Hannah Bombay had been disowned at exactly 9AM on the 28th July 2010. Cynthia remembered the morning as clear as a glass of vodka. She and Fred had been enjoying their morning crumpets and tea when the prophet had arrived. It hadn’t been the first time that Cynthia had nearly choked on her breakfast at the sight of her daughter’s face. This had been, unfortunately, the first time that Hannah’s face had been covering the front page of the daily newspaper. Kidnapped for the full moon, the girl had alleged. Never far from trouble, her mother had considered.

Cindy clearly remembered Fred reaching across to take the paper, his gruff voice remarking “What the hell is our daughter doing on the prophet?”
The paper had been snatched back as Cindy Bombay withdrew her wand and set it alight. The flames were reflected in green eyes as Cindy calmly responded “We don’t have a daughter, Fred. Not anymore.”

And Cynthia Bombay hadn’t gone back on her word. She felt rather as though she’d foreseen the continued trouble and disaster that only seemed to follow Hannah. The good Bombay name was being besmirched by her werewolf criminal daughter. Cindy’s name was being besmirched! The girl should have married Yonyarn. She should have become a good wife and stopped all of this nonsense. Now she was an ex-prisoner of Azkaban and everyone looked at Cindy as if she’d caused it!

Fred had been nagging her for months now to get back in touch with Hannah, to show her support for her clearly failing daughter. Her own father, Anthony had implored both her and her mother to seek reason. It wasn’t clear whether Cindy was heeding the advice of her husband and father or whether she simply wanted the incessant nagging to cease, but at 9:30am, she was stood at the door to Hannah’s flat, raising her fist to knock.

Hannah Bombay had been enjoying her breakfast of crumpets and tea when the knock dragged her from her thoughts. Herbert jumped down from the table and started circling her legs when Hannah took another sip of tea and made her way through the small living room to the corridor and the front door. It was pulled open and Hannah froze, staring at a witch she’d never expected to see at her door again.

“Mum.”

“Annie.” Her mother offered a strained and uncomfortable smile while Hannah frowned. She felt her mother’s gaze looking her up and down, judging. Cynthia Bombay had always read a person by how they appeared. Hannah knew she was assessing hair, clothing, weight. The woman never ceased judging. “Can I come in?”

“If you must.” Hannah stepped back, holding the door for the mother to enter. The older witch’s heels could be heard on the wooden floor until she stopped and peered around, clealr unimpressed. “Fire.” Hannah said before Cindy could ask.  “Uncle Lawrence made some repairs. And Johann.” Neither man Cindy would want to know about. Hannah didn’t care.

“Why are you here, Mum?” There was a pause while Hannah shut the door and realised. “Is Dad okay? Or Grandpa?”