1400 hours. No.13 Moonstone Mews.


It had been cloudy all day, and it was cloudy still when Yavin Morgenthau heard his doorbell ring.

He was in his kitchen, all the way at the other end of the house, overseeing a pot of black dal on the stove. His home was a simple one - furnished tastefully with bits and pieces from his travels in the past. Kashmiri carpets, Tibetan tapestries, hand-hewn Tuscan furniture. It was clear that someone had thought intensively about what to put into this place, although just as apparent was the fact that its owner was rarely around. Nothing appeared to be well-used save for the kitchen pots and pans, of tarnished copper.

No photos were displayed though a few framed newspaper articles did feature on the walls. He kept no house elf, being a bachelor and workaholic.

Yavin put down his wooden spoon, taking one last look at the murky curry and then checking on the jeera aloo he'd kept in the oven. The entire house smelled of Indian food and just the slightest trace of sandalwood incense. He took off his apron and made his way towards the front.

"A moment, a moment!" he called out, brushing a hand through his stubborn peppered hair. The wizard glanced into the rosewood mirror in the foyer before he pulled open the door with a typically delighted smile. "Ah! Good, um, good afternoon," he greeted Professor and Healer Storm as he stepped aside to let them in. "I hope you have an, aha, an appetite!"

“Don’t be surprised if the walls are as hideous as his jumpers. I’d be disappointed if they weren’t.”

Miranda Storm had spent the past week and a half being pretty miserable. She’d bitten at her staff for the smallest things, and ended up shutting herself in her office for much of her time at St Mungo’s. Wine at home had been drunk at a far quicker pace than usual, and her smoking habit had more than tripled in frequency. Even stood now at Yavin Morgenthau’s doorstep, she was finishing a cigarette while Ignan rang the bell. Miranda bent down to stub the butt out in a flowerpot before standing straight just as the door sprang open and revealed the tall wizard in another piece of his tasteless knitwear.

“Always.” Miranda said with a tight smile. She’d not had much of an appetite in the past 11 days. Things had started to settle down now, which was why they’d accepted this lunch invitation, but things were still not right. They’d both agreed it would be a good distraction. Miranda only hoped the presumption was true.

Stepping into the house, Miranda wasn’t shy about letting her eye wonder. Her eyebrow raise and parted lips did nothing to hide the surprise at how his house wasn’t, in fact, ugly. It wasn’t hideous or hard on the eyes. Granted, the rich fabrics and tapestries were certainly not her choice of decoration, but it wasn’t as tasteless at his jumper collection. How disappointing.

The smell hit her senses almost immediately as the door behind them closed. Indian food, spices and herbs. It smelled delicious.

“You can cook, Yavin?” Miranda smirked, glancing from the American to the German. “A wizard that can cook, Ignan. A wonder to behold.” Ignan’s first and only attempt at cooking for the pair had resulted in a walk to the local fish and chip shop. Not that Miranda was any better.

Well this was all rather civilised. Ignan looked up and around them at Moonstone Mews. He had a vague recollection of seeing the building in backdrops of Daily Prophet photographs. Not necessarily of Yavin, though Ignan was more aware of his face in the papers since they’d been reacquainted.

He was glad they had kept the lunch appointment. Miranda needed to get out and about. Since the loss of Alec, she’d retreated into herself. Ignan understood the wish not to speak about things, but it didn’t mean he lacked worries about the response. Instead, he and Gerda had kept wine in and refrained from mentioning the increase of smoking. She was even smoking one on Yavin’s doorstep as he rang the bell.

Maybe Morgenthau would venture a comment about recent events. Ignan wondered if they’d get to lunch as a result. He wondered that they might have seen each other at the hospital, given their research subject. He had a funny feeling all of that was drawing to a close.

“Afternoon!” Ignan greeted, mirroring his host’s enthusiasm in greeting, only polite. Yavin received them graciously.

Miranda went ahead, looking around herself without any filter. Ignan followed, unsurprised at Morgenthau’s much more lavish style of interior design. Ignan had always sought to keep things simple, Miranda had interest and taste to go further. A single man, as far as Ignan knew Yavin to be, but a widower. His interest in jumpers had been enough of a clue. Thankfully the jumpers did not entirely reflect in the flat.

For this occasion, Ignan had opted for a subtle but stylish blue tweed, wearing more colour than he might ordinarily. The blessing of a good tailor.

“You can cook, Yavin?” Miranda remarked, wearing one of those smirks that meant Ignan was in for teasing. He didn’t mind, those were better than the long sighs and silence. “A wizard that can cook, Ignan. A wonder to behold.”

“Mm, they do exist.” He agreed, “needs must when one doesn’t have a house elf, I suppose.” He had made the assumption, not actually knowing if Yavin had a hired help. Perhaps he was one of these wizards who enjoyed cooking. Yes, that seemed possible.

“My lack of interest in culinary arts will forever be a point of amusement to Miranda,” he clarified to Yavin, though sure it had come up in past conversation, given Miranda’s enjoyment at poking holes in him when she had an audience.

Husband and wife entered, bringing with them the crisp winter air as well as the unmistakeable scent of cigarette smoke.

Yavin closed the front door and watched them appreciatively while Miranda looked around with her usual directness. He liked that about her sometimes, how she discarded greetings and started conversations like they were already in the middle of a particularly pointed one. “You can cook, Yavin?A wizard that can cook, Ignan..." the witch remarked, which made him wonder if the couple had been discussing the subject whilst waiting on his doorstep.

Luckily, Ignan clarified that it was more of a running joke between them.

"My late wife was a, hm, a keen cook and teacher," the older wizard explained, leading them down the passageway towards a small room that adjoined the kitchen at the back of the house. They passed walls of framed articles, the odd landscape. "And as, hah, as you say, it's necessary when one lives without an elf. Come sit."

The dining room was square, and sported a correspondingly shaped table with a centrepiece of snow pea flowers. An archway led to the kitchen one one side while a fireplace warmed the room from across it. A copper kettle awaited them - surrounded by matching cups. "I have a, um, a pupil who is also adventurous in the kitchen. My learning was inevitable," Yavin took a seat, smiling charmingly at his guests. "And I like to think we are, that is, we are never too old to learn, are we?"

Certainly Mira was not, though he directed this more towards Ignan.

"I love your suit by the way," he added, "it goes wonderfully with, ah, your eyes. It really is unforgivable I didn't recognise you by them." They were remarkably observant eyes, and rare as such. That had not changed from Yavin's memory of first meeting Storm all those years ago.

The house was beautifully warm, quite the opposite to the biting cold outside. As Ignan filled Yavin in on why Miranda commented on cooking skill, she was rubbing her hands together and still not being shy in analysing her new surroundings. The couple followed the tall wizard down the passageway into the kitchen, Miranda’s dark gaze grazing over articles and various pictures. While she, too, was an academic, she felt it an odd choice to display such things on one’s hallway walls. Although Yavin Morgenthau, she argued, was an odd wizard.

On the dining table was the set up for tea, and Miranda couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows. Tea and not wine was a mild disappointment. If she and Ignan were going to be polite and accept a social invitation, she at least wanted to be well lubricated for conversation. Tea, unfortunately, did not have the correct ingredient.

“Certainly not.” Miranda agreed as she took a seat at the table.

It was then that Yavin stumped, probably, the both of them. Miranda processed his sentence in chunks. Suit. Eyes. Unforgivable. She blinked. Was her colleague and research partner coming onto her husband in front of her? Had she heard the sentence correctly? Yes, Ignan’s eyes were something else, but they were for her to comment on, not this 70 something year old wizard with a late wife.

“He’s feeling bold today.” Miranda said teasingly, glancing at Ignan’s suit. Focus on the suit. Not the eyes. The eyes were what she’d fallen in love with.

The dig at his culinary abilities fell flat, something Ignan felt a little smug about. Miranda was always keen to poke a little humour at him when she wished to side with a visitor, or in his case a host. It was innocent on most occasions, though once in a London address, at an unusual dinner party hosted by Madam Almasy, it had appeased her to a far more murderous and notorious host.

“… we are never too old to learn, are we?”

Ah, a truth but also an agreement with Miranda. Only just, Ignan thought to himself. As it was, there was no time to linger by Morgenthau’s progression of interest.

“I love your suit by the way,” Ignan lowered his chin in acknowledgement of the compliment, but paused in surprise at the reasoning. Merlin, Morgenthau better not be going the way of Nightingale Kesali.

“… really is unforgivable I didn’t recognise you by them.”

“He’s feeling bold today.” Miranda teased, speaking the truth. It had been a conscious decision to wear the suit out to Morgenthau. It was rare these days that the couple accepted invitations.

Ignan was now all too aware of two sets of eyes on him, and his initial response caught in his throat. Did it please Miranda to have another pass compliment on his eyes, or was it irksome? Were these two legilimens corresponding by thought secondary to this conversation? He did not like to be the butt of jokes. Morgenthau seemed genuine enough, so he cleared his throat and reclaimed his voice.

“Thank you. Cut by Darian Morgan,” Ignan explained, tugging the sleeves of the jacket down to his cuffs, like bird preening his feathers. “He has rather outlandish tastes by my measure, but,” he looked to his wife, “as Miranda suggests, he has persuaded one to try a little colour once in a while.”

Time to turn the conversation from his appearance before this became as suggestive as a dinner with Balfour and Johann. He was pretty sure their taste in conversation was one of the few reasons Miranda ever invited them.

“You have an impressive collection,” Ignan gestured around them, “surround yourself with memories.”

Morgenthau’s interior decorating was not as bold as the notorious jumpers, but still showed more artistic intent than Ignan’s rather minimalist and functional approach. Their little cottage wasn’t big enough to do that, so most of Ignan’s teach-worthy relics cluttered his school study in the castle.

“A celebrated individual history to put on display so many articles?” His gaze lingered on the nearest of those on display, not close enough to read it but glean a headline. “A continued tradition?” He asked, gesturing to the frames, “or an edited history?”

His compliments didn't always go down as smoothly - at the very least certain people did not appreciate being appreciated by a wizard whose wardrobe was far from conventionally attractive. They read between lines that did not exist. It was therefore quite natural for him to smile when Miranda remarked on her husband's lovely suit.

She left the eyes unmentioned, possibly more of an implied directive than an oversight. Not that it mattered. Ignan wasn't a peacock, and turned the conversation around with seemingly easy skill.

            “A celebrated individual history to put on display....A continued tradition...or an edited history?”

Oh, he caught on to it. Not everyone noticed the articles in the same way, or bothered bringing them up. Yavin lifted the copper kettle on the table and poured them cups of fragrant chai as he spoke. The room was suddenly full of cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg; spices mellowing in creamy milk just on the very edge of being burnt.

"Ah, so those eyes aren't just for good looks," he smiled to himself before sparing a quick glance at the headline[1] that had caught Ignan's attention. "I confess," Yavin set down the kettle and raised his full cup instead, "it's a, hm, a subtle way to keep visitors from prodding into my, ah, unedited history, when they're surrounded by, that is, by other prompts for conversation."

There were more exciting articles, about mind magic retreats or long journeys to isolated magical villages, as well as mundane ones.They were his first line of defence. A persistent individual would not be deterred but people might be surprised by how well the trick worked.

"Most visitors anyway," he added before taking a sip of the tea and winking at Ignan. "I believe you and Miranda aren't easily fooled by misdirection clothed in, hah, in egomania."

1.	"Famed Legilimens to move permanently to the United Kingdom" in a New York publication.

“Ah,” Ignan replied, softly. The offer of some information about one’s background and history in the media. A strategy that Ignan would not have employed, as a far more private person than Morgenthau. Ignan did not keep cuttings of himself in the Prophet (save for one mention which tickled him.)

“The nearest we have is Miranda’s books on the most prominent shelf of the study,” Ignan reasoned, glancing to his wife. Her certificates were hung on the wall of the Head Healer’s office. Ignan’s collection of artefacts and useful photographs in his office at the school.

“You’re lucky to be written about so favourably,” he remarked, receiving a cup and swilling it gently in his fingertips. “What’s your secret?”

Ignan, smooth as ever in turning the topic of a conversation, slipped the focus to Yavin’s choice of articles to decorate his hallways. Ignan was, to his wife, a very attractive man, but she wasn’t accustomed to having others say it. As such, she wasn’t sure how either she or Ignan should take the reminder from Yavin of his eyes. Her own dark gaze shot to her husband, wondering if accepting this lunch invitation had been a terrible idea.

“He’s a lot more people friendly than us, Ignan.” Miranda answered her husband’s question with a raise of her eyebrows. Both Mr and Mrs Storm had a reputation for being cold and unfeeling; reputations that didn’t inspire the press to be kind about you. Miranda hadn’t minded it until the Witch Weekly article[1] which suggested she and Ignan had engaged in a shotgun marriage thanks to a baby on the way.

“The Daily Prophet are less of a problem than Witch Weekly. One of their reporters clearly had an obsession.” She informed her colleague before a sip of tea. “Clearly, Ignan and I are fascinating people…”

1.	In Sickness and in Health?

            “You’re lucky to be written about so favourably. What’s your secret?”
      “He’s a lot more people friendly than us, Ignan.”

Yavin smiled over the rim of his cup, enjoying the quips between husband and wife. There was no doubt to him that, as a couple, Miranda and Ignan were fascinating people; they had good chemistry and were shrouded in the kind of old world privacy newspapers enjoyed infringing upon. Of course he knew about Witch Weekly's obsession - he read them.

"I think," he put down his cup, shrugging slightly, "once you, ah, you understand what the papers want, you learn to control what you give them. But I come from a long, hah, long line of diplomats and politicians..." Yavin snorted, as if he were both proud and critical of the fact. "It's all an act, don't you think? And what a stage."

His father - and, Merlin, wasn't that a lifetime ago? - was a diplomat at MACUSA, where his sisters now thrived in similar careers. He never did like politics, yet at some point early in his life he understood that nobody could really escape it.

"I'm sure that your friends at Witch Weekly," Yavin added, thoughtful, "will find other fascinations. The supposed news cycle is vicious but, um, but also brief."

Didn't all things collapse, eventually, before Time?

“He’s a lot more people-friendly than us, Ignan” Ignan acknowledged Miranda’s astute observation with a sniff and a flinch of a smile.

“… Clearly, Ignan and I are fascinating people…” He shook his head gently in disagreement at this. He still found it odd to see his name in the newspaper after almost four years at Hogwarts. Few of the mentions had been favourable, but he had never entered a popularity contest with the media. Just truthful and exact or one of the two would do.

“… I come from a long.. line of diplomats and politicians.” Yavin explained his experience in dealing with the press. “It’s all an act, don’t you think? And what a stage.” Ignan indicated mild agreement with a raise of a silver eyebrow and glanced to Miranda to see if she agreed.

“I’m sure that your friends at Witch Weekly will find other fascinations…” Their host tried to provide some comfort.

“They already have,” Ignan agreed, “helped a little by a bee in Sandy Misslethorpe’s ear from Miranda, I recall.” He shuffled a little in his seat. “Appointing him as her Deputy was a wise move at the hospital.” Not only did Miranda have the wizard’s proverbial balls in her grasp over his profession, but from what Ignan gleaned of Miranda and Yavin’s research, Misslethorpe had stepped up to resolve the Ministry’s ban on Miranda working directly with Musgrave. It was one of those rare moments that Ignan actually found himself in agreement with the Ministry’s ruling.

“Do you have any of your mentions in there, framed?” Ignan asked, more out of humour as he glanced about them.

An amused, dry little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. So Miranda wasn't above a little bribery, was she? The witch's life was riddled with conflicts of interest: professional superior to the owner of a magazine that harassed her, former lover of the wizard she was treating in hospital. Yavin couldn't help but feel a little pleased - he had diagnosed her as power hungry when they first met in Edwin's office.

It turned out she was, and channeled it in a myriad of ways.

            “Do you have any of your mentions in there, framed?”

Ignan's question distracted him from this psychoanalysis of his wife, and Yav laughed out loud. "I do, in fact! Quite, aha, quite proud of it," he leaned back in his chair, wand in hand. Just outside the dining room, in the corridor, a little frame hopped off its hook and danced in their direction.

"They like their threesomes, don't they?" the older wizard plucked the framed article as it floated over, giving its portents a quick smile before passing it to the couple. "You'll have to watch out for, that is, for any cameras when you leave," he couldn't help but tease.

The Witch Weekly article featured a photograph of himself in front of Stardust Theatre with Edgar and Angela Carstairs, his hand resting lightly on the former's lower back. All three wore broad smiles and laughs; Yavin had much less grey in his hair - the photo had been taken around ten years ago, and the article speculated a perfectly hedonistic relationship between the three adults, referencing Yav's mysterious retreats at secluded Italian villas (which were, in fact, Legilimen getaways with other scholars).

"I think we're ready for, hm, for some food, aren't we?" he got up, led by his nose and stomach.

"They like their threesomes, don't they?" Miranda had been taking a sip of tea when Yavin completely threw her off and she very nearly snorted it up her nose. Quickly recovering, she took the offered photoframe to see a marginally younger Yavin with a couple. The wizard, she recognised the face from the papers but couldn’t pinpoint him until she skimmed the article with a quick eye. Playwright and performer. That was why she didn’t really recognise him. The article’s subject, however, caused a raised eyebrow and a shared glance with her husband. They better not be dragged into something similar after this lunch date.

When Yavin got up, Miranda muttered towards her husband. “Misslepthorpe is a dead wizard walking if similar gets published about us.” And she wasn’t even kidding; Miranda had grown sick of the media attention the couple had gained in the past year.

When they sat down to the food, Miranda didn’t try to hide the impressed expression from her face. It smelled good and it looked good. Better than anything she or Ignan would create themselves.
“There must be a house elf hiding in your kitchen, Yavin. Or you’ve some tips to share with the two of us. The first time I visited Ignan’s home for dinner, we ended up with fish and chips.”

Black dahl, gunpowder potatoes and fluffy pilau rice were served in gleaming copper pots in the centre of the round dining table. A platter of grilled tandoori chicken and onions accompanied the otherwise vegetarian meal - Yavin treated himself to meat every now and again, always on the bone because he was taught to never divorce food from source.

It gave him a sense of peace, to be surrounded by these homely fragrances and the voices of friendly people.

           “There must be a house elf hiding...some tips to share with the two of us... first time I visited Ignan’s home...fish and chips.”

"Mm, I love a good fish and ship though," he smiled, gaze flicking from wife to husband as he served himself a spoon of dal over his rice. "As I mentioned, ah, earlier, it was more my wife's speed. But she taught and I learned. Happily."

Yavin reached for the teapot, refreshing everybody's cups conversationally. "It, hm, it's an excellent bonding experience, cooking," he continued with a little laugh, "and it gives one the, that is, the illusion of productivity. I have a pupil who is always cooking but, hm, but hardly eats any of what they make. The act of creating is a magic of its own."

Miranda did not waste a chance to dig at Ignan’s lack of interest in cooking, bringing it up for the second time in half an hour. While the white-haired wizard held the temptation to make a displeased expression at his other half, choosing to appear as if he hadn’t heard, their host was gracious. Morgenthau turned the lack of culinary skills to mention his late wife. It did not seem the moment to retaliate, and instead Ignan paused in eating to pay attention.

“I have noted it is a calming hobby for some,” Ignan agreed, thinking of some of the few friends before Miranda and Yavin who had ever entertained him. There had been a couple of well-meaning Hogwarts colleagues who had in the past few years. “My interest in it never got past campfire necessities. Gerda, our elf, cared for my late father. She’s proven too useful to let go, not just because of her kitchen skills.” He looked to Miranda, recalling the times their elf had subbed in as a nurse to the Head Healer, plucking nostril hairs or spying on her master. Before that, she’d been company and an excellent babysitter to morally ambiguous intentions of younger relatives.

“Do you think you’d dare teach me?” He asked Miranda, the question loaded with the knowledge of what happened when she’d asked him for a bit of defence tuition. The light sarcasm would be obvious to the woman who knew him best.