The suitcases had been stacked at the bottom of the spiral stairs in the living room. Three old and well used suitcases that had been magically enlarged were filled with anything Miranda Storm had considered herself and her husband might require for the next several days. Clothing and other essentials had been laid on the bed for Gerda to neatly pack the cases and collect anything that her mistress may have forgotten while her master took his leisurely walk to the local shop.

It had been a week since Hogwarts had broken up for the term and now over 2 months since Ignan had nearly died. Throughout the months, Miranda had ploughed into her work, eager to push the events of March to the back of her mind. She’d opened the new department in the hospital and pushed forward with the werewolf provisions being put into place on the 1st floor. But Ignan was now fully recovered and enjoying the time afforded to him during the breakup of a term.

Habitually, Miranda wasn’t the sort to take a break from work and leave the country. She struggled with the prospect of handing over her pride and joy; she struggled to believe it would be the same upon her return. But they needed the time to take a step back and just spend time together without the pressures on them. She needed the time away, some breathing space.

While she waited, Miranda was sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Every so often, she would check the clock by the kitchen door, tapping her foot with the impatience of a woman who rarely sat still. Therefore, she heard the front door finally open, she drained what was left in her cup and rose from the wooden chair.

“Since when does it take you an hour to get a paper? You’re getting slow, old man.” Her voice came from the kitchen as she stubbed the cigarette out in one of the ashtrays Gerda had scattered around the house.

There were suitcases by the stairs. Ignan’s right hand paused in pulling their cottage front door closed, looking down at them. He was pretty, if not almost certain Miranda hadn’t mentioned needing to go away for work, and those were definitely their suitcases. He remembered them from when they had moved into the cottage, and they had Miranda’s maiden initials. Was she leaving? No - one of those were his?

“Since when does it take you an hour to get a paper…” Miranda’s voice came from the kitchen to his left.

“Since I run into school governors I need to keep on side should we kill any more students…” Ignan replied in a less raised voice, and then looked up from them to address the kitchen door properly. “Mira, what’s with the suitcases?”

He pulled the front door closed and crossed their tiny sitting room to put the newspaper and a brown paper bag of mint imperials on their coffee table. It was a routine they had settled into back in Godric’s Hollow and maintained in Hogsmeade, though in term time it took place on a weekend only, rather than a Friday.

“We’re taking a trip.” Miranda appeared in the kitchen doorway with her hat in hand, fixing her husband with an analytical stare. Her dark brown eyes scanned him up and down in his attire. He was in his suit like usual, a waistcoat and smart shirt under his coat. His hair was dusted with tiny droplets of rain from his walk. “You can’t go like that, however. Too formal. Too warm. Too old.” The edge of her lip twitched, subduing the need to smirk. Instead she pressed her lips into a thin line and place her hat on the arm of the sofa.

“There’s suitable clothing laid out on the bed. We’re leaving in five minutes.” Miranda didn’t expect a response and her body language and manner made it clear that she wouldn’t be accepting of one. Ignan had one job to do and that was to change without complaint so that they could leave on time and would still be able to make their train. Instead of making sure he made his way back up the staircase, Miranda turned her back on her husband and took the bag of mint imperials off the coffee table, dipping a hand inside to retrieve one of her favourite muggle sweets.

“We’re leaving in five minutes.”

As much as this went against the whole nature of Ignan Storm in his more comfortable, sixty-something years, his wife’s sudden challenge spurred a strangely deep-seated curiosity in the white haired wizard. He had spent years living out of trunks and bags, leaving at the drop of a hat, and he’d got comfortable in the last year or two - comfortable enough to become married, something he’d never foreseen.

“Five?” He asked, though it was phrased rhetorically, just a reaction to indicate he had processed everything she’d just said. “You didn’t mention this before…?” His right hand pointed towards the suitcases, though Miranda had turned away to help herself to a mint imperial. “Pack the newspaper then.”

Surprised at the spontaneity, but not disagreeing with it, Ignan climbed their tightly spiralled staircase, ascending to their bedroom to discover what Miranda meant by ‘suitable clothing’…

“Is there a point where you tell me where we’re going?” Ignan asked, returning downstairs, attired in what Miranda considered suitable (some mild adjustment made) - a slightly more casual shirt, trousers, brown shoes, all lighter material than the Scottish weather might ordinarily permit. “Taking a holiday, or well, a trip provoked by a workaholic does leave one wondering.”

In the time Ignan was upstairs dressing in something far more suitable for the warm climate of Italy, Miranda packed the paper as instructed, opened the door and sent the suitcases levitating out onto the path. Fortunately, he didn’t take long, and Miranda was at the front door waiting when he did once more appear on the small spiral staircase. In her hand, she held a hat. Ignan’s thin hair wasn’t exactly something they ever discussed, but a burnt head was not something she fancied during their short trip.

“Even workaholics need a break, Storm. You’ll know when we get there.” Dark eyes shot down to her dress pocket where she pulled out the pocket watch. “If we get there. Come on. We have a train to catch.” Ignan was right, of course. In any other situation, it would be extremely difficult to coax Miranda away form work and out of the country. She lived for her career and was, most certainly, obsessed. Yet this was one of those times when she was perhaps a bit too eager to just get away and ignore it for a few days.

From Ignan’s armchair, the black cat perched, staring at the suitcases with, what Miranda was convinced was distaste. They hadn’t just left the creature before.

“… You’ll know when we get there.”

Had she not followed it up with the train, Ignan might have suspected she was luring him into a trap with the Carter family. He would protest he had plans, but in reality, Ignan’s summer holiday consisted of being as antisocial as possible given he spent most of his working hours around people.

“Train?” He echoed quietly, twisting the hat’s brim gently between his fingers. It was a rather lovely hat, and was hinting towards warmer climates when combined with a train. She was serious about a holiday, grief. This was a turn-up for the books, though he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Within the cottage, the cat had already taken up position on Ignan’s armchair. Gerda would keep things in order, Ignan assumed. She was an impeccable secret-keeper as well as housekeeper, and Ignan did not doubt Miranda had her in on the plan.
“Don’t you dare claw it.” Ignan grumbled at their pet.

Even stood on platform seven and a half at Kings Cross, Miranda did not want to give up the information about their destination.
“To go by floo would have given it away rather readily,” Ignan agreed, stood beside her on the platform while a steam train gently smoked and house elves tidied the carriages. “Somewhere warmer,” he mused, “Europe… any other clues?”

He was a curious man, Miranda’s husband. He didn't thrive on uncertainty, far more comfortable in control and fully aware of plans and expectations. But then, this was one of the biggest similarities that the couple shared. Both were well prepared and Miranda was, undoubtedly far worse when it came to spontaneity. Her daily life was planned and she was nearly always prepared for any eventuality which may have caused a problem. For a woman so notorious for her inflexibility both at work and home, it was a surprise when she could simply up sticks and leave the country like she'd done in the past or to accept a proposal from a man she'd only known for less than a year and marry within days of said proposal. This trip had, however, been planned for at least a few days. The suitable arrangements had been made at St Mungos with Sandy (the poor wizard had suffered through at least 2 hours of explanation through procedures to accompany an enormous document detailing every word) and an insistence that he contact her whatever an emergency might be. It was true that Miranda could never truly leave work behind and she wouldn't even attempt to deny that it would be on her mind the majority of their trip.

As they stood on the platform waiting for their train, Miranda enjoyed the uncertainty Ignan suffered from as she refused to offer any ideas. He'd guessed warmer which was obvious, not difficult to guess. So Miranda didn't immediately respond, instead crossing her legs as she sat on the bench, watching witches and wizards rushing up and down the platform with various types of luggage.

The train that began to pull into the station was an enormous red engine, shiny and loud. Without a word to her husband, Miranda stood and flicked her wand at her suitcase which began to levitate and follow her along the platform and directly to the first class carriage at the front of the train. After all, how else would they travel by train?

They had been sat in their own compartment for an hour before Miranda finally looked up from her book and rose an eyebrow at her husband currently tackling the crossword in the paper. “We’re due in about 2 hours. Have you been to Italy before? Their variety of wine, I hear, is quite exquisite.”

Travelling by train was an indulgence Ignan had not partaken in for years. It was something for pleasure, rather than necessary practicality. It reminded him of the years he had travelled with Georg, moving from one place to another at a more sedate, muggle pace, often amongst them, enjoying what they found on the way, stopping wherever they wanted. Wizards could jump from one place to the other given apparition and even the floo, but you didn’t experience the in-between. He’d never been entirely taken with brooms.

He was considering one of the crossword clues which hadn’t come to the surface of his memory, gazing past his reflection in the train window when Miranda began conversation. As ever for them, they could pick up conversation as if they hadn’t stopped, despite hours or even days between them, if they had been apart for an unexpectedly long time.

“Have you been to Italy before?”

The rhythmic click of the tracks beneath the wheels of the carriage seemed to fade out in a snap. Ignan averted his pale gaze to his wife as she spoke about their destination - at least, he assumed it was her announcement of.

Have you been to Italy before?

Behind his closed mind, Ignan’s thoughts were a whirl of action. Heat, rapid chatter, long dark haired girls, olives, canals, stone, blood, his wand snapped, Azorma.

“… Their variety of wine, I hear, is quite exquisite.”

“Well, you... have undoubtedly drunk a number of bottles, my dear,” Ignan uttered with an unintended punctuation as he decided how to answer her question. “No, not really,” he swallowed, “well, not in any proper sense.” He gave Miranda the hint of a smile, “Crossed the Swiss border once in the nineties,” without a wand.

Merlin. They had told him never to come back. But it had been 1997, 14 years ago, things would be different. It wasn’t as if he was wandering in with intent, he was married, he had a life - they let him teach children. Ignan could feel his blood pressure rising with the horrible thought of what could happen at the border. No, he was just panicking, they’d modified his memory, they wouldn’t have actually finished the job officially… those awful Italian aurors had been only too happy to let them pick off the criminal factions back then, save them work. He’d be fine. They’d be fine. Miranda didn’t need to know about the seven years he’d spent in Italy.

“I take it you’ve never been?”

It hadn’t been missed by Miranda that her husband always skirted the issue of his past. He knew far more about her than she did him. They were each very private people and it had been accepted very early on in their relationship that the past was the past and should be left there. It was why the truth coming out about his son had caused such animosity. While Mira had thought she was okay with knowing the bare basics of her husband’s history, she’d then had it thrown in her face, especially when the boy had shown up at their front door unannounced shortly after Ignan’s return home from St Mungo’s.

So, true to form, the wizard was imprecise with his answer and his wife tried not to allow her mild irritation show. A mention of his crossing of the Swiss border may have led to a story or a more detailed explanation from any man other than her tight-lipped husband.

“I’m hardly as well travelled as you, my adventurous husband.” Miranda had never felt a need to travel and explore the world. Her world was potions, herbology and healing. Her adventuring had been in books and through reading the Prophet.

“… my adventurous husband.” Ignan could hear that statement had more than one interpretation imprinted, and chose the simpler one to avoid a deeper conversation about his movements.

“We can catch you up, my learned wife,” he replied, with a hint of a smile. “Never quite feel right calling you ‘my wife’,” he changed the subject, glancing towards the window again, “you’re too independent to be ‘possessed' and all that historical meaning - ah!” The lateral thought had brought forth another answer to the crossword. How very fortunate.


As the train began to slow, pulling into the stop Miranda suggested would be their destination, Ignan mulled over several possible scenarios in his head, punctuating them with occlumens exercises to ensure his thoughts were at no risk of wandering to his attune legilimens partner. It was good that he had been making a conscious effort to work on his skills since the bother with Sasha and Malvivicus, and then discovering Miranda’s attune mind, Musgrave’s stalking and then Mr Layton’s blatant attempt to intrude. One could become complacent in a workplace full of young minds which were not yet proficient.

Their baggage in tow, they alighted on the platform to warmer, friendlier Italian sunshine. Even when the sun shone in Britain it never had the same glow as the Mediterranean countries. At a glance from Miranda to his silver hair, Ignan remembered to replace his hat on his head. Sunburn was not something he wanted to add to potential inconveniences. This was, after all, a holiday. He did enjoy travelling, and now he had a new best friend to enjoy it with. The concerns of the impending checks at the end of the platform were easing.

The uniformed and moustachioed Italian wizard received Ignan’s papers with a mildly bored expression, eyes shaded by his little cap. The older wizard waited patiently, though studied closely how the man’s wand darted over the paper casting a wandless charm. Beside him a similarly uniformed witch ran her wand over Miranda’s, smiled brightly at her and handed them back.

The chap was still holding Ignan’s, and waved his wand again. Ignan gave his wife a glance, wordlessly insinuating he’s not so quick as yours, and lightly ran his tongue over his lips, his heart stepping up in rhythm in his chest.
“Hey, come check this,” the wizard called in Italian to a third uniformed figure. Ignan’s grasp of the language was decidedly rusty, but one could have guessed the gist just from the body language. His papers were handed over to the third figure while other passengers on the platform continued to hand theirs to the female guard who had so easily checked Miranda’s documents.

Ignan found his fingertips gripping his wand without consciously reaching for it.
“Debating whether I really am that old.” Ignan suggested to Miranda in a weak joke.

Eager to alight from the train, Miranda had been quick to gather her belongings, replace her hat upon the dark head of hair and cover her eyes in a large pair of sunglasses before she stepped down onto the busy and warm platform. They were, fortunately, blasted by the sudden change of climate and the witch couldn’t help but smile. As perfect as their trip to Norway had been at Christmas, little beat the comfort of a warm climate.

Of course, it took only moments to confirm Miranda’s identity and she stepped past the guards, fully expectant that her husband would immediately follow. But when he was not stood behind her, she turned on the heel of her sandals to see Ignan casting a glance to her as the guard assessing his papers took his sweet time. Her lips pressed together and she crossed her arms, watching calmly until the discussion in Italian came and Ignan’s hand slipped into his pocket.

Ignan’s joke was lost on his wife when a guard raised his wand, pointing it at Ignan and muttering something she couldn’t understand to him and began to indicate that they move together. Miranda stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach for her own wand.
“What on earth is the problem?” frustration evident in her tone, Mira addressed the guard, speaking as slowly as she could for his understanding. “We no speak Italiano! English!”

His mild attempt at placating humour didn’t wash with Miranda who applied the rule of thumb for all English tourists. If the foreigners don’t understand you, speak louder and in English.

“What on earth is the problem?”

When they more or less ignored her other than the first moustachioed Italian wizard raising his hands to her in defence, Miranda moved to stage two of English tourist approaches and adopted their language through bad grammar.

“We no speak Italiano! English!”
“Hey!” the witch who had checked Miranda’s papers spoke up, “Be patient lady.”

Ignan inwardly winced on the female guard’s behalf and the other train passengers around them all looked equally uncomfortable under Miranda’s glare.

“Ahh yes you work at Hogwarts?” The third and most senior guard suddenly spoke in reasonably good English. He smiled broadly, “Holidays?”
“… yes…” Ignan replied, though didn’t specify twice, and held out his hand to take his papers.
“Big fan, I read all about the Tournament.” His papers flapped about as the guard spoke with his hands, as was the culture. He touched his wand tot he paper and extended it back to the Professor with a warm smile. “Have nice time.”

He barely managed to mutter thanks such was his relief it was all coincidence, and rejoined Miranda the other side of the platform, a few beads of sweat already running down his back, and nothing to do with the climate.

“My reputation precedes me.” Ignan uttered to Miranda, glad he could say that merely for a student tournament, than the deep dark 1990s his wife would never know.




End