to nothing until her safety there could be confirmed. “I won’t kill people, Almasy. Not even as a wolf.”

It did not escape her discernment, that brief instant of consideration.

Everyone knew somebody they would happily kill if freed from consequence. Hannah Bombay did not employ this opportunity - disappointing really - but her alternative request was nonetheless a prudent one to make. Considering their history. Ira tilted her head to give the other woman a benevolent, appraising look. To indefinitely prevent the wizarding world from watching this superb specimen tear apart some muggle fellow or another...

A poor price to pay to ensure a measure of loyalty. And Hannah Bombay was anxious enough of the possibility not to forget the experience anytime soon.

"No fights." Ira agreed and glanced at the doorway as it swung open again, allowing the server from earlier to enter. "You will take no life, nor give your own." The man leaned down - the silver platter he carried presented only a piece of parchment now, which he held out to Hannah.

It was the blood contract. There was nothing extraordinary about the document except that it already bore Ira's signature at the bottom in a bright, florid shade of red.

"Do take your time perusing it," she looked away towards the stage below and watched as the dancers broke formation to take a break from the orchestra. "We are at leisure. But I'm afraid the quill only takes blood." The ballerinas dropped gracefully to the dark floors as water bottles were passed up from the stalls. They wiped their brows - one or two waved up to the balconies, catching Ira's eye.

She smiled back sweetly.

They were rehearsing for the Bonfire Night Ballet. Everything needed to be perfect by then.

The contract was in Hannah’s unsteady hands and her eyes zeroed in on the red signature of Ira Almasy. It glimmered in the light and set a sinking feeling in the pit of the healer’s stomach.

"We are at leisure. But I'm afraid the quill only takes blood." Alert eyes snapped up to the witch who was now surveying her dancers below. That was the signature; it was her new employer’s blood.

Every voice in her head was telling her to refuse the contract, to leave the room and get away. She could find work elsewhere. She could find work anywhere but with the criminal that had orchestrated her kidnap, broken into her home and now wanted her blood. Being a lousy barmaid in a knockturn alley pub was surely not as reprehensible as signing yourself over to a witch that thought of you as a play thing, a pet dog. It surely wasn’t worth money and somewhere nicer to live. She was demeaning herself, handing herself on a silver platter to a mad witch with a penchant for watching werewolves tear muggles apart. Almasy had even called her a ‘she wolf’. That witch didn’t see Hannah as a person.

And yet, despite every voice and every horrible and testing thought running through her mind, Hannah’s eyes began to seriously read the contract. She’d reached a point now where she didn’t care anymore. Hannah Bombay wasn’t a good person or an innocent person. The ministry had decided that and they’d seen to it by criminalising her and making her a monster. Perhaps it was time to become that monster.

“Why blood?” The witch broke the silence between them after a few minutes. “Isn’t signing a regular contract enough? Then I’m in your…employment.” The word hadn’t been easy to say.

Ira made a study of the young women onstage, noting their physical peculiarities in accordance with the cast list as her guest went over the contract. Tedious, to be honest. Once upon a time there were witches desperate enough to sign without nearly half as much caution as Bombay exhibited. Not necessarily an unwanted quality in a Healer.

"Do you take me for a conventional employer?" she answered and shifted her full attention back to the other woman, iris of her eyes briefly flashing a hint of red - playful. "We are putting the lives and well-being of my clients in your capable hands. Blood contracts, please understand, ensure that you will not violate my trust."

One of the great pleasures of working with her was that relations were generally governed by mutual directives, binding on both sides and protected by secrecy clauses. It added a sheen of order and legitimacy to one's affairs. "Or rather..." Ira amended in a less genial tone, "...it will ensure I am aware, if or when you do violate it."

The orchestra was tuning its instruments once more, preparing for another round of the sparse rehearsal beyond the balustrade. She kept her gaze fixed on Hannah, expression unreadable but for its polite interest. "Rest easy, Miss Bombay. I am not soliciting your soul. Only a little flesh and blood."

“Because of my status as a werewolf.” No one trusted a werewolf. Especially one that had seen as much trouble as Hannah. It didn’t matter that she’d not broken the laws herself and actually committed crimes, the fact that she was a werewolf had made sure that she would be proven guilty of anything they tried to accuse her of. She was only grateful that the murder charge couldn’t sit. With the exception of a motive, they’d had nothing to tie Hannah to Wolfgang’s murder and had been forced to set her free. But the seed of doubt had been planted into the minds of the public and she was forever branded a criminal and dangerous wolf.

“I took an oath, Almasy. I am obliged to heal anyone, regardless of their criminal status.” And she’d never refused anyone. Nevertheless, the quill was poised and she rested the contract on her lap. Ignoring every voice in her head pleading with her to think more logically and find any other form of work, Hannah’s desperation to keep a roof over her head and food in her fridge pushed the quill to the paper to sign her signature above Ira’s.

A sharp pain pricked the tip of her finger as the quill swirled, blood inking the small, neat signature of Hannah Bombay. Her gaze lingered on the shimmering blood and she placed the quill in her lap, lifting her bleeding finger to her mouth to suck and stock more tiny drops from flowing.

In 18 months Hannah had very possibly changed beyond recognition. She had once been a perfectly presented young witch, struggling with people and preferring to spend her time around the dead. She had been curt and abrasive but respected, very intelligent and logical, and very good at her job. Now she was sat in the Royal Opera house in scruffy jeans and a bushy hair, not respected, a criminal; having signed a contract in blood to heal whomever Ira Almasy damn well wanted.

As she stared at the contract in her lap, Hannah felt physically sick.