Today, there’d been a distinct drop in temperature. Summer was long gone, and instead there was a chill in the air and the rain had been heavy all day. The weather had perfectly complimented Genevieve’s mood as she’d disembarked the boat at Charon’s point having vomited twice on the journey from Azakban. By the time her feet had touched solid ground, there’d been nothing left in the pit of her stomach but extreme anxiety.

“Two months, baby.”[1]

Leo Gamp was under the illusion that he was getting out of Azkaban and his wife was struggling desperately to process the thought after 13 years of his life sentence. It was a grave mistake, a nightmare. He was winding her up, he had to be. He had, however, seemed so convinced. He had no reason to lie about it other than to panic her.

Gen didn’t return to the Witch Weekly offices that afternoon. Instead she went straight up the stairs to her small but perfect flat above. Meetings and deadlines could wait. Rather than sitting down in a stupor, without a wand, she went about tidying and cleaning every inch of the already spotless flat. Surprisingly, the bottle of white wine that had been started the night before remained on the kitchen worktop untouched. The living room was rearranged, bookcases moving from one wall to another, the sofa pushed to the centre. Ten minutes later, Gen was moving things back to where they had been in the first place.

The whole time, she was talking to herself. Explanations for why he couldn’t possibly be released were thrown into the otherwise silent room. Possibilities that would allow for his freedom were whispered.

3 hours later, feeling like a caged animal, Gen swept her large royal blue cloak over her shoulders and lifted the hood up over shoulder length dark hair. Rather than her usual selection of high heels, Gen grabbed a pair of flat pumps that she pulled on and left the flat.

There was no plan or direction to Gen’s walk, and her stride was quick. Mug and rain water splashed up onto light red jeans as she walked the streets away from Diagon Alley.
Just after 7 in the evening, after a couple of hours of pointless walking, the now sodden witch found herself on the doorstep of a rather unexpected wizard. She needed company that wasn’t going to judge or be repulsed.

When the door opened, Gen dropped the hood that had done nothing to keep the rain from her hair. She looked up at him.
“Just forget that you’re angry. Please?”

1.	The Death Eater in my Bed

Even though it was Saturday, most of Kurby's day had been spent at the Ministry, getting things together for the next quickly-approaching full moon and putting plans into place just in case the wizard who'd been murdered in daylight during September's apex hadn't been killed by a coincidental wild dog.  As a result, he had been looking forward to spending a quiet night holed up in his flat, tinkering with his latest project while the autumn rain beat a steady rhythm outside. 

That made the knock on his door, which came just after he'd finally settled onto the sofa with the enchanted ring he was fiddling with, decidedly unwelcome.

Kurby stared at the door, his expression decidedly unhappily.  He stayed there for a moment, and then finally gave a weary sigh and heaved himself to his feet, trudging over to see who it was that had decided to bother him and potentially ruin his evening.

Genevieve Garcia-Gamp stood before him, dripping wet, standing shorter than she usually did in her heels.  Kurby eyed her, his expression guarded.  He'd never responded to the last letter she'd sent him, after he'd owled her venting about the Witch Weekly reporter.  Because of course Genevieve had never apologized for pushing him into the public sphere; she never saw it that way.  Of course all she'd done was dismiss responsibility and accuse him of sulking.

And now she'd shown up on his doorstep, expecting what was sure to be some kind of ridiculously complicated favor.

Kurby rolled his eyes, mostly for effect.  He didn't particularly feel like forgetting he was angry, nor did he feel like giving up his quiet evening alone to deal with whatever emergency had brought Gen to his doorstep. 

But still...

It was uncomfortable to think about the last time that a witch had shown up at his door unexpectedly.[1]  He hadn't taken Margo Amherst seriously at first, and the situation had ended with him nearly murdered at the hands of a rampaging direwolf. 

Kurby gave Genevieve an unhappy look, and then finally heaved a sigh and stepped back, allowing her entry into his flat.

1.	April 6, 2009 - I've Lost All Control

No words came from Kurby’s lips, and they weren’t necessary. Instead of speaking verbally, his expression and body language spoke volumes to the witch that stood on the doorstep wondering if she’d even be let in or he’d send her away. He looked like he planned on sending her away, for sure. He was, of course, right to be mad. Perhaps she’d wound him up too much with the article and now this damned owl in the name of Lil Snigger had been the straw to break the werewolf hunter’s back.

Generally, the wizard would huff and puff to demonstrate just what an inconvenience it was that he felt before he relented. For Kurby, Gen imagined it was a face saving technique.

As if by magic, the man’s huffing and puffing reached its customary denouement and he stepped back to let her in. No words, just a glare. She’d have made a comment about disrupting his dull evening if she hadn’t been here just to speak to someone that wouldn’t want to write up the next chapter that was her disastrous personal life.

“Thank you.” She stepped wet foot past him and kicked her shoes off. Next, the cloak was untied and she cast it over the rack near the door.
“I didn’t set Snigger on you.” Her voice was quiet, arms folded over her stomach as they stood close, still near the door. “I’m not that bad. Not that you’ll have to worry, soon.” She shook her head, why were there tears forming in her eyes? “You got any firewhiskey? Like… a gallon of firewhiskey?”

Kurby's brows knitted, very slightly.  Witch Weekly's chief editor prided herself on her appearance; she rarely let down her guard in that department, not even to try and manipulate him.  Yet here she stood before him, soaking wet from the rain, and standing several inches shorter than usual without any of her trademark heels.

"Depends," he replied warily, as he closed and locked the door behind her. 

He wouldn't have to worry, soon?  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

She looked like she was on the verge of tears.  Alarm was now rising in his chest, nearly keeping pace with his former irritation.  Had she been fired?  Was she having some kind of health emergency?  He'd already been spending an exhausting amount of time at St. Mungo's, trying to check on Zelda.  The last thing he needed or wanted was to go through that experience anew with another friend.

"What the hell happened, Gen?" he asked bluntly, eyeing her.

“Or chardonnay?” She didn’t want to tell him what had happened. She didn’t want to talk about it at all. Or at least, in this very specific moment she didn’t want to. Especially now that she’d been asked what had happened. With no idea where to start and no real wish to drag her husband’s everlasting presence into the flat of her regular fling, Gen found herself regretting showing up at his door.

She pulled her wand from her cardigan pocket and pointed it at her hair. Quickly it began to dry, frizzing into natural messy waves.
“Perhaps chardonnay is a stretch for the wolf man but you must have something.” Her wand was returned to her pocket and she crossed her arms once more, practically hugging herself.

“Don’t panic, no one’s died.” Yet. If they let him out, someone else might. He’d killed before, murdered innocent muggleborns. Who was to say he wouldn’t again regardless of his dark lord no longer breathing? “I just don’t want to be alone right now.” She shrugged awkwardly. “It’s not a full moon and you clearly aren’t out drinking away your grumpy sorrows so humour a witch? Please?”

He was starting to feel completely flabbergasted.  What in Merlin's name could have possibly brought Genevieve to his door at 7 pm on a Saturday night, looking like a mess, issuing dire statements, and insisting he drink with her?

Offhand, he could only think of a few possibilities.  Maybe she'd had a really bad start to a date, although it was still early in the night for that.  Something could have happened at the Witch Weekly -- a bad reaction to a story, or her getting in trouble for something.  But again, why the hell would that bring her here on a Saturday night?  Had something happened to Dante?

The suggestion that he must not have anything to do if it wasn't a full moon and he wasn't already drinking was also prickling at him.  He was allowed to have hobbies.  He'd been looking forward to spending a quiet night trying to figure out a couple of new enchantments, enjoying his solitude after all the hecticness of the preceding week.

Kurby hesitated, torn between trying to force her to leave his flat or simply going along with her demands, in hopes that she'd get what she wanted and leave him alone.  But he also knew that if they started drinking, the chances of getting to have a quiet night were likely slim to none.

He sighed, rubbing at the back of his head as he glanced toward the small, galley-like kitchen in his flat.

"One drink," he cautioned, as he started unhappily toward the kitchen.  "I've got to work tomorrow."

One drink was fine. It would turn into more if she could help it. Most people gave in when she worked her magic and Kurby had proved in the past that he liked drinking with her. He liked what happened after the drinks, as well. He even liked grumbling about it afterwards.

“One drink.” The witch agreed as Mr Grump turned and started towards the small kitchen. As he sorted out their beverages, she leaned against a work surface, arms still crossed as if protectively.
“How long are you going to be mad at me, Kurby?” She watched as glasses were filled with the golden liquid that held promises of making her feel better.
“You should be pleased to have been featured. Anyone would be pleased to date someone like you.” She gave a slight shrug and reached for the whiskey, lifting it to her lips and draining it. As a wine drinker, Genevieve wasn’t accustomed to firewhiskey and found that she nearly choked on it as it burned down her throat. Regardless, after swallowing, she took the bottle from him and poured more into her glass. “I would.” But she hadn’t dated anyone in her whole life and Kurby hadn’t ever been interested.

His plan to quickly cap the bottle and hide it away again was foiled when Gen plucked it away from him.  Kurby sighed, bitterly aware that every limit that he had tried to set was not going to be abided by. 

He shifted uncomfortably as he leaned back against the counter, picking up his own drink.  This was not a line of conversation that he wanted to pursue.  There was no winning here: Genevieve would never accept that someone didn't want to be the center of attention, that being featured in her magazine wasn't the most flattering compliment that one could receive.

Her last comment very nearly made him tense.  Had she been drinking already?  He didn't want to make eye contact to try and find out.  Kurby held his glass of whiskey tightly, tempted to just throw it back.

"You knew I wouldn't be," he shot back tersely.  She'd known, and that was why she'd done it; some sort of stupid power play after he hadn't been cooperative about giving her dirt on Alec Carter.  "I'm not some goddamned actor in your stage play, Gen.  I don't want to be in the middle of anything."

“You’re not.” Gen replied. If she’d been in any other mood she may have rolled her eyes. Today, she was just glad that she’d side-tracked him and he wasn’t asking what had happened. That would come later; if he didn’t turf her out in irritation. “It’s not like you came first in the competition. Then you could have complained because witches would have been flocking to your door like clucking hens looking for a cock to ruffle their feathers.”

She lifted her drink to her lips and took a sip, slower this time. This was her one drink. The last hadn’t counted since it had been drained so quickly.

“As it is, you have me.” And she wasn’t going to apologise for putting him in the article. She’d even voted for him. In truth, Gen probably never would have been drawn to Kurby if he was an attention seeker. She did enough of that without having the competition. “Which I’m not sorry for, because I’m much better company than most witches that you’ll find.” Perhaps not tonight. Tonight, she wanted to drink and cry and scream and throw things and cast dangerous, destructive hexes at people.

“You think you’d feature in my stage play?” Her eyebrows rose, “You think highly of yourself.”

This description of those belonging to the female gender, as some sort of mindless hoard simply focused on finding the best opportunities to procreate, struck him as oddly uncomfortable.  None of the women that he worked with or spent time with acted like a clucking hen except for possibly his mother, although her fussiness had nothing to do with getting her feathers ruffled in that way.  But he wasn't about to argue that point to the editor of the Witch Weekly, especially not in the current setting.

Genevieve had a knack for making everything he said come across in the worst possible way when she wanted to fluster him.  At her last comment, Kurby visibly blanched.

"That's not what I meant," he protested.  He could feel the heat rising in his face.  "I'm not -- ...I never said featured."  He shifted awkwardly, feeling exposed under her gaze.  Genevieve's stage play consisted of the Death Eater husband in Azkaban who'd made her famous; of her trials and triumphs at the Witch Weekly; of the weekly parties that she staged.  He just happened to be someone that she occasionally wasted a night with.

To hell with staying sober.  This conversation was already getting too uncomfortable.  Kurby raised his glass and took a long sip of the firewhiskey.

"Just keep me out of the goddamned paper," he muttered at last.

 There had to be something else they could talk about, something that had nothing to do with him.  He tried to think as he sipped at the firewhiskey again.  "How's the kid's first term at Hogwarts going?"

Surely, after years of knowing Gen, Kurby would have now realised that as soon as he stopped reacting the way he did, she would stop winding him up the way she did. But even his reaction to the idea of featuring in the play of her life gained such a beautiful reaction that only served as the perfect part distraction from the reason she’d sought his company tonight.

“The kid has a name.” Gen’s voice was quiet and she looked down into her glass. “I’ve not had any owls about poor behaviour so I presume that he’s doing okay.” She shrugged, glancing back to her friend. “One would think he didn’t know where the owlery was but last year the letters didn’t stop flooding in. Maybe it’s too uncool for a second year to owl his mum?” If Gen were to be completely honest, her son’s written silence bothered her. Despite her unorthodox parenting manner, they’d always been close. She’d brought him up alone other than a little help from Leo’s cousins.

The suggestion from Leo of her being a bad mother, the things he’d said, calling her a whore of a wife and everything else started to swim in her mind again. Was she so bad? Was that why Dante ignored her now he was back at school?

With a release of a long breath, Gen slid down, back sliding against the kitchen counter until she was on the floor, legs pulled up. She put her head back against the cupboard door and closed her eyes.
“My husband think that he’s going to be released from Azkaban.”

M - Slight language.

Oh.

Something flickered over the werewolf hunter's expression, cutting through his frustration from a moment before.  Suddenly, he understood.  Genevieve showing up at his door out of nowhere, preferring alcohol over explanations, dropping dire comments and then changing the subject by trying to rile him up.

He'd never read her book, but everyone knew the story.  He'd only known Leo Gamp in passing in the days before the Ministry had fallen.  There had been plenty like him: wizards and witches who went along with Voldemort's regime, who collaborated or worse.  Gamp had tortured and murdered people.  He'd fought on the wrong side at the Battle of Hogwarts.  He deserved to spend the rest of his goddamned, traitorous life rotting to a corpse in Azkaban, not getting some idiotic reduction in his sentence a little over a decade in.

"Fucking Death Eaters," he said harshly.

Genevieve had slid down to sit on the floor.  The kitchen wasn't very big; a narrow, rectangular shape, with just a few feet between the two walls.  Kurby studied her for a moment, and then sighed.  Hell.

He grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey, along with his own half-full glass, and lowered himself to sit as well, facing towards her with his back against the opposite counter.

"I'm sorry, Genny," he said quietly.  "How'd you find out?"

"Fucking Death Eaters,"

For a very short moment, Gen thought that she may be about to receive a tirade of abuse about Death Eaters as if she could do anything about it. It had been many years since that had happened almost on a daily basis, but still some people judged her on the sins of the man she’d married. Kurby had always been different, however, not even interested in her celebrity status of the past several years. It was why the prediction was soon cast away.

Instead of any lecture, the wizard slunk down opposite her with the bottle of fire whiskey and his own glass. One drink clearly wasn’t still the limit and for that, the witch was glad.

“Don’t call me Genny.” He’d called her that today, like he’d used to. The thought made her feel nauseous.

“I had an owl requesting a visit.” She muttered, closing her eyes once more as she tried to remain calm despite the anxiety building. “I’ve just instructed a lawyer to try for a divorce again and thought that he’d finally agree to let me get on with my life. I actually thought that he might apologise.” An awkward laugh came and she looked across at Kurby, shaking her head. “Instead, he tried to launch himself across the table at me. He’s read my book.”

Gen took a long gulp of her drink, letting her words sink in for a moment. Kurby, despite never having picked up her book, a fact she well knew, would understand the gravity of Leo having had his hands on it. She’d made it no secret that her son was in fact a secret from her husband. The world knew other than the boy’s father and she’d foolishly believed that such a state of affairs would continue until Dante was old enough to make the decision himself as to whether he wanted to visit his father in Azkaban. As a twelve-year-old boy, he had no choice as far as his mother was concerned.

The werewolf hunter listened silently, brows knit, as he set the bottle of firewhiskey on the floor between them.  He'd never really pried about the rest of Genevieve's personal life, or the situation with her still-husband.  As far as he was concerned, as long as she kept him out of her magazine, the rest of her life wasn't any of his business. 

But it was impossible not to pick up bits and pieces from spending time around Gen.  And even if he couldn't understand, if he didn't know all of the details, at least he could empathize.

He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her instruction, and took a sip of his drink, trying to process the details.  So Genevieve had gone to see her husband at Azkaban to pressure him for a divorce, and found out that he'd read her book.  That meant he had to know about Dante, too.  And if he claimed that he was getting released on top of it...

 A former Death Eater who had just learned about his son but was confined in Azkaban was one type of problem.  One that was about to get released, even without the wand commonly denied to ex-Azzies, was something else. 

Kurby regarded Genevieve over the top of his glass, trying to judge how much she knew, if she even wanted to be talking about this.  "You sure he's gettin' out?"

“He is sure.” Genevieve took another long gulp of firewhiskey. She was going to get very drunk tonight, alone or with Kurby. Tomorrow she would wallow in bed and stew over what had happened. Monday would be a time for action and reaction. She wasn’t going to let Leo get out of prison without a fight. Unless he had been innocent the whole time. What if he’d been wrongly convicted and she had given up on him and moved on? That would make her refusal to see him, her secret keeping about their son the ultimate betrayal. She’d idolised him, left Hogwarts early to follow him.

“He pleaded innocent before the Wizengamot. He must had requested I visit a hundred times in the first years of his incarceration and I refused.” Her eyes flashed up to him. “I keep wondering, what if he is innocent? But that much evidence can’t be wrong.”

Her mind was a terrifying mess of confusion and emotions. The more she discussed it, the more confused she would clearly become. So, Gen drained what was left of her glass and frowned.

“You want me to go?” Of course, he did, she’d imposed.