“Get back in bed, Ignan!” Hissed the Head Healer at her husband. She had just finished doing up the final button on her black pyjama top when she quickly slipped back into bed. It was New Year’s day, a day where most adults would be sleeping off a hangover from the various parties they chose to attend. For Miranda and Ignan, it was the day that followed their wedding anniversary. Seven years ago, they had married in Norway, after a rather eventful proposal that had sadly involved a surprise dementor attack. For Miranda, New Year’s day was also her birthday. Today, on the 1st January 2018, she was 55 years old. They hadn’t done anything wild to celebrate the night before because their idea of a pleasant night so often involved wine, the fire roaring and talking into the late hours about anything he piqued their interest. Sometimes, wizards chess was even involved.

They’d been warned about the breakfast plans by Gerda, their now free and employed house elf. Katrine Elliot was Miranda’s 8 year old granddaughter, and ward of the Storms. Since her mother’s disappearance and likely death almost 4 years ago, Miranda and Ignan had taken the girl in to raise themselves. This morning, Katrine was attempting to make breakfast for her grandparents. What breakfast entailed when cooked by a child, Miranda had long since forgotten because her daughter would have been turning 30 this year had she not vanished in the lake.

“She’ll be up any second, don’t you dare leave this room.” Ignan was by the bedroom door, clearly planning on going downstairs to take matters into his own hands because they’d been waiting so long. “I don’t smell burning so we’re safe for now, old man.”

At his wife’s hissed exclamation, the Hogwarts Headmaster raised his pale eyes to the bedroom ceiling and appealed with bent raised arms to a higher power. He was wearing pale blue pyjamas that Miranda had gifted him a few years prior. One couldn’t sleep in a state of undress when there was a third in the house other than Gerda. It wasn’t proper and the runes carved into him were a regular reminder of mortality that neither needed.

It was the first day of the new year, and he had intended not to waste it. Love as he did his wife, he was not one to rot in bed, but an early riser and regular sleeper. If he overstretched he might fit in a nap, but not a late morning sleep. Even if it was her birthday and the day after their wedding anniversary. He was a wizard set in his ways.

Gerda had of course notified them of the impending attempt at breakfast by Katrine. The seven-year old witch had been part of the household over three years now. When she had been tiny, Katrine had unexpectedly taken a shine to Ignan and while this had generally continued, there could also be moments where she sulked over him instilling discipline. It was clear that Ignan and Miranda’s styles of upbringing had been vastly different, and Ignan did not have the best of track records with an estranged son. Therefore most, if not all, parenting decisions were finalised by Miranda, the child’s grandmother.

That was how he came to be stood by the bedroom door, impatient to start his day with breakfast and the newspapers, in his pale blue pyjamas. No seer could have predicted this future.

“Comforting thought.” He retorted sarcastically to the suggestion Miranda couldn’t smell anything burning. “I suppose you’ll be able to reattach her digits if she manages to serve them between slices on bread.” He wiggled the fingers of both hands as he relented and turned back to the bed.

The bottom step of the stairs creaked, a sound both grown wixes recognised, especially the one who was always on his guard. There was a rattle, clatter, Gerda’s voice - always distinguishable as an elf - determined protests from Katrine all muffled through the closed door, and then the footsteps advanced, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of a tray.

Miranda gave her husband another of her looks and he rolled his eyes, getting back beneath the blankets beside her, sat bolt upright, expectant, as Garda’s elf magic released the latch on the door at the foot of the bed.

Ignan’s remark didn’t need any response other than a playful smirk from his wife. He would grumble and gripe as if to protect his reputation. What Ignan often forgot was that both his wife and his grandchild knew far more than his reputation let on. Ignan was made of stern stuff, and to the world he was a cold, hard bastard. To his wife, he was the grump that would do anything for her regardless of his own feelings, and to Katrine, he was the grandfather that taught her things her Mormor probably disapproved of.

True to form, the old grump obeyed and returned to the bed just in time for the sound of their staircase being ascended and the bedroom door pushed open to reveal a dark haired 8 year old in a fluffy dressing gown. She was carrying a circular tray piled up with a teapot, two cups, and a plate of toast. Behind her, Gerda the elf shuffled in, her hands out in front of her as if the magically catch the tray and steaming hot liquid should Katrine trip. Miranda’s brow raised, not sure how she felt about Katrine carrying the teapot. Still, it was too late to do anything about it.

Concentration wrinkled the skin around Katrine’s nose, and her brows were furrowed as she focused on not spilling anything or tripping. She triumphantly placed the tray down on Ignan’s side table and grinned at her grandparents sat up in bed.

“Happy Birthday, Mormor!” The young girl gleefully greeted, before climbing on the bed without invitation. She climbed over Ignan as if the lump of his legs wasn’t there, and almost flattened the witch with a fierce cuddle. Miranda closed her eyes, giving her granddaughter a tight squeeze.

“You planned this yourself? Impressive!”

Breakfast entered, courtesy of the eight-year-old grandchild. All three other beings in the room had their attention sealed on the progress of tea tray and child negotiating the journey. She had made it up the stairs, a difficulty on its own, but now she presented her creation to an audience. All it took was the slightest drop in concentration. Then again, so did racing through the woods around the outskirts of Hogsmeade, dodging the tree roots… Something Katrine was becoming quite proficient at doing and aiming to beat her record. Mormor thought the two of them were merely going on walks and engaging in the art of beast stalking at worst.

He momentarily relaxed as the tray made it to the bedside table on his side. Now it was no longer at risk of being poured all over them. Katrine’s grin could have easily been mirrored by the relieved wixes in bed, but they weren’t the smiley sort. Well, the husband wasn’t that was for sure.

The invasion was swift and cumbersome. Ignan swallowed protests that he was being knelt on in the pursuit of birthday hugs. He’d have bruises, but that was nothing new in his life before a child was forced upon them through unhappy circumstances. A glance in the direction of his wife, smothered by her granddaughter was enough to finally induce an upturn in his stoic expression. A glance to Gerda confirmed their well remunerated elf would never breathe a word of what she’d just seen. Headmaster Ignan Storm did not smile.

“You planned this yourself! Impressive!”
“Of course!” Katrine inserted herself between them without invitation. She looked pointedly to her grandfather who read the signs with the slightest of grumbles, reaching for the tray to oblige Katrine’s wish to list what she had prepared for her grandmother’s breakfast. He didn’t count his blessings that he’d be included in the consumption.

As he seized the tray he noticed the toast. Merlin. She better not make him eat that.

Miranda had never anticipated raising another child. If she were to be completely honest with herself, she’d never even wanted Maya. It had been Jonathon, her first husband who’d been desperate for children, so Miranda had relented with one. While she hadn’t been a natural mother, she had loved her daughter dearly. Now, having the responsibility to bringing up Maya’s daughter caused a very different feeling. Any of those mistakes she’d made with Maya, she intended to avoid this time. She wouldn’t be a cold and detached parental figure. So if Katrine wanted to bring her burnt toast in bed on her birthday, she’d embrace it and thank her granddaughter for the thought. Ignan, however, had also had this thrust upon him and he’d never promised to eat burnt toast.

Sitting up in the bed now that Katrine had inserted herself between the pair, Miranda glanced across at the tray. The tea was hopefully fine, but that was likely because Gerda had been in charge of that element. Miranda didn’t often drink tea, but clearly Katrine had it in her head that a tea tray meant one had to serve tea on it. The toast, though. That was unsavable, even with magic. Dead, deceased, gone.

“So, you’ve got tea, sugar, milk, toast and jam. Looks great, doesn’t it!” The eight year old was clearly very proud of her breakfast making skills.

“It looks delicious.” Miranda said, planting a kiss on her granddaughter’s head. Over Katrine’s head, she shared a look with Ignan and Gerda.

The house elf was suddenly at the foot of the bed. “Come on Katty, let them eat. You’ve got a mess to tidy up downstairs.”

Mercifully, Katrine nodded and climbed back out of bed but she didn’t leave before a parting statement. “Make sure you eat every crumb.”

Miranda took her glasses off the bedside table and put them on, glancing across at her husband with a frown once they were alone.
“This isn’t where I saw myself at 55.” The job, yes. The husband, well he’d always been a pleasant surprise. But the grandchild living with them?

To Gerda’s viewpoint, they must have made for a funny looking trio. A grumpy, silver haired wizard in striped pyjamas, a petite dark haired witch with her bed hair standing on end and jam smeared on one cheek, and a well-aging, similarly dark haired witch planting a kiss on the aforementioned bed head.

“It looks delicious,” Miranda lied with such ease. She’d clearly been taking notes from her husband. He raised a silver eyebrow to her glance, withholding comment and suppressing the need to evanesco the offending burnt toast while Katrine wasn’t looking.

“Come on Katty, let them eat. You’ve got a mess to tidy up downstairs.” Gerda mercifully saved them, and his step-granddaughter agreed to go with the elf, leaving them in (relative) peace.

“This isn’t where I saw myself at 55.” She confessed.
“We can adopt her out, if you prefer…” Her husband replied, dryly. Truth being not even he could give that serious thought these days. “Toast?” His wand in hand, he hoisted the offending cremation into the air. At Miranda’s expression the bedroom window opened, and the toast sailed straight through the gap before exploding into crumbs in midair. “The ‘you’ could have been interpreted as plural, so I’m including the birds,” he explained, the window relatching to keep the cool January air outside.

As it did, he nodded past Miranda to her bedside table, where a vase of his wife’s favourite fresh flowers descended gently out of seemingly nowhere.

“Happy Birthday, my love.” The hint of a smile played on his features as he acknowledged her milestone. “Still as beautiful as 45.”

End