15 May 2011
6am
Thread begins at Charon's Point, the Azkaban ferry on a remote Northumberland island.

It was dry, thankfully, at least apart from the sea spray against the rocks. The sea was clear for quite a distance, but Knox Greyfriar couldn't yet see the ferry on approach from Azkaban. He was wrapped up against the chill morning and brisk North Sea wind. He had an extra wool coat tucked under his arm.

Hannah was being released today and he was here to meet her.  She didn't ask this of him, and he likewise didn't let her know he would be there. And it seemed apparent she hadn't asked anyone else: he was alone on the dock. He wasn't sure if he wanted him there or not, but as of late he'd learned well that it was better to come to her door and be turned away than wait for a written invitation.

In similar fashion, his tiny spare room had been set up for her.  Whether she wanted it or not, he had it ready. Small bed, south-facing window, warm hearth down stairs in his 'hovel' in the Kent countryside.

Then after some time more, a dim light on the horizon. The ferry approached.

The morning had been surreal. She’d woken at a similar time to normal thanks to the guard banging aggressively on the cell door. The noise was accompanied by a yell of “Breakfast, mutt! Wakey wakey!”

It had taken a few moments of lying on the near solid mattress under the so-called blanket before Hannah realised the significance of today. She was getting out. She was going to be free.

Breakfast was the usual porridge and lukewarm milky tea and it hadn’t taken long to get ready. It had been with nervous dread that she realised she didn’t have any clothes to wear for her release, her own having been blood covered and torn and no doubt still in the ministry as evidence. The sack like Azkaban uniform that hung over her shoulders and itched would need to be worn for a few hours before she finally reached her flat and closed the door on the world.

The ferry had been cold and she’d been sat, thankfully free of chains, at the back. Upon arrival at the shore, Hannah had stood, eager to be off and free of anything to do with Azkaban. But the guard grabbed her arm and span her around. In his hand was her wand and her eyes snapped to it. She reached for it but he pulled it back, tightening his grip on her arm.
“See you in two days, mutt.”

“What?”

“Why they want a bitch for a healer, I’ll never know.” He grinned and handed her wand over, letting go.

Of course, she wouldn’t be free of Azkaban for months. Her community service made sure of that.

Hannah couldn’t get off the ferry fast enough. She nearly stumbled from the deck, struck by the light and fresh air. But bright eyes found a familiar face. An extremely unexpected familiar face. Before Hannah even knew what was happening, her eyes began to water with emotion and she almost ran towards him, letting his arms wrap themselves around her in an almost bearable hug.

It was Knox's turn to freeze in an unexpected embrace, his arms hovering out from his sides and his gaze down his chest at the small witch clung to him. Her hands didn't meet behind him, but her grip was stronger than her frame might have hinted at. It took a beat, but he soon was hugging her back, gently fearing he'd break her or transgress upon the gift which was a show of affection from his old, cold friend.

"Well, hello," he said quietly. He glanced up to keep an eye on the ferryman, and shifted his facial expression just enough to cast a dark glare. He hadn't heard the words of his and Hannah's interaction, but the visual was enough.

That done, he patted Hannah on the back.  "Ready? Hang on."

Knox then formed a clear mental picture of his green green garden, the stone path just inside his wooden gate.  He took a breath, held it, and Side-Along Apparated he and Hannah far far to south to the sweet air of his thicket.

---

There was a bit more sun in this neck of the woods. The crack of their arrival startled away a woodpecker.

"You want coffee?"

The sudden apparition left Hannah feeling sickly and dizzy and as her feet once more felt solid ground beneath them, she gripped Knox tightly to stop her head from spinning. After a month of barely leaving the tiny six foot cell, she’d endured a rocky ferry and a spinning apparation to land her outside of Knox’s little hut.

A pasty face looked around once she regained her ability to stand up straight and was quite convinced she wasn’t about to empty the contents of her stomach out onto his flowerbeds. This wasn’t home. This was Knox’s home. His hovel, as she called it.

“Why are we here?” She asked in response to his question, confused, tired. “I just want to go home and bathe and sleep in a bed that has springs.” Surely he’d have figured that out. He wanted to see she was okay, that was fine. But he needed to let her go home and wash Azkaban off of her.

"Hm?" Knox chirped innocently.  "Oh, of course. Yes. Come in, though."

He proceeded up his short walk, unlocked his front door, and went inside leaving the door ajar behind him.  Inside, he lit some lamps. There was something simmering in the hearth. It was tidied up, it smelled like spring and fresh herbs.  Upstairs, the second room that had once been his den, that had later become the sick bed for a fugitive son, then that same son's chosen space, then a den again, was now wanting a purpose once more. It was empty of Knox's personal clutter other than a pressed nightshade in a frame. There was a soft single bed, a bit of storage, and a tiny table. A pair of fresh towels was on the foot of the bed.

"I thought you might want to clean up here," he said when she joined him inside.  He was pouring coffee into one of two mugs on his old worktop. "Then, there'll be food if you want it."

He didn't want to mention her apartment just now. Or that his mighty preference would be that she stay here for awhile where it was safe and quiet, where security and good food would be in ready supply. Probably better to be coy about it.

Despite Hannah’s protest, Knox headed straight for the tiny hut, telling her how she could clean up there and eat. But he was ignorant as ever to what she actually wanted and she trailed after him, frustrated and tired. She wanted to bathe in a bathtub that wasn’t in some bathroom she was convinced would fall apart or sit in his only armchair while she meandered around the hut like an overgrown drunken bear on an ant hill.

Begrungingly, Hannah followed him into the socalled house and found herself immediately overwhelmed by the clutter and business of the small and warm room. He was pouring coffee, fully anticipating she stay and she was struggling to summon the energy to protest.
So, she took the coffee quietly and sunk into the armchair, losing herself in the cushions.

“What are you not telling me? About my flat? About Herbert?” She finally asked, eyes wearily watching him across the small room.

Knox was careful not to be too forward, cheerful, or accommodating to the witch who'd entered his home, like a gift. He wanted to be as still as though a moth had blessed him by considering him a suitable, if not temporary, perch. Pay to much mind or flinch but a little and the moment would be gone, doing what moths do and flying away.

He was heartened when Hannah accepted the coffee and settled her slight frame into chair. He busied himself quietly stoking up the fires in his hearth. To warm up some cornbread in a cast iron skillet, to roasting a rosemary quail in the black potbelly stove. He was vegetarian, but she wasn't, and he figured she'd probably had enough of mushy gruels that a soup or stew wouldn't be as appetizing.

She asked about her flat and kitten. He paused and made face. It was a good news/bad news situation.

"Adon Eleor has your little fellow," he said with a smile. "I'm told he's well and ready for you. We can pick him up any time."

Maybe let that pleasant news sit for a moment, before they discussed her abode.

Herbert was safe and alive. That was something, at least. He was one thing she hadn’t destroyed in trying to free herself. It was quite pathetic when the first thing you thought about after being released from what was probably the worst prison on the planet, was your pet cat. But Herbert was just about the only creature that didn’t judge her. As long as he was fed, Herbert was there. No one else could say the same thing, including Knox.

“I don’t want to see Eleor.” the witch muttered, her expression revealing discomfort at the idea. Her last meeting with Adon Eleor had been immediately after Almasy and Layton had more or less dehumanised her and labelled her property. Adon had seen the marks, he’d caught her on the staircase, filthy and in her underwear. She’d be glad to never face him again despite his kindness.

She’d be glad never to face anyone again.

The thin excuse for shoes were slipped off her feet and Hannah pulled her legs up onto the arm chair, hugging them close before taking a sip of hot coffee.

There was a sudden wave of flavour attacking her tastebuds. Instead of the basically cups of warm dirty water they’d served in the holding cells at the ministry or the complete lack of anything to drink but water in Azkaban, the coffee was probably the best thing she’d ever tasted.

In reality, it didn’t matter how good the coffee was or how warm and cozy his little house happened to be, she wasn’t in her own home with her own furry companion. She was in someone else’s home with a much larger hairy companion.

“Just tell me Knox. The flat that bitch gave me is out of the question, I know that. But my flat? Why am I not there right now? Why are you doing the caring father routine? Mine doesn’t, so why should you bother?”

"Hm." She didn't want to see the Auror, that was fine and there was no reason she needed to. Easy enough for Knox to relay the cat.

But there was no way to delay talking about her dwelling. He somehow imagined she'd want to clean up first, and he'd wait for her out in his sunny garden, but it wasn't a vision he'd hung on to. It was just shaping up to be a lovely day outside and there was weeding to do.

He cleared his throat and shrugged, only managing a little eye contact.  Hannah was razor sharp and knew how to name him. Perhaps he was being too paternal, but he wasn't trying to be. He'd never properly been anyone's father.

"You know I always bother," he said. "I'm a serial bother-er. There's just something in me that bothers. In the space of time I ceased bothering at your request I regretted it. And I figure the most I have to lose in bothering now, is to arrive at where we both would have ended up had I not bothered at all."

Would his winding riddle amuse her?

"That is, you back surrounded by those who never bothered and me worrying and, I'll say it, quite lonely. I think it's a bit cutting to use 'father' against me. I'm a shite father but I thought perhaps I'd done well enough as your friend. Friends do for each other."

"Your  flat is a mess and people know that it's your flat. I thought you'd consider landing on your feet here. It's really quite safe. I don't want to brag, but sometimes even owls have a hard time finding me here. Maybe some time away from press and those of ill will would be better. Than. Not. I'm a decent cook."

He let out a long exhale.  Knox had always been prone to monologuing, but he'd learned lately to choose his moments. Perhaps this was one.

Knox talked about why he was bothering with her and, as she stared she thought back to their first meetings. She thought about meeting him in the cell and his rightful anger at the way she’d spoken to him and almost accused him of the unthinkable. She thought about showing up at his house late at night, wanting advice but not willing to take it. She remembered the cottage in the middle of nowhere and their irritation at being paired together until disaster hit.

A disaster that drove them together and forced Knox to bother.

Hannah wasn’t sure when they cross the lines between not being able to stand one another, tolerating each other and finally becoming friends. Knox was a stalwart through it all and despite her many attempts to push him away, he came back like a giant hairy boomerang. But he was her giant hairy friend and, despite the reality that she would never say it, she was extremely grateful for him standing at Charon’s point this morning.

He was lonely.

Even Hannah’s cold heart felt something at the thought of her presence and friendship changing that. She’d never thought it possible for her to have such an effect on a person. The witch frowned, trying to understand. Most people avoided her.

It was a challenge to hide the disappointment from her expression when Knox admitted the truth she’d really known. Her own flat wasn’t currently suitable to settle in yet.

“…I'm a decent cook.” Knox finished and Hannah’s brows shot up.

“You’re a vegetarian. It doesn’t take a NEWT in Potions to cook a vegetable.” But the aroma in the little hut hadn’t gone unnoticed and despite herself, Hannah felt her stomach rumbling at the thought of food that didn’t come ready mashed with a wooden spoon. “But I don’t smell just vegetables.” Another sip of coffee was enough to sate her needs for a moment. It was really amazing, the coffee.

At first Knox's expression reflected his typical stance when interacting with Hannah. Her jab about his cooking was not unfamiliar and didn't phase him. But she could smell the quail! He brightened and animated, turning to the stove to check on the poor bird that was roasting in herbs.

"Quail!" he declared,, very pleased with himself that he'd done something for her she might actually welcome.

It would need a few minutes, so he began taking down a plate and a set of mismatched cutlery and put them on the worktop island. There was a pair of stools. Stools that had been host to the backsides of many guests and wayward pitiables. Current and former students, his grown son Devlin, his wife. He slid the stool out with his foot, a gentle invitation that she rise and join him in the 'kitchen' as it was delineated.

The cornbread was warm by now. He used a well-worn oven mitt to transfer the cast-iron skillet from the hearth to the worktop. Fresh butter from the ice box. Madam Clareth from down the way had a cow. Or she was a cow. He'd never seen them at the same time.

While Hannah decided to do whatever she was going to do, Knox leaned on the worktop and carefully broached a topic. "So. I've heard about the eh, conditions of your release. I'm sorry. I tried but I think they've all tired of my meddling.

She didn’t want to move from the seat but he made sure to set up for the food at the island. He was forcing her to leave the comfort of the oversized armchair in order to eat her first decent meal in over a month. It would surely be worth it but all she truly wanted to do was bathe, change and curl up into a ball and lick her wounds. Knox wasn’t going to let her sit and feel sorry for herself, though. That was probably best.

With reluctance, Hannah lowered her legs from the chair and pushed herself up to stand. Her bare feet crossed the floor to the stool and she lifted herself up onto it. Bushy hair was pushed back with her hand before, not willing to stand on ceremony, she grabbed the cornbread and ripped off a sizeable piece, biting into it.

Knox’s words caused the witch to look up from the bread, an impressed look marring her expression.

“I’m a criminal in their eyes.” She muttered, “And you can’t change what I did. I had a lot of time to think in Azkaban. Anything is better than being some psychotic witch’s plaything. It’s not what I want to do but it’s a job. It’s money and a chance to move on.”

A rare smile graced her lips.
“But thank you for trying.”