The owner of the cluttered little clinic in the middle of a thicket was Knox Greyfriar? Hannah was so casual about it. She seemingly hadn't worried about just Apparate them all here in the middle of the night. Figaro took a stunned look around. He had only known Greyfriar in his capacity as his professor and the headmaster.  This was were he lived? He'd figured on something more stately. Or at least bigger. It was hard to imagine the imposing, important man crammed in a small cluttered space like this. 

He hesitated longer than he ever had before taking off his shirt; he usually took any opportunity. But he'd just learned he was trespassing in the home of a quite important person and, well, he was on a date. It seemed like there was a rule in some book. Like, 'if you find yourself taking off your shirt before dessert, stop and re-evaluate.' But then, the argument that all this could still be considered a date was weakening. Maybe it was the blood, the venue, the nearly-dead man upstairs... In these strange times and climes, Figaro resolved to continue to just go with it. 

He reached behind his head with both hands and pulled off the nice once-white t-shirt.  The once-white shirt was laid now out on the worktop.

"I have, just, loads of questions," Figaro said with a half-smile because, no, you can't just let something like this pass without comment.  Remembering that he was a wizard, Fig uncorked the wine with his wand. He poured two, but just held his with awkardly crossed arms.

"I mean, clearly, you two know each other from the werewolf community. I mean, are you mates? Do this often?" Figaro laughed lightly. "Stitching up random unregistered werewolves and then raiding his snacks?"

“Apart from the snacks, I guess we do.” Hannah informed Figaro Sellaphix with a serious expression. She picked up his shirt and took it to the sink, holding her wand in her left hand. “St Mungo’s have a duty to report any unregistered werewolves that come to them.” As she worked on the shirt Hannah glanced back to look at Figaro. “It’s the law. Failure to follow that law could involve a loss of healing licence and huge fines for St Mungo’s. Prison time if it’s a recurrent thing.”

The wand’s spell and water mixed started to cause the blood to fade, first turning a pink colour and then disappearing completely.

“People don’t register for all sorts of reasons, Figaro. The registry is supposed to be confidential, but never is. It’s illegal to sack someone for just being a werewolf, but that doesn’t stop employers from being creative with their reasoning. I lost my job because of prejudice.” With the shirt almost perfect, but simply sodden, she turned away from the sink and offered it out to the topless wizard. It was dripping onto the wooden floorboards. “Neither Knox nor I are about to sit around and watch people die because they’re afraid of the system that needs changing.”

Happily, the healer picked up the glass of wine and took a sip.
“You brought wine to a restaurant.”

It was downright weird hearing the headmaster referred to by his first name. He was either his title or his full name - Figaro couldn't remember ever hearing someone be so casual about it. 'Knox' had chums. He had a life outside of his lofty positions. Not everyone was a student or mentee to him. He had peers. Figaro subconsciously shivered his shoulders. Weird.

And not so much weird as a little embarrassing was watching his date do his laundry. Any sense that Figaro was a grown man on a proper date with a grown woman few out the window when she handed the shirt back to him sopping wet. He set down his wine and held the shirt out and had a look. Loads better, but there was still a brown stain in the stitch line at the collar. Great. He wasn't going to say anything but, "thanks," of course. She'd salvaged Virgil's top. This would be easier to explain.

"No, that makes sense. That's good," he said. The stakes for Hannah and Professor Greyfriar - not to mention poor Cad upstairs - were critically high. Life, death, Azkaban. It was sobering and his blithe existence as an ambition-less party-going paperboy seemed suddenly superficial. But he also knew he didn't have the stomach for backroom healing. He couldn't afford to get his family in any more trouble. Or maybe he just wasn't brave enough. He scratched the back of his neck.

“You brought wine to a restaurant.”

"Couldn't help but notice you didn't. Big faux pas, Hannah. You're lucky I'm so chill. Can't just show up at a restaurant without your own wine."

He sipped from his glass loudly.

Her entire life, Hannah Bombay had been criticised for being too serious. Throughout her childhood and early adulthood, her focus had been on books and potions experiments and school. She’d been poor at reading and interacting people. Johann Storm had been the first to really force her to see people as more than talking bodies or living corpses. In a few years, various people and terrifying circumstances had brought her a long way.

She’d been brought to the situation where Figaro Sellaphix and his unorthodox behaviour and mannerisms brought a smile to her lips.

“I’ll make a note of that for next time, Figaro.”

If there even happened to be a next time…