“You know, I am not going to profess to being an expert on the matter considering I just do as I’m told, but I’ve been informed that you have to actually pack your stuff up to move out, sweetheart.” Iona, a witch who never just did as she was told informed her daughter as she poured coffee into two cups on the kitchen counter. “Hard to move without your stuff, see. That would be more like visiting. But you’re not visiting.” She poured a spoonful of sugar into her own and stirred. “You’re moving. Omma and I clearly remember that conversation.”

Zora, or ‘Omma’ as she was known to her daughter, had already left for work, leaving Iona and Waverly to fend for themselves. That meant coffee and toast. Iona was in charge of coffee, and she’d set her daughter with the task of toast, the harder of the two to mess up.

“We’ve been struggling to decide what to repurpose the room as. Omma reckons a sauna but I’d come out looking like an overripe tomato that you left out for a month in the sun. So, I suggested a duelling room.” Iona was now levitating the coffee over to the breakfast bar with her wand. As she spoke, her welsh accented voice held the impish tone she used so often when trying to wind up her family. “We’ve always wanted one of our own. Tricky when you live in London. Space is at a premium.” She leaned against the counter and smiled at her daughter with a shrug. “Thing is, can't do nowt when all your stuff is still in it…darling daughter of mine.”

It was nice to have this moment this morning, to be a little silly. The last few days had felt like a living hell, and Iona had been struggling to sleep. She could wind Waverly up as much as she liked,no matter how much Zora and Iona thought they may look forward to putting her room to another use, the two would doubtlessly end up with very empty nest syndrome as soon as the girl left.

Waverly was levitating four slices of bread over an open ring of flame on the stove. She turned them gently for an even toast. She was tired as usually, as she kept terrible hours. But after what had happened with the full moon earlier in the week, she felt this need to be present. Whether she was asked or not, she felt protective of her self-sufficient werewolf Ma who nobody understood. Didn't stop her yawning though.

"I'll do it," she said, her words muffled by her gaping mouth. "It'll take four seconds. I'll get one of those bottomless bag things from the place."

Her Ma was in rare from with the morning snark, carrying on about dueling and saunas and vegetables and where was the coffee? Waverly spotted that she'd been poured a cup, so she stretched her very long limbs to slide it towards her so she wouldn't lower her wand and drop the toast.

"Have we got a Prophet," she asked. "There's this thing I want to go to. Should be in the back with the other stuff."

So articulate. She sipped her coffee hoping the caffeine would re-supply her vocabulary.

“Mhmmm.” Iona somehow couldn’t believe her daughter when she said that she’d get it done. It was like most things, without a shove in the right direction,Wav just didn’t seem to prioritise things. Despite the regular nagging from her mothers and their attempted intervention on the 1st of January, Waverly had it easy and comfortable at home. She was like a cat, coming and going as she pleased, and knowing that. There would always be food and love available when she fancied it. Taco, their actual cat, was far more cuddly and less snarky, Iona mused.

“This thing,” the redhead repeated, cocking an eyebrow. “Is this thing something a couple of forty something witches might visit?” Of course not; and even if it was, Wav wouldn’t admit it. Iona pushed off the kitchen counter and went slowly and steadily to the living room window sill where the paper had been deposited by the owl that morning. Zora must have taken it in before heading off. She picked it up and started rifling through the front pages. Critiques on how the ministry had handled Carter’s death, questions about the missing werewolves (Iona skipped past these articles for fear of seeing her own name appear). As she flicked past, a leaflet suddenly fell out, landing on the floor at her feet.

“Balls,” she shut the paper and looked down. The leaflet lying on the carpet was grey, much like the colour that her skin had suddenly turned as she read the large lettering above the claw marks.

Her parents come out with her, Merlin, Waverly could think of little else that would be more trying. Waverly let out a laugh at the prospect. Iona and Zora claimed to have been 'fun' when they were in their twenties, but it was hard to believe now. They hardly did anything other than go to work, crack each other up with their bone dry humor, and drink at home. It was exhausting and not a little sad.

While Iona stepped away to grab the newspaper for them, Waverly collected the toast onto a plate and shut off the fire. She got the butter and jam from the icebox and set it all on the island between them. She slid into a stool.

"Balls."

Iona looked down to pick up something she'd dropped. When she didn't come back, Waverly glanced up.

"Ma."

The Prophet had been full to brimming with the worst news all week, everything to do with her mom's boss being murdered and those two werewolves being taken. Waverly had only wanted to pull out the fun sections and check the date of the gallery opening not subject themselves to whatever new horrible headline.

"Ma, toast is done."

With difficulty and a tight grip and a hand against the wall for support, Iona bent down to snatch up the leaflet. Behind her, Waverly was pointing out that the toast was ready, but Iona was far too distracted by the disgusting literature that was in her grasp. Eradicate the Werewolf Threat… No more werewolves in our pubs! In our schools! On our streets!

Suddenly Iona didn’t want any toast. She felt as if someone had just poured molten lava down her throat, igniting a raging fire in her belly. Tuesday had been a living hell, walking into a nightmare of violence and hatred. The two werewolves were still missing, and the image of Alec Carter’s desecrated corpse would be forever ingrained in her memory. Now this. The hatred continued, more threats of violence against werewolves, a call to arms for anyone with a vendetta or just a simple dislike.

Without any thought to censor her reaction, Iona let out an angry yell, throwing her fist into the mirror on the wall beside her. The glass smashed into tiny pieces around her knuckles, some piercing the thin pale skin.

“@#&£, &*£#&@ @&#£@&#!”

Waverly startled, jumped back, and yelled. "Mum!"

She suddenly felt twelve years old, her heart in her throat. Waverly didn't cry, but the intensity struck her and she felt it coming.

"Mum, stop! What's wrong?" Avoiding the glass on the floor, Waverly hurried over and reached for her mother's bloody hand. Waverly had never ever seen Iona do anything like this before. She'd had to take care of her Mum loads these last three summers, it was strangely second nature. But the intensity of Iona's cry made her instantly afraid in the most childlike way.

"Mum, what?"

In the mirror, Iona was suddenly facing the broken reflection of familiar freckled cheeks and big red hair. The difference? She didn’t recognise the look in her eyes or the hardness to her brow and lips. The anger was unfamiliar, scary. This anger, however, was strong. Her hand ached, but she was glad of the feeling other than the building rage inside.

"Mum, stop! What's wrong?"

Blue eyes scanned across the room to Waverly making a steady way over, stepping carefully to avoid cutting herself. Iona blinked, trying to calm her breathing, but she could only find the fire in her stomach burning stronger. Her entire life, she’d had to fight to be accepted. All through school, she’d clearly been different. First, a muggleborn. Then, the lesbian who you didn’t want to share a dorm with, then she’d been the young witch amongst a workforce of burly wizards. More recently, the crippled werewolf. Then the werewolf that couldn’t protect her boss. Now? The werewolf that needed eradicating.

"Mum, what?" Wav, also had an unfamiliar look. Was she scared? Of her mum?

“Careful!” Iona muttered, holding her bloody hand up. Too much glass on the floor. Even in anger, still a mum.

‘What’, Waverly had asked. She probably had the right to know what had made her otherwise calm mother stick her fist through a mirror. All Iona wanted to do, however, was scream and rage and blow something up. She was usually so good at holding back the rage, but not right now.
“What’s wrong?” She thrust the flyer at her daughter. Despite the fury within her, tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. “Just…some ignorant flyer in the paper.” Years ago, maybe Iona would have wanted the werewolf free present. Perhaps that was what hit her the hardest now. Perhaps it was just the frustration and severe lack of sleep from the week’s events. Not wanting to show Waverly, Iona folded the flyer and shoved it in the pocket of her trousers.

“I need to go to work.” Her hand was still bleeding. Still glass on the floor. Still so many questions unanswered. Coffee and toast left untouched.

After a moment, and with more tears now actually falling, Iona looked over her daughter. She wasn’t some tiny kid to protect, anymore. In fact, in the past few years, Wav had looked after her mother. With a sigh, Iona removed the flyer from her pocket and offered it over with a shaky bloody hand.

Everything that had happened with the last full moon, something in the newspaper had tipped her mum over the edge and all the worry and anger and stress had spilled over. Waverly's immediate fear subsided enough for her heart to return to a normal pace but her guards were still up. Not against her mother, but against her own worries. Their family had been through so much and Waverly had gotten in her share of trouble at school in sixth and seventh year. Anyone who spoke against her family learned how much words (and wands) could hurt. But this wasn't kids making fun. All of this was life and death and struggle and power.

Iona shoved a piece of newsprint at her and Waverly stepped back out of the glass to read it. She wanted also to get her wand and a washcloth, but first this. She read it twice. She put a loose fist to her mouth and she started shaking.

"Why would they print this?" she demanded. The Daily Prophet included adverts or addenda loose like this from time to time, new broomsticks, WWN premieres, public service announcements from the Ministry of Magic. But never ever something like. Sure, sometimes their coverage of werewolf issues were obnoxiously moderate, ink given to the wrong sorts as if they were equal opinions. But never this. This was violence. Violence on a page.

"You can't just go to work!" she insisted then. "You can't just - MUM this is some &#^$ing evil shit! You don't have to just go about your day as if this is normal!"

Werewolves were supposed to always endure, always be good, always follow rules and rules and rules and were never protected. "What about breakfast," she blubbed. Then her voice sort of crumbled. "Most important meal of the day."

Even werewolves deserved breakfast.

To hear her daughter’s distressed use of the word ‘Mum’ was extraordinarily hard right now. Mums were supposed to protect their kids. Mums did whatever they could to shield their offspring from the cruel world, they cuddled them and supported them and made sure that they helped them to succeed in life. Iona? She’d been the problem, hadn’t she? Waverly had been doing so well at school until she’d been attacked. Iona had been the mum to look after her baby girl until she’d suddenly been the one who’d needed help. Now, because of her and all of this, Waverly was crying and insisting on finishing breakfast.

A strange thing happened at the crack of her daughter’s voice. The fire in her stomach seemed to become secondary to the need to make Waverly feel better. Always a prerogative, Wav over her own feelings. It was probably why Zora and Iona had left Waverly stay at home so long with no real plans.

“It’s not normal, Waverly.” Iona shook her head, her trembling hand taking the flyer back off her daughter. “But this is what we are fighting against. This is why werewolves hide.” Was Iona scared? Without a doubt. Was she about to tell Waverly? Not a chance.

“This,” Iona waved the flyer before folding it and shoving it in her pocket, “isn’t even illegal, I don’t think. Freedom of speech and all that bullshit. So, what do you suggest? Pound down the doors at the Daily Prophet?”

The toast had gone dry quickly as toast did. Waverly tossed a piece disdainfully onto a plate. They were arguing again, she and her mum. Why couldn't they even agree on this. Waverly wanted to be angry. Her mum deserved to be angry. They all did! It wasn't just one piece of paper like a nasty note in a bathroom stall. It was a call for murder in the streets, a call for her mum to be fired and hunted down.

"Why are you defending it," Waverly snapped. "Why do you always defend them? Why do you work for them? Why can't you just be angry?"

She regretted it as soon as she said it and her face fell. "No, that's not - I shouldn't have said that. Just ... stop trying to calm me down. I don't care what's legal -," (shouldn't have said that either), " - it's wrong. And someone should get pounded down. And it shouldn't be us."

She fell silent then. They always argued now.

What the actual hell? Iona stared, dumbfounded across at her daughter. She was angry; she’d put her fist through their mirror in anger. Her lack of shouting and throwing things and going off on one didn’t mean that she wasn’t angry. But this was Waverly, seeking out an argument that wasn’t there. She was angry, her mum was angry, they were all angry. Why argue about the level of anger? It was apparently not enough for Iona to just be angry, apparently, she needed to smash something else. Someone else, maybe.

To stop herself snapping at her daughter and escalating things, Iona closed her eyes, drawing in a slow deep breath. It did nothing to calm the inner fire.

“You want to know what I’m feeling, Wav?” Iona’s eyes snapped open, fixing on Waverly’s watery ones. “I’m raging. I’m livid. But I’m not allowed to be, because that is the curse talking. I get angry and I’m an aggressive werewolf.” Werewolves and their apparent anger. Couldn’t be anything else. Iona crossed her arms over her stomach, leaning her weight on her good leg as she was finally honest with her daughter.

“And you know what? I’m terrified, but I can’t be that because fear is weak and I’m supposed to be a warrior. I get sent so many howlers that Bagnold has hexed a drawer in my desk to stifle them in.” In her heightened emotions, Iona’s cheeks had almost turned as red as her hair. Before, she’d always tried to conceal the reality from Waverly, but what was the point when this hateful literature was being brought by owl to their very living room.

“Wav, the minute I got bitten, I became a third-class citizen. That isn’t going to change if I lose my shit at every vile thing like this.” The words were coming out, but her own eyes were tearing. The full moon, hearing about the missing werewolves, finding Carter’s body, the telling off from Carstairs, the argument with Zora…she’d just about held it together. This was the icing on the cake, the tip of the iceberg, the gust of wind to cause the avalanche.

Waverley bent over to put her elbows on the island and hold her face in her hands. A lecture. Both her and Omma were always on about what they could and couldn't do, what was safe and not safe, what they could share or not share, who they could be or not be. They made life out to be this constant negotiation, this tightrope, this narrow path of rules. And even when they did everything right, they just got penned in tighter.

She was trying to listen, she really was. Trying to understand what it must feel like to be her mum whose sense of identity got torn apart and stitched back together just three years ago. Waverly had been wrong: Iona was angry. She was probably angry all the time, she could just never show it. Wav wondered what she felt instead. She wondered if it was ever going to be better. She wondered how they could just find some peace and quiet and be normal again.

Waverly stood back up and wiped the corners of her eyes.

"Who does something about this?" she asked more quietly but not any less angry. "You're supposed to go to work and keep it together but whose job is doing something about that?"

Everything felt like a battle with Waverly. Their daughter and Iona had always been so close when she was growing up. Iona had been the one to spend all of that time with her when she was little. Zora still clearly felt guilty about that. Iona had taken her away during the war, going into hiding. They’d been as close as mother and daughter could be until the attack. That night had left Iona irreparably changed, and Waverly clearly still seeking the same closeness that was never given. Unfortunately, that closeness was not something Iona had been able to give.

Iona looked across at her daughter when she asked whose job it was. Her hand was starting to bleed, small red droplets dribbling across freckled skin.
“Mine.” It was ironic. She was the person who would be to go to for stuff like this. Yet, due to her own situation, she was walking barefoot across a firepit. She had to be careful, didn’t she? Was it for her to kick up a fuss or did she pass it to Level 2? The witch felt a certain level of dread at coming face to face with Solomon Carstairs again. Maybe, she would hex someone today.

“This isn’t going to go unchecked.” Iona said, pulling her wand out to clear away the broken shards of mirror. A quick reparo spell, and it was pieces back together, good as new. It was a pity people didn’t work like that. Her wand, was a different story to the mirror. Despite having been given basic field training to heal simple injuries, Iona has always been pretty poor at it. She’d pop into Marrowbone, perhaps. For now, she grabbed some cloth, and wrapped it around her knuckles. “Don’t, for one second, think I’m not angry about this. But anger solves sod all.”

Gingerly, the former hunter moved back across to the breakfast bar. The paper was dropped in front of her daughter and she tried to offer an encouraging smile. It came off false and strained in its execution.
“I do need to go. Are you okay?” Fine. She’d be fine. They were all fine. The entire damn family was always fine. Fine fine fine.

It made sense. The head of the Werewolf Wing would take lead investigating threats against werewolves. It was a strange job, both hunters and helpers. Strange was a kind word for it. Waverly watched her mum put herself back together and Waverly did the same, at least on the inside. She grew sullen again. This wouldn't come up again unless it was wrapped in sarcasm or worse wielded in an argument, but Waverly didn't hope for that. She hoped to see news of consequences, someone hauled in, someone held accountable. But that felt like too much to hope for.

Waverly would clean up the rest of breakfast after Iona headed off to work, then get out of this house, maybe to Blackwood Cafe.

"Fine," she said with an obligatory smile that didn't reach her eyes. That's what they did in the Ballentyne/Roh house.

She slid the flyer over to herself and began to fold it. One corner down, the other edge up. She knew the pattern by heart. Research for Charms, exam results from Transfig, notes to boys, notes to girls had all got the origami crane treatment. Maybe it'd end up on the Christmas tree. Maybe the bin. Either way, all the writing would become obscured, the claw mark graphic creased and severed, the nasty words chopped and separated and hidden under wings, nothing but stripes now on a long neck.

Fin