6:30am

Miranda had noticed first. As an attune and experienced legilimens, the mental silence between husband and wife was a blessing. Ignan’s occlumency provided the quiet that both kept his thoughts and memories safe, but also allowed Mira headspace. When the Praecantatio Deliquus had struck, he’d been too preoccupied with the physical symptoms and his lack of wand-based magic to realise Mira could hear him. The last time that had happened was when he’d been brought back from the brink of death. It wasn’t a time he wanted to recall.

On the Sunday morning, something had shifted, and with some suspect examination of her husband, Miranda had lifted the quarantine. Released from their upstairs bedroom after seven long days. (He had wondered more than once during his flu-sentence how Musgrave did it.) Miranda had coped as she always did, by spending as much time at work as she could, leaving Gerda in charge the other side of the magically locked door. For a whole seven days, Miranda’s elementary level of locking charms had held a magic-free Defences Professor. Remarkable.

It was now Monday, and the Deputy Headmaster was attempting a low-key return to work before Hogwarts breakfast began. He had slipped inside the grand Hogwarts gates in his usual teaching attire of a shirt, tie and suit jacket, covered in a long winter cloak. His wand had barely left his hand since his magic had returned. He had a low key worry it might leave him again.

The wintry Hogwarts grounds were chilly, and a soft rain fell, the sort that clung to your clothes rather than rolled off it. Given the rain the week before, there were still muddy potholes in the steep path up to the castle. His boots ordinarily made light work of it, but the flu had left Ignan somewhat fatigued. He’d take anything to get out of their cottage after a week grounded inside.

Steeling himself, he began the route up the hill to the castle. His wand dimly lit the way ahead given the sun had not yet risen. A few minutes into the ascent the path levelled out and rounded a bend near to the Care of Magical Creatures pens. Thinking himself alone, he took a moment to catch his breath.

Always an early riser, Sylvain had been up since five that morning to check on his creatures. One by one, with a friendly but methodical approach, keen to consistently reassure them of his presence after the brief absence over winter break.  The thestrals in particular were on edge - aware, maybe, of the werewolves they would soon be transporting this evening. He was sat on the fence of their pen, balancing with a cup of scaling hot coffee in one hand, when a movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention.

Sylvain looked around alertly: the cloaked figure was suspicious at first glance but he recognised it in an instant. Ignan! Why, their Deputy Headmaster had returned to Hogwarts!

The wizard hopped to the ground lightly and waved at his colleague enthusiastically to draw his attention. The mug was put aside in favour of company.  "Ignan!" he called out, strolling over with a grin. "Good morning, mon ami!"

It was very cold this early but he was warm enough, having don many layers beneath the chunky oatmeal coloured sweater and jeans. Sylvain didn't slow down in step when he got close enough to Storm, simply walking straight into giving the older man a delicate hug. Ignan had been ill! A strong hug would not do.

"You look good!" he stepped back slightly, meeting him in the eye. "We have missed you in the castle!"

“Ignan!”

Sylvain Onuris. One of the few current staff who did not understand the concept of personal space. Onuris still had all his limbs from previous encounters with Ignan because he had offered to assist with the duelling club. That and he was far too nice. Not in the same way that Honeysuckle was, but genuinely nice. Even the grumpy Deputy struggled to counter that.

It was too late by the time Ignan realised. Sylvain’s friendly approach wasn’t going to stop just inches from him, it was going to plough straight into him and involve arms. At least there won’t be witnesses, he consoled himself.

“Professor Onuris,” he greeted formally, a wrinkle of his shoulders shrugged off the lingering feeling of the embrace. “I imagine the place was overrun with riots in my absence.”

It was hard to tell in the little light before dawn if the silver-haired wizard was being entirely serious.

“You have been lucky to avoid catching it,” he informed his colleague. “I’m still none the wiser as to how it got to me. I go out of my way to be antisocial at Christmas.”

He had managed to catch his breath with the pause. Enough to continue up the hill, but curiosity and his manners held his boots to their position.

“…has everything been smooth in my absence?” Ignan asked a little tentatively, knowing that though Sylvain might be nice he was also very honest in his accounts. “Has anyone else been confined to quarters?”

             "I go out of my way to be antisocial at Christmas."

He laughed and clicked his tongue at the older man, amused by this social distancing. Ignan was so well known and respected - maybe he was allowed to be selfish at the holidays. Sylvain himself did not like large, drunken parties and crowds. These solitary tête-à-tête exchanges were more to his liking. And maybe to Ignan's?

"Smooth... hm, it is never smooth here I think. There have been more patients for Healer Mordent in the Infirmary," he answered dutifully, glancing past the Defences professor to consider the castle looming over the grounds. "You will visit? I think you are immune now, non?"

Although whether the ill students would be reassured by his visit, that was another matter. Professor Duerr would have been a more appropriate figure.

"Oh. And Feliks, he tells me there is something called SAWS in the school now?" Sylvain added, suddenly remembering one of the many chats he had with Balfour's son in the afternoons. "About werewolves, he says."

“… it is never smooth here I think.” No truer words spoken! He saw Sylvain glance up and past him to the castle.

He didn’t comment on the hospital wing, but noted the mention of the healer. He might circle back to that in a moment, as Sylvain had mentioned something altogether more interesting.

“Is there now,” the Defences Professor remarked. SAWS had been around before, of course. Last time, the infirmary hadn’t been available to use because of it. Then O’Morain had been Deputy and Ignan had found himself in the unusual position of supporting the students and their wish for a speaker.

“I thought it had perhaps died a death last year. The leaders took their exams and moved on.” Blake, despite vomiting into a classmate’s bag in his lesson, had become an auror. That memory only reminded him of another encounter - more uninvited hugging. “Do we know who’s heading it up?”

Ah, so Ignan understood this SAWS business! Sylvain was relieved - it seemed to him like there was much history behind it but he had not yet quizzed his colleagues. Most of his time was not spent in the castle after all. So there was a werewolf club before and its founders were no longer in school.

Personally, he could not understand why they needed a club, with Greyfriar as Headmaster.

              "Do we know who’s heading it up?"

"Oui," Sylvain's smiled was crooked and amused. "It is that girl - Zefa? Zeta Pepper." He only remembered because Feliks had opened their conversation by saying that SAWS was led by the Hufflepuff girl he did not like. "But I am to understand that it is, how you say, on shaky legs?"

There had been some dramatic happenings, apparently.

Zeta Pepper! Good grief. He may have got rid of one irritating member of that family, but the remaining sixth year member was vying for similar status.

“Any Pepper in my classroom is on ‘shaky legs’.” Ignan informed Sylvain. “It’s always the Hufflepuffs and their bleeding hearts for werewolves, isn’t it?”

The question was somewhat rhetorical, but if anyone was going to support an emotionally charged cause it was a Hufflepuff. The others would too, but with all the whizz and bang and wish to seize glory for what the Hufflepuffs had quietly done.

“We shall need to keep an eye on that,” he informed his colleague. “Some rather unwanted consequences arose when that began a few years ago. One of them elected to protest with fiendfyre in the hospital wing. Both expelled and put before the Ministry.” It had been in his very early days, but he could remember Headmistress Snark hitting the ceiling over it. “One of Greyfriar’s predecessors ruled that werewolves were also expelled from Hogwarts, but didn’t go a foot to justify the damage.”

Speaking of the hospital wing…

“Are there many laid up in the infirmary?” He asked, “I imagine half of them are work-shy enough to try and stay there.” Whereas he’d initially considered Sylvain’s suggestion of visiting rather strange, it might be an idea to weed such characters out. The prospect of twisting a few ears was making him feel all the better…!

Hufflepuffs and their bleeding hearts! Sylvain failed to stifle a laugh - it was true. They cared so much. It was admirable, yes, but messy also. To lead the campaign for a minority of which you were not a member? Very messy. You must listen more than talk. And Zeta Pepper was not a natural listener. Always buzzing to speak.

Sylvain nodded, agreeing with his colleague's intent to watch this SAWS group. He was grateful for the explanation. To expel werewolves was especially horrible. And now he knew why the Infirmary had been closed for so long.

           "Are there many laid up in the infirmary?"

"Almost thirty[1] I am afraid," he frowned and looked at Ignan properly, taking in his appearance: not completely recovered. "You have walked some ways, Ignan. Would you like to come in for coffee?" Sylvain gestured in the direction of his hut, concerned for the older man.

It would not do for Storm to relapse! They needed their Deputy, with the Headmaster himself turning at tonight's full moon. Sylvain did not mind a werewolf Headmaster but it was a little worrisome now that he must escort the students away instead of transforming in the forest.

1.	Extrapolating from the Jan 3rd thread, let me know if I should change!

“… some ways, Ignan. Would you like to come in for coffee?”

When even his wife would refer to him by his surname, and the assorted staff more-often referred to him as Professor, Sylvain’s use of his first name seemed particularly familiar. Please, he reasoned inwardly, please don’t let Onuris be another Kesali.

“I was hoping to make a low-key arrival,” he admitted, looking away from Sylvain to the castle above them. The torches and lanterns in windows above picked out the looming castle outline in the early morning sky. It defied logic that it was further away than last he looked, but it felt as if it was.

“Though…” He wavered, turning away, “…I do not need to be in the classroom until second lesson…” The first years, so only taxing in terms of keeping his eyes peeled for their idiotic results. He had whipped them into some shape last term, but he suspected they’d forgotten a good amount over the Christmas holidays. Their heads were leaky vessels.

The taller, older, and distinctly greyer Professor followed the brighter, much more sprightly creatures expert away from the main path. He would make his way up there during first lesson at the latest. Perhaps he should have spent another day at home…

“How are you keeping, out here?” Ignan asked, setting aside self-indulgent thoughts of his health. He infrequently visited this part of the grounds, and as Sylvain’s superior, he was meant to keep tabs on the school’s day-to-day efficiencies. “I trust you’ve put your students to good use with chores for homework?”

 Ignan had never studied the subject and had just a working knowledge from his discipline’s perspective. It was Miranda who engaged Balfour in hippogriff conversation. Ignan just tolerated Lawrence the cat.

“This isn’t the morning I find you’re keeping dragon eggs warm on the fire, I hope.”

Humour! He definitely should have stayed home.

            “Though…I do not need to be in the classroom until second lesson…”

Sylvain brightened at the prospect of receiving the Deputy Head in his hut. He did not come from a very strict culture - everything in its own time - and he was glad to see that Ignan was not unwilling to be cautious about returning to routine. Stopping by the Thestral paddock to collect his mug, he led them both down the slope towards the twin huts surrounded by what remained from the harvested pumpkin patch and the rest of his garden. Red onions and purpling reeds of asparagus, and vivid green winter peas.

Marcel, his border collie, was sat on the steps of the hut, and barked cheerfully upon their approach.

"Dragon eggs!" Sylvain echoed wistfully, laughing. "Non, I am afraid that is more Balfour's area. Come, come," he climbed the steps and pushed open the door. The air inside was warm and balmy, and smelled of burnt coffee and something sweeter. "You will have tea? Coffee?"

The main hut was his living area and office. Made for a half-giant, it was more than roomy enough for the new groundskeeper. A cast iron stove and square table dominated one corner, while the other appeared more organised with a working desk and a small shelf of books. Knit throws and blankets gave the space a cosy feel. Hanging from a hook over his desk, next to some dried herbs, two Mackled Malaclaws tried helplessly to snap their restrained claws.

In the centre of the room, a small stone fire was lit with a cauldron bubbling away. Chicken bone broth. Sylvain pulled out a chair at the table. "I am sorry for the mess," he smiled sheepishly at Ignan with a gesture at the various bottles and jars open at the stove. "I try to clean, before I have friends and students for tea."

He’d lived off tea during his flu-days. It was gentler on the stomach and somewhat consoling when he wanted to try and sleep off the symptoms in isolation. Of the two he drank more of it, whereas Miranda was the opposite. Together they reconciled at home with whatever was made first. Ignan opting for the easier route of drinking whatever Miranda was demanding.

“Coffee. I feel I will need something strong to make it through today.” There was a distinct weariness to the Deputy Head’s response behind Sylvain.

Sylvain’s hut smelled earthy, mixed with woodsmoke, turpentine and sage. There was a sweet, meaty smell rising from the cauldron on the stone fire. The space was functional, practical. Like Ignan’s own office on the first floor of the castle, it was busy with different artefacts and equipment. The more one dared to look the more one noticed. The scale of the place was definitely out, given it had originally been built for Rubeus Hagrid, someone Ignan had briefly taught alongside. As such, the ceiling were considerably higher than a hut’s might ordinarily, which only added to the ability for Sylvain to hang even more above. Ignan only tended to hang students by their ankles from the ceiling of his classroom.

“I am sorry for the mess.”

The older wizard glanced with a hint of puzzlement at his host, as if to indicate he did not perceive this as mess. Ignan had the misfortune of occasionally entering common rooms and dormitories (with permission) to deal with unfortunate situations. He’d seen the mess teenagers could make just by existing.

“It’s January,” Ignan replied by way of explanation, “Without the house elves the school would be under a layer of mud. Besides, neither of us was expecting to cross paths this morning.” He paused to glance about himself, mostly checking no animal was about to present itself to sniff him up and down. He took the seat Sylvain had drawn out and lowered himself into it. The dregs of the illness had left a lingering stiffness that wasn’t all his age.

“Reminds me of my younger days stationed in the Black Forest,” he admitted to Sylvain. “It’s why my cooking skills didn’t make it much past frying things in a pan and one-pot dinners on campfires.” It was an age ago now, given Ignan was in his late sixties (despite looking older…)

“Suits you well enough, though?” He asked, “Otherwise we can always find you somewhere in the castle.”

He took down another tin cup while Ignan sat at the table and commented on the state of the hut. "... my younger days stationed in the Black Forest,” the older wizard reminisced. Sylvain poured coffee from the pot on the stove, glancing over his shoulder curiously.

"I did not know you had a history in the Black forest," he brought the steaming drink over but returned to the cupboards to see if there was anything to be served, even if only to sweeten the somewhat burnt roast. There were always hard biscuits and stale loaf cakes and other little things sent to him from friends in Paris or London - little comforts for the relatively newly initiated professor.

Sylvain found an untouched gift of French madeleines behind two mason jars of rock hard oatmeal biscuits, and finally joined Ignan in a seat across with his own coffee.

"It suits me very well," he replied with a smile before setting down the dusky pink box and delicately opening it so that they could help themselves. "I lived many years in the alps, so this is better than inside a big castle. And the privacy from students," Sylvain's smile turned wry as he shrugged. "Preferable, non?"

Although he did not like to give them face, there was no way to ignore that sometimes the pupils had their infatuations. Inevitable at their age. Sylvain often wondered if many of his colleagues faced the same problems but maybe Ignan was not the right one ask.

“… the privacy from students.” The Deputy Headmaster gave a solitary nod in agreement. That was one element he did not miss since Miranda had insisted he stop living in the castle during term time. He had resisted at first - not because he had rued the thought of spending more time with her - but because he felt being away from the castle would diminish his reputation for all-seeing and all-hearing. Miranda, on the other hand, had reminded him he was married, and that it would both be better for them to see each other.

“We are Professors. The students afford us a modicum of privacy, and they more than make up for the rest with supposition and hearsay.” Ignan accompanied it with an exaggerated shrug. “I wondered if there would be many explanations or predictions of my untimely demise this week, but I believe Professor Greyfriar headed them off at the pass.” Pity.

There had been some owl post to the house in Hogsmeade to indicate such. Poor Gerda would have to figure out the glitter impact. It had gone everywhere. He hoped it was just the ‘extended’ family who had figured out such methods. Extended being the Peppers his maternal cousin Gabrielle had married herself into. Remembering the encounter with ‘Lil Snigger’ suddenly put Miranda’s distance the past week into perspective.

“It was only a few years, the Black Forest,” he retreated since Sylvain appeared interested at the mention, “in my twenties.” He didn’t honour Sylvain with the decade to more exactly guess his age. “Back then I was the equivalent of an auror. Perfect training for my current role.” He poked humour at himself. In reality it was what came later that paid off more with teaching.

“Diverse habitat for magical creatures, I understand, but not my specialism.” He sipped at the coffee, and made a mental note to encourage Gerda, their house elf, to seek advice on the brew from Sylvain in the future. “You’ve had quite a career before turning your hand to teaching though, haven’t you?”

He laughed as Ignan lamented the lack of speculation about his death. The pupils, though they feared the deputy head, also loved him a little! Or at least so Sylvain suspected - the young could sometimes crave attention from strict teachers, or else they found courage in expressing humour towards them. He remembered his own time at Beauxbatons being the same; the break social etiquette was graver, in that school, but it was nonetheless transgressed.

"You must have been an auror très formidable," the younger wizard remarked thoughtfully, trying to guess if his visitor had softened or hardened with old age. If the former, formidable was not scary enough a word. Was it not common to soften? If so, what version of Ignan did dark wizards have to face?

Sylvain reached for one of the madeleines and dipped it into his coffee. "Oui," he answered with a fleeting but genuine smile. "My specialty was Graphorns but I handled beasts of many kinds and creeds. I have great love of the natural world. It is a relief to still live so close to it, here."

Another reason he preferred to live on the grounds, with the forest at hand and a garden to tend. The Frenchman bit into his cake, letting it melt on his tongue while he paused to think.

"I have been to the Black Forest, once. It is a place that attracts strange characters," Sylvain mused before laughing a little self-consciously, giving Ignan a sheepish look. "In my time there, I mean. Many artists and writers, they go there now to find dark inspirations. None bring their children. Erklings are fewer in numbers but their reputations precede them."

Back then he hadn't thought much of it. He had no young nieces or nephews, never contemplated having his own children. Now, on the other hand, he was surrounded by them!

“… It is a place that attracts strange characters…” Sylvain chuckled and glanced at him. Ignan raised his eyebrows and nodded once in agreement. It did, definitely. Onuris hurried to qualify his statement, perhaps worried he’d insinuated Ignan was a strange creature. (If he asked Miranda, perhaps she’d agree with him.)

“… Erklings are fewer in numbers but their reputations precede them.” Sylvain explained, reminding Ignan of things he’d long begun to forget about his time. Strange to sit here in the earthy-smelling home at the edge of the forest and have your memories transport you back to it at the mere mention of a creature.

“Not beasts I miss from there, certainly.” Ignan agreed. “Unsettling to be woken by one of them singing outside our post.” Anything singing children’s rhymes in the dead of night was creepy. “But better them than the vampires.” He’d left the vampires to their own devices at that time in life. It hadn’t been until much later he’d taken one of those down.

The Deputy Headmaster sipped at his drink and cast his mind back to later years with Georg.
“I’ve only seen a graphorn at a distance, when I was on my travels,” he admitted, though he’d seen plenty of illustrations in books. “How does one specialise in them? Did you breed them, or was it more conservation? Those things can take on trolls can’t they?”