Snapshot with Kit and myself

With Ignan under Gerda’s watchful eye, Miranda had spent a couple of days back at the hospital catching up on the mountains of parchment that apparently only a Head Healer could attend to. It was nearing 7 in the evening when she finally decided that her productivity had taken a dive and attempting anything more was futile.

Five minutes later, with a few parchments in her hand, the witch stepped out of the fireplace in their living room with the elegance of someone far too accustomed to this mode of transport.

The sight greeting her was decidedly unexpected.

Unlike his workaholic wife, Ignan Storm was taking the Easter holiday from Hogwarts at an altogether slower pace. It wasn’t entirely by choice, especially the unscheduled punctuations of his day to perform a detailed study of the inside of his eyelids.

However, the day had begun with rather good news, and anticipating that Miranda would not have taken a moment to review the Daily Prophet[1], Ignan had first read it cover to cover, completed the crossword and now placed it prominently on the living room table facing the fireplace. Gerda had attempted more than once to tidy away the face staring out of the newsprint.

Miranda rarely kept to regular hours at the hospital, and Ignan wasn’t sure what time it was when he was roused by the crackle and flare of their fireplace. He only hoped he hadn’t been snoring. Either way, the cat didn’t seem to care, curled comfortably in his lap.

The paper wasn’t the first thing the witch noticed. Instead of her gaze heading to where her sleeping husband had anticipated, she dropped the parchments directly onto the paper and moved over to the armchair, reaching out to give the cat on his lap a fuss.
“When I married you, I didn’t anticipate you retiring so soon. I’m not accustomed to having to keep a man.”

“Hm?” Ignan replied sleepily, blinking hard in an attempt to appear less sleepy than he still was. “I’m not retired yet!” He protested, “I’ll outlive you… maybe.” He stirred the cat on his lap by moving, and it sunk its claws in to keep purchase.

“Is that a threat?” Miranda asked.
“If you prefer.” Ignan replied quietly.

The cat’s claws had done their job; Ignan was now properly awake, narrowing his eyes at the time. “Home before seven. You’re not going back are you?” An early return sometimes meant a night without the Head Healer.

“And miss all of the excitement here?” Miranda retorted. Her eyebrows raised as she pulled the hat off and leaned forward, giving the wizard a quick peck on the lips. “I’ve bought some bedtime reading with me.” She waved her hand at the parchment piled on the table.

“Quite,” her husband replied, a hint of a smile on his lips before they kissed. He’d missed her company that day more than he’d care to admit. “I mean the crux of the excitement was finishing the crossword, but - oh!” Ignan leaned over to look past Miranda and observed a pile of ‘bedtime reading’. “Did you see the Prophet before you put all that down?”

A smile twisted Mira’s lips. “You don’t need to show off the crossword. I believe you.”

“No! Not the crossword,” Ignan insisted, though in an even tone, “the headline. Have you seen the front page?” He thought to get up, but between his slow-healing shoulder and the cat still gripping his thighs, he was kept in place.

Without comment about having better things to do, Miranda turned and pulled the paper out from under the parchment. She didn’t need to put her glasses on to recognise the face or read the headline.

“Flaming bat-bogies…” Her voice was quiet, falling silent as she read. Her hands had begun to shake. She lifted her glasses from the string around her neck to read the main story. “He surrendered?” Dark eyes shot across the room to Ignan. “Why would he have done that?”

“Cornered, injured, maybe he’s actually lost it at last?” Ignan offered as possible suggestions. “He did come to you twice looking for help…”

“It’s not like the aurors can help him.”  Staring over the story again, Mira lowered herself to sit on the arm of Ignan’s chair. “‘Futile efforts to evade capture?’” She quoted, “all of those aurors searching for him and he ended up surrendering? Carstairs has a fucking nerve.”

Ignan nodded, she had a point.
“Unless they got a tip off - the article mentions a message - I doubt they would have found him. He’s been at large since last summer, since the night my cousin Wolfgang was turned. It’s been nearly a year. If he’s turned himself in, he’s done everyone a favour. Strange though, I agree, but he’s in custody either way. You can sleep easy.”

“What if it’s not him?” She was still staring at the image of their harasser.
“You think he’s got any friends left to pose as him?” Ignan asked gently.
“He’s smart. He’s playing a game either way.”

“If he was smart he wouldn’t have made the same mistake twice of coming here,” Ignan reasoned, “much as we have a mutual lack of confidence in Carstairs and his aurors, I am inclined to believe this report.”

Gut feeling, certainly. A man got tired of outrunning his would-be captors eventually. He knew first-hand how tiring it could be and in those days, Ignan had always been much better resourced than Musgrave. When he had come home to find Musgrave in the cottage, Ignan had nearly killed the other wizard, and his return to health could only be attributed to the collaboration with Hannah Bombay. Both of them were in custody now.

There was a moment silence before Miranda folded the paper back and removed her glasses.
“And I’m inclined to believe you.” A small smile formed and she dropped the paper back onto the coffee table. “He’d not going to be showing up at our door again.”
“Only if he’s in bits-” Ignan muttered darkly, and then stopped himself on seeing Miranda’s expression. They’d promised each other not to consider murdering their nemesis.

“We should celebrate.” Ignan declared, ever more animated now that Miranda was home to talk to. His shoulder protested but he ignored it. Any moment now Miranda’s timetable would start shrieking in the kitchen and Gerda would be there to attempt to force-feed him potions. “With a drink.”

Eyebrows rose. “On your potions?”
“It’s a celebration.” Ignan affirmed, nudging the cat off his lap as best he could with one good hand. “I’m going to the pub.”

The cat protested but eventually retracted its claws from his trousers. Ignan scooped it up clumsily with his left hand. The vacated, but decidedly warm, armchair would be available in a moment’s time. The wizard dropped the fluffy bundle down and levelled his wife’s stare with an upbeat manner, “you can join me if you think I’ll do myself a mischief. Or you can come and make sure I do. Your choice.”

Her lips were pursed, unimpressed at his suggestion.
“One” It wasn’t like she would win, and he was a grown man.

“One.” He agreed, though there was something decidedly too chipper about Ignan’s mood. The prospect of getting out of their modest cottage in the wake of an antagoniser’s arrest was the highlight of his dull week. Well, the highlight of the previous week had been defying death, it was going to be hard to beat…

1.	Daily Prophet, 7th April 2011

Twenty minutes later…

“I said one.” It had been a mistake to allow Ignan to go to the bar in the Three Broomsticks. He’d insisted; excited to be out of the house like a small boy would be to have his first broom. Miranda didn’t feel quite so excited. Currently, she felt worried. All of the time. Anxiety was a wretched thing.

“This is one,” Ignan returned, wand in left hand. One bottle of red wine followed him and two wine glasses. “Come on, I could have been dead last week. Can’t I celebrate with my best friend?”

Despite herself, Miranda allowed a tiny smile to grace her lips.
“If I’m your best friend you lead a bloody dull life.” Regardless, she took a glass and did the honours with the bottle.
“I like dull.” Ignan confirmed, taking a seat, “And I like you.” He added in a quieter tone.

He arranged his right arm a little more comfortably with his left hand. It was making reluctant progress, but progress nonetheless. Either way, not as quick as he wanted, and he refused point blank to go out wearing the sling.

The Three Broomsticks was never altogether quiet, but despite the glances and stares, they were being left alone. The evening couldn’t get much more perfect in the short term. Still, Ignan found his thoughts returning to the significant news, and Miranda’s unwillingness to take it at face value.

“They’ll have tested his blood,” the Professor spoke, as if they hadn’t stopped discussing it despite their relocation, “which rules out spoofing metamorphmagi.” Wine trickled into his glass, “and polyjuice won’t last more than twelve hours.” He considered Miranda carefully. “Would you believe it more openly if the paper had reported he’d been surrounded and captured?”

She thought on it until the wine finished pouring and the bottle stood up on the table between their glasses.
“Possibly. It's hard to believe. Remember that these are the aurors that tried to blame me for poisoning myself and my patients. They're oafs.” After a sigh, Mira took a sip of wine and shrugged. “I guess I'll only be satisfied when I see him in my morgue.”

“Oof.” Ignan remarked quietly, “best long after he’s been questioned and brought to trial.” It was easy to want someone dead, but often there was a lot more justice and revenge to be had before someone was cold.

He sipped the wine and savoured the taste for a moment, glass suspended in his left hand.
“It’s good to be alive.”

Ignan had certainly changed his tune. But Miranda said nothing as she took a sip of wine and sat back in the chair, stretching her legs out comfortably for a moment.
“One glass for you or you won't be.”
“Why, is that a promise, Head Healer?” Her husband asked in a low tone, appearing unusually, and probably quite unsettlingly jubilant that evening.

“A threat.” Her graze levelled his before she glanced away to see several people staring. Ignan may have been feeling jubilant because of his first outing from the cottage, but Miranda needing more convincing.

“The temptation to give these people something to really stare at…” At his wife’s statement, Ignan’s eyes did a circuit of the room to understand who she meant. Although nobody was coming over to discuss the news or any finer points of dementor defence, both of them were recognisable enough to warrant a few stares. Sobering his mood somewhat, along with the prospect of a more deadly hangover, Ignan put his glass down and moderated his tone.
“What do you have in mind?”

This time it was Miranda’s turn to smile, although hers had a darkness to it.
“Not something an old prude should agree to in public.”
“That sounds more along the lines of ‘putting them off their drinks’,” Ignan countered, scrunching up his face. “Maybe when we get home.”

His comment didn't stop Miranda staring directly back at one of the onlookers.
“What are you saying about me old man?”
“That you are, without doubt, the best wife in the world?” Ignan didn’t glance to Miranda, but drank a healthy sip of the wine, considering how best to discretely charm the bottle to allow his glass to refill without her noticing.

“Hm.” She crossed her arms, sitting back. “You've plenty of experience haven't you?”
“So you believe you cannot be?” Ignan asked, curious now. Miranda usually took great efforts to hide her self doubt.

“I don't have the best track record of keeping my husbands alive.” She shrugged, offering a somewhat forced smile before taking up her wine.
“You’ve only had two though, hardly a trend. And you tried to die before we even got married, sleeping on the job.” Ignan pointed out. His left hand had dropped below the table with his wand, and he looked to the bottle for just long enough to concentrate, and hopefully not long enough to draw Miranda’s attention.

“I must have known what was coming.”
“Still married me though.”
“And look where it landed me.”

Despite her words, beneath the table, Miranda placed her hand on his thigh. Ignan didn’t reply, but the corners of his mouth upturned, and he slowly lifted his right hand to place over hers, glancing to her.

Over an hour later…

It was at about nine in the evening when Miranda had done away with her shoes, pulling her legs up to tuck under her in the corner of the booth seat. Her head was swimming as she stared at her now blurry husband. They were debating how soundly the other slept, or might sleep since the news.

“Don't lie.  Even the elf can hear your snoring, old man!”
“She can hear you snore,” Ignan retorted, “her ears are elephantile.” he lifted his uninjured left arm to gesture the size.
“Cheeky bastard!”

She kicked his thigh and closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the wave of alcohol. “How strong was that wine?”
“I’ve no idea, healer, I’ve hardly had any.” Ignan lied. The world was feeling decidedly more disconnected than it usually did after a couple of glasses of wine. Miranda was almost certainly right that drinking on all the vile tasting potions was probably not his finest idea. Still, he never was good at following orders. Alcohol helped to heal. He was sure of it.
“Why, are you drunk?”

Despite herself, the witch grinned and rested her head back against the wall.
“I only had one. I said one.” But bloody hell did she feel drunk.
“One,” Ignan agreed. Then attempted to lift his hands up together, which didn’t quite work out, and lopsidedly gestured to the bottle in proof. “One!”

The bottle was empty but her glass was not. Miranda stared between both glasses and her husband before her slowed down brain finally began to work.
“You cheat!” Her legs unravelled and she sat up straight, grabbing the bottle.
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.” Ignan replied, “I haven’t… I haven’t touched it. Been one glass for me.” Damn it, the stumble belied his words.

“I said one so…” Miranda was frowning, despite the hint of a smile creasing her lips. “So you got me drunk? So I wouldn't notice you?”
“You’re making no sense whatsoever, my dear.” Ignan shook his head. “But the fact you’ve removed your shoes in a pub is normally a good indication.” She’d done the same the night they’d drunk far too much Ogden’s in the Hogs Head.

He was lying, Miranda knew it. But her brain couldn't make out a decent justification so she simply frowned and took Ignan’s glass to pour back into the bottle.
“We shall see, old man.”
“Hang on now,” Ignan protested, “that’s a waste of a good glass of wine. You could at least finish it yourself. Not much use going back in the bottle.” If he were to measure the share he’d drunk, it was definitely less than his much smaller wife. That was the last of his second glass, whereas she’d probably had nearly four. It was hard to tell with charms. “I can’t carry you home, granted, but one of my arms is strong enough to hold you up.”

Ignan was protesting for good reason, as his wife found out when, miraculously, the wine refilled itself when she placed the empty glass down. Dark eyes snapped from the glass to him and she tried to maintain a stern expression. It was tough after the better half of a bottle of wine and no dinner.
“Busted.”

Ignan’s straight face from protesting dissolved.
“Drunk.” He insisted, and raised his bad arm to point at her, an achievement unnoticed by either of them in their debate. “Save your patient from poisoning himself, finish it. I won’t even complain if you snore tonight.”

“While you’re vomiting from alcohol and potions abuse?” Miranda retorted, “Don’t come looking to me for sympathy.” The bottle was taken up once more and she poured the rest into her glass. “I’ll be snoring away happily.” It was a lie. Miranda didn’t snore. That, she did maintain.

“As you keep reminding me,” Ignan replied in a quieter tone, “I’m old enough to look after myself. And Gerda’s better than you give her credit for.” The wizard’s features softened as he watched his wife with the last of the wine. He was glad to see her making jokes, even if they were sarcastic. It had been a tense few weeks with aurors, the hospital and being at death’s door. It felt as if they were finally finishing a chapter and moving onto the next.

“How are you feeling?” He ventured, a question he did not offer with any regularity, not only because Miranda did not readily answer it.

“Hungry.” Miranda was an expert at deflecting questions she didn’t want to answer seriously. A truthful answer would be that she still felt anxious despite Musgrave being locked up, that she wished she could get a full night’s sleep without nightmares; both new and recurring. She could have told him about wanting to rip the head off the Hogwarts Healer for questioning her work ethic or her fear that it was only matter of time before he was killed just for fate to spite her when she finally had something good.

A simple mention of hunger was far easier.

“Gerda’s probably wondering whether we’re home for dinner.” Ignan agreed, accepting the avoidance, “as bad as a mother to us, that elf.” The Professor sighed. “Thank you for letting me escape,” he added, “most human I’ve felt all week.”

“Back to prison.” Miranda gave his knee a squeeze and offered a soft smile.

End