7pm on the 26th of November, a Saturday
Just outside the Leaky Cauldron, the Diagon Alley entrance

A young man of just-recently-nineteen leaned against the brick wall nearby a torn and scrapped wanted poster of Cinead Tawse.  It was a nice evening and the bricks at the portal folded away at regular intervals, scraping and grumbling as they shifted to make way for shoppers and carousers. The merchants of Diagon Alley had already begun decorating for Christmas with fairy lights and evergreen boughs. Lit candles floated on their own in little merry flocks, dripping wax into the cobblestones and food carts.

It was Figaro Sellaphix and he was looking smarter than usual in an ensemble designed in lopsided collaboration with Virgil Carstairs: dark blazer layered over a black zip hoodie with gold-colored details, that and a plain grey t-shirt and fitted trousers had been designed to look grown but not too fussy. Virgil had quizzed him up and down for details about who Figaro was meeting this evening, but the encounter a few days before had been so brief and business-like (and obscured in bookend fogs of a birthday hangover and the reunion with a felonious father) that Figaro could provide only the barest details. The most substantive being: a purple scarf that she kept on even in the warmth of the shop.

Hannah's return owl had been even more sparse of detail which had Figaro just slightly off-foot. If he was meeting friends he wouldn't bother worrying and just faff about with the whims, but that wouldn't likely work here.

Oh, well. He had wine. He'd arrived ten minutes early. And he was meeting the aloof and charming Hannah Bombay. What could go wrong? He twirled his wand in his free hand, but at exactly the worst moment a sound made him drop it.

"Pants."

Hannah would be a liar if she were to ever say that she wasn’t surprised when the letter arrived from Figaro Sellaphix, son to Rafe and Zelda. Their encounter had been bizarre but, to Hannah, nothing that stood out as the need for a date. In truth, however, Hannah had never been particularly interested in dating. Years ago, she probably would have ignored the letter and been rather blunt if they met once more and he asked about it. But this time around, Hannah chose to humour the younger wizard and respond.

So now the healer found herself walking through Diagon Alley to see him stood against the wall twirling his wand around his fingers. Part of her considered turning around and walking off; this wasn’t for her. But something propelled the witch forward and she came up beside him just as the wand landed on the floor.

“Not hungover today.” It was a statement accompanied with a small smile. He was turned out much neater than before and appearing of decidedly improved health. Hannah herself was less formal than she may have been in the past. She wore a long navy coat and cream scarf, tightly fitted black jeans and black heeled boots. Her long hair had been pulled back into a high and bushy ponytail. It was in the middle of the lunar cycle, meaning the point in the month when Hannah felt the most human and the least like her wolf alter ego.

“Did you enjoy your surprise?”

Figaro stood up quickly.

"Oh, hey. Yeah, no. Hi," he said with a smile and touched his hair. Not hungover. As far as first impressions went, at least his was memorable. Nowhere to go but up. He stowed his wand and put his hand in his pocket. It took him a half-moment to understand what Hannah meant by 'surprise'.

The realization dawned on his face and he breathed out a laugh and shook his head.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course. Was not expecting that at all. He ambushed me in my flat. Warmed me heart."  Fig was playing it down, but it had been incredible. Whole world had tipped back onto its proper axis. It was a good way to start the season. Hannah bringing it up was a reminder of her peculiar connection to his family. What was he doing.

"You look nice," he said. She really did.

"You want to get some food, or did you have some other plans meeting in a dark public street?:

Hannah was decided unsure how to respond to ‘You look nice’. She’d been informed over the years that her appearance could be described as appealing. But since then, she’d become a werewolf and a criminal. She’d been branded and scared and imprisoned in Azkaban. Nice wasn’t exactly a word she would agree with. Manners, however, held the healer back from informing Figaro of the truth. Instead, in response, she merely gave an uncomfortable smile and glanced past him to the alley full of witches and wizards going about their business.

“You asked me out, Figaro. I have no plans.” He’d asked her and now he was asking what she planned to do? Perhaps the weird act several days ago had simply been the true wizard and not the effect of a hangover? Was he mentally incapable? Was she about to waste her evening with a wizard whose brain didn’t function correctly?

Then a thought occurred to the witch and she frowned. Was this a joke?

“Why did you ask me out, Figaro?” Stood with her arms crossed, Hannah decided it needed to be asked before anything else. “You do realise that I’m a werewolf with a criminal record? I don’t work at Azkaban out of choice.”

"No, no, that's fine," he said. "Your owl, just-"

Figaro had done the asking but her response had thrown him so he'd shown up ready to, oh whatever. Resilient were the Sellaphixes so he scratched his neck and shook it off. Death and Co. was just the right amount of nice - not fancy but not regular. Then after, if they didn't hate each other, they could go - wait what?

The younger wizard stopped short in his mental planning at her question and recitation of her rap sheet. What. Werewolf he knew. And criminal record he knew as well. He'd seen her name in the paper because it was right next to Headmaster Greyfriar's. He hadn't known why she worked at Azkaban, but apparently it was a punishment.

He stared. She stared.

She was watching him with that same doubt from last weekend. Figaro, in turn, probably looked a bit gobsmacked - not that those things were true, but that she was trotting them out in the first five minutes of the date as what, some kind of evidence that he shouldn't have asked?

He mirrored her posture, crossing his arms and laughed nervously.

"I thought you were cool, that's all. I mean, carpe diem and all that, right? It doesn't bother me you're a werewolf. And I know about the arrest. It was in the paper. But it's not my business. Look, Hannah, you just ... seemed funny and interesting and why not?"

He shifted to his other foot and almost smirked.

"Why'd you say yes, then?"

Funny and interesting. Figaro had found Hannah funny and interesting. Most people would have laughed at that alone. Hannah wasn’t a funny person. She was serious and intelligent, but not funny. Figaro seemed funny. He seemed light hearted and not the sort of people she would normally associate with. Whether that was a good thing or a horrendous mistake, Hannah would soon find out.

“You’re not unpleasant.” That came out wrong. Most probably. Hannah pursed her lips together and frowned. “You seem tolerable.” A shrug accompanied her frown. “You seem nice.” Since when had Hannah struggled to get her thoughts across? She was already out of her depth and they hadn’t even left their meeting spot.

“You decide. Where are you taking me, Figaro Sellaphix? I like steak and I like wine.” She gave him a nervous smile. Could the guy even afford steak and wine? He looked like an ice cream and milkshake kind of wizard.

Figaro smiled, glanced away into the distance for a second, then looked back and nodded. "Tolerable. Never got that one before," he said, not entirely displeased. The reality of their encounter, which could hardly be called romantic, was setting in: they'd mostly fumbled into it, more why-the-hell-not than lets-see-what-happens. Both of them taking a wild clumsy stab at some kind of new beginning.

Steak and wine. And wine. Figaro smirked. He'd called it. Who didn't like wine. Vindication. (He wasn't sure if restaurants let you bring your own four galleon bottle, though.)

"Calaveras, then."  He'd never been but it was one of his ideas for what to do tonight. It was a quality place down the alley; he knew it from show posters at Reducto Records because there were shows there sometimes. It had a grim vibe and well, Hannah seemed kind of grim. "Just by Ollivanders," he said and started to head that way.

He walked backwards to face her for a few paces, his natural inclination to breeze past awkwardness kicking in.

"So how old are you? I don't remember you from school. Or did you not go to Hogwarts or...?"

Calaveras. Hannah had probably ended up there in the past. Never recently. She’d spent more than a year avoiding going out in public. Undoubtedly, Figaro was either a very lucky boy or a poorly chosen victim. Which, it wasn’t yet clear.

Rather oddly, the question of age came up first, something which rather surprised the witch. Of course, it had crossed her mind. He was younger than her, recently graduated from Hogwarts and no doubt innocent as a new born. If one ignored the criminal father recently released from Azkaban. Perhaps he had a thing for criminals. ‘Daddy issues’ was the term people used, wasn’t it?

“I went to Hogwarts. But you’re younger than me. 8 years is my guess. Almost 7 and a half to be more specific.” He’d mentioned his birthday…almost mentioned his birthday. “It appears that we missed each other.”

Even a surprise to herself, Hannah smiled playfully as they weaved through the throng of people making their way through Diagon Alley. “Is age more of a problem to you than a criminal record, Figaro Sellaphix?” She was teasing him. Hannah Bombay was teasing someone. A male. Johann would have collapsed had he seen it.

Figaro felt a little flip of optimism when his admittedly blunt question didn't bother Hannah. Quite the other way, seemed like.

"I'm nineteen," he supplied as she estimated the difference. Now that she said it, eight years did seem a canyon... Not that he minded. He scrunched up his nose.

"Oh god, no. Your criminal record is way worse, don't worry." He didn't actually know what she'd done, and had the momentary good judgement not to ask. "I'm just starting with age right off so that you don't ask me about my other job.  It's not that I'm embarrassed but ... Just not everyone can get a fancy gig at Azkaban. Maybe in eight more years ... if I work hard enough ..."

They had to sidestep around crowd gathered around Flourish & Blotts, some hubbub around a book-signing maybe. There were photographers and everything. Figaro quickened his step not keen on seeing anyone from said other-job at the moment.

Figaro was funny. His little joke about her criminal record even elicited a laugh from Hannah as she followed him down Diagon Alley – Why was he even walking backwards?

“My gig at Azkaban isn’t fancy.” She pointed out as they approached their planned location. Surprisingly, Hannah rather liked being at Azkaban. People didn’t get in her way and she was left to work in peace. Sure, the patients left a lot to be desired. But at least they couldn’t outright refuse treatment. The guards made them. There was some slight pleasure felt at the prejudiced bigots that tried to refuse.

“No one starts at the top. What is your other job? Professional drinker?” She smirked and shook her head. “No, you’d be sacked. Can’t hack a night out, clearly.” Who was Hannah to talk?

Nothing made Figaro happier than getting a laugh. Any attention was like a Cheering Charm and Ennervation Spell combined, but getting a laugh added billywig stings and gillyweed on top. His weakness, definitely. That and hangover cures didn't work for him.

He laughed as well and shrugged. "Can't deny it. I'm a lightweight."

They'd arrived at Calaveras and Figaro held the door.

"I don't know if I should say," he said referring to his occupation. "You might hold it against me. It's not the most reputable occupation."

"Two?" The hostess had the smokiest mascara Figaro had ever seen, made even more eerie were her ice-grey eyes. She took them right back to a banquette not far from the kitchen. Figaro wasn't sure what to do with the wine he'd brought, and so slipped it under the table.

"It's the Daily Prophet," he admitted. The whole disreputable part was mostly a joke - he loved it. But he'd already found out the hard way that not everyone had praise for anyone involved with the news. Even coffee-fetches and errand runners. "Just a gofer, really."

In the kitchens...

Dinner service was picking up and the cooks on the line had fallen into a familiar rhythm. Plates levitated, wands waved, and knifes teamed in pairs to chop garlic, sage, and parsley without close supervision. Among the team was a fellow called Nate Briggs, ex convict (and successful thief). He was stuck training a new guy.

"You have to pick it up, mate," Nate said and took hold of Cadmus Huxley's wand hand. "Cast it harder or it's not gonna go. For f*cks' sake, the simplest thing."

Cadmus looked like he was going to teeter right off his feet. The kitchen got hot and loud, and the pace wouldn't slow for a few more hours. Having him there, in Nate's opinion, had the effect of having two cooks down, not one cook extra. He fumbled his wand and it clattred to the ground.

"Dishes," Nate ordered with a scoff and took over, finished the plate, and slid it onto the pass with the rest of the table's order. Cadmus retrieved his wand and slunk back past the big witch cooking big steaks.

"You look like death, ain'tcha," she said.

It wouldn’t have been difficult to spot the marginal decrease in Hannah’s smile at the mention of the Daily Prophet. She’d appeared in the paper more times that she’d care to count, and now, her cute and corny date was associated with the publication that her made her struggles painfully public. Her smile didn’t completely vanish because, quite obviously, this wizard hadn’t been the one to write the articles. He was, as he put, the coffee fetcher.

“Well it isn’t Witch Weekly, at least.” The healer muttered, leaning back on the bench. “Then I might have held it against you.” She took the menu from the waiter and started scanning down it. “So, do you drink wine, or are you a hard liquor lightweight?” This was how you spoke to dates, wasn’t it?

“Help! I need a healer!” A call from the kitchen behind them and Hannah dropped her menu down. “Please! Someone call a healer here!” Of course there would be a disruption to her first date with someone she actually found amusing. Hannah shared a quick look with Fig as if to silently apologise before she jumped from her seat and zigzagged her way between tables to the kitchen.

“What happened?” She asked, pushing open the door. “I’m a healer.”
Then she saw him. On the floor by the stove, a wizard, only slightly older than her, was lying on the floor, having face planted the tiles. He’d clearly been scolded by oil, but he wasn’t moving. Hannah dropped to her knees beside him “Clear back! Give me room. What the hell happened?”

Nate stood off to the side in his apron looking annoyed. Tam Handrow, the grill witch, seemed more concerned. It had been her big voice that had summoned a Healer from the dining room. Nate watched as she knelt down beside poor, soggy, sorry Cad.

"No idea. Just grabbed his stomach and keeled over."

Tam, unsatisfied with Nate's diagnosis, butted in. "He's been dazed and lethargic since he got in. Looked a bit pale to me. Then he grabbed his abdomen and collapsed. What's his name? Anyone know? It's his first day."

A server knew and called it out. "Cadmus Huxley. He's Cad."

By now the whole kitchen was peeking in and front-of-house staff had their heads in the pass. Nate rolled his eyes when among those budging in to get a look was none other than the Sellaphix's kid Figaro. Last time he'd seen him, he'd been what, fifteen? What a fun time for a reunion. Before he could decide to what level to ignore the son of his former employers, Cad began groaning in his own defense.

It was a second or two before he reacted, but Figaro scrambled after Hannah. In some flash of unnecessary preparedness, he grabbed the bottle of wine. He shoved his way through the crowded kitchen. Sure enough, a guy was spread out on the floor looking very unwell.  Hannah had called for space but received none.

"Oi! Move back! Nothing to see here, show's over, we've got this under control," he said, gesturing with the bottle of wine.

That helped a little, and it wasn't until there was a little more room that Figaro recognized Nate Briggs leaning against a pillar looking every bit like an unapproachable disgraced uncle out of prison on parole half-ass and disappointing his old teachers. Having made the mistake of eye contact, Fig winced awkwardly. But the guy on the ground was stirring.

"He's leaking," Figaro pointed out unhelpfully. "I mean, look on his shirt. Blood."

Something dark was seeping through his shirt and waistband as Cadmus tried to roll onto his side.

"Hey, mate, you okay?" he asked the guy.