Following on from Overplay your hand

20 minutes was all it seemed to have taken for the aurors to collect what evidence they needed and question a rather unresponsive and distracted Miranda Storm while her husband lay on the sofa in the living room, unconscious yet no longer bleeding from the gash in his head. She’d been somewhat unwilling to answer certain questions, far too aware of what little had been done.

“I’ll be meeting with Cartstairs in the morning.” She’d told them in response to any question she didn’t wish to answer. There had been a fair few.

When they did leave Miranda slumped down into the armchair usually claimed by the unconscious husband. She hadn’t changed from the skimpy dressing gown, not wishing to leave Ignan alone in his state. But she had wrapped both him and herself in large bulky blankets to warm up. Despite being the most senior healer in the country, all Miranda could do in this situation currently was to wrap him up, heal the gash on his head and be waiting for him to wake with a hot chocolate. She didn’t dare try to wake him before his time and neither did she dare take him to the hospital. He’d not appreciate that.

He looked the most vulnerable she’d ever seen him lying there beneath the blanket. His features were pale, more wrinkled. He looked older than his years and despite the skin having knitted together where there’s been a large gash, he still sported a slow to fade scar.

Miranda was nursing a mug of steaming hot chocolate and a cigarette when Ignan did finally stir. She’d been sitting silently, watching him as her mind berated her for how stupid she’d been. When his eyes did open, Miranda stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and as she  quickly stood by his side, she called to the kitchen.

“He’s awake! Hot chocolate now Gerda.” Her eyes didn’t leave her husband as she addressed the house elf. “No sudden movements. You’re no good to me unconscious.”

Ignan inhaled suddenly.

When his blue eyes opened, he could see the living room ceiling, hear Miranda and Gerda.  It felt like a second ago he was in the garden knocking seven bells out of Lawrence Musgrave, trying to strangle the life out of him.  Now he was here.  He didn’t speak for a few seconds, but blinked at the ceiling and then frowned deeply.

“We are not moving again.”

There was a sharp pain down the side of his face, and he instinctively raised a hand to it.  Whatever had been there, was healed.  He was wrapped in a blanket too.  This made him displeased, but he supposed Miranda could have left him face first in the muddy garden.

“Was he caught?”

Not thank you or are you alright, which he figured later would have been better questions to ask one’s wife on realising you’re in one piece and under their care.  Being knocked out was really not his aim.  He was not getting old.

Miranda nearly laughed at Ignan’s statement. There was a funny side to it. A dark funny side that was too early after the incident to be truly funny. But she was relieved he was awake and already himself. No lasting damage from the dementors, it would seem. He was a grumpy git before they arrived and he still a grumpy git now. All was normal again. Except he was wrapped in a purple blanket and Gerda was suddenly trying to hand him a mug of steaming hot chocolate.

“Was he caught?”

“The aurors arrived too late.” She needed another cigarette. Or a whiskey. Both.
“He got away.” She wasn’t about to apologise either. She’d done what she could. Ignan getting injured was a complication in her plan to get Musgrave. If he’d not arrived home when he did. “You need to drink the hot chocolate.” He wouldn’t, she figured. “Healer’s orders."

"Of course they did," he said steadfastly refusing the hot chocolate. "Did they tell you when they gave you that badge so it was to summon aurors at half an hour’s notice?”

Gerda’s ears flattened back on her head, reading the tone her master was using.  Her hands continued to hold out the hot chocolate as instructed by Miranda, but they trembled.  Ignan threw of the ridiculous purple blanket after two attempts to shove it off him.  Thankfully he was still clothed underneath, but rather muddy.  He smelled of fire.

“How did he get in?  I only just laid those wards.”  He swung his legs off the sofa and onto the floor.  As he did he leaned at a strange angle, which wouldn’t have happened if he’d heeded Miranda’s suggestion to take it slowly.  He felt absolutely awful, like the world was going to end.  Like he might cry, which he certainly wasn’t going to be caught doing.  Instead he snarled.  He was angry at himself, at Lawrence, at the aurors, at dementors, at moving here, at ruddy everything.

Gerda backed away with a squeak, and Ignan realised he was glowering right at the obedient elf.  He was angry at her, only he wasn’t.

The chill deep in her bones was currently unrelenting. The blanket was still wrapped around her shoulders and as Ignan ignored her advice and rose too quickly, Miranda took a sip of her own cocoa.


His first question went unanswered. It was sarcastic, grumpy, angry. It didn’t require an answer. But she would be speaking to Carstairs in the morning. What was the point of the badge if their response wasn’t immediate? Had someone been dying elsewhere?

“How did he get in?  I only just laid those wards.” What colour had returned to Ignan’s face drained again and Miranda put a steadying hand on his shoulder as he swayed.

“I said no sudden movements.” He was a worse patient than her. Gerda nearly melted under his gaze so Miranda grabbed the mug from the elf and shoved it in her husband’s face.

“Drink.”

His second question had also gone unanswered.

Miranda’s hand to his shoulder made him realise how cold he was.  She felt warm, but that might have been her hands around her own mug of hot chocolate which she placed aside.  His own was unceremoniously shoved right in his face.  He couldn’t avoid it, it had caused him to sit back, her hand still resting on his shoulder.  With a heavy sigh, he snatched it from her, frowning and closing his eyes a moment.  Even though he had the mug in his hand, he still did not drink it.

“I had him.  I-“  He felt Miranda’s grip on his shoulder without her having to draw breath.  The older wizard grumbled and lifted the mug to his lips, tasting gingerly.  This was becoming a habit, fighting dementors in Miranda’s presence and waking up later under her care.  Now they were married he couldn’t even hazard a rubbish joke that it was a pulling technique.  Some Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher he was.  Miranda must think him a moron.  What on earth was Miranda doing anyway with Lawrence in the kitchen.  Where had Gerda been?  Why had his wards not held up?  Why was this blanket purple?

Ignan wiped hot chocolate foam from his top lip and scowled, raising his gaze slowly to his wife.
“Miranda… How did he get in?”

His gaze was stern, knowing. He knew the truth before Miranda was even willing to speak it. She drew her hand back.
“You need to stay calm, Ignan, or you’ll feel worse.”

His jaw set, and the colour was returning to his face in an entirely different pattern, creeping up his neck with fury. “What possessed you?”

She couldn’t think of a satisfactory answer to his question. So she once again tried to defer.
“Your hot chocolate. It will help.”

“I don’t want ruddy hot chocolate, I am asking my wife why she let a madman in our house!”

Miranda took a step back, gritting her teeth.
“I had it under control.”

“That was ‘under control’?!” Ignan snapped, and then regretted his raised blood pressure, screwing closed his eyes and swallowing. He felt tired, which was only adding to his irritation. “What were you trying to achieve?”

In reality the situation had been as controllable as Ignan’s temper apparently was.
“Calm down, Ignan.”

“Saying that isn’t calming me down, Mira.” Ignan retorted, and sat back, massaging the side of his face where his wife had healed without him realising. How long had he been exposed to dementors? He felt entirely out of sorts. “Explain yourself.”

Being spoken to like that was causing her hackles to rise. As aware as she was that they would both by hyper sensitised after their ordeal, she still felt her temper flare. But she’d had a reason for her actions.
“He wanted hot chocolate and help. I keep the sleeping potion next to it in the cupboard.”

“You lured him in - what - you mean to tell me he turned up ‘looking for hot chocolate’ again?” Ignan frowned, confused by this. Not that Miranda would try to drug the wizard, more that Musgrave had even been there for it.

Sensing the slightest lessoning of tension, Miranda stepped back to Ignan’s armchair and slipped back into it, wrapping the blanket tightly around herself and taking another sip of the hot chocolate. She used the pause to think.
“He turned up looking for help.” Then, frustrated, she added “I told you he was outside the other night and you didn’t believe me!”

“I went out and checked!” Ignan snapped, sinking back into the sofa. He was useless. Musgrave must have been watching the house and he couldn’t even see it. “You let him in because he sought help? The man who assaulted you after breaking into our home?”

The more the ‘conversation’ continued, the more stupid and ridiculous Miranda felt. Ignan had done what he could to keep her safe in the house. He’d agreed to move and she’d let Lawrence into their house because she’d thought she could handle him.

“I thought I could handle him.” Still shaking hands put her mug down and she started to fumble on the coffee table with a packet of cigarettes and her wand. “He wasn’t going to hurt me, Ignan.” She frowned, realising how stupid that now sounded.

“You thought-“ Ignan began to tell her off and let out a huff. “Neither of us could.” He admitted shaking his head gingerly. “You should not have let him in.” His glower across the room only indicated he was holding his anger as best he could.

With the cigarette lit she took a long drag off it, trying to ignore the angry glare from her husband.
“Because he made you look bad?” She regretted the words as soon as they came out.

“No.”  Ignan snapped.  “Why in Solomon’s name would you suggest that?!”  He scowled at his wife wrapped in her blanket.  “I had him by the throat, I had him.  But he’s got dementors.  I was outnumbered, and it wasn’t like you were much help.”  He pressed his face into the palm of his left hand which didn’t have the mug in and made a low growling noise in frustration.  “I didn’t mean it like that - I’m-.”

He let out a sigh and closed his eyes.  If it had been anyone apart from Miranda sat there at the receiving end, Ignan would not even have tried to begin to apologise for that jibe.  He felt absolutely awful, not for what he’d just said, but in general.  Whereas he’d been angry a moment before, now he felt despair and extraordinary lethargy.  Just considering drinking the hot chocolate made him depressed.  This was utterly ridiculous.  He sat very still, elbows resting on his knees, feet planted on the living room floor, forehead resting in his hand.  He had to focus, bring himself back together and close his mind off.  Whatever the dementors had done to him had pulled up all sorts of awful memories, and the woman he loved, sat opposite him, was tuned in like an expensive wireless.

“Did he hurt you?”  Ignan asked after a long period of silence, though he didn’t move for asking, eyes still screwed shut.

It wasn’t like she was much help. Cigarette lowered, Miranda grit her teeth, lips pressing into a thin line. It didn’t matter if he tried to backtrack, he’d said it. If he wanted someone to help him duel, he shouldn’t have married a bloody healer. To stop herself making a nasty comment, Miranda took a drag of her cigarette, closing her eyes.

As she tried to calm down, Ignan was leaning forward, endeavouring to shut his mind off, the witch could sense it. A few voices danced in her mind, screaming distantly in German. Miranda opened her eyes just in time for Ignan to ask her a question. He’d finally considered her in this.

“No,” Mira stated coldly and stood, shedding the blanket. Ignan’s mind was open and vulnerable and he was far more unpleasant than she’d seen him before. He wasn’t going to drink the hot chocolate and it would be some time before the lingering effect of the dementors went. She wanted out. “I was enough help while you were unconscious.”

She frowned, taking another drag of the cigarette, Miranda started towards the study door, still in her dressing gown.
“Go to bed, Ignan. You look like shit.”

At her monosyllabic response to his question, Ignan’s blue eyes opened again, reading the tone it was delivered with.  He felt sorry, not that Miranda was fine, more the way she said it, suggesting he might have asked that sooner.  He watched her get up with a heavy heart.  Despair was moving to regret.
“Thank you.”  He uttered quietly, though it wasn’t clear whether he meant for her healing, or her comment on how terrible he looked.  Either way, she was right on both.

Without another word, he downed the hot chocolate in one go, handing the empty mug to Gerda.  He got to his feet unsteadily, collecting his wand from the coffee table.  It was sat beside the newspaper and the mint imperials he’d collected earlier.  He stared at both for a moment, trying to close down the angry voice of Georg, his best friend for decades, telling him how terrible he was.  He was right too.  Better to be asleep and let his head heal.  Out of Miranda’s way.  He slowly departed, ascending the cottage stairs, followed cautiously two paces behind by Gerda.

End