Lawrence is an Auror, Hannah is a month and a half away from starting at Hogwarts. Title after The Smith’s 1984 song

The bell rang above the door of the newsagents as Lawrence entered, on a mission to find bread, milk and maybe a beer or two. It was a Wednesday night, and the tiny battered television on the counter was playing the end of the six o’clock news, the weather forecaster bowing out of the London weather predictions to hand back for the recap. It was warm and clammy, as London could be in the summer. The back door of the shop was propped open with boxes of Nescafe coffee, allowing a hint of a breeze into the cramped corner shop. Despite the air, it always smelled the same in here, the mix of strongly perfumed washing powders sandwiched beside curry powders and low quality loo roll. The milk fridge hummed and grumbled as Lawrence approached. His fingertips glanced over the single pints and opted for one of the larger bottles. For once, the dates on the milk were not that day or the following day. He wouldn’t have to venture out the following day maybe.

Five minutes later, Lawrence stepped back out onto the pavement and headed down the street, blue and white striped plastic bag hooked around his right hand fingers while his left kept a grip on his rucksack over his shoulder. His wizarding robes were rolled carefully inside, as he wore faded blue jeans, boots, a washed out white t-shirt and an open checked shirt over the top. It was too warm for a jacket. All in all it hadn’t been a bad day. He’d managed to finish up his reports before he’d left the office, opting to stretch his legs, pick up essentials and check the cinema times on the way home. For despite it being Wednesday, Lawrence had worked a straight seven days for Level 2, and now had a few days of rest. By rest, he meant sleep, a large meal, perhaps the pub tomorrow night, and maybe watch Independence Day which had come out at the start of the month.

Lawrence hardly thought about where he was going as he stepped off the pavement and started down the steps to his lower ground floor flat. It was below street level, with four red brick flats above it. Despite being in a Muggle area, the owner was also a wizard, and the other tenants were all either wandbearers, squibs or Muggle relatives of someone who was. Lawrence had moved in about four years ago, and had negotiated better rent for doing some work on the place with the landlord every six months. The other tenants came and went, and the witch, Jenny, in the ground floor flat had even gone out for a drink with him after moving in… inviting her girlfriend Ljudmila to join them too… Jenny's window was open a crack and he could hear the sound of a sizzling pan within, which only fuelled Lawrence's hunger.

As he dropped off the last metal step down to his, his eyes caught the extra shadow by his red front door, and he instinctively went to draw his wand.
“Blo-imey.” Lawrence averted the mild curse with a correction as he recognised the little figure sitting in the shadows. “What you doing here? I didn’t realise you were coming to stay - did your mum forget to write?” He pulled his keys from his jeans pocket, rucksack and plastic bag both now clasped in his right. His left arm made a vague gesture of an attempt to hug his visitor, only he knew she wouldn’t much like to oblige it, before he slid the key into the door and twisted. The charms protecting the door lifted for them to step inside, and the lamps flickered on as they entered.

The place was a bit of a mess, given he’d worked seven days on the trot and only been home to sleep, shower and change. He liked to tidy up a bit if he knew she was coming. Not that he wasn’t pleased to see her!
“You eaten tea?” He asked, dumping his bags down on the table, leaving the front door open as the evening was mild.

“Not again, Annie!” Cynthia Bombay had shrieked for the 23rd time that day and 11 year old Hannah Bombay found her limit had been reached as she stared up at her blonde hair blue eyed mother. Standing the two together, one never would have realised any biological connection.
Cynthia Bombay was a tall, slim and pretty witch. She overdid the makeup and dressed much younger than her 36 years. Her skirt was short and tight with a blouse that left nothing to the imagination.
Hannah Bombay stood well below 5 foot and wore a baggy pair of jeans, a hooded jumper and a set of thickly framed glasses. Her long bushy hair fell over her shoulders and partly covered her face. Her trainers were bright pink and muddy. All over her jumper were splatters of deep red from a potion she’d been trying to brew with the set her uncle had bought her.
“Go on, girl! Clean yourself up. You’ll give me greys for my party tomorrow!” Deciding her daughter was now dismissed, Cindy resumed her intense reading of Witch Weekly and muttered “Bloody weird child” as Hannah left the living room and headed back up the stairs.

Hannah had spent several minutes sat on her bed imagining life without a screaming mother who simply found her an annoyance. Bright brown eyes found the calendar on her wall and the countdown to Hogwarts. Still too many days. She might need to poison her mother before then.

So the decision was made and it didn’t take long to pack a rucksack and leave the house via the backdoor (not before helping herself to some muggle pound notes from her mum’s purse). The train ride had been a lengthy process but no one questioned the young girl travelling alone. She knew where she was going and she knew how to find Uncle Lawrence’s flat when she got there.

“The owl must have got lost.” The little girl lied as she stood from the doorstep and slung the bag over her shoulder. Once inside, she stared around the living area in mild disapproval. There was no way Hannah was related to any of these people.
“You eaten tea?”
“I had a sausage roll on the train” without a second’s thought, the bag was dropped near the door and she began to pick up the cans and rubbish her uncle had been accumulating.

“Poor sausage roll.” Lawrence replied automatically, trying not to stare at his niece’s behaviour. “Well, I’m going to cook something in a bit, or we can get something, if you prefer?” He flicked his wand at the table near the battered green sofa, and the magazines hastily piled themselves, sandwiching the stray copy of Veela Vixens safely out of Hannah’s potential eleven-year-old view. “Once it’s tidy. S’what happens when I work a full week on the trot. Here, let me sort this - your room’s tidy, fresh sheets in the cupboard, can water the - oh, second thoughts, in a minute.”

Lawrence winced, realising that to get out to his tiny walled garden and check the growing herb and salve garden in assorted pots, she had to walk through his bedroom which was possibly even less tidy than the living room. It was alright, Lawrence was a master of the fast tidy-up. He had been a teenage boy, he was a grown man who occasionally brought home unexpected lady friends. Hannah had stayed over many a time and witnessed him in boxer shorts and t-shirt. The girl was already mentally scarred enough, given her mother.

The room around them sprung into motion, the cans and bottles rattled out of the front door in a procession and the dustbin lids outside clanged open to let them jump inside. The bay window latches sprung open, cool summer evening air dropping in across the carpet. Lawrence’s wand darted over the carpet, the cushions on the sofa shook themselves and the stack of dishes beside the sink crashed into warm soapy water. The auror’s concentration was completely on keeping things going, like a conductor in a rowdy orchestra.

Once the dustbin lids had clanged back on, and the living room looked tidy, Lawrence left the dishes and the dish brush scrubbing against each other while he sent clothes and bedclothes in the correct homes in his own room on the left of the hallway. The doors to the garden creaked open, and sucked the curtains out with the change in air pressure. Lawrence gave the place a cursory sniff before locking himself momentarily in the bathroom to deal with it.

Bursting out a moment later, he addressed Hannah from the hallway, saluting.
“Alright, threat neutralised, the coast is clear ma’am. Care to inspect your garden?”

It was faster to clean up with a wand. Hannah would have helped if she’d have been allowed a wand. Apparently her age was a barrier and she rather resented it. But less that 60 days to go and she would be waving it in her new robes in her new school. As nervous as she was about all of the new people, the thought of finally getting away from home and learning something worthwhile was more than exciting enough.

As Uncle Lawrence set the living room objects to work, Hannah lifted her bag, ducked under the steady line of cans and packets queueing to get out of the door and slipped into her bedroom. The room was bare and tidy; just how she liked it. She took a few moments to empty the bag, carefully folding clothes and placing them in a drawer by the bed. Her fingers carefully straightened a quill on the bedside table that wasn’t as straight as she’d have liked.

Resting back against the door, the young girl closed her eyes and enjoyed the screech free sound of her uncle’s London flat. There was no doubt Cynthia would have noticed she’d gone by now. After yelling up the stairs several times for dinner, she’d have hurled herself up the stairs dramatically in fear her daughter was lying dead on the floor. Cindy Bombay was a drama queen. Hannah hated her.

She heard Lawrence come out of his room and she opened the door to see the auror saluting at her and telling her to come through. For the first time that day, Hannah smiled.
“If you maintained tidiness you wouldn’t need to neutralise the threat, Lawrence.” The little girl calmly told her much larger and older uncle.

“Is everything still alive?” She asked as she stepped past him and through the bedroom to the patio doors. “Archie only lasted two weeks because you forgot how much water he needs.” Fortunately, Hannah was talking about a houseplant she’d bought him last year for Christmas. This time she’d written him a list of instructions.

“Life’s too short.” Lawrence replied to his niece with a grin, re-rolling his left shirt sleeve at the elbow, wand still in his hand. “I’ve been watering them and checking the moon phases, but I think they miss you.” Despite his niece’s disparaging comments about his care of ‘Archie’ the houseplant, Lawrence had a very good herbology NEWT, so knew enough to cultivate a decent garden if he felt he wanted to apply himself. After twelve hour shifts as an auror, he had other interests - quite often the pub, sometimes music, and generally social ones. His niece didn’t really do ‘social’. Lawrence figured this might change as she grew up and hormones happened, but he also doubted it. Part of him didn’t want Hannah to change.

“Archie was a sad but inevitable casualty, given the timing of his arrival.” Lawrence explained, as if the plant had been a colleague fallen in battle with a dark wizard, putting on a bit of theatrics only to amuse Hannah, and because he was happy to see her. His evening alone slobbing on the sofa was out the window.

The garden doors out from his room gave access to the small walled garden at the back of the building. It was one plus of having the basement flat, especially as there was a nice patch that caught the sun. There were two old kitchen chairs with peeling paint and a makeshift table in the form of a butterbeer crate where the sun was found most often. Climbing the walls and steadily trained over the few years he’d lived there, were vines and plants to give some semblance of privacy from the upstairs neighbours who overlooked. Hannah was too short to help train them unless Lawrence hoisted her on his shoulders, but he remembered her planting them like it was yesterday.

All of the plants were in some form of pot, as the garden was entirely paved over, but some had broken out into the cracks. Evening primrose - Oenothera as Hannah preferred to use the Latin, had sprouted out of several cracks with bright yellow flowers, about to open for the evening.

“How many days is it now?” Lawrence asked, holding out the watering can to Hannah.

“Archie was a sad but inevitable casualty, given the timing of his arrival.”

Hannah took the offered watering can as her uncle asked her how many days. She didn’t need to ask until what.
“52. 51 if we don’t count today.” Every day was eagerly crossed off on the calendar in the bedroom at home. Uncle Lawrence knew how eager she was to leave for Hogwarts.

“Archie’s death; that’s why you don’t have a wife.” Hannah bluntly informed her uncle as she examined the plants in the garden, letting her fingers slip across from leaves, feeling the textures against her skin. “If you can’t keep a plant alive you have no chance with a wife. Dad says they’re even more demanding. Looking at mum, I don’t know why he hasn’t starved her yet.”

She proceeded to water the plants carefully.

September 1st that year was a Sunday. Lawrence already knew he was scheduled for a nightshift, but he’d stay awake long enough to get to Kings Cross to wave her off. He was hoping for Ravenclaw for her, or Gryffindor...

”… that’s why you don’t have a wife… I don’t know why he hasn’t starved her yet…”

… though Slytherin was looking a distinct possibility.

“Pot-plants don’t whine.” Lawrence retaliated stooping to clear away fallen leaves and break off dead stems from the pots. “And they can’t leave or feed themselves when I’m out. Hang on,” he stood up properly and looked over at his niece. “Perhaps your mum and Archie aren’t so dissimilar.” He grinned. “I’m not sure why your dad hasn’t tried that either. Probably because the less you feed that monster, the more the mouth has time and space to protest. Which reminds me, how are the birthday party plans coming along?”

There was no immediate response from the eleven-year-old. She was seemingly too focused on making sure every plant was adequately watered rather than listening to her uncle. The birthday party was something Hannah wanted to stay as far away as possible from and was quite certain her mother would want the same. She was more than aware that she embarrassed Cindy Bombay. The shy and awkward child wasn’t in fitting with a beautiful blonde and fake woman and her doting husband. Hannah didn’t fit the image and her mother made sure she knew it.

When the plants were watered, Hannah put the watering can back by the garden tap and turned to Lawrence with a frown.
“Why can’t I just stay here for 51 days? She won’t notice.”

“Mhmmm, I think she will.” Lawrence admitted, wrinkling his nose. “Eventually. But maybe she can enjoy her birthday without us.” He shrugged. He was pretty sure his sister wanted to enjoy her birthday without him in any case. Lawrence and his sister were two years apart at school, and mostly stayed out of each other’s way. Cynthia had gathered an entirely different crowd of schoolmates to Lawrence. Her vapid, shallow group had been more intrigued with the social calendar and latest beauty techniques while he knocked seven bells out of wizards in her year in the duelling club.

He tried not to let Hannah’s assessment for the reason him being unmarried niggle at him. She’d met at least a couple of his girlfriends, the ones who had lasted more than two dates, but hadn’t quite got to moving in with him. His niece was horrifically shy and Lawrence suspected she had not appreciated sharing her uncle’s attention given the scathing assessments of both witches once they were out of earshot. Hannah constantly teetered on the edge of Lawrence’s tolerance for it, and him telling her to wind her neck in. Thankfully a childhood of tolerating Cynthia had been essential training for helping to raise his niece.

He figured Hannah knew he’d have her stay those fifty days if he could provide a suitable home life. Although she would undoubtedly be able to fend for herself, his modest flat, his unrelenting shift work with overtime and the fact he wasn’t her actual father (even if her Muggle primary school teachers had presumed he was for some years owing to him attending parents evening) made it unfeasible for longer stints. Not to mention, Fred Bombay wouldn’t stand for it. He did adore his daughter, despite his wife’s indifference.

“Everything watered to your requirements, ma’am?” Lawrence gestured to the army of pots between them with both hands. “What about you? What have you got on your jumper, anyhow, looks like you’ve been on a murder spree, only it’s the wrong shade…” he pointed to her jumper with curiosity.

Hannah looked down at her jumper and couldn’t help but smile as they walked back into the flat.
“It was supposed to be polyjuice potion.” It was as if a switch had changed in Hannah’s brain and she was suddenly a lot more animated, a lot more interested in the conversation. “Did you know that you could impersonate anyone with it? With just a few hairs (one for skilled potioneers), you can become anyone. It doesn’t last long but I really wanted to try it.” Little did she know just how skilled a potioneer one needed to be.

“It needed a month to brew so I thought I’d try the first stage today. Only I was busy putting in the knotgrass when the whole thing exploded. It went everywhere. I wanted to show you but it’s really hard.” Back in the living area, Hannah continued to talk. “Dad’s promised me he’ll take me to Diagon Alley next month to get my potions equipment for Hogwarts but that’s a really long time to wait. It’s all over the floor and ceiling in my bedroom. Cynthia hadn’t seen it before I left.”

“I had heard, yes…” Lawrence humoured Hannah politely as they tramped back through his tidy bedroom. “Sounds like your cauldron wasn’t up to it.” The front door had closed as soon as everything had finished parading out to the bin, but Lawrence pointed his wand at it now to lock it properly. “I’ve got something that’ll probably get it out, of your jumper I mean.” Lawrence offered, setting down his wand beside the sink while he organised a tall glass of London’s finest tap water for Hannah (since it was the healthiest one could drink, apparently) and handed it over to the little figure in his living room.

"Your bedroom might be a lost cause, depending on how hard your mum hits the ceiling when she sees.” He pulled the milk and the bread from the bag on the table, having forgotten about them with Hannah arriving. Luckily neither were too worse for wear. Lucky he’d picked up the bigger bottle of milk, in retrospect.
“Decided what you want for tea?” He asked, looking from Hannah to his cupboards, running through what food he had in that she’d eat.

Hannah eagerly took the offered glass of water and drank it perhaps a little too fast. It was surprising how many muggle pounds it cost to get a train down to London and the leftover ones had been spent on the sausage roll. She’d not considered any refreshment. Within seconds the glass was empty and, as her uncle unpacked his shopping bag, she was refilling it at the tap.

“You know she won’t do anything but squeal like a strangled hog.” Even as an eleven year old, Hannah had nothing nice to say about her mother yet Uncle Lawrence rarely seemed to mind. He disliked Cynthia as much as she did. As he had told his niece before, he’d had quite a few more years to put up with the woman.

51 more days. Less if she could stay here for a few.

“Decided what you want for tea?”

The small girl bit the inside of her lip as she considered. It was only here that the choice of food was offered. She wanted to make the right decision.
“Shepard’s pie.” Her dad told her he liked that one. Pie was always a good choice. “You do have Shepherds don’t you?”

“You’re in luck,” Lawrence told his niece, “murdered one earlier this week and he’s on ice.”

A while later, Lawrence slid the shepherd’s pie into the oven, blowing a stray brown curl out of his face as he did. It was warm for shepherd’s pie, but by this point he was pretty sure Hannah had made her way to his London flat completely under her own steam. It made sense, what with Cindy’s birthday plans that week. Then again, it wasn’t beyond his sister to forget to tell him, but Fred would normally have owled his brother in law. He was the one who gave half a shit about Hannah.

The wireless set beside the sofa was picking up a local London channel, playing a mix of Muggle top forty and wizarding chart. Lawrence appreciated the mix. Despite his pureblood upbringing, he did indulge in a little Muggle society. It wasn’t something he publicised around the office, mostly because Lawrence’s friends of late had been increasingly pureblood with leanings against Muggles. They were powerful and useful friends, and Lawrence didn’t think much of the difference. They were useful, he didn’t agree with everyone all the time, but they gave him a secure feeling in society. That he was worth knowing, and had some status. In a job where shit was quite literally thrown at them on a daily basis, a little ego massage went far.

Hannah had wandered off. This didn’t worry Lawrence, his niece would reappear when it was dinner time. Then again, he hadn’t had time to give the flat a once-over. Oh well, whatever she found was probably only a matter of time. She’d be a teenager before he could blink and not be interested in coming down to see him any more. Better to enjoy what time they had.

Lawrence turfed the rest of the pots and pans into the sink, thinking to set them washing when there was an owl's hoot from the back of the flat at the open doors to the garden. He thought to ask Hannah to fetch the post, but it hooted again.
“Alright, coming.” Lawrence called to it, tossing a tea towel onto the back of one of the kitchen chairs before leaving the pans to soak.

“LAWRENCE MUSGRAVE! HOW DARE YOU TAKE MY DAUGHTER WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!” The shriek was indisputably recognisable. From the small room she had claimed as her own, Hannah Bombay closed her eyes and counted to ten as the voice continued.

“I TRUSTED YOU LAWRENCE AND YOU HAVE NOT ONLY BETRAYED ME, BUT PUT DEAREST ANNIE’S LIFE IN DANGER. SHE CAN’T EVEN PERFORM MAGIC YET AND YOU HAVE HER GALLIVANTING ACROSS THE COUNTRY LIKE SOME HOMELESS NOMAD! DO YOU WANT HER MURDERED BY A DEATH EATER?”

The counting didn’t work. The voice pierced her mind. It irked her greatly. Deliberately, the witch stood from the chair and placed her book down. She left the bedroom and headed down the corridor towards the voice.

“YOU BETTER REMEMBER, LAWRENCE, THAT SHE IS NOT YOUR DAUGHTER. NO ONE LOVES YOU ENOUGH TO HAVE A CHILD WITH YOU. LEAVE MY OFFSPRING ALONE.”

The young girl cringed as she rounded the corner to the living area and kitchen where her uncle stood in front of the howler.

“YOU WILL RETURN HER FIRST THING TOMORROW MORNING. THIS WILL NOT RUIN MY PARTY.”

“That bitch is a joke as a mother.”

It wasn’t just an owl with some ordinary post. The red paper was recognisable at a distance. Lawrence’s heart sank a little as it unfolded into a mouth to address him. He hastily brought the door to the garden shut to try and contain the blast as best he could, but when it came to his sister… even drawing it into the middle of the flat wouldn’t smother it. He could always burn it mid-sentence if it got offensive.

Despite not really giving much of a toss about her own daughter, for some reason Cynthia considered her own auror brother likely to draw Hannah across the country own her own. The times Lawrence had come to get Hannah he’d turned up on the doorstep, side-long apparated or flooed them both home. Cindy was more likely to throw her on a train and trust Lawrence would be there at the other end.

“.. SHE IS NOT YOUR DAUGHTER. NO-ONE LOVES YOU ENOUGH TO HAVE A CHILD WITH YOU…”

Even Hannah cringed at that when she appeared the other side of the howler from the spare room. Lawrence stood resting a leg, his hands on his hips with head slightly lowered, waiting for the tirade to stop.

“… YOU WILL RETURN HER FIRST THING TOMORROW MORNING. THIS WILL NOT RUIN MY PARTY.”

Lawrence let out a long sigh as the howler burned up. He was glad that was all of it.

“That bitch is a joke as a mother.”

“Language!” Lawrence snapped, though he wholeheartedly agreed, it didn’t need to be phrased like that by a ten year old. Next Cynthia and Fred would claim Lawrence was teaching Hannah how to swear. (Actually, maybe she’d enjoy that?) “We can’t choose our mothers… our sisters,” he added in a more reasonable tone. He frowned at Hannah, muttering: “lost owl my arse.” He was displeased at her lie.

“On the plus side,” he maintained eye contact with Hannah, straightening up, “she doesn’t seem to have noticed your room. Won’t be long until dinner. If you can’t stomach her party, you better think of a convincing illness between now and the time we eat. I’m going to have to reply to that owl within the half hour to avoid round two.” Lawrence lowered his voice, “or worse, an in person appearance.” He raised his eyebrows. “Healer’s Dictionary on the bottom shelf. Oh, and I added a couple more newspaper clippings to it from recent cases.”

He turned away, effectively dismissing his niece, who would do her own thing whatever he suggested. Instead, Lawrence busied himself with setting the table, putting the cutlery down a little more forcefully than required, annoyed at his sister’s jibe about not finding a wife. Lawrence did want to get married. Cynthia knew that much, big sisters knew things about their little brothers. They drew the occasional moment of stereotypically feminine qualities out of them with pseudo-maternal mannerisms and alcohol. Cynthia and Fred’s owl stretched and flapped its feathers from its perch on the top of Lawrence’s wireless and pecked at the dials, changing the station.