An odd feeling settled over Millie’s shoulders when their feet slopped against the black rock of the island Azkaban was perched so precariously on. All around them, the raging, grey waters of the North Sea thrashed about and the wind howled mournfully by, pinching at their cheeks and drawing the cold in amongst their robes as they trudged up the crumbling path to the mouth of the fortress where a pale, exhausted looking young man was sat in the guard post, a cup of tea nursed in his hands as he took a breather, the screaming of the elements much easier to suffer, Millie expected, than the shouts of the inmates whose faint, high-pitched croons she was sure she was just beginning to hear. She felt a touch of sorrow for rousing him from where he was shivering in his thick, woollen cloak. It was Ministry grade, by the look of it, just enough to give them the illusion that the government valued the jobs they were doing but not enough to actually keep the chill off. The wands the normal, run-of-the-mill guards kept only allowed for certain spells to be cast. Warming charms were not included.
The momentary lapse in formality was smoothed over by professional incredulity, the lift of a stoic eyebrow, and the determined set of a jaw not yet entirely that of a man. The sprinkling of scruff across it gave him an older hue to his form but there was little that convinced the Divination professor that he belonged in the profession he had chosen for himself. One eye drifted back towards his cup. There was tea, or coffee, or some sort of soup inside. In the half-light of the almost-room they had bustled into, it was tricky to tell and for the life of her, she wasn’t sure why she was so concerned. Her concerns lay beyond the immediate, somewhere within the narrow corridors of the High Security wing where the mad beat against their shackles and the guilty marked off their days in white chalk, awaiting the spectre of death to lay his hand on their shoulders. Then there were the falsely accused. Of which there were always few notables, the sort of people that the Deputy Minister would call political collateral, those who it was easier to keep inside than to admit the judicial failure of. Millie felt sorrow for each and every one of them. This was no place to wait to die.
Mutely, Millie was impressed with their little guard. He was certainly intent on getting some sort of reward at some juncture for being earnest and steadfast in what the profession required of him. They were strangers. They had no produced any sort of identification papers and they had asked to see the newest inmate of those devilish halls, the man caught in the Ministry snare once more, to be kept there until they figured out just what they wanted to do with him. Part of Millie had wanted to swan into the Ministry, sit on the end of Robert’s desk and ask him just what had gone on. She wondered to herself whether or not this was the right way to go about it. Displaying him to their daughter in the yellowed light of his failures, stark and clear against the brick of the prison he’d been condemned to, was hardly the most sensitive way to break her heart against him. There was nothing sweet in this decision, and Millie was sure that her misgivings now were much more to do with the proximity of the Dementors than with any genuine disquiet about what they were doing. She sat well enough in her hypocrisy, even if her conscience was now beginning to snag.
“Expecto Patronum,” she whispered.
“No, Mrs Hayes, you can’t—”
Livia’s keen eyes darted to Millie’s face, curiosity shining in her irises. She had cringed closer and closer to Millie from the moment they had arrived. Her hands had laced around the blonde’s arm and she had bundled herself close to the tall woman’s figure. Millie’s cloak had wrapped easily enough around her and she was glad for the fingers rubbing faint circles into her side, soothing her against the torrent of emotions that were being whipped up inside of her. Unlike the elder woman, Livia had yet to cotton on to what was going on behind the walls. Clever witch though she was, her magic had not been stretched and honed as much as Millie’s had. Channelled through foresight, she was forever sensing little changes in the magic around her. It took every bit of concentration to focus on that and the spell she wanted to cast instead of the images that were flinging themselves against her mind, glimpses of the future ahead for the brunette that were sizzling into her consciousness through their connected skin. Then of course there were the Dementors, flirting ever closer to the front of the prison, as though they could sense the happiness within them, that they were so desperate to taste.
Delight replaced the confusion in the younger witch’s face almost immediately once the spell was cast. The lioness spilled out of the end of the wand. It was an ash wand, appropriated from her brother’s person. She had had the misfortune of misplacing the sycamore wand that she had been given as an eleven-year-old during a skirmish some months ago, while Keiran had been away. Elliot had cautioned her before giving up his wand. He had wanted to know what she was doing but her tongue did not turn to the truth. In the end, he relinquished it easily enough, glad, in a way, to be getting a new one. He had long suspected its disloyalty. Her magic felt much stronger channelled through the ash. Perhaps they had gotten the wrong wands, after all. Her Patronus landed on large, furry paws and gave a long yawn before casting its eyes around, taking in its surroundings. Livia laughed as the big cat immediately turned to wind through her legs before bounding over to rub affectionately up against Keiran’s.
“You’ve been here before,” Livia murmured mildly as the cat bobbed back over to take a seat by her mistress’ legs. Millie’s eyes slid to the left to look at her and a smirk tugged at the side of her mouth as she slid her wand into the holster around her left forearm once more. “Haven’t you?” Livia urged as Keiran sent out the messages. Neither of them thought to intervene. Millie stood genially, observing her husband while Livia, tucked under her cloak, tried to pierce her mind with her eyes and spill the secrets that she was keeping about Azkaban. The guard knew her by name and though it was an easy enough deduction to make based on the rings the elder pair wore and the fact that Keiran had identified himself … they were not unknown to the wizarding public, after all. They were conspicuous and worth looking at for the morbidly curious types. The Prophet had their names strewn across its pages often enough. It would have been easy to say that he’d just assumed but assumption was not something Livia always liked to give into.
“You can’t cast that here,” the guard sighed, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, the urge to move and take her wand burning in in his belly. “You shouldn’t cast any spells here,” he added, glancing at Keiran hesitantly, as though he was unsure if he wanted to try the elder man’s temper.
“A little Patronus charm does everyone some good,” Millie replied easily, her words tumbling through the air in an almost idle fashion as the cat got up again, stretching her legs. “Drink your drink. We’re all content to wait.”
The guard looked tempted but made no move to do so. He was not content to wait, it seemed. He wanted them gone. Permanently. She couldn’t say she blamed him. They presented a problem that had the potential to snowball and end with the Ministry losing its prize. However, Millie knew that this was highly dependent on her and Keiran’s inclination in the moment. That was the selfish madness of it all. She looked down at Liv who was still snuggled against her, hiding from the hateful wind. Millie pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead, conceding in her heart that it wouldn’t be their inclination that would rule the succession of events. If Liv wanted it, they would have him out.
by 
