It had been a very good bottle of whisky, and had he known Balfour Spectre better he might have stayed to drink more of it with the newly established father. When Johann had suggested his partner and Ignan were not worlds apart at times, he had not anticipated it would be for such reasons. At least Spectre had taken it far more graciously with the news of his unexpected son than Ignan had when Sasha had brought the suggestion to him.

By the time he stepped out of the fireplace into the compact little Hogsmeade cottage, Miranda was already home, which only drew Ignan’s attention to the long wet August afternoon. He’d left her a note, of course, Visiting Johann and Balfour, be home later., propped under the bottom of a bottle of wine on the kitchen table. Miranda appreciated time without him, Ignan quite understood, but the times they did spend a Friday night together tended to be those rare moments without interruption, and if plied with enough wine, nights he told her stories about his earlier decades.

He had a horrible feeling that once he explained the situation he’d just left from, she’d draw more than a few parallels.

“You’re home,” he greeted, dusting floo dust from his navy suit jacket shoulders, “and found the wine.” There wasn’t any doubt in her ability to do the second, even if he hid it, and the brief raise in his eyebrows suggested such. He leaned forward to put a manilla folder of papers onto their coffee table, visibly bearing the school crest, and then reached up to loosen his striped tie. He was altogether dressed for work, and not for August socialising with family.

“Have you eaten?” He asked slipping off his jacket, still stood on the rug before the fireplace.

As far as she was aware, the only person that Ignan willingly socialised with was his wife. Miranda’s husband wasn’t a people person, choosing instead to spend his evenings working or at home with her reading or doing a crossword. They would talk, compete with one another in a game of wizard’s chess or poker while drinking wine. Having lived with Ignan in their small cottage for over half a year now, Miranda had grown terribly fond of their Friday evenings, evenings she made sure to not work unless it was a full moon.

It had, therefore, been a disappointing surprise when she’d found the note on the kitchen table accompanied with her consolation prize. While most wives would have considered the kindness in thinking of her needs and comfort, Miranda found herself questioning exactly how late ‘later’ would be.

When the fireplace suddenly burst into flame, Miranda was relaxed on the sofa. Resigned to an evening alone, she’d changed into her pyjamas immediately after work, an oversized thin blue jumper and a pair of pink shorts. Her feet were bare as usual and were pulled up, knees nearly to her chest as a book rested on her thighs. Her glasses were perched on her nose and the wineglass delicately yet precariously placed between her hip and the back of the sofa. Wavy dark hair fell over her shoulders, unbrushed and scruffy.

When her husband stated the obvious, Miranda’s dark eyes left her book to glance up to him, a frown creasing her brow. He wore a smart suit to see his cousin. It was a nice suit, too nice for a summer social engagement. Not moving from her current position, Mira allowed her eyes to fall to the coffee table where he’d dropped a folder. An official folder.

“Mhmm.” She had a tendency to choose wine over food; wine and cigarettes. As such, she indicated the wine trapped between her and the sofa cushions. As she stared at her husband, Mira pushed her glasses up onto her head, lips pressed together. She wasn’t and never wanted to be the type of wife to question her husband’s engagements. The Storms were each independent people who’d lived their own lives before coming together. But Friday nights were theirs to share and he’d quite clearly lied to her.

“You’re not offering to cook, are you?” An eyebrow rose before she closed the book and dropped it beside the folder on the coffee table.

“Not unless you want fish and chips.” Ignan replied, “or something in one pot.” His tie slipped entirely from his collar, top button undone, and he lay the jacket over the back of his usual armchair. It wasn’t a very hot evening, just warm and a little humid, in their modest cottage. The fire wasn’t lit, but had fizzled out after his arrival, so white shirt sleeves and a matching blue waistcoat were not too uncomfortable in the weather.

Rather than take the armchair, he approached the sofa where the still nameless cat (Ignan still inwardly dubbed it Lawrence due to the timing and resemblance) was curled beside its favourite human. Ignan had not picked up the feline language all that well over the summer, but since it had insisted on sitting on or near him while he was incapacitated he had begun to reach an understanding of how to handle the fur and the claws. He inclined down to kiss Mira in greeting before deciding better than to try and unseat the thing or get (more) cat hair on his suit, so retreated to perch on the armchair.

He prodded and rubbed at his right shoulder, a telling sign to his observant wife that it hurt, and he was tense. There was a long pause as he stared at the folder on the table, before his blue gaze regarded his wife again.

“Balfour Spectre’s a father.” Ignan swallowed, “To an eleven year old.” He let go of his shoulder, as if the two short statements had been as good as a painkiller, and rubbed his palms together slowly. “The boy turned up at the start of the week, right at the house. Overnight they’ve both become parents to this bewildered child.” Despite the calm delivery, Ignan’s face relaid the surprise he had felt on being told that morning while Miranda had been in London. “And it’s his. They knew… well, Johann knew how to verify, of course.” Ignan added less comfortably, looking away.

“Balfour Spectre’s a father.” 

The dark eyed gaze that had been watching his hand rub a clearly uncomfortable shoulder snapped to Ignan’s face, confusion evident. The child’s age was mentioned and now Ignan had his wife’s full attention. She took the wineglass in hand and twisted her body, dropping feet to the floor while the cat beside her didn’t budge.

“well, Johann knew how to verify, of course.” Ignan looked away, clearly less at ease with this part of his story and Miranda’s mind instantly realised why. Her harsher side wanted to make a cold comment about her husband’s previous lie but she bit it back; even Miranda Storm could resist digs when they were wholly inappropriate.

So instead, Miranda’s analytical mind began to question the logistics.
“He’s a man.” She muttered, “in love with a man.” Perhaps she was extremely tired after a long week, but this made no sense.

“He is,” Ignan agreed, resting his elbows on his thighs, “that had not escaped my attention either.” He continued to slowly rub his palms against each other as he considered how to phrase things. It was somehow easier to tell her that Feliks existed, rather than the way he had been conceived. “There have been others, before Johann, including ladies. One of whom is… was... the boy’s mother.”

Johann had tried to detach himself when he had explained to Ignan, a trait their family embraced in times of crisis, sometimes with destructive long-term impact. The older and more involved Ignan became in the lives of others, the harder it was to do it, and the more aware he became of noticing how others pretended not to care when they really did. It was not his place to say anything or judge. Especially given his own circumstances.

Ignan gestured to the paperwork. “He’s of school age, and a wizard, however he wasn’t born here, so he’s not on the Hogwarts roll from birth. Irregular situation, but not unheard of. So although family, this afternoon I met the young man and his father in an official capacity. Established that he is indeed a wizard, his sole parent is Balfour, and he will require a place for September.”

Ignan glanced to the cat which had begun cleaning its long black fur with vigour after Miranda had moved her legs and disturbed it.
“Spectre’s nervous, but determined to do the best for the boy.”

It evaded Miranda how one person could switch between their preferred gender for a partner. She’d never known anything but her own preferences and it was horribly clear that she even had a type, favouring men with a certain darkness to them, men that could keep her in line, men like the husband sat on the arm of his chair appearing more uncomfortable than simply having experienced a long afternoon. Not a woman to put much stock in the Daily Prophet or other such publications, Miranda had read in the past of even Johann Storm being engaged to Hannah Bombay. What truth there was in it, she wasn’t sure. But Hannah and Balfort were worlds apart.

Challenging as it was, Miranda didn’t raise an eyebrow or pull a face at the suggestion Balfort was doing what was right for the boy when he own husband had seemingly been incapable. She still wasn’t sure if she’d been angriest at his lies about being a father or his refusal to accept Sasha as his own when he’d found out himself. It was only a saving grace that she and Ignan would never be looking at having children together. Age was certainly a benefit.

“You’ve been busy, then.”
To stall, the witch took a long sip from the large wine glass.
“And ah…how is Johann coping?” As much as she found Johann a pleasant a clever individual, he certainly wasn’t the sort she’d imagine to act as a father. Too unpredictable, too addictive a personality, too weak.

“You’ve been busy, then.”

“A little, not as much as you I’m sure.” Ignan replied quietly, and sat back in the armchair, folding one leg over the other as Miranda drank wine. She probably had a hundred and one concurrent crises at the hospital to manage, what with her slightly odd Deputy and the poor personal assistants she all called by the same names. He should probably ask about her day, check what she really wanted to eat, change out of this suit, but the knots between his shoulder-blades that had been tense all day felt better for seeing Miranda and settling in the armchair. If he was very lucky, there might even be wine left.

“And ah… how is Johann coping?” Her husband gave a slight frown in confusion at the question, having rather more predicted Miranda might be more interested in how an eleven year old turned up out of the blue.

“He’s being ‘practical' about it.” Ignan replied concisely, his gaze slipping to one side as he thought back to the scenes at the estate he’d visited. “His name is Feliks, by the way. It’s Russian, like his mother was.” Ignan studied Miranda, blue eyes narrowing a fraction as he added, “His mother was Ira Almasy.”

Ignan’s silver eyebrows raised and fell like a little shrug as he added the detail.

“So I think practical is more than one can hope from them both at this moment.”

As her mind slowly tried to work through the sudden information being flung at her this evening, Miranda’s right hand, the one not grasping her wine glass, was laid on the black cat, stroking him gently. Practical was a decidedly bizarre way to describe someone’s reaction to such a surprise. A child! A secret child!

“His name is Feliks, by the way. It’s Russian, like his mother was.” Russian, Ignan offered. What in Merlin’s name was Spectre doing with a Russian woman? Had he ever been to Russia?
“His mother was Ira Almasy.”
Miranda’s hand froze, eyes snapping back up to Ignan, her stare intense, surprised, concerned. Ira Almasy, the monster that had terrorised Hannah Bombay and caused her to drag Lawrence to their home, nearly murdering Ignan. The monster who’d been behind so much terror had born a child to their cousin’s partner? The child of a monster would be starting at Hogwarts under her Ignan’s advisement.

Balfour Spectre had had sex with that monster? Miranda suddenly felt herself feeling decidedly queasy.

“This…” Her wine was placed on the table and she stood, suddenly feeling a nervous energy as she tried to process. “This makes no sense.” The cat, clearly not bothered by the sudden tension in the room, stood, moved into her warm vacated spot, and lay down.
“How did Johann verify, Ignan?”

He had felt Miranda was too calm and unquestioning about the whole situation. Normally any sort of son related conversation was an open door to taking a dig at him about Sasha, so another unexpected son should have been a floodgate. Here was a reaction Ignan could recognise, sat back in the armchair as Miranda suddenly froze, perturbed.

As she got up and thought it through, Ignan followed her with his eyes. The cat took advantage of the vacated warm patch despite the August temperature. On occasion, it didn’t seem to follow ordinary cat logic.

“How did Johann verify, Ignan?” Miranda asked, decidedly off her wine.

“There is a potion,” he explained carefully, “the Ministry has it to test matters of inheritance. Johann has used it several times before. It was how he first discovered by chance he was related to Sasha.” He laced his fingers together and rested them on his crossed leg. “If you mean the fact that the boy is Almasy’s son? She wrote him a letter, dated days before her death, and the boy is also a metamorph.” He let out a gentle sigh. “He’s been living with other Almasy relatives, from what I understand.”

Of course, it had been used to discover his own secret son. Miranda wasn’t about to tell her husband that she, the head healer, hardly needed an explanation of how the potion itself worked. She’d seen it before, read of it yet never imagined herself to really need a use for it. The presence of such a potion served only to inspire distrust in one’s loved ones. Like the distrust Ignan had shown the year before when he’d failed to share the reality that he was in fact biologically a parent.

Still unsure what exactly she could say, or what he expected her to say, Miranda crossed her arms, frowning. The nightmare had been over that morning. Lawrence Musgrave was as good as gone, Hannah Bombay spent her days in Azkaban on parole from the Ministry and Ira Almasy was no longer breathing, no longer able to use her pawns. That morning, things had been good, the horrors had been put to bed.

But tonight, Ignan came home with a clearly sore shoulder and news that made her want to vomit.

“Why now?” Her dark eyes searched his, “Why show up now? There’s more to it, has to be.”

“I don't know," he said, "but I hope to Merlin there’s nothing more to it.” His shoulder gave a dull ache again, brought on by the way Miranda was on edge. “But of all the environments to grow up in, two parents, a proper education, has to be better than being raised by whatever insanity Ira Almasy was. From what I understand, she had no hand in raising him, which is the only reassurance in this situation.”

His left hand returned to pinching his right shoulder as he frowned. Ira Almasy had taken care of Raine Almasy for most of her seventh year until the teenager had escaped and returned. She could so easily have become what Ira wanted. Thankfully for all of them, Raine was made of sterner stuff and had a conscience. Feliks… Ignan wasn’t sure yet. He didn’t want to judge on his understanding of mother alone.

“August is always too quiet.” He muttered darkly, shaking his head. “Did you have a perfectly ordinary day to balance things?”

“Time will tell.” Muttered the Storm far shorter and easier to unnerve. It was always a surprise how one could go from perfectly comfortable, lost in one’s own contentedness to having the world and its dark realities come crashing back down. Ignan had left her in peaceful ignorance all evening, and in truth, it shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. This was a boy’s life, a young child no doubt scared and unaware of what was going on and all she could think of was how it could be wrong or how it could be dangerous for them.

His hand moved back to his shoulder and Mira’s frown grew deeper. “It’s hard to classify ordinary at St Mungo’s.” She rose a dark eyebrow before moving around the coffee table to him in the armchair. “But no secret sons kept away for years.” Without a word of what she was doing, Miranda climbed onto the arm of his chair, resting her feet down beside his legs as hands moved to his right shoulder, batting his own away.

“So, he just showed up? This Felicks?” Fingers began to massage into the muscles surrounding his shoulder as she spoke quietly. “Balfort was clueless? Truthfully?”

“I cannot speak exactly for the man,” Ignan told Miranda, as she gripped his shoulder, “but it did not appear to have come up in conversation between them on any occasion.” No wizard with a string of lovers ever truly knew he hadn’t become an accidental father, at least, that is what he told himself these days. It would be speaking out of turn to elaborate further on the detached, but jealous, way Johann had mentioned others before him. It had been colder than the way Ignan had reacted to Miranda’s wind up about Edwin Glass.

“He was brought from where he was kept. They suppose it was a plan in the event of her death. Potentially if she had lived until his adulthood, Spectre might never have known at all.” He risked a glance up at the Head Healer. She had the option to cause him pain with the merest finger with the grip she was instilling to ease the tension. “I will keep more than an eye on him at Hogwarts, I can assure you.” They were all potential murderous criminals there, with their terrible parents, including descendants of convicted Death Eaters from the war, but Ignan had still reduced some of them to tears.

“Speaking of murderous criminals,” Ignan added, reaching up to touch her hands, an indication that his shoulder could tolerate no more well-meant prodding, “did the Ministry decide if Gamp is out of your hands?” He knew because the Ministry had informed the school they were making a decision. Informing them as if their input would hold any weight to what the select group of Wizengamot would do. After what had happened to the students, he should have suffered the same, in Ignan’s view.

Concern marred Miranda’s features as she listened to her husband. There was none of her usually cold and stern demeanour as she sat perched on the arm of his chair. Instead she found her mind thoughtfully trying to process the information. At least Balfour wasn’t trying to maintain secrecy unlike Mira’s husband still seemed to. While Ignan thought that her irritation was at his secrets from her, it was more to do with his lack of willingness to publically claim responsibility for his own offspring. It was irresponsible and selfish. Clearly Balfour was the better man where this situation was concerned while her husband remained a fool.

Ira Almasy’s son, secret child of Spectre, the possibility of never knowing. It wasn’t something a woman could process. A secret child was quite impossible and while Miranda had never been a maternal woman, she’d always tried her best with Maya and now Katrine.

“Speaking of murderous criminals,” Ignan guided the subject and Mira’s mind snapped back to the present as his hands moved hers away. Perhaps she’d been too forceful.

“We can’t do anything more for him.” The timing of this question seemed decidedly off. Miranda still hadn’t told him of her plans for Musgrave, anticipating the reaction she’d receive. “We’re a place for healing, not a prison.”

“Quite,” Ignan replied, agreeing with her description. “It’s no place for maniacs like him. You’re all safer with them in Azkaban.” He looked up over his shoulder at Miranda perched on the arm of the chair. She’d abandoned reading and wine to rub his shoulder despite them discussing secret children. This was unusual, and Ignan wasn’t sure if it was progress, or that Miranda was holding back from saying something.

“You’ve got that look,” he spoke quietly, studying her expression, “what is it you’re not saying?”