The house was quiet. Oddly quiet when there was a 20-month-old staying over. This was, of course, because the child was outside along with her Nan. Despite the weather, the two were outside kneeling in the wet mud. In Miranda Storm’s hand? A small shovel. In Katrine’s hands? Mud. Lots and lots of mud. There was mud under her fingernails, mud in her hair, mud all over her cheeks and covering her clothes. It looked as if the child had been dunked in mud. Bathtime would certainly be fun.

The witch in her forties was distinctly less covered in mud. She wore a thick set of gardening gloves, (a shrunken version had been refused by Katrine). Miranda’s long hair had been scraped back into a messy ponytail and was covered with a wide brimmed hat, allowing the rain water to slide off. She wore a shirt and jeans with flat boots and looked decidedly muggle.

“Right, muck, time for a bath.” Miranda finally proclaimed, downing her shovel and assessing the young child. If her daughter could see her now… “We’ll make a gardener out of you yet.”

“Garner!” Katrine proclaimed with a grin, standing and making a dash for the house.
“Oh no!” Ignan wouldn’t be the best pleased to the mucky child running at him in the living room. But Miranda was too slow when it came to standing and running in after her granddaughter.
“Katrine!” It was too late, the muddy footprints of the barefooted toddler clearly showed the path she’d taken straight for her grandfather.

The patter of little muddy footsteps drew Ignan’s attention up from the table in their smaller than modest kitchen. Since Miranda had commandeered the little study for writing her next book, Ignan often settled for the kitchen. He glanced up in surprise and dropped his quill aside the letter he was writing, eyes wide as the toddler burst in through the back door, haphazardly running.

“Steady on there!” The wizard reached out his left arm to impede the progress of the pint-sized potential witch, who was, as he realised a moment later, covered in mud from their garden. Children and animals were just messy, he knew, but this one really was messy now she could run around.

There was a trail of muddy footprints smeared across the kitchen floor in the wake of Miranda’s grandchild, and his shirtsleeve was now also sporting some of the mud from her hands as she grasped.

Right, Ignan thought, realising in a flash that he had to actually be the parental figure for a moment before Miranda reappeared. Having never raised a child of his own - what with Sasha arriving in his life as a late teen - his experience in this field was distinctly lacking. His wife made it look easy. Merlin, he hoped she was right behind Katrine.

Fortunately for the reluctant grandfather, his wife burst through the open door only a moment later, herself drenched from the rain and her own boots caked in mud.
“Oh Merlin!” She gasped, dark eyes gaze travelling over the pair in the kitchen as Ignan tried to hold the toddler at bay. “Katrine, Mormor needs to give you a bath, kjære.” But Katrine clung onto Ignan, pulling on his shirt and making a move to climb into his lap.

The cat had previously made inroads to this wish to sit on his lap, but he’d never, ever in his life experienced a small child electing to do so. He was a white-haired, scary looking wizard who scowled at children and kept them away. They didn’t like him, they didn’t come to talk to him. At most familiar they stuck their tongue out at him from the safety of another adult’s arms. They only tried to cross him once a teenager and in his classroom.

“Did you try to bury her in the garden?” Ignan asked, semi-sarcastically, and not directly addressing either of them. He hastily pushed aside the letter and engaged both hands in dissuading the toddler. He’d have drawn his wand only he anticipated Mira would bite his head off. “What are you doing, child? You’re getting mud everywhere.”

Miranda would have laughed at her husband’s inability to cope with the proximity of a small child if he hadn’t failed to call her granddaughter by her name. Whatever Ignan may have thought, he was now a grandfather and would need to become accustomed. Yet, these wasn’t an opportunity to convey such to him because her pocket began to heat up and she shoved her hand in to feel the heated badge. Eyes widened and she looked at Ignan.
“I have to go.”

“What, now?!” Ignan replied, as Katrine succeeded in claiming her throne, muddy hands reaching for the end of the letter, scrabbling at the table with plucky persistence. “Can’t you ignore it?” Of course she couldn’t, but it really picked its times. “Your granddaughter’s here, and she’s… filthy.” Ignan sighed, realising his protests fell on deaf ears. He was facing the inevitable, daunting prospect that in minutes he’d be the only adult in the house with a not-yet-two year old. “Don’t do this to m -us,” he implored.

For a rare moment, Miranda actually looked apologetic as her eyes danced between her excited and extremely muddy granddaughter and the husband who was most definitely not used to little children.
“It’s only mud. Give her a bath.” Stepping over, in turn spreading more mud through the kitchen, Miranda reached over, a hand on Katrine’s head as she leaned down and kissed Ignan, a apology of sorts. “I love you, Grandpa.”

“Love you too, Mormor.” Ignan replied, through gritted teeth.

The house was quiet. Oddly quiet when there was a 20-month-old staying over. This was, of course, because the child was…

The cat had resigned itself to curling on the sofa, as there was no room on its favourite spot in Ignan’s armchair. The wizard occupied it, and his lap was occupied by a small human who smelled of bath herbs, soap, and fish finger dinner.

When the fireplace crackled into life, however, it stretched its front paws and yawned widely, observing the return of its mistress with lamplike eyes. A book of Grimm’s fairy tales hit the floor beside the armchair, slipping from between Ignan’s thigh and the arm as a sense of another presence in the room lightened his doze.

The healer had tried to work through her emergency as quickly as had been possible, the lingering thought of her husband and young granddaughter at home without her. She’d never left Ignan with Katrine before and the thought made her nervous.

So when she stepped out of the fireplace, Miranda had anticipated a scene of disaster with Katrine having been silenced or stunned. Perhaps Katrine would be bound to the cot upstairs while Ignan made a sizable dent in a bottle of wine.
What she certainly hadn’t expected was what greeted her in the armchair and her heart nearly melted. If only the camera was within reach! It was with a soft smile that Miranda slipped her boots off and made her quiet way around the coffee table, hand dropping to fuss the cat before she arrived at the armchair.

Lowering herself to perch on the arm of the chair, Miranda reached down, hand touching Ignan’s arm. “You survived, old man.”
“We did?” Ignan mumbled, coming to with a jump, realising his legs had gone to sleep beneath Katrine’s weight, but as least she was asleep. “I mean, yes, of course.”

Tiptoeing silently across the hearth to pick up Miranda’s boots, Gerda, their house elf, gave Ignan a knowing look. He looked back to Miranda, “I had a little help, of course.” Gerda had at one point, nearly reached for Miranda’s cigarettes herself. Neither of them had been naturals at looking after small people. The elf had just finished re-assembling the upstairs of the house, removing mud from the bannisters, bath, towels, mirror. It had magically duplicated in the way only a small child could duplicate it. She was glad that little mistress Katrine did not stay often.

“Thank Merlin you’re back though,” Ignan muttered, “I was going to read The Girl Without Hands[1] next.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” The witch said, her smile showing just how much Ignan’s current situation had pleasantly surprised her. It meant a lot, to see Katrine curled up so comfortably on his lap because he was the only grandfather the girl would have. Ignan, of course, didn’t need to be reminded of such a reality. “Perhaps best we get her to bed, yes?” Miranda stood and reached over to take the little girl. “Assuming you didn’t drug her and set this whole thing up, husband?”

“Drug her?” Ignan asked, keeping his voice low, and mocking hurt. “That’s more your style mormor,” he flexed his hands, seeking out his wand, “grandfather prefers a few choice charms.” And with that, he brandished his wand triumphantly before weaving it gently through the air above the sleeping child, who began to float upwards, unaware. Ignan’s legs heaved a sigh of relief and his toes looked forward to being reunited.

Miranda tried not to show too much smugness at the wizard referring to himself as ‘Grandfather’ but her eyebrows did rise. One could only hope that none of the charms were inappropriate.
“I shall have to tell Maya that Grandfather is offering his babysitting services more often.” The witch teased as she plucked her granddaughter from the air and brought her close in her arms. The girl didn’t stir. Heavy sleeper just like her mother and grandmother.

“I’ll be able to start her assassin training early, then.” Ignan joked darkly, leaning down to pick up the book, his eyes not leaving his wife. The way she held Katrine even conjured a smile to his weathered face.

“Perhaps we’ll wait a year or two for that, Grandpa.” Mrs Storm gave her husband a knowing smile.

1.	A tale about selling your daughter to the devil and cutting off her hands, amongst other nightmare-inducing things