10 January 2012
3pm, following I Woke Up Like This
Sellaphix home in London


Figaro and Zelda Apparated into the back garden and started to head into the house, Figaro doing his best not to limp on his sore leg.  The bone was completely mended, the bruising treated, but the healers said it would be achy for a few days and that he'd better take it easy. 

"Your dad's already here and he'll make you something. I've got to head back to the apothecary; the armadillo bile will go off tonight unless I get it in jars. Go on in. You'll stay with us for a few days."

Zelda gave him a peck on the cheek. No negotiations. The Aurors still had Figaro's wand, so he was captive to his parents' doting. No Apparating away to his flat in Barking. The instinct not to let her son out of her sight was strong, not until the wizard who'd attacked her son was in a cell. She hated the feeling, hated feeling so vulnerable. She resented it and it just made her more angry. 

"See you tonight," Zelda said then Apparated away leaving Figaro to make his way inside.

"It's me," he called as the kitchen door closed behind him. He took off his coat then braced for whatever combination of bear-hug, weepy tears, or morbid jokes his dad had waiting for him. Fig felt agitated and jumpy. He wanted to get on his broom and just fly all night and try to shut everything out. But Rafe's consuming greeting was probably unavoidable.

On the kitchen table was a pot of tea with a couple of mugs already prepared for the arrival of his oldest son. Zelda had gone to St Mungo’s while Rafe remained at the shop in Diagon Alley. Her mothering instinct in overdrive, Mr Sellaphix was quite certain that his wife would handle the situation adequately forcefully. Rafe, on the other hand, wasn’t the most forceful sort. He was the friendly pat on the shoulder and sigh sort. Well, unless it involved red robes and shiny badges.

Unable to sit still and wait, Rafe had spent the 15 minutes since returning home pottering around with a nervous energy. He was in the living room watering the waterproof cactus on the windowsill when the backdoor opened. He emptied the last of the jug, and hurried back down the small hallway to the kitchen. On sight of Figaro, the jug was deposited on the worksurface and his arms extended, opening up for a big bear hug that only a father could give.

“Come here, kiddo.” Dad said to son, drawing him in and hugging him tightly. “You’re staying here. Has your mother said? Dreadful situation. Poor lad.” The hug went on for a little longer than was normal, before Rafe stepped back and took hold of Figaro’s shoulders with large hands. His gaze danced over the teenager’s face, taking him in before he waved at the kitchen table.
“Tea, that solves everything. Come, sit, sit. We have biscuits. Gingerbread hippogriffs with chocolate hooves, your favourite.” They’d been his favourite when Figaro was six and 5 months, at least.

Figaro closed his eyes and just let his dad hug him, laying his head in his shoulder. He still felt surprisingly thin and just noting that made Fig feel a little sad. His parents each provided a different kind of comfort: Zelda was a lion who'd stand in front of a spell for him but Rafe was always there with hugs and tea and that soft smile. It was probably better that Rafe was here; the sitting still would have killed Zelda who absolutely had to be solving this problem.

When the hug broke, Fig slid into the chair. He couldn't help but smile a the work his dad had put it. It was a little absurd, but what else could you do. Figaro leaned forward, took a hippogriff and started with the legs as he always did.

"Yeah, she said that. I'd rather just go back to my place. Go back have a shower. I've got work tomorrow."

Figaro was unusually quiet. Normally he'd be joshing around and have a lot to say, but instead he was tight-lipped and a little agitated like he was holding everything back without knowing what it was he was feeling.

Rafe pulled out a seat and plonked himself down opposite his son where he started to pour two cups of hot tea. 2 sugars for him. He’d missed sugar while ‘away’. Ever since his return, he swore Zelda was trying to fatten him up again, and as such, he’d rather become accustomed once more to nice sweet tea. A drop of milk, stir stir, perfect.

“Nonsense.” Rafe shook his head, taking a hippogriff of the plate and dunking it head first in his cup of tea. “I’d rather be 10 years younger with the abs of a beater.” He took a bite of one of the reasons why he had never had, and would never have, the abdominal muscles of a beater.

It was decidedly off putting, Figaro being so withdrawn and quiet. Rafe and Fig, despite their disagreements about his school work and his future, had always been very close. They were two peas in a very silly and obnoxious pod. Having his other pea so off kilter was worrisome, but he wasn’t so sure how to ask his son about what had happened to him today. Was it too soon to talk?

“You can go to work from here, anyway. We’ll sidelong apparate. Just like we used to.” There was no way that Figaro was going back to his little bedsit tonight. “We even have a shower, here. Wouldn’t you know?” Pointedly, Rafe glanced at the teacup waiting for Fig to sip. Tea solved everything, people said. He didn’t know about that, but it certainly helped. “I guess you wouldn’t know, smelly teenager that you were. Stinky stinky.”

Figaro expected Rafe would insist he stay, and if he didn't there'd be no getting past Zelda. Part of him was glad they did. As much as he wanted to be alone and zonk out he was also anxious about the idea that whoever impersonated him was still out there. Tessa Fenneken had told him that all of the werewolves at the safe house were okay.[1] It had to mean the attacker had unfinished business.

Figaro took the tea and tried to relax. He stretched out his leg under the table and itched at it, but the itch was too deep to reach. He laughed a performative laugh, appreciative of his dad's attempt to lift the mood.

"So that's what that tiny room is for. Huh. And why Frankie always smells of soap ..."

He took a moment, tapping the legless hippogriff on the table.

"What do you know about Polyjuice Potion?" He looked up and lifted his eyebrows. HIs dad was a Potioneer. Who'd know better?

1.	10 Jan 2012 - I Woke Up Like This "All the werewolves that we found upstairs were okay." He didn't pick up on the ambiguity.

Well at least the subject of Figaro going ‘home’ was temporarily abandoned. This was, after all, his home. No matter how long their son lived away, he would always have a place here should he ever need it. Like today, he definitely needed it today, regardless of whether he agreed or not. Momentarily content that that was done with, Rafe took another bite, this time of one of the chocolatey hooves.

“Hm…” He chewed thoughtfully, eyeing his son with a cautious look. It was polyjuice that the aurors thought was involved. His son impersonated by some sicko that had come to…well, he wasn’t sure what they’d come to do.
“What don’t I know about polyjuice, kiddo?” He sat back, placing his now 3-legged, beheaded hippogriff on the kitchen table between them.

“Tricky potion to brew, takes skill, and patience. Not something you just keep in your stocks.” What exactly did his son want to know? Rafe frowned, rubbing his chin through his bushy beard. “What about it? You think that’s what was used? To ah…to look like you?”

Figaro shrugged.

"I don't know. What else could do it?"

He furrowed his brow. He was still wracking his brain about who he'd told about his safe house job and which of them would have done something like this. He'd never paid much attention in Potions class so he couldn't remember how Polyjuice Potion worked. The questions kept coming and he was starting to scowl.

"How does it work? What, did someone sneak into my place and steal my fingernails? How is something like that even legal? Do we make it?"

The Sellaphixes sold as much pre-made potions as ingredients; Fig had worked there for awhile but hadn't remembered seeing it.

What else could do it? Rafe didn’t really want to go into that with his son. There were, he’d heard, other darker techniques. People always found ways to adapt magic, didn’t they? But a layman, in fact, most people, would refer to polyjuice potion.

So many questions flooded from Figaro, a torrent of perfectly justified inquisitiveness. The boy’s mind was clearly running laps, sprinting while his mouth was struggling to keep up. Rafe sighed and took a moment to chew another chocolatey leg of hippogriff gingerbread.

He didn’t rush in his chewing and swallowing either. It might give his son a chance to slow down. There was no use in going like a top of the range firebolt. You missed things and wore yourself out that way.

“Official answer is no.” Rafe responded to the last question with a shrug. Last question first and work backwards. To Rafe Sellaphix, it made sense. “The legalities are a bit wishy washy, like a lot of potions. We don’t tend to brew it. Opening ourselves to a whole world of problems. Can be nail clippings, hair, dandruff, or worse. I’ve heard of a whole finger being used.” Not what Figaro needed to hear now. Rafe frowned and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You’re best staying here with us for a few days, kiddo.”

Fig almost had to laugh at, 'not officially'. He'd been learning more and more about the unofficial side of the family business and his parents' amazing ability to make things appear on the up and up. Too bad Figaro hadn't inherited that trait. But he was getting better - his parents telling him things seemed to be evidence of that.

At Rafe's litany of ways Fig could have been Polyjuiced, Fig flicked the remainder of his gingerbread off the table. What the hell did 'or worse' mean! Someone had been in his place. Or what, was it someone at work? At the New Years' Eve Party? Had someone been following him. He felt abjectly exposed and privately Zelda and Rafe's insistence he stay home felt like the right thing to do.

So he didn't object.

"Aurors wanted to know everyone I'd talked to about the safe house job, and you know, that list isn't very long. Not that I can remember. I mean, I'd've told Moira but we're on the outs," he began, starting to get his voice back.

"And I just haven't seen Fauna or Sasha or anyone since New Years' and I thought Kurby would be pissed because he's  - whatever. I let work know, I guess."

He looked up out the window at the dark evening and shook his head with a scowl.

"I was just trying to do something good and I completely fouled it up."

As Figaro talked, Rafe watched calmly, his eyes a little sad and concerned. His eldest son was a bubbly sort, an excited puppy that wagged his tail with a little too much vigour and managed to knock over a plant pot or two with the force of it. He was the bull in a china shop, the kid in honeydukes. Figaro Sellaphix was not the sad and lost looking teenager that sat here picking blandly at his chocolate covered hippogriff hooves.

Fauna was mentioned. Rafe, unfortunately, knew Miss Blake from very different circumstances. Sasha, he’d been informed, was the German kid who was studying at a muggle facility (why any wix would want to was beyond Rafe, and he’d told Figaro just that). Kurby, he thought would be angry (Pissed was the word Fig used, which would have earned him a disapproving scowl from his Dad if he didn’t already look so sad). Angry with what? Being a safe house attendant? Being targeted?

“Hey!” Rafe got his son’s attention, slamming his hand down on the table. Then, he pointed fat index finger at Figaro’s chest. “You fouled nothing up, lad. You, Figaro Sellaphix, offered to do a job that no other damn wix wants because it’s scary and you have to smile at the poor people who are bloody terrified and vulnerable. You are an unfortunate victim of horrible people. You stop thinking that any of this is in any way your fault, kiddo.” And just for good measure, “Your mother will boil your insides if she hears talk like that. You hear me?”

He paused, frowning. It was making Rafe’s insides boil, just thinking about what had happened to his son.
“Eat another hippogriff.”

Figaro about jumped in his seat at his dad's sudden response. He felt thirteen years old again, frustrating his old man about his schoolwork or for being a jerk to Frank, but even then this tone of voice was rare for Rafe Sellaphix. But it wasn't a lecture about responsibility or family. It was a bucket of ice water on a spreading flame that threatened to swallow him up in self doubt. A good dousing to snap him out of a pernicious train of thought. Fig paid his dad proper attention, but he couldn't make either his head or his heart believe it.

Of all the safe houses in all the world, his had been picked. On his very first day. Everything else being equal, Figaro couldn't get past the fact that he'd been the newly introduced element. He'd been the one carrying the curse, as it were.

Figaro leaned forward on his elbows and plucked up another gingerbread. He did believe what Rafe had said about Zelda. She'd not tolerate anything resembling this kind of stewing. His parents didn't stew. They brewed. And acted. And took no shit from anyone.

"Yeah. You're probably right," he said and bit off the head. There wasn't much stock in the words, but he thought he ought to at least try them out.

"I don't think the Auror believed me," he tried. "Talisha was there spooking them out, but I didn't have anything helpful."

Probably right, Figaro suggested. Definitely right, Rafe wanted to correct. He wouldn’t state ‘always right’, because he could clearly imagine Zelda giving a dramatic roll of her eyes and maybe a sharp elbow to his side. Figaro that his parents had a habit of being right, he was a smart lad. A smart lad who was currently, rightfully, smarting from his traumatic night and morning.

Rafe’s expression hardened marginally at the mention of ‘the auror’. Aurors, he was quite convinced, heard the name ‘Sellaphix’ now, and decided trouble. That was Rafe and Zelda’s fault. Something Figaro might now have to carry. Rafe, as such, chose to focus on the mention of Talisha, he delightful one eyed lawyer who’d dragged his tuckus out of Azkaban a couple of years early. She was good, their family lawyer. The sort of witch that people underestimated at their peril. And her eye? Still super cool.

“Yes, you let Talisha handle it, Figgy.” Rafe nodded as he dipped what was left of his hippogriff in his tea. “Do not talk to aurors.” When he pulled his biscuit out of the tea, it broke in half, gingerbread dropping back into the tea with a dollop. “Elf balls!”

Do not talk to Aurors. It was basically the family motto these days. Figaro took a tense breath at being called 'Figgy'. He hated that, but it was never worth protesting an unwanted nickname. He might not have minded so much, and he didn't usually with his dad, but he wasn't feeling very agreeable at the moment.

Figaro didn't have the confidence in Talisha Crowe that his parents had. Maybe it's because he first met her when his dad was being carted off to Azkaban, maybe it was how she wobbled in tall shoes, or how she never seemed to look directly at you. Letting Talisha handle it, well, Figaro didn't have a choice. He wasn't going to defy his mum or dad, and really, what was his other option?

He crossed his arms tightly. His dad dropped some of the gingerbread into his tea cup. Always trying to lighten the mood, but it made Figaro doubt himself, like he was bothered over nothing.

"You're not worried?"

Rafe looked up from his teacup to his son’s face. A quizzical expression formed as brown eyes studied a very similar pair. Figaro Sellaphix was very much like his father in many aspects. He kind of sailed through life with a jovial countenance, appearing to be rather unbothered by what people thought. Both wizards enjoyed a good joke and mostly seemed very happy and laid back. Figaro, however, appeared to have become a worrier, definitely not like his Dad. That trait, he seemed to get from Zelda. Only Zelda faced issues head on with a fearless approach. But they both worried. Rafe? He just pretended the problems didn’t exist.

“I’m not not worried.” Father told his son with a shrug. Of course, he was worried. Fig had been singled out and attacked. He’d been used to do a terrible thing. Figaro had been dragged into this catastrophic mess and he certainly didn’t deserve it. Yes, Rafe was very worried. But he’d share that with his wife, not his son.

The tea was lifted to his lips and her took a sip, pulling a face. Smacking his lips, Rafe shook his head and replaced the mug on the table. “Too sweet. Yuck!”

“No point in sitting here fretting, Kiddo. Won’t change what happened. Your best bet is to trust Talisha. Her eye might give you the creeps, but she’s good. Honest. That eye sees way more than ye think, ye know.”

This was the strangest conversation, Figaro thought. Last time he'd sat and had a chat with his dad over the kitchen table, just the two of them, had to have been before he went to Azkaban. Figaro would have been a kid. Three years was too many to skip. It left them both sitting here having to deal with difficult things without a net.

Not not worried. Perfect dad answer. No dread or frenzy or frantic bag-packing. But he was taking it seriously, not trying to diminish the ordeal. But he wasn't supposed to 'fret'. Figaro didn't fret. He'd never fretted in his life. He'd panicked, sure. Wigged out, blown up, overreacted, went out in a blaze of defiance, but he didn't fret. Fretting was for people with a level and practicality and were concerned about mice in the cupboard. But being cooped up in parents house? Anything could happen, including fretting.

"Right."

And the bizarre and bumbling Talisha Crowe inspired only so much confidence as she seemed to be off-putting. He ought to give her more credit; she'd gotten him out of being Suspect Number One in a series of robberies a few months ago. She'd get him out of this, too.

Figaro leaned forward and rubbed his face in his hands. He'd been tired, but sitting here in the kitchen at the stained and gouged wooden table, he was starting to feel jittery. Maybe it was the tea.

"She told me to just 'hang tight'," he said, relaying Talisha's instructions. "If they have more questions or updates or whatevs, they'll talk to her."

He found a laugh. "If my name's in the paper again, Cuffe's brain is going to leak out of his nose."

Not that Figaro wanted his name in the paper, again. Not for this.