19th of December 2011
11am on a Monday
Sellaphix home, London


“Frank!” Zelda had to raise her voice to reach the ears of her thirteen-year-old son, who was upstairs in his room.

The usually tidy boy had been home less than 24 hours and already it looked like his trunk had exploded and his room overfloweth down the stairs and into the common areas. Zelda was used to the clutter being limited to her own, but with her husband back and Frank back home, it was reaching a level of … irritation.

“Frank…!” she tried again, but her voice was being drowned out by music drifting down the stairs. With a sigh, magical utterance, and a wave of her wand the music shut itself off. She waited.

Frank regarded himself in the mirror, shrugging to adjust the fit of the oddly-fitting shirt. Behind him, his dad’s old records blared. His clothes from summer no longer fit; he must have gotten taller. And Figaro’s stuff was still too big all over. He grumbled about it and peeled off the shirt.

Before he could grab another, his music shut off. He turned to see the record player still turning. He fiddled with the needle but nothing worked. With a sigh, he swung his door open and looked down the stairs to see his mother standing.

“You could have asked,” he said.

Zelda shrugged with a mischievous grin at her shirtless son. “Eh.”

Now that she had his attention, she crossed her arms and strolled away, speaking to him over her shoulder.

“Need you to take a lap. See if we can dig some survivors out of the rubble. I haven’t seen the cat in two days.”

“We don’t have a cat, actually!” he called after her and trotted down the stairs. He followed her into the living room where she had brought work home. Crates and bundles of whatever herbs and plants, a cutting board on the coffee table, a tiny cauldron on a stand. (And by the lamp four pairs of Frank’s shoes, on the chair a stack of his books, etc, etc, etc.)

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to use magic,” he said leaning in the doorway.

“We’d better get you to St. Mungo’s. How a boy could lose his hands, a freak accident, what a tragedy. Oh, he’ll recover but we’ll support him,” she said getting settled back into the couch and putting on her glasses.

“Pick. It. Up,” she said peering over her spectacles. Then she turned back to her work, gently stirring the aromatic something in the cauldron.

“Magic-free. Labor intensive. Builds character.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Half of it’s Fig’s,” he grumbled under his breath. Speak of the dimwit and he shall appear, the back door opened and shut. Frank leaned around to see into the kitchen, figuring his older brother had shown up for food or laundry. In any case, he’d have to sprint back upstairs and try to make it look like he hadn’t been rooting around in his stuff.

But it wasn’t Fig.

“It’s Kurby,” he announced with a smile. Now he didn’t have to clean.

Rosheen had met him outside his flat at the start of her lunch break, and they’d apparated over to the Sellaphix family’s back yard.  Kurby didn’t bother to knock as he let them in through the back door; even those niceties had been abandoned since August, when he’d become a regular visitor over the course of a few weeks.

The kitchen looked much the same as it always did, but the living area looked like it had suffered a Hogwarts explosion.  It came complete with a half-naked teenager, who appeared as if he had both grown at least an inch and abandoned all social conventions of clothing since Kurby had last seen him.

“I think we must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere; it looks like we ended up in the Ravenclaw common room,” he told his sister, straight-faced, as he stepped in.  “Mornin’, Frank.  Given up on your school uniform, then?”

Frank hadn't noticed the petite Rosheen as she followed Kurby down the narrow hallway to the living room. When he did, he clamped his arms over his bare pale chest and yelped.

"Don't look, weirdo!" he squeaked and sidled quickly out of the room and upstairs to get a shirt. The sound of his footfalls followed him.  Zelda wasn't sure which Bagnold had earned Frank's sudden modesty, if either of them truly had. Kurby's visits in particular had always elicited a bit of a show from the boys as they vied for his attention, at least when they were younger, so the exit could have just been a bit of fun.

Zelda stood up and wiped her hands on a tea towel. Kurby got just the smile but Rosheen received a light embrace and kiss on the cheek. Zelda and the youngest Bagnold sister had never been at all close, but with the Pentral... Rosheen had been there. She didn't need to be, and Zelda would have never asked. But without complaint or debt, Rosheen had done as much as anyone. Zelda had never been a hugger.

"Rafe's at the shop," she said stepping away. "If you're out and about you should stop by. He can't wait to see you. Tea?"

Frank’s shout sent Kurby’s sister bursting into a rollicking fit of laughter.  She doubled over, clutching her side, looking as though she were on the verge of tears streaming down her face.

Kurby slanted his sister an extraordinarily dry look as he stepped further into the living room and glanced around.  During the weeks when Zelda had been in the hospital, very little had changed in the living room between his visits.  Aside from the time he’d caught Moira McBoid sleeping off a hangover on the sofa, there had been no surprises, no hints that this was home to an active family.  It had given the entire house a stale, museum-like feeling, like a place caught out of time. 

Now, though, the living space had Sellaphix family artifacts strewn all over:  Frank’s books near the arm chair, potion ingredients stacked all over, the warm smells of Zelda’s concoction wafting through the air, one of the boys’ shoes left in the middle of the walkway ready to trip the unsuspecting visitor.  It made the entire room feel alive again.  Lived in.

Rosheen was grinning, her dimples showing, as she returned Zelda’s hug and kissed her on the cheek in return.  “Of course,” she said cheerfully.  “I’m sure Kurby will take some too.  We’re sorry for droppin’ in on you — hopefully Frank will find it in his heart to forgive us for spoilin’ his chastity someday.”

There were several different kinds of herbs and other potion-looking ingredients strewn about, some of them in crates and others tied in scattered bundles.  Kurby took a moment to survey them, examining the remains of whatever had been on the cutting board, peering into the aromatic cauldron.  He’d failed out of Potions class after his fifth year at Hogwarts, when he’d stopped doing work a month into the school year and then willfully earned a Troll on his O.W.L.

“Smells good,” he observed, arching an eyebrow at Zelda.  “Is this one for work or fun?”

Oh, Rosheen's bright laughter caused Zelda a small smile. She moved past them both to take them back to the kitchen. She explained the disaster as she went.

"Don't you know, Kurby, works is fun," she said. She glanced over her shoulder and added the truth. "Work. Our black silversage was overgrown so I'm preparing a thing or two to stretch them out."

They'd sell it fresh, dried loose, dried in tablets, in tincture, and in incense. She always tried to keep some fresh, but the shelf-life wasn't always sustainable. That, and Rafe had use for a variety of preparations.

In the kitchen, Zelda put the well-used kettle on and leaned against the counter. Her simmering cold-boil of the silversage had at least another quarter hour, so it could be left unattended for a few minutes. Absently she reached for the small jar of Dragon's Balm, Rafe's recipe, and began massaging a small amount on her left hand. It was still stiff.[1] The Bagnolds would know their way around the kitchen, so Zelda didn't move to arrange for cups, milk, or sugar. 

"Saw you in the Prophet," she said over her glasses. Typical Zelda, it was more of a comment than a question delivered with no more emotion than a pointed blink. She couldn't disagree with what he'd been quoted as saying, but she knew he probably loathed the attention.

1.	The Pentral gained control of her left arm during her August to October possession.

Once they’d entered the kitchen, Rosheen, perpetually helpful, had immediately set out gathering the accoutrements for tea.  Kurby followed them in, leaning back against the counter as he crossed his arms.  He didn’t miss Zelda fetching the small jar of balm and rubbing a bit on her bad hand, although he didn’t comment on it.  The pentral may have fled that dark night at St. Mungo’s, but its effects still seemed to linger.

He had indeed been in the Daily Prophet.  Kurby raised an eyebrow at the witch, acknowledging that being spotted in the magical paper by someone such as Zelda Sellaphix was certainly an occurrence that could have recently taken place, even on a day such as today.

“How’s business been?” he asked. “I ran into your old shophand in Diagon a few nights ago.”  Memory of the circumstances — sending Nathan Briggs tumbling into an enormous bin full of rubbish — was enough to make him automatically smirk, even days after the encounter.

Kurby dodged the Prophet and Zelda allowed it. He had her support but no need to be a blubbering mess about it - that would be embarrassing for everyone. Above them, they could hear Frank's bedroom door slam shut. Zelda got him down another cup for when he arrived.

At the mention of Nathan Briggs, Zelda expertly hid her immediate reaction - one of deep worry - and reflected Kurby's smirk. "Oh did you? How'd that come about, I wonder. Bet he was happy to see you."

After what had happened, after what the Pentral had done to him when he'd come to check on the shop, Zelda's disgust him in was mitered with some complexity.

"Who was?" Frank appeared in the kitchen wearing a too-large Three Owl Standard band shirt and a fashionable black tan scarf. He plopped into chair and picked through the oranges in the bowl.

"Nate," Zelda responded, keeping eye contact with Kurby.

"Ew, why?" Frank knew well enough what had happened, at least as much as Figaro had told him (a level and quality of detail that passed between brothers staying up too late talking).

“Not goin’ to have to bail you out of a Ministry holding cell once they find the body, are we?”  Rosheen shot her older brother a look as she lined up the other mugs on the counter, along with the milk and the small container of sugar.  “If there’s a limit to the number of times you can go about claimin’ probable cause, I reckon you’ve already hit it.”

Kurby flashed his sister a grin, quick and sharp.  “Naw,” he said, turning his head to meet Zelda’s gaze.

He hadn’t been rough with Briggs solely because of what he’d done to the Sellaphix family.  The petty criminal was a blustery smartarse, and Kurby hadn’t minded an excuse to take out some of his frustration and uneasiness from the events of the full moon on someone who certainly deserved it.  But Nathan Briggs’s troubled history with Rafe and Zelda had made the whole encounter monumentally more enjoyable.

“I ran into him in the alley behind Calaveras while followin’ up on somethin’ for work.  The idiot didn’t recognize me at first.”  He broke into a grin, looking incredibly pleased with himself.  “He started to head back inside, claimin’ he didn’t have time to chat, so I dumped him into the rubbish bin.”

Frank was quietly getting his wand out, hoping to test the boundaries of No Magic Outside of School, but he cracked into laugher.

"What! That's hilarious. Actually serves him right. Prick." He echoed Rosheen's joke. "You totally should have arrested him.  Wish I'd seen it. In the bin! Right, Kurby, like," he waved his wand and made an explosion noise. "In the bin!"

A great deal of Frank's reaction to stories of Nate were performative. He'd barely known him, and even though Zelda usually shut down conversation about him, hating Briggs was a low-key family tradition. With Kurby here, Frank was getting to contribute.

Still laughing to himself, Frank attempted a spell on the orange. Zelda snapped her fingers at him, and he complied with an obedient spy.

Zelda got down the teabags and set them to steeping. She considered the value of continuing the conversation in front of Frank. He might not know better, that Kurby was a grown man and could handle himself. After a thought, Zelda opted to let him stay. For now.

Slowly moving the tea bags around in the steaming water, Zelda shook her head.

"Had your fun with him, sounds like. Should we be proud he was uncooperative? Would be a change of pace for him. Right, Francis? What we do say."

"Always wash your hands," Frank joked.

"The other thing."

"Don't talk to Aurors," Frank replied lifting a finger in the air.

There was only a fine line between Not Talking to Aurors and refusing to give necessary information to the Werewolf Capture Unit, which seemed to be a common pastime for too much of the magical world at the moment.  But Kurby had long ago decided not to go down that path.  His job was something that he and Zelda and Rafe just didn’t talk about, in the same manner that they never discussed why Sellaphix Apothecary was often well-stocked with wolfsbane leading up to the full moon. 

And so he let it slide.  Instead, he flashed Frank a lopsided smile, appreciative that he’d gotten the reaction that he had wanted.

“Knowing Briggs, I was probably lucky the bleedin’ rubbish bin didn’t explode on me,” he said with a wolfish grin.  “I haven’t had enough fun with ‘im.  Here’s hopin’ he does somethin’ to end up on our list again sometime soon.”

Rosheen rolled her eyes, smacking him on the arm as she breezed to fetch a few spoons.  “You keep spoilin’ for a fight, eventually you’re goin’ to end up on the wrong side of one,” she informed him.  She pulled open the silverwear drawer, a slight smile tugging as her mouth as she glanced up at him.  “Leave poor Nate Briggs alone.  His constitution’s probably too weak for the likes of you, anyhow.”

Kurby flashed her a grin that was mostly teeth. 

He paused, glancing back at Zelda as she carefully steeped the tea.  There had been one obvious item that he wanted to ask after, but there wasn’t an easy way to transition to it.  Grimshaw Tailoring wasn’t exactly something that came up in normal, everyday conversation.

“Hey, uh,,,” he started, his brows knitting.  “You don’t know anything about that old dress shop in Knockturn, do you?  The one that’s a few doors down from the Apothecary?”