False Hope of Redemption

Fin's offer was clearly genuine, even if it made Simon feel a little, well, lame. Embarrassed was a good word for it. But it was alright, really, because being friends with the kid was a lot easier than trying to be an adult to him. Simon didn't like the idea of chiding or correcting someone else's child. Particularly if they had never met. So he just laughed and agreed that he would be honored, and of course it counted.

"My school didn't have houses," he mused slowly, wondering if his interpretation of Hogwarts was actually even correct. "I find it hard to believe, though, that they expect you to only ever be one kind of person. If that were true, Liv wouldn't be have as brave and outgoing, would she? And my old friend Jack, she was a Gryffindor but she's as clever and cunning as anything, so I'd say she would make a good Ravenclaw or a Slytherin. What does it matter really who you're supposed to be, eh? Surely the hat thing puts you where you'll find the people who will help you most or something?" He asks Liv, turning over his shoulder to look at her with a confused expression on his face. "Otherwise why break kids apart like that? Competition is good, but... I don't know."

He shook his head, but dropped it for fear of saying something mental that he had picked up incorrectly from someplace or other.

"I think I quite like science," Simon decided, loud enough for Fin to hear. He had always known that it was interesting and everything else, but the boy knew what he was on about and Simon hoped he didn't give up on the subject all together. Who knew what Fin could do with it down the road?

"Have you ever seen a spider lily?" He asked after a moment of pondering. "Here, tear me off a piece of parchment. I'll try and make one. No promises, though," Simon warned seriously. There was a high chance he would mess it up. Once he had the page resting on his palm, he had to zone out enough that anything Liv or Fin did seemed inaudible to him. No distractions. The world narrowed in front of him, until all he saw was a white flower sitting in his hand, its petals bobbing up and down a bit after it landed there.

"Aha!" He declared a little too proudly. "These," he explained, "these are my favorite. My mum grew them outside our house. Not sure if they're gone yet or not, though. Might still be there, actually."

Shrugging one shoulder, he looked over at Liv before holding his forefinger up to his lips, silently asking Fin to be a co-conspirator in the idea he had just discovered. Standing, he crossed the floor quietly, appearing at Liv's side and holding it out for her to see. "Daisies, huh? Why am I not surprised?" Simon asked with a smile, his voice gentle though teasing.

He thought about trying to fit the flower behind her ear, but really it was much too big. Instead, he cast the best preservation charm on it that he could and set it aside for her before turning back to Fin and saying, "I'll have you know that I've got a word ready that'll blow your ten-pointer out the water."

Simon’s was a stance that, had he been home, Peter would have appreciated. Certainly, it was one that Liv did. Her experience with the housing system at Hogwarts had pulled her away from both her siblings. In fact, the magical world had pulled her and her siblings apart. Livia’s eyes flicked up from the chopping board to the photographs on the windowsill, some of many that, between them, she and Peter had filled the house with.

He had his old memories, photographs of his parents when he was tiny and not quite yet St. Mungo’s bound. Then there were pictures of his adoptive parents, given pride of place on the mantelpiece next to a more recent photograph of all of them. That one was her favourite because as the photo moved, you could see her and Theodore jostling each other, trying to get in view, while Mairen was rolling her eyes affectedly at them. All of their grins were insatiable, their happiness unyielding.

The one she looked for now, though, was the last one that had been taken of the three McCallum siblings. Gaius in the middle, his arms slung around the shoulders of girls who were mirror images of each other. Octavia’s smile was impish, Livia’s just that bit shyer. They were young, happy and together. She’d known even then that it was a fleeting moment in time but it was a precious image. One that couldn’t be reconstructed. So much had changed, so much for the worse and … her eyes travelled over, settling on Finley and then Simon … so much for the better.

While Liv was lost in thought, chopping away at the veg, Finley could only find himself approving more and more of her choice of friend. His heart soared, feeling as though he had had something to do with Simon’s liking of science, and his chest puffed out proudly as he set down his pencil. He shook his head when Simon spoke about what he assumed was a flower and he leaned forward, eager to watch the magic. His mouth opened in delight and he looked up, declaring that when he was big enough, Simon would have to show him how to make flowers. It didn’t occur to him in that moment that both Liv and his uncle were suitably qualified to do so as well. Simon could do it so Finley wanted him to be the teacher.

“They’re amazing,” he added, leaning in again to take a closer look. His eyes lit up, perceiving Simon to be playing a game, and he nodded, turning around a bit to look at Liv who was just beginning to start chopping the peppers. So absorbed was she that she started in surprise when Simon appeared beside her. She smiled instantly and it was an expression that grew exponentially when she saw what he had in his hand.

“It’s beautiful,” she complimented, her gaze flicking to his. “Daisies are simple, I suppose,” she conceded, shrugging her shoulder. “Thank you.”

But before she could linger on whatever the presentation of a daisy to her meant, he and Finley had dived back into the game and she was left to blush into the salad. There wasn’t meant to be anything. It wasn’t meant to mean anything. He was just being playful. That was all. They were just … just friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Right? She decided to put the potato smileys and fish in and think no more of it – for the moment, anyway.

“Fin, defend me, here!” She called, finishing cutting the pepper.

“Will do! … We can use magic words, right? ‘Cause I could put Stupefy in there?”

Simon would end up leaving that night before Peter got home, lucky for him.

Fin received a high five, before Simon ruffled his hair and promised to teach him what (little) he could someday. He got the feeling that, by the time Fin was old enough to practice magic outside of school, he wouldn't need Simon anymore. He already didn't, arguably, given Livia and the rest of Fin's family's presence. So he had no real qualms about making that promise. Fin would probably forget that he ever had, anyway.

When he bid Livia goodbye, he lifted one hand to her cheek and kissed the other one, though barely. It happened without his thinking about it, a product of Simon becoming too comfortable and experiencing too many smiles and laughs over dinner. Not to mention pretending to lose the game so he could feign disappointment while they reveled in it. It was great.

So he stepped back quickly despite hardly registering what he'd done, promising to meet her a few days later at the cafe. He couldn't have known that being early in hopes of having their drinks ready would end the way it had. Bizarrely, he left the situation feeling horrible despite his new, official attachment to the brunette. Maybe because he feared that it wouldn't last. That she would regret it and end up hating him instead.

Beyond that, though, he wasn't sure she was safe with him, so after his walk through the park that day, he decided he need another the next day, which turned into a run. He intended on going again the following evening, but he couldn't because he had promised to meet Livia at a Greek place for dinner, where he fully intended to point out that her name simply did not fit.

At least, he would have if she were there. Instead, he was that guy sitting by himself. Rather than a rose, he had set a daisy on her plate which he assumed looked rather cheap for a man hoping to impress someone. But it looked even worse for him when they realized that he might've been stood up.

That morning, Keiran had been doing some research, though not his usual kind. It took some digging and asking around to see if anyone knew of a man named Simon who had a Polish accent - he knew now, Keiran did, what that sounded like - who had some kind of a past. A bad one. Adrienne had held the key for him.

An ex-Seeker, destined for fame and glory if he played as well as the paper claimed, but also a murderer. Not just of normal, adult people, though that wouldn't have made it better. No, of a child only a year ahead of his own. Darcie, the one who looked most like the daughter Tobias had lost, had just turned one on the eighteenth and could barely walk, never mind saying anything besides random sounds and maybe something by way of addressing her parents. The twins were nearly two, and closer to Colleen's age before Marek got to her, and Keiran just felt ill.

He had let Millie and Athena encourage it when he had known all along that something wasn't right. And what could be worse than what Simon had done time for? And why hadn't he done more? What in Merlin's name had compelled them to set a man like that free?

It didn't even matter. He had demanded copies from the Prophet reporter, and stormed over to Peter's, thrusting it in his face, practically shouting at his brother. It was an unfair question for him to ask, but he had to find out.

"My Liv is dating this thing. Do you know him?"

“Well, considering you’ve come to my door asking questions about Azkaban, I presume you already know the answer,” Peter hissed, rising from his chair, his voice dangerously low. Fury had engulfed him the minute the pages had been shoved at him. Partly fuelled by the indignity of the act, partly fuelled by the fact that his brother had just burst in uninvited and partly because of the guilt that was now raging through him, the feeling that, somehow, he should have known who it was that Livia was seeing and he should have put a stop to it long before it got to this point – the point where she was happy and excited to spend time with him.

And it hurt, because he did know him – and to have Livia under his roof, with his brother having figured it out … it made him feel like he’d failed. Totally. Completely. Utterly.

And he hated Keiran, just a little bit, for making him feel that way. He also hated him, just a little bit more, for making him say the A-word, for making him think about the Dementors, about the people he’d called friends there, about the suffering, the pain and then, of course … as his eyes fell over Finley’s homework, yet unfinished owing to his being at a birthday party that day, Sarah. Sarah and Fin and the former, in particular, who he felt with every ounce of his being would have still been alive had he not been so stupid. Fin would have had his mother. Liv was enough, of course, but Sarah …

“They brought him down from maximum security to where I was,” he told Keiran, reluctance clinging to every word. He pushed one of the pages back, a sigh lifting his chest as he peered down at the photograph of Simon holding his Azkaban plate. A Seeker. So he’d made the front page. Total and complete public annihilation – and in the worst possible way. It wasn’t quite the James Potter drug addiction or the Rudi Feria nightclub brawls and call-girl extravaganzas. No, it was quite serious – not to say that the others were not but this trumped every single random crime. It was murder and … Peter felt his heart sink in his chest … it was the murder of a child.

And he’d been with Finley. Merlin, he’d helped Finley with his homework … played Scrabble with him … eaten dinner with him. Laughed. Made him happy. Fuck. Peter didn’t know whether to be angry or to throw up his lunch into the kitchen sink. The latter looked more appealing in that moment, then he could focus on the former somehow. He closed his eyes, bringing up a hand to rub at his brows. And Liv was dating him. The papers had mentioned the bereaved parent. That was why Tobias had been there, threatening Simon. It was revenge any of them would have sought. It was revenge he knew he and Keiran probably would have gone through with. Where Simon would have stood, there would have been dust. Theodore would never have let it gone to trial, either. Mysterious disappearances were his forte, after all, even if Henry was later discovered rotting in a Gringott’s vault. He couldn’t blame Tobias. And yet …

“The person who Liv talks about doesn’t match with who I met, Kieran,” he said slowly. “And… to be honest … the crime doesn’t really fit him, either. Anyone can kill someone, given the right triggers. But to kill a child …” He swallowed, unable to quite commit to saying the words. “I don't … we never really knew what he did. Word doesn’t get into Azkaban, even in the lower security cell blocks. We speculated, some of us, when he first came down … knew it had to be something grisly but that wasn’t … that wasn’t one of them.”

The sound of the shower stopped and Peter took a breath, knowing that Liv would be at least fifteen minutes more, sorting out her hair and making sure that she could be ready for their date. She’d been over the moon when it had been decided – not having had Greek in a long time. She’d been wistful, remembering the nights as a little girl that she and her family had spent in Greece eating until they felt fit to burst. It was different now, he’d reminded her. Much had changed, she’d admitted. But, he’d said, that was no reason not to be happy. There was one now, though. There was an enormous one. But Peter just couldn’t get over the fact that he’d been in his house … spoken to his son … he closed his eyes again and sat down heavily in the chair.

“Why’d they let him out?” He asked, looking up at his brother. Then again, he often asked the same question of himself – he, a thief, more of a threat to the general public than, perhaps, someone who had done something a bit more premeditated. But what Simon had done was unforgiveable. Only, Peter couldn’t arrange the dots. It didn’t make sense to him. He couldn’t see the correlation between the man he’d met in prison with the man who was with Liv and with the man who murdered the girl. They weren’t the same man. Any of them. He had no idea which one was real, of course, but he saw the blanks, the problems. The imprisoned Simon didn’t fit with the murderous one and, heaven knew, both didn’t work with the man who was making their girl happy, who was giving her the confidence to take a chance on someone.

“Did you find the details of the trial while you were snooping about?” He asked unkindly, suddenly filled with the fear that Keiran might have dipped his hand into his history. Merlin. The last time he’d seen Sarah had been in the courtroom. Peter pinched at the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t about him. This was about the girl who was getting ready for her date, putting far too much time and effort into her hair than any woman, perhaps, should. She’d borrowed a pretty dress from Millie who had an entire wardrobe, nearly, devoted to things to wear to tempt and beguile her husband. Then there were just the things she liked to wear for herself, to feel beautiful. One of those had been leant to Liv, knowing that none of the men in her life would be particularly approving of the others. It was a beautiful dress. That could not be denied. Scarlet, like the Gryffindor the brunette wasn’t even if she could roar well enough like one if she wanted. Her hair would be up, the back falling in pretty curls and she’d smile and steal a thousand hearts. Only, they were going to break hers.

“We have to tell her, Keiran,” he said, his voice dropping to a fearful whisper as he imagined the horror on her face. The betrayal. He wanted to shout at his brother, demand why he couldn’t have just left it well enough alone and let Simon tell her. But then, perhaps by then, if he’d gotten a taste for such activities, it would have been too late and someone would have been hurt or worse. They couldn’t live with that on their consciences. And then, if he never told her, if he never acted on it and they stayed together, perhaps had their own family, and then of all times he picked to tell her – or if she discovered it herself….

The bathroom door handle twisted and bent down. Peter swallowed and sat back in the chair, hastily shoving the papers underneath the accounts book he’d been bent over when Keiran had burst in. And there she was… as beautiful as the contributing parts of the overall appearance had led him to believe she would be, smiling shyly, surprise and delight lighting up her eyes when she spotted Keiran. And they were going to wipe that look off of her face and probably set the make up running beneath her eyes. Guilt twisted deep within Peter and he was bereft of the sense that they were about to do the right thing, even though they may well have been. He glanced at Keiran and it was that, that lack of volunteered opinion, the lack of discussion, the fact that he’d gotten to his feet and they were stood there, looking so very grave and very alike that gave her pause and launched them into the conversation that Peter did not want to have.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

"Look, mate," Keiran returned seriously as Peter stood, "I know you've moved on from that stuff. But this guy?" He scoffed. "We have no reason to believe that. Anything you know could be important. You quite clearly don't agree, but in this case it's a good thing you were there."

Keiran frowned at Peter's assessment of Simon's character, unwilling to believe that the man was innocent. He hadn't been there, of course, to see the way it really happened.


Simon was moved on the seventeenth of April. From proper Azkaban, down to the place for folks who had done less but had still been convicted.

"What are you in for?"

That was the question he so often received. It started with the first guard.

"Shall I answer chronologically?" He asked. "Or alphabetically?"

Simon didn't want anyone to know what he had done. Or supposedly done. Or, arguably, what he had been too oblivious to realized was going to be done. It would be better for him, he had discerned early on, if people thought his crimes were minimal. Somehow, the ones who did the worst crimes were the ones treated like the biggest piles of shit by the other criminals.

He wasn't exactly lying, either. He'd registered that a couple of weeks in. He had done a large number of inappropriate and basically illegal things during his years at Durmstrang, but all of them had been harmless to others, as far as he knew. So nothing had ever really happened to him, repercussions-wise. It was about time, really.

He hadn't actually learned Peter's name at first. He hadn't cared to. Simon was one of the silent, brooding types, at least according to most of the people who bothered trying to talk to him. They didn't say it to his face, of course, but rather to each other.

He looks sad, they'd say. Haunted. He didn't look evil, really. He couldn't have done anything too bad, right? Maybe it has something to do with the Marriage Law fiasco.

Of course, he hadn't been in the country by that point, arriving just after it began and being jailed before his meeting should have taken place.

He only ended up spending a couple of months in the low-level security section, quiet and unfriendly though not unkind when addressed. He made no move to seek out information on his fellow inmates. In fact, he never even learned Peter's last name. So he had no way of knowing, even if Liv had mentioned it. Besides, it wasn't as though he expected to run into anyone or have anybody recognize him.

Merlin, was he in for it.


"They only had him in there for three-ish years. They felt that they had enough information to book him for it, but in the end there wasn't enough to keep him there," Keiran said, clearly wishing they had done it differently. Anyone who did something like Simon had deserved much worse.

"I wasn't the one snooping," Keiran pointed out sharply, practically speaking over his brother. "I wouldn't. And I have no reason to poke around in anything else, so don't you dare turn this into something it isn't. This isn't about you, Peter. It's about Liv."

His other comment wasn't even given a response. It was a given that Livia would know. He wouldn't have come over before her first real date with the guy if he had no intention of saying anything. How could he stop himself now that he had arrived? Honestly. Peter didn't know his brother very well, it seemed. Or perhaps he had just missed the part about Keiran's temper having a stupidly short fuse when it came to the people he loved.

Keiran held his hand firmly against his side as Peter rushed to stuff the papers away. It would be too obvious if he tried to help. But she looked entirely lovely and it killed him because Simon didn't deserve her. Liv had earned far more than the likes of him after everything she had been through.

And he was about to bring it all crashing down around her. He wanted to cross the room and pull her into his arms, but he didn't think that it would actually soften the blow. He did reach a hand out for her, though, thinking if she took it herself, perhaps she would hate him less. Because surely she would hate him for searching. For bursting her bubble. For informing her that a man she was so smitten with was horrid.

"Livia," Keiran began slowly, his mouth forming the words carefully. How often did he call her that? Probably not very, if he thought about it. "Love, I mentioned Simon to my friend at the Prophet. Has he told you anything about his job..? He used to be a seeker for Puddlemere United. But, um," he faltered, glancing at Peter. "Darling, there's- ... I can't let you go see him tonight, Liv. I can't. He doesn't play anymore because he went to-" He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to see it break her. Keiran had to close his eyes to get the words out. "He went to Azkaban for murder."

Looking at her again, he clarified before she had to bring herself to ask. "He killed a little girl. She was three years old, Liv."

(OOC: A bit short and rubbish. I'm so sorry I've been naff with posting this week, love. I've been so busy and every time I look at PA, knowing how much I owe, I cringe and cry a bit. Haha. I'll catch up some today, I hope.)

Helplessness was an all-too present emotion in Peter Howard’s life. The loss of agency was fast becoming the norm. Had been, anyway. He had been clawing some of it back, doing things that made him feel as though he wasn’t caught in the whirlwind of fate and chance. But this … this made him feel as though he was right back there, stuffed in his cell, listening to the idiot in the bunk below him snore while the man across from him jittered, vocalising his nightmares as he shivered beneath the thin blankets they’d all been given. Azkaban was part of his past, his present, and his future – and no single facet of it could be left behind because the prison purveyed every dark corner of their lives whether they realised it or not. Justice was rarely served and this wasn’t justice for anyone. Neither the child, neither her father, neither Simon and, Merlin, neither Liv. Their Liv.

And he could only do but watch, his lips buttoned, as she slipped her fingers through Keiran’s, her joy abound at seeing him. Love exuded from every pore until she was aglow with it, their light-magicked witch. And they were going to dash all that. Peter sighed a little and reached back under the accounts book, pulling the pages out from underneath. He flicked through them, his eyes blithely taking in the details that littered the pages. And this was the man who sat on his sofa, who laughed with his child (children, really.) Their Liv. Their girl. And as he was thinking about all of this, his heart quickening to a maddening pace, all he could hear was Liv. A sound emanating from her chest that was so far from joyful that he felt his heart crack a bit. It was a high, incredulous sound, aching with hurt and confusion. And then, as he looked up, her words shattered what was left of the organ inside his chest.

“This is a joke.” Her eyes between them, searching Peter’s face for some sort of answer. Then they dropped to what he held in his hands. Her own shot out, her other releasing Keiran’s, and she snatched the pages, pulling them up to her face. She shuffled through them, her face cracking with every page.

“Liv …” Peter attempted, holding his hand out to her, taking a step forward.

“Don’t—” She exclaimed, shrinking back from them both. “No… just … just don’t. I … I need to go… I need to talk to him.”  

“Livia you can’t see him!” He burst, watching as she wrenched herself away from them both, wishing he could reach out to her but knowing all to well that if he did, she’d slip through his fingers like smoke. “He’s a danger to—”

“Small children,” she overrode him, holding up the papers. “I read. I’m an adult. I think I’ll be perfectly safe.”  

“Convicts are unpredictable, Liv.” Peter protested. “If you throw this at him … you don’t know him well enough. You don’t know how he’d react.”

“What, you think he’d hurt me?” Her voice was reaching crisis-levels of pitch as the hysteria rose within her. If Peter kept on, she’d probably attract dogs, her voice would grow so high. “Are you mad?”

“Livia please. It’s not safe.” He murmured, his hands falling to his sides, the left wavering over his trouser pocket where he kept his wand. “You can’t go. We can’t let you go.”

“You try and stop me,” she hissed, a menace in her eye that made Peter wince. Her gaze flicked to Keiran. “And it’ll be the last you’ll ever see of me.”

There were several directions that Keiran could have gone with Livia's declaration. With her threat. He could've fought it, obviously, not believing her words. Unfortunately, though, he did believe her. She had never made a claim like that before, and it had made him reel back as though she had marched right up to him and slapped him.

He could have, equally, disarmed her so she couldn't disapparate. She may have been picking up things from Millie and himself and whoever else, but he doubted she would risk it. But that didn't mean she wouldn't floo somewhere or run away or anything else. So that wouldn't work either. If she ran away, he knew exactly where she would end up. And that made him feel even more wretched.

Keiran didn't know what Peter was feeling, really, because he couldn't do anything but stare at Liv, the panic making her whole body appear charged and tense. Really, he saw only one option - only one way to perhaps save things without given up entirely. Because he was obviously not a man who could do things by half, and giving up that part of himself - the protective, stubborn part - wasn't optional.

So he waved his hand a little too dismissively, reaching a hand to Peter's shoulder as he finally spoke, breaking the volatile silence between the three of them.

"I won't try to convince you anymore, Livia." Peter wouldn't like that. He gave his brother's shoulder a pat before stepping forward and approaching her whether she liked it or not. He was looking down at his feet until he got close enough for his liking, lifting his chin high enough to frown down at her with an expression that implied that, actually, he didn't care. It was the most neutral expression he could manage when all he wanted to do was scowl at her.

"I know we aren't actually your family, and that you're old enough to do whatever you please, but we only try to help those we love. So you may go off and hate us for trying to save you, and you may believe every single word he says. But there are two things you need to know before you run off. First, if he comes anywhere near my family, I'll have his head. And second, that threat you laid down was entirely your choice. But if you ever say something like that to Millie, I swear to God I'll ban you from my home. Say whatever you want to me, but if you break her heart, ..." Keiran shook his head, choosing his words carefully. "I'd say I'd disown you, but it doesn't really work that way, does it? Not if you don't want to be part of our family anyway."

He lifted his hands in a shrug-like gesture, backing away. He glanced towards the papers but just rolled his eyes and left them with Liv. "Go on, then. Why should you listen to me, right? I'm not your father." He shrugged again.

He turned away from her, facing Peter for a moment before sighing loudly and disapparating, flinging himself onto the couch when he landed at home. He didn't know if he could say anything to Millie about it. He had no desire to make her fret, and he felt the beginnings of a migraine behind his eyes, but he couldn't push away the horribly ill pallor of his skin or the despondent expression on his face. He would just tell her they had argued and he worried she was upset with him. It wasn't untrue. Except for the fact that he knew she was upset.

Considering how dead his eyes had looked as he made his own threats back to Livia, it wouldn't be long before Millie realized something was wrong.

Over at the restaurant, though, Simon was starting to fidget. He re-arranged the angle of the flower twice, folded and unfolded the weird cloth napkin that seemed a little too nice for the sort of in-between atmosphere of the place, and began tapping his shoe on the floor as worry set in. Oddly, his first instinct wasn't to suspect that they knew. It was a fear that she'd changed her mind. That she would realize how big of a decision she had made in the heat of the moment and think that she never should have done it, and was legitimately just standing him up.

Perhaps worse, it would honestly be the first time that had ever happened to him, though some of his past dates wouldn't have bothered him much, had they not arrived. But he cared, this time. He cared and it was hugely important for reasons he didn't understand, and he hated himself a little for trying so hard when she wasn't even going to show. Usually he was the one that disappeared, refusing to let anyone get too close, refusing to let them learn who he was and what he had done - or supposedly done. Now it wasn't his choice, and he knew right away that he was going to miss her. So he asked a passing waitress for a pen if she had one on her, which she of course did, and started trying to think of something to write to her after he left. It would be quite pathetic, and written on a scrap from the waitress's order pad, but it would probably do.

A pathetic note and a dying flower. How charming.

He dropped his chin into his palm, staring at the blank page as he tried to think, figuring he might as well order something after taking up their table for so long, and that he could figure out an apology for whatever it was she could have taken issue with, and send it out on the way home.

The witch tore away while her chance was there, stealing out of the apartment lodged above the Hog’s Head, sparing only a second to grab her keys out of the homely dish on the tall table by the door before she apparated away. And then, with an affected sound of what he supposed must have been exasperation, he disappeared as well. Silence fell awkwardly over the living room, as though it was not sure how to conduct itself in the aftermath of such sound. Peter dropped down heavily into the chair he’d been working in and his hands crept over his face, a groan of his own emanating from his chest, breaking the stunned soundlessness that his home had been reduced to – if only for a brief moment before it swept in once more.

And in the city, a witch mirrored his body language, sagging against the dewy brick wall of the alley she had appeared in. A stray, inspecting an overturned rubbish bin, had scattered, disappearing into the rapidly encroaching darkness. She bit her lip, a vain attempt to stave off the tears. Her lips split, horror creasing her features. I’m not your father. She scrubbed furiously at her eyes, willing them to fill back up, to hold their water and do something other than leak. But she cried. She cried, and cried, and cried. She had half a mind to turn back, to twist on the spot and to find Keiran, to demand of him some sort of retraction of the statement – and, indeed, of the whole evening. To take it back. To do anything – everything – else to prevent this conclusion.

She already felt as though she’d made her bed, been served her ban, and had lost her family. We aren’t actually your family. She opened her bag. Then her purse. Ten galleons, a handful of sickles and too many knuts to actually be useful. Fifty pounds of Muggle money – “just in case money”, Millie had told her with a smile as she’d tucked it into one of the hidden compartments of her purse. It was enough for a room, if the feeling that she couldn’t go back to Peter’s that night continued to course through her. She knew where she wanted to go, really. She knew who she wanted to see. Keiran topped the list but was scrubbed out for obvious reasons. Then Gaius. Gaius. Gaius. Gaius. Where are you when I need you? She thought bitterly.

Pushing off of the wall, Livia strode out onto the street. Before stepping into the light she had the sound of mind to cast a spell on her face to rid it of the make-up that she’d sent streaming down her cheeks. She inhaled shakily and passed her wand back into her bag before hurrying out into the fray of the people surging around in search of a nightly distraction away from their homes. The restaurant, blessedly, wasn’t far. She knew that she wouldn’t have had the strength to actually go in there and face Simon if she had had much further to go. It was a quick change – swifter than she’d wanted. All of a sudden she was off the street and in the sticky heat of a restaurant.

It didn't take long to spot him, either. Or the flower. Her heart ached at the sight of that, something in her urging her to believe he was good. He must have been good. Someone good couldn’t … no, that one didn’t make much sense. But still, to her someone bad couldn’t care that much. And that was what made her cry again, what made her arrive at his table a sobbing, juddering mess. She still held onto her keys, as though her intention was to go home. She didn’t know if she could face that yet. Or ever. She didn’t know how, after such rash words, she could ever look at Keiran again, ever admit that she’d regretted saying them as soon as she’d done so. She didn’t know where to begin – with the apology, with any of it. Let alone this.

“You had better have a really, really good explanation for why you got sent to Azkaban because I have hurt my family because of you so … please tell me you didn’t hurt that little girl, Simon. Please tell me they got it all wrong – that someone lied or something happened that … that made it look like it was you when it wasn’t. Please … you’re … you’re meant to be good. Please don’t tell me I’m wrong about you.”

Heads turned and gasps met the air as Livia moved between the tables, but Simon didn't actually notice. He was fidgeting with the pen, trying to decide even the most simple part of a letter: the greeting. What phrase was he allowed to use without her thinking him insincere? What version would sound genuine rather than bitter because of her lack of appearance?

He heard her, though, once she reached him. He didn't realize it was Liv at first, but he looked up sharply before his expression fell into shock and worry. Pushing back his chair, he started to lift himself out of his seat so he could take her into his arms. But she spoke and the entire building came crashing down around him, not to mention the rest of the world.

So today was the day, was it? He hadn't even been granted a single date with her and there it was.

He wanted to be angry and push for her to tell him who had contacted her about it. But he thought perhaps he knew the answer to that. And now she was crying and talking about that place in public where any non-Muggles might recognize it and then recognize him, and Simon found himself glancing around warily. Even someone who didn't know what Azkaban was, surely they could catch on when she spoke of him harming a small child.

"Liv," he attempted, shaking his head. "Liv, no. I could never, I- ... I do have a way of explaining it, but please stop crying, darling."

Simon stood, pulling out the chair meant for her and moving it up alongside his. "Please," he asked simply, though desperately, gesturing to the chair and refusing to sit until she did so.

"It's sort of a long story, but... I was friends with a man named Kosta up until a few years ago," he began, his voice low as he leaned towards her and tried to hold her gaze despite how upset she was. "I came to England once I got an offer to play on a professional Quidditch team, and Kosta... got involved with the Russian Death Eaters. Probably because he didn't make the marks to get a real job. They wanted him to get to Tobias, because he's leading the law enforcement patrol thing at the Ministry, you know? So he came to stay with me, but he told me a day or two later that he wanted my help.

"I won't lie to you, Liv, I was... awful during school. I was a- a cad," he explained, tripping over the word as he tried to find one to fit the slang she used. "He figured I'd be up for it if he phrased it like a prank. But he ended up -- killing," his voice dropped, hardly able to say it, "her. I thought- I don't know, I thought his idea was to kidnap her. I thought when I refused he wouldn't go through with it. I..."

Simon trailed off, shaking his head as he tried to bring himself to express his guilt aloud. It felt like he was rocking back and forth a bit, but he wasn't sure if he was or not. "I thought he would be too afraid to do it. But he didn't listen to me when I said it was stupid. And dangerous. I came home from practice and... he was gone. And the aurors arrived within minutes. He'd done a really, really good job. Enough to leave me in there, in that- that hellhole - for three years."

He didn't think she'd take him seriously. He couldn't have pointed out that Peter had been before, since he had no idea that she even knew the other man. But he dropped his hand on top of the table, palm up, as he tried to silently encourage Liv to reach out as well. He looked away, then. He wasn't the kind of person to cry, but he felt like he was about to.

"I could never, Liv. I've been trying to find help, to prove that it wasn't me. But my friend hasn't found anything yet. I- I can't prove it to you. But I swear to you, Livvy, I know I should have known and stopped him but I didn't. I'm not innocent, but I did not hurt that girl."

With a sniffly sigh, Livia McCallum sank down into the chair she had been offered. It was too nice, plush against the seedy backdrop of the conversation they were about to have. As she looked at the table, examined her flower, for she supposed it was hers, through watery eyes, and then turned her gaze to him, she felt a pang, knowing that it should have been a different scenario altogether. Keiran should have just kissed her and wished her a good evening. Peter should have played the cad and registered his worries that she was too pretty for any man and, knowing men as he did, she should be on her guard – did she need pepper-spray? He’d learned about that from all of the television shows they’d watched. But the mood had changed. It was so very different from what it should have been and she felt sick for wishing it could have been like that.

She wished they could have laughed and eaten and drank just a little bit too much wine. She wished they could have tried an odd starter that neither of them ultimately liked but enjoyed anyway because they’d giggled together through mouthfuls, laughing at each other’s screwed up faces of revulsion. She wished they could have then picked something they liked and fill up on tzatziki and pitta instead of their actual meals because everyone always likes the sides better in the end anyway and, really, she wished they could have shared a little kiss, a hesitant peck on the lips, at the end of the evening. The furious blushing, she no doubt would have done and the awkwardness of having done it, having kisses, would have made them both laugh a few days later. But none of that could happen now.

But then … had she found out later … what might have happened, then?

Willing herself to concentrate, her eyes found his again and she swallowed back her tears. Her brows furrowed as she listened to his story, her heart surging with anger and pain at his injustice. She didn’t know what to do, who to rail at, but she wanted some sort of explanation from someone. Someone high up, someone in the Ministry, someone who might understand why this was allowed to happen. Why didn’t the Aurors check? Why didn’t anyone do anything? Why didn’t they believe him or try to check facts or attempt to see if there was something amiss? The cynic in her, a rare voice indeed, suggested that there was no need to when apparent evidence and the suspect lined up so neatly. Catching him, as it were, made the whole thing much simpler.

She took his hand and pulled on it, drawing his arm around her middle as she curled her other around his neck. Her other arm followed and she tugged him into a tight hug, her cheek pressed against his.

“Okay,” she breathed, nodding a little. She wasn’t satisfied. Not by a long shot. Her dissatisfaction had moved, now, though. She no longer looked to Simon to provide an explanation. He had done so. The rash side of her wanted to storm off to whatever corner of Europe this man, Kosta, had retreated to to hide. She didn’t know what her plan was if she was misfortunate enough to find him. She’d probably take him by the scruff of the collar and march him to the Ministry – though not before contacting his mother, ensuring a Howler of some sort. She’d get her revenge for Simon judicially, somehow. If all else failed, perhaps she’d let Tobias dangle the man over a cliff or something. Maybe even she’d – wait, no, she couldn’t do it. She was too little.

“I’m so sorry, Simon,” she whispered. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” She inclined her head a little more against his, rubbing her cheek to the slightly rougher one. Then, she leaned back, putting a little bit of space between their noses, and brought one hand down over the left side of his face. Touching him … it was reminding her that this Simon did correlate with the good one she’d held so close in her mind. He was still that Simon, unblemished in her eyes by the marks against his name. And unblemished to her eye, as well.

“You don’t have to prove it. I believe you,” she said earnestly, her eyes shining with compassion. “I want to help you, though, if you’ll let me? Because this is … well … I … this is rubbish, Simon!” She huffed, smiling a little despite herself at the juvenile choice of words. Leaning forward, she snuggled into him again, sighing wearily. “Thank you for the flower.” Then, in a wry tone, she added, “I think we probably ought to go to the pub now, rather than stay here for dinner. A few beers and some sort of plan might be a good place to start.”