M for discussion of violence and language

The Gallivanting Bard was cleaner and homelier than Hannah remembered it[1]. She wasn’t certain if her opinion was tainted by her previous experience in the pub or if her uncle Lawrence had put some effort into its upkeep. He had, after all, made her old flat far more suitable for living in. It hadn’t been perfect, the magical fiendfyre had destroyed it, but Lawrence had improved the situation.

Despite an improvement in the pub, it was still derelict, still fairly inhabitable as far as the young witch was concerned. Her uncle, however, was a wanted man who was proving to be quite dangerous, according to the papers. He, like his young niece, couldn’t afford to be picky.

As she sat at table in the corner of the pub, Hannah stared across the room at the bar where Lawrence had been propped up back in November. Her mind flashed back to the scene. Refusing to heal him had been a terrible mistake. Her stubbornness had always landed her in trouble as a child, she’d been bullied horrendously. Now her stubbornness and fight had thrown her into a desperate situation where coming to her criminal uncle for help was one of her only options.

The witch wasn’t dressed smartly like she usually did out in public. Her jeans accompanied a low-cut t-shirt, a muggle cardigan covering her scarred arms. Long wavy hair was pulled into a scruffy ponytail and her glasses covered tired eyes. The fading scar around her neck was visible, though only if one paid enough attention. She didn’t have appearances to keep up in front of Lawrence. He’d seen her at her worst. He had saved her at her worst.

For some reason, the witch hadn’t expected Lawrence to apparate in. When he did, she jumped, standing up with her wand raised. She’d been sat in the pub, anxiously awaiting his arrival for an hour. With him now stood in front of her, she wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t sure what to do other than point her wand at him.

“My uncle Lawrence would do whatever he could to make up for his fuck up.” The witch spoke calmly, staring at the scruffy wizard before her. He looked like he needed a good night sleep and a good meal. The same could probably be said for his niece.

1.	Shall I Place the Knife in Your Back or Your Leg?

“Fuck me.”

The pair of them had their wands pointed firmly at each other on reflex.  The exclamation slipped from Lawrence’s lips on recognition of his niece.  Of all the people he’d imagined he might find in the saloon bar of The Gallivanting Bard, Hannah was not one of them.  Last they’d seen of each other, she’d not given him time to explain.  She’d patched him up under duress and after torture from Ira Almasy.  He’d not gone looking for their combined safety.  Almasy had a hold over Hannah, and Lawrence had not been strong enough.  He needed to stay on the right side of Ira and her irritating assistant, Layton, to be able to stay there.

He’d left his heavy cloak in the room he claimed upstairs.  Layton’s task for the afternoon had required him to blend in with Muggles, so he was wearing a faded black hooded jumper and jeans which had seen better days.  Both were from muggle charity shops. His straggly brown curls were streaked with more grey and dropped past his chin. His eyes were dark from lack of sleep. The dementors kept him awake at night and Layton came and went as he pleased, issuing orders for Lawrence to carry out.

“My uncle Lawrence would do whatever he could to make up for his fuck up.”

Despite Hannah's harsh words and horrific actions as he’d laid on his back bleeding out from a leg wound, suffocating from a punctured lung, Lawrence was both relieved and a little pleased to see her.  Mostly because she was alive, secondly because she was alive and able to brandish a wand at him. A split second after this realisation came the horrible thought it wasn’t Hannah.

“What did I give you for Christmas when you were 9?” He asked abruptly, tensing the hawthorn wand in his grip.  The real Hannah would be able to answer that easily.

With Lawrence finally stood in front of her, his own wand out cautiously and looking unkempt and tired, Hannah found herself regretting coming to seek his advice. Was it safe to speak to him? Could she even trust him? She found her mind swimming with the words of Ira Almasy, "The next time you breach my trust, Miss Bombay, do ensure it's for something worth your life."

Lawrence must somehow be valuable to the crazy bitch for her to torture Hannah into saving his life. But how valuable, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Reading articles about the wizard who’d been the caring uncle until he’d gone to prison made her uneasy. Were her memories of the good wizard who’d let her wrap bandages around his fake injured head too ridiculous and rose tinted? Was he really a bad man?

“What did I give you for Christmas when you were 9?” He didn’t believe it was her. Hannah frowned, uneasy as she recalled the afternoon like it was only a short while ago.

“A muggle chemistry set.” Despite herself, a tiny smile lit up her eyes, “I burned my eyebrows off boxing day and it took two weeks for them to grow back. You got a potion for me to help speed them up. Mum was beside herself.” Hannah hadn’t been that fussed, hiding behind a thick pair of glasses, anyway.

The smile faded as she looked more closely at Lawrence, as reality registered itself once more. She truly wished she could go back to being that little girl with the muggle chemicals and the Bunsen burner. She wished her uncle Lawrence still brought her presents and helped her escape from the gloom of having Cynthia Bombay as a mother.

"..I burned my eyebrows off boxing day and it took two weeks for them to grow back. You got a potion for me to help speed them up. Mum was beside herself.”

“It was hard to tell if you were surprised.” Lawrence replied, his face softening with a smile at the memory, “your mother banned me from Christmas the following year until she realised they were going to grow back.” Christmas 1994 had been before Voldemort had been confirmed back by Fudge, the Christmas that followed the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts. Lawrence remembered spending Christmas dinner with the Bombays, hoping he didn’t fall asleep after Christmas pudding as he’d been up all the night before on duty and hadn’t had a chance to sleep. It had been worth it to see Hannah’s glee. Merlin, what had happened to them both? They were happy back then.

His wand dropped to his side and his pose relaxed, the end of his left arm tucked into the front pocket of the jumper. It might be his recollection, but she seemed thinner, more angular than he remembered, but there was the familiar sharp, analytical gaze of a mind she most certainly did not inherit from her mother. Well, at least not the analytical part anyhow. Nobody liked to be stared at by Cynthia Bombay.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again - it’s good to see you again.” Lawrence hastened to clarify, “are you alright?” he asked softly, hoping she might stop long enough for him to scrape together a cup of tea, "Is this… ‘business’ … or social?”

Lawrence’s admittance of thinking he wouldn’t see her again made Hannah look away. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her uncle, if she were honest. It was easy to hate him. It was easy to wish him dead and ignore him until he did end up killing himself with all of the nasty stuff he’d gotten mixed up with. However, it was just as likely that Hannah would get herself killed if she kept disobeying Ira Almasy and fighting back. It was only a matter of time before the crazy bitch decided she was no longer useful and asked Layton to do far worse than brand her.

As easy as it was to hate Lawrence, Hannah had realised that he was quite possibly the only person in the world who could nearly understand her situation, who she could tell and confide in. He already knew Almasy had a hold on her so she wasn’t slipping any secrets that would alert the crazy bitch. Lawrence had always been a loving uncle until he’d been sent to Azkaban. Even upon his release he was the same man around her. Until the werewolf fights.

Hannah stared at him, her analytical gaze trying to read if he could be trusted. He must have been important to Almasy for the witch to take Hannah’s refusal to seriously.

What other choice did she have now?

“It depends.” The young witch stated, lowering her wand now but not putting it away immediately. Not that she’d be a match for the uncle that used to be an auror. “I have a question. And please be honest.” Her gaze didn’t move from his eyes. “Did you tell Almasy about me? After the fights?”

That was a curious question. Lawrence’s gaze dropped slightly to Hannah’s shoulders as he considered his reply. Why would she ask that?
The night of November the fifth last year came back to him, accompanied by the memory of the pain. Lawrence blinked before meeting her stare again.

“After your fight?” He asked tentatively, for there had been more than one, fuelling Hannah’s rage against him in Knox Greyfriar’s house. “What when she’d bea…” he swallowed the words. Last time he and Hannah had stood here, Ira Almasy had subjected her to worse curses than strangulation and a broken arm. Whatever hardships and whatever wretched life he led in the months that followed, this was not an exercise of comparison.

“She learned you were my niece[2], but other than that I did not speak about you. I imagine she learned more from your once future father in law.” Lawrence had contemplated whether he had been wrong to allow Wolfgang Storm to escape, to stop Hannah tearing him limb from limb.

1.	5 November, 2010 Shall I Place the Knife in Your Back or Your Leg?
2.	28th July, 2010 A Pound of Flesh

The young witch’s gaze didn’t lose focus as she stared at her uncle, trying to read him, trying to decide if he was being honest or he was lying in the interest of not receiving more of her hate. Yet what did it matter of her hate? She wasn’t even sure he cared for her. He was a criminal; a wanted criminal that, according to the news, was trying to control the dementors. Surely he was beyond caring.

Surely he was beyond wanting to help her.

Without realising the tension in her body, Hannah’s teeth dug sharply into her lip, close to drawing blood. She desperately wanted it to be true that he’d not passed her onto Almasy. She wanted it to be true that her life actually meant something to him.

She just had to see if it did.

Finally taking a deep breath, Hannah slipped her wand into her cardigan pocket and lifted her hand to the neck of her t-shirt.
“I have no one else to go to.” Bright eyes glistened with the threat of tears as she pulled the V-neck to the side and down to reveal the red raw branding of an A burned into the skin below her collarbone.

It appeared Hannah had nothing to say to his response, to his truth about what had been said. Perhaps she was filling in the gaps with what she believed, falsely, that Lawrence had somehow sold his niece to Ira Almasy. He was only relieved he had not signed any paper in ink or parchment with her, but could try to walk away at any time once he was strong enough to face her. It would not be long if things continued positively with the dementors.

Uncle and niece stared at each other, until Hannah made the move, to pocket her wand and expose her neckline. The wizard took an involuntary breath inwards at the sight. The disfigurement was not accidental, but purposeful, and as quick as the shock hit him, the anger followed.

"N-"
“I have no one else to go to.”

He had instinctively moved to approach her but her short sentence brought him to a halt, his feet rocking back to his heels again.
"No." He uttered again, "No." He shook his head, brown and grey curls bobbing with the movement.

Lawrence's lips went to form other words but he held back, visibly gritting his teeth as he shook his head forcefully again, marching towards her. His remaining right hand gripped his wand,
"We can't, not here." He told her hurriedly, closed in on her, looping his left arm through hers as he had no hand to grip, giving her a split second to ready before they blinked out of sight.

C-crack

As soon as their feet found the ground again, Lawrence relinquished his arm and gave Hannah distance again. He knew they were both safe here, even if the walls around them were scorched and the fireplace long unhooked from the floo. He had removed the apparition restrictions when he'd broken in weeks back.

"That bitch. How dare she touch you." Lawrence seethed, a wild look in his eye as he cursed, wand twitching dangerously in his hand. "When did this happen?"

Perhaps still ignorant to the reality of their situation, Hannah hadn’t considered how it might be unwise to discuss Almasy at the Gallivanting Bard pub where she must have ‘generously’ allowed Lawrence to reside. She did know better than to object and allowed herself to be apparated to a location of her uncle’s choosing. Did she completely trust him? Did she wonder briefly if he’d apparate her straight to the crazy bitch and snitch to her about his niece’s disloyalty?

Needless to say, relief was the strongest emotion when they appeared in her old dilapidated flat. Never did she think she’d be so pleased to see the burnt out state of where she used to live. But it had been home. It was still home.

There wasn’t time to reminisce with Lawrence now feeling comfortable enough to react to the branding. He was angry. Good. He needed to be angry to help her. He needed to be angry to prove he was on her side.

“She summoned me to her home and reiterate the importance of my obedience,” the word came out with distaste; despite Almasy’s feelings, Hannah was not and would never be an obedient dog. “I felt then was the perfect time to melt her face off with corrosive potion.” Her expression had been somewhat plain until now when a frown creased her features. “Did you know she’s a metamorphagus?

Lawrence's jaw hung slack as he listened to Hannah recount her attack on Ira Almasy. It was plucky to say the least!
"Bloody hell - yes, the bitch got one over on me after Greyfriar-" there was an awkward pause, Lawrence not wanting to revisit the moment of Hannah near death in Knox's armchair as he rifled through cupboards desperately for something to help her after breaking in.

"-it doesn't matter. She took the face of a ... friend..." His voice trailed off quietly and he swallowed. Lawrence used the stump of his left arm to push his greying hair away from his face, feeling warm and angry. Not sure where to look, his eyes continually drawn back to that ugly mark.

"That was a ballsy thing to do. I'm surprised she didn't break your neck there and then. I expect Layton wanted to. He wants all of us dead, we're just irritating flies to him. But to her, well she likes to play with her food."

Dementors were creeping at the edge of his consciousness and he screwed his face up a moment, closing his eyes, trying to force them away and dragged his remaining hand down his face.
"Grghh.."

Lawrence opened his eyes, stared clean at her brand and set his jaw. "She'll pay. She won't get away with that. What has she got you doing? No, you mustn't tell me - healing her - no, healing those who work for her - no..." Lawrence studied Hannah's expression intently looking for any sign of suggestion he was correct without her having to utter a word to break any contract of silence. "No, you used to deal with bodies didn't you? For the aurors. I read when I got out, I read years of newspapers trying to catch up. That's what she's got you doing."

In the dim light of the flat it was clear to see just how haggard and worn Lawrence happened to be at present. Hannah had read the papers, she knew what her uncle was up to and she knew how much trouble he was in. Yet, regardless of the ministry searching for him, Hannah knew she needed his help. Desperately alone and isolated in this world, she needed what family she had left. Even if he did appear to be losing his mind.

Lawrence knew full well Hannah couldn’t answer his question about what she was doing. He also knew some of what she’d been forced to do, having been a reluctant patient of the werewolf healer. She stayed silent as he came to his own conclusions before she pulled her cardigan tighter, covering the brand from his eyes. He didn’t need to know about the one on her thigh. That was beyond humiliating.

“And she’s got you trying to control the dementors. So how will she pay, Uncle?” Her arms were crossed, uncomfortable.

“No,” Lawrence replied, in the tone of a mentor guiding their student, “the dementors are not for Ira Almasy, they are because of the likes of her.” He raised an eyebrow. “Without them, what am I? A quick wand and a wizard dependent on her for shelter? I did it for me… and I have other sponsors.” Lawrence smirked, but then realised himself, "but that is besides the point. She will pay. Hmm…” He turned away, remaining hand to his chin, rubbing thoughtfully, and wandered into what remained of the kitchen.


He’d come to Hannah’s flat more than once, but had been cautious to use magic here in case Layton had tabs on it in some sense. It was a place to disappear to when he was at his wit’s end for an hour of restless sleep. It reminded him of better times when he’d made it out of Azkaban and Hannah had allowed him in. Of diverting the cat’s food into the path of his sister’s feet when she exclaimed at why he was there.

“She likes a bit of drama, a bit of a game. I feel she should be cheated from that in her own death.” Lawrence found a dusty glass, ran water over it, helped himself to two glasses in quick succession, thirsty. His gaze darted around the room as he was at the sink.

Eventually he set it down and turned back to Hannah, “Why, how do you want her to pay? Or have you come to me because you need ideas?”

In the past, Lawrence’s reasons for trying to control the dementors would have scared her. The unnerving reality of him having such power over such vile emotionless creatures would have been terrible. Now, however, she saw his reasoning, she understood why that ‘protection’ was necessary but even from looking at her uncle it was clear to see what his attempts were doing to his soul and body. He looked terrible.

Lawrence fussed over getting a drink and Hannah stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him carefully. She still didn’t trust him, possibly never would. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. There was no one else to go to that wouldn’t ask a horrendous amount of questions and put her idea and plan in jeopardy.

“I have a plan. I just need to know I have your support.” Her tone had been business-like and Hannah frowned, her expression softening. “I need your help, Uncle. I can’t beat this alone. “

The way she called him uncle tugged that his old memories of her. Considering she’d tried to leave him to die, it was an odd change of heart. Lawrence had convinced himself that Ira had got to her in the weeks after November 5th, that his niece couldn’t possibly want him dead. But on the other hand he’d realised she would not be the only member of the family who did, so it should not be a great surprise to him.

“You used to tell me not to help,” he replied quietly, fingertips resting on the kitchen worktop either side of him as he leant against it. The hood of the faded black hooded jumper had worked its way round to his right shoulder beneath his straggly hair. He was exhausted and his voice reflected it. “Fiercely independent, you were convinced you could do anything, and well, you could.” He let out a long breath. He thought to tell her how proud he’d been on finding out she was a healer, and a ruddy good one, but sentiment did not seem to fit Hannah. She’d rejected cuddles or physical affection from a young age. The only times he’d ever hugged her were when he held as a tiny baby. First baby he’d held properly.

“You have always had my support, Hannah. Neither of us can beat her alone. So, what can your uncle do to help?”

Despite how Lawrence kept getting soppy, nostalgic, Hannah didn’t join him in his mini trips down memory lane. She was stuck in the terrifying present. The present where she would be as good as dead if she or Lawrence did anything wrong. They needed to play her plan carefully, to the letter. Ira Almasy couldn’t suspect until the last moment. Then it would be too late. Hannah was horrifically aware that Almasy’s patience had run out; if she messed up one more time she would regret it far more than a couple of marks now scarring her skin.

“I want to die.” The tone of her voice, the matter of fact manner with which she’d spoken scared even Hannah. She’d chosen her words carefully. It wasn’t an instruction, telling him of her plan. It wasn’t something Ira would pick up as a breach of contract. She took a breath and repeated herself; “I want to die and be awakened free.”

Bright eyes didn’t leave Lawrence’s. She needed to know he understood.
“You need to find me a healer to rectify your mistake.”