Afternoon, Non-fiction section


Sylvain tugged out three tomes from the same shelf level, examining their spines briefly to ensure they were all written by the same author - Corvida Sicklehat - and on the same subject. Graphorn husbandry.

Oh no, they weren't for him. He knew all there was to know on it, having one been a specialist, but ever since the poachers have been showing up in the alps it has been in the Ministry's interest to see if rearing Graphorns on a reservation was possible. Sylvain didn't think so.

He promised Balfour to look into it, regardless, on his own time away from Hogwarts.

The Frenchman slid down the ladder he'd climbed to the uppermost shelf, hitting the floor with books stuffed under his arm. The shop was full of lazy bibliophiles and other leisurely Diagon visitors looking to while away their Saturday afternoons. Sylvain's lips pulled into a tight, polite smile as he pushed his way through to the counter...

A long queue wound its way towards him. He stopped the end of it, biting his lower lip while a huddle of loud little girls got in line behind him. They seemed très excitable about Ceecee Donovan's latest, one of the younger ones accidentally pushing him forwards.

"Excusez-moi!" Sylvain called out, immediately apologetic as the sharp corner of his books poked into the lower back of the small witch in front. "Could you move, um, up a little please?"

Unsurprisingly, the queue at Flourish and Blotts was sizeable on a Saturday. Hannah would have preferred to venture in on a quieter day, but due to needing to take the afternoon off on Monday, and not working on Tuesday, Hannah needed to spend her Sunday at Azkaban covering for the healer who’d be covering her during, what they called, her monthly absence. Therefore, she found herself near the back of the queue with a pile of books floating to her side. Titles ranging from ‘How to stage a campaign’ to ‘Are you having your rights withdrawn?’. She was distractedly flicking through an in-depth tome of werewolf rights throughout history when a sharp jab shot into her back.

Concentration disturbed, the pile of books magically floating by her side all tumbled to the floor, and she span on her heel to come face to, well…chest, with the offending wizard.
It was with an incredulous look that her light brown eyes pierced his. He’d just bashed his books into her, none too softly, either, and now he requested that she move up? She lifted her spare hand, brushing some bushy hair back from her face, lips pressed together in disapproval.

“Now, you say please?” She couldn’t help herself, she blamed the looming full moon. It certainly didn’t help that now all of her books had been scattered everywhere.

Oh, this witch whose books he had upset, she was not happy at all. But there was a prettiness to her anger.

            “Now, you say please?”

Sylvain set his own little stack aside on the ledge of the closest shelf, kneeling to put together her fallen tower once more. "I did not know about les enfants!" he exclaimed apologetically with a nod over his shoulder at the excitable children. "It is my mistake to come here on so busy a day." The Frenchman glanced at the covers of each of her scattered tomes as he picked them up. They were... very specific in subject and nature, and not altogether foreign to him.

"You read deeply!" he rose to his feet with the books in his arms, eyebrows raised. "Is it that you work in the Ministry? Level four?" Sylvain himself had worked there and was familiar with its werewolf division - but this woman was not familiar to him. "I am Sylvain Onuris."

His hands were otherwise occupied and so he smiled at her instead. "Groundskeeper at Hogwarts."

French. The wizard who’d knocked into her was French and polite and apologetic. He knelt down to collect her books, eyes scraping curiously over the titles. Curious titles, she supposed. Most witches her age were probably purchasing the latest novels by witchy authors about romances and being saved from dragons. Hannah Bombay? She was planning on take on werewolf prejudice.

The book in her hands was snapped shut at his personal intrusion. Eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened at the preposterous suggestion that she work on Level 4 of the ministry. They’d had a hand in ruining her life, hadn’t they? Werewolf registration had certainly been incapacitating.

“Congratulations.” She told him as he announced his name and profession. Was this usual behaviour for the Flourish and Blotts queue that she’d simply missed previously? Or was this introduction a bizarre form of apology for bashing into her? Hannah frowned, glancing down at her books.
“I don’t work for the Ministry.” It was a simple statement, but also a promise. She wanted nothing to do with the Ministry. “Hannah Bombay, Healer at Azkaban.” She supposed she could join in with the introductions if it was a thing.

The queue, it was not moving quickly, and they did not appear to be going anywhere for now. This witch was not especially friendly but Sylvain could not blame her - he had made a clumsy first impression by causing all her books to topple. With the tower rebuilt, he drew his wand to send it floating again, and was pleased that she responded to his introduction with one of her own.

             “I don’t work for the Ministry. Hannah Bombay, Healer at Azkaban.”

"It is very nice to meet you, Hannah." Sylvain raised his eyebrows earnestly and gave her a longer look now that he knew what it was she did for a living. "You do not look like you work in Azkaban. It must be very interesting work, non?"

Hannah was a small person - not, he thought, the kind of person he expected to work in a prison. Much less one of the most dangerous ones! Like most people, Sylvain had never set foot in Azkaban and he possessed no intention to do so in the near future. But he liked healers. They were the ones who patched him up over years of working with Graphorns and other dangerous beasts. He especially liked healers who enjoyed their work.

Surely this witch must enjoy it. Why else work with such unpleasant patients?

As he focused on having her books resume their floating in a neat pile, Hannah allowed her gaze to cast a critical and appraising look over Sylvain Onuris, Groundskeeper at Hogwarts. He was tall; not especially so, but anyone could be classes as tall when one reached 5”2 without footwear. He wasn’t heavily built, but was lithe and fit. He had large grey and expressive eyes, and a kind smile. Not an unpleasant wizard, by first impressions; simply a clumsy one.

It appeared that Sylvain was also judging Hannah as she judged him. Despite her misgivings, and the awkwardness of a conversation in a queue after having just been bashed in the back with books, she smiled. It wasn’t a broad and friendly smile. It was small, a reserved amusement.

“All healing is interesting, Sylvain.” She pointed out in her habitual matter of fact manner. The potions, the herbology, the blood, the research, the puzzles. The conversation and expected bed manner were the definite drawbacks. Healing would be far more amenable if the patients were already dead. Marginally inconvenient was the fact that there would be nothing to heal.

“What does someone who works in Azkaban look like?” She cautiously placed the book from her hand atop the floating pile, and crossed her arms. “Were you expecting stripy robes and tattoos?” Was this Hannah’s attempt at a joke!?

            “What does someone who works in Azkaban...stripy robes and tattoos?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his head bashfully. Sylvain knew she was teasing but he was also aware that she had caught him out for the sin of presumption. Indeed, what did an Azkaban healer look like in his head? The wizard leaned in, bowing his head to speak with Hannah in a lower voice. He gestured discretely at some of the people ahead of them in line; a tall older witch caught his eye, a woman with grey hair and a severe nose. She might have maybe been a school mistress in another life, if not this.

"Her, maybe? Non?" Sylvain smiled, something flippant gleaming in his eyes as he moved on to somebody else. "Or that gentleman. With the leather jacket and the tattoos." A bald wizard wearing all black and a dead look about his face, like nothing could possibly enliven him.

But this was only play, of course. Sylvain straightened as his countenance took on a more thoughtful appearance. "But tell me. What is an Azkaban Healer doing with such books? You are campaigning for the werewolves?"

The mildest urge to step back presented itself when Sylvain leaned in close to speak quietly to her. Hannah resisted, and remained where she was. He was close enough for the faint scent of eucalyptus oil to greet her nostrils. Her eyes followed his to the stern looking witch with grey hair and robes to match. His first suggestion raised a smile. His second suggestion raised a questioning eyebrow.

With a shift of tone, Hannah’s smile faded away and she crossed her arms, thoughtfully looking up at the taller wizard. He was nosy. Oddly so. It was a Knox Greyfriar level of forwardness. He was an intrusive wizard, too. Perhaps that was the reason Hannah was more open to this exchange than she would have been years before.

“I am.” She intended to, she just didn’t know where to start. “No one else will. We’re on our own, aren’t we?” She met his gaze, a challenging look in her eyes. Azkaban healer, werewolf; surely, he’d be scared off now.

            “I am. No one else will. We’re on our own, aren’t we?”

His expression brightened with understanding at this response, and he nodded. "Ah. I do believe it IS, um, important to lead one's own campaign, oui." Sylvain thought briefly of SAWS and how it was being directed by children who were themselves not werewolves. "But you have many significant persons amongst you, like our Headmaster Greyfriar. A persistent wizard!"

Something in the wry turn of his lips conveyed both good will and skepticism upon uttering Knox's name. There was nothing wrong in Greyfriar but the older wizard's zeal and size did him no favours, in Sylvain's opinion. He was paternal and unintentionally overbearing, and yet held none of the threatening clout so often perceived in the Deputy Headmaster.

The queue moved on and he shuffled along with Hannah, still chatting quite amiably. "There are organisations, non? Or are they made by, as you say, people who are not of your own kind?" he was curious - most of his exposure to werewolf campaigns were Ministry led.

Surprise came when Sylvain didn’t recoil or frown or even twitch an eyebrow when Hannah basically proclaimed that she was in fact a werewolf. Most people had some sort of reaction. This Frenchman; he just continued on as he had before, seemingly unbothered by her admission. It was startling, yet refreshing for the witch whose name was known and recognised from the papers. She’d lost her anonymity the night her and Knox had been trapped in that cursed house on a full moon. This wizard had no idea, which meant that he was also oblivious to her own Azkaban stay behind the bars.

He was so clueless, in fact, that he even brought up Knox Greyfriar as an example of a powerful werewolf on their side. ‘Persistent’ could be taken in a few ways; especially accompanied by the twist of his lips. Greyfrair was much like marmite in that way that one could hate him or love him. Hannah, herself, had experienced both ends of the spectrum in regards to her feelings for the wizard who was now more than a simple friend. While she would never admit it to him, she rather saw him as a father figure.

“Exactly.” Hannah agreed, stepping forward in the slowly dwindling queue. “I was told by a certain wizard that if we shout too loud, it will be seen as aggressive. Much better to keep our heads down.” Greyfriar had long since apologised for that, and admitted how wrong he was. He’d been scared and she’d been deeply irate. But it still caused an uncomfortable feeling to settle in the pit of her stomach. Werewolves couldn’t, and had never before, fought for their own rights. It would always be seen as an uprising.

“But, we do have a werewolf as the head of the werewolf wing on Level 4, now.” She rose her eyebrows. “I’m not sure how much that will mean considering she used to play for the other side.” Why was she even talking to this wizard as if she knew him? Hannah did not make a habit of engaging strangers in conversation. Strangers were to be ignored for fear of them wanting to become friends or enemies.

             "...if we shout too loud, it will be seen as aggressive...keep our heads down."

Was she referring to Greyfriar, or some other wizard? Sylvain pressed his lips together with disapproval, at odds with such a way of thinking. The Headmaster certainly did not intend to be loud and was able to maintain a fussy, fatherly calm when correcting prejudiced pupils. But it was a rabbit hole. Werewolves would never be 'soft' enough or rational enough for those set against them. If they were angry, they were allowed to be angry. And vocal.

"The other side," he laughed as she brought up news of Bruce Ballentyne, whom now worked alongside his friend Balfour on level four. "That is how you view the werewolf wing, is it?" Sylvain said this with amusement more than with accusation as he thought of the stressed out souls of past acquaintances in the capture unit. "Maybe that is apt."

On paper, yes, they existed to protect both people and werewolves. In reality it was different because a certain kind of person tended to apply for those positions.

"If being a werewolf has not changed Ballentyne," he spoke slowly and thoughtfully, genuinely pondering the moral paradox Hannah presented, "it is possible that being a werewolf in the werewolf wing will change her. But change, it takes time..." the wizard shrugged and smiled at the short witch. "And while she is changing, I think you are also trying to change things. There are many fronts to every war."

This kind Frenchman with big eyes and a friendly face also happened to be quite the thoughtful individual. Hannah found herself decidedly perplexed yet refreshed. He was optimistic, yet realistic.

“You think this is a war?” She asked, pale brown eyes searching his gaze.

“Next!” It was her turn. With a surprising reluctance, Hannah turned away from the wizard and placed her books on the cashier’s desk.
“Apologise for the wait, Madam, did you find everything you were looking for?” The cashier began to rabbit. Hannah barely listening, staring down at her coin purse in thought. Despite every sensible judgement, she wanted to speak to the forward Frenchman again. So, ignoring the cashier as she started to talk about the choice in book titles, Hannah turned back to him.

“You will discuss this over coffee with me?” Forward, Hannah. Far too forward. Most people may have backtracked and explained their reasoning, tried to word it differently. Hannah didn’t. She just stared up at him for a reply.

            “You think this is a war?”

He appeared surprised by the question, and nodded once. Sylvain knew better than most what it meant to witness and confront a conflict - his father's home country, where he had worked before, was in the thrall of a political uprising[1] years in the making after all. But before he could say more about why he thought the werewolf rights movement was a war, it was already Hannah's turn at the counter. She seemed as put out by the interruption, and looked back at him: “You will discuss this over coffee with me?”

Sylvain heard the question, though it was not phrased as one. "Bien sûr!" he laughed, "I would like that very much."

Once they had both finished paying for their books, he suggested Alohomocha as a good place to chat. It would be noisy at the weekend but not too noisy - this late in the afternoon, the lunch hour was dwindling down and it wasn't yet the English tea time. The Frenchman ducked in with his companion, breathing in the smell of coffee and sweet pastries.

1.	The Arab Spring in Egypt, 2011.

Well, Sylvain Onuris agreed to further discussion, a fact Hannah was neither surprised nor unsurprised about. Orders were placed at the busy café when they arrived, and, with a wooden spoon with a number 6 painted on, they found one of the few available tables, a small one in a corner near the large window. It was certainly cosy as Hannah removed her cloak and tucked herself into the corner, a clear view of the café behind Sylvain.

“You have a career of working with animals. Magical creatures?” Hannah said, indicating his hands on the table. He’d stated that he was the groundskeeper at Hogwarts, but that didn’t necessarily mean with beasts. His hands, though, they appeared rough and well worked, the odd scratch. She’d always been one to closely analyse someone. While not the best with social situations, she’d always got a got read on physical attributes. Years ago, before everything had headed towards catastrophe, Johann had taken great pleasure in them sitting in the pub with her telling him what she could tell about a person on sight. What diseased they might have, previous injuries, possible careers.

“It explains your interest in werewolves.” Their drinks were brought over as Hannah spoke; a tea for her with a large piece of chocolate cake, and a milky coffee and fruity cake for Sylvain. “Do you have a problem with ticks? Or other bugs?” She asked plainly as she poured from the teapot into her cup and added milk. Stirring, she smiled. “The eucalyptus oil does help with that, but there are other potions to take, you know.”

Arms crossed on the table, he nodded amiably at her assumption that he taught Care of Magical Creatures. Something else he shared in common with his half-giant predecessor, although the similarities ended there. It had surprised him, how much he enjoyed the post at Hogwarts. There was great pleasure in teaching the few students who genuinely enjoyed the subject, and he liked tending to the animals on the grounds.

            “It explains your interest in werewolves.” Hannah remarked as their order arrived, going on to give very practical advice.

"I do not have many problems with the, um, the insects." Sylvain picked up his milky coffee, amused by how she had picked up on his use of eucalyptus. "I have such potions. Ma mère, she was a potioneer, and I grew up in the country.  Provence." Even then he'd been a harmless and wild boy picking his way through the Garrigue.

He drank, thoughtful, and put down the cup with a curious look at Hannah. "I am not, as you say, interested in werewolves." Sylvain had been sent here by the French Ministry for a relevant purpose but he was far from intending to express a natural interest. "But the Headmaster, he is one, and my pupils, they are too. So I must care, non?"

And what was the point of caring if he did not read things, if he did not allow himself to learn or to be taught?