º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(on my list of things to do, get life back again) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Candice Lang is learning to hate Dragons.

Or, really, just hate Charlie Weasley and Romania.

Two years, now. It's been two years spent together on this little residential reserve in some foreign country, and no one has thought to turn around and note that, hey, your partner is an arrogant rat who is all charm until you sleep with the bloke, maybe you would like a different one? Or, at the very least, some sort of honour, metal or whatever.

No. Indeed, it's all her fault, she's the one creating friction and yes, we understand how this job can be demanding on the nerves. Tea?

Seriously, what is wrong with the world, she would really like to know.

She's always been a good girl, recycling her prophets, donating to the Mungo's Children's Ward, Flooing Great Aunt Cathleen every second Tuesday of the second month to discuss whatever aches or pains she is experiencing. She couldn't possibly have done something so awful as to land her here, with this pig as a partner.

"Oh, come off it," Charlie chuckles when Candice tells him all this. "Imagine if you didn't have me around. You would be dead."

"Oh, when I'm around you, I consider offing myself," and maybe it's a tad on the dramatic side of things, but gits like Charlie Weasley demand dramatic measures.

"I'm flattered."

"Oh, you should be. Death is less miserable company than you, and that is something to be proud of."

"Well, now you're just overdoing it."

Candice stands from behind the lounge table, slamming her hands over the wood with a load 'smack.' Sure, it smarts her palms like nothing else, but again, Charlie Weasley and dramatic affect, yeah?

"My sister, you bloody git! My sister."

"What of her?"

"Wh-"she stops, chocking on the half-formed words as she checks to ensure she hasn't heard wrong, oh Merlin, he cannot be serious. He really has just said it. "You can't shag my sister after you've shagged me and then show up late to work the next day, only to proceed to have me suspended for a day because I can't handle a bleeding Chinese Fireball, is what!"

He blinks, leans back into the leather cushions, and then fishes around in his pockets for a cigarette. He seems to be completely at ease in the face of her outrage, which, he would be, wouldn't he, tough dragon taming Charlie Weasley that he is.

Charlie nods before lighting the ciggy with his wand, "I see why you'd be upset."

"Oh, do you, Weasley?"

Why she keeps adding 'oh' before everything is beyond her. It's not as if it's helping much, only serves to vent and venting, mind you, is never the thing to do with a wizard one sleeps with.

"Then again," he continues, almost as if she hasn't said a word, which, honestly, it's ridiculous. She's actually said four of them, and more or less yelled them for the entire reserve to hear. But there Charlie Weasley goes, as if no sound has been made beyond a bit of wind rustling. "It's not really much your concern what I do and with whom, is it? And you really did do a shoddy job patching Brume up, didn't you?"

Candice has never seen herself as the violent sort. Passionate, yes, a risk-taker, definitely – dragon tamer, remember – but never aggressive. In the ideal situation, it's time to step back when red starts narrowing the vision, maybe it's even appropriate to toss the wand to the left or something. This here, unfortunately, is not anideal situation, the exact opposite, truthfully, and in her defence, she doesn't often go lunging across tables to strangle ginger wizards.

Just one of those things in the unwritten moral code that she avoids doing.

Unfortunately for the pair of them, however, Charlie Weasley is a special sort of ginger wizard. The sort who requires dramatic measures, and so, without being fully conscious of having much choice in the matter, Candice flings herself right at Charlie and starts tearing into him

It's a shame, really, that the reserve's director left his post on the table she's only just overturned. She has a feeling that she would have gotten much farther along had he not needed to come back for it.

And so it is that the pair of them receives two months suspension.

On the bright side, Candice Lang will never be working with Charlie Weasley again.

,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(continuous effort is the key to unlocking potential),¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Tristan Mathews makes it into SRI's Young Initiative: Breaker Division, big surprise there. Even bigger surprise, Amy Haung doesn't.

Truly, Rose shed a few pretty tears for that one.

And, you know, the British are known for their irony and sarcasm.

"Rose Grant," Tristan more or less exclaims it, as if she's an old, dear friend and they've not seen one another in give or take years. "Pleasure seeing you here."

"If I had a sickle for every time someone said that," Rose smiles, and enters into the San Diego SRI consulate.

It's different than the one in LA, Rose notes. Where the last embassy is built with concrete lines, sharp and elegant, this one is rotund, stone, and radiates the distinct feeling of hippie magic, if such a thing exists. Each wall, curving backwards, is a different water-coloured shape of orange, lit by no particular lighting source.

There is nothing beyond the big round room, its earthy paints, and a large mirror.

"Well, this is cosy," Tristan offers the first echoing statement.

"You mean to say, this isn't regular American hospitality? Send an address leading to an empty room and see if the rookie's figure it out."

"Oh, definitely. Initiation rights."

She hums some noncommittal response, preoccupied as she is with pulling out her SRI invitation from her bag. Tristan already has his, probably having stuffed it into one of his many pockets. Men don't carry bags; they have millions of pockets to pat down instead.

In the British ministry of magic, the visitor's entrance requires simply punching in the right combination of numbers into an alleyway payphone. Americans clearly enjoy a different sort of humour, a less subtle and more Lewis Carroll sort.

Rose flashes her invitation at the mirror, praying that no Cheshire cat is lurking in her future and steps through. More like sinks through, and then is sucked through, and then pressed through, until finally, finally, she comes out on the other end.

The other end being a large, bustling atrium, with many other mirrors lining one wall, hundreds of fireplaces on the opposite side and not a single watercolour in sight. It's a disconcerting experience she isn't entirely sure she prepared for, even if she is expecting it, and Rose just about manages to move out of the way in time for Tristan's appearance.

There are more people in this one room, slipping through mirrors as if through doorways, some in swirling robes of amber, others in civilian clothes, and a few in muggle attire. Everyone seems to know just where they are going, some immersed in conversation, others in parchments or books, wands in holsters or pointed at floating files, packages, animals and – is that a man in suspended mid-animation, because it certainly seems so. Owls soar over head, swooping in through high-arched windows and letting a soft breeze infiltrate the busy environment.

Catching the look on her face, Tristan smiles, and holds out his arms in some grand fashion or another, "Welcome to the American Democracy of Magic, Rose Grant."

Alice is now very much out of her element, Rose concedes, and blinks carefully at all
the marble and white.

"It's very… clean."

It's very many things, but she thinks perhaps it's best to stick to that one.

"Sure it is," he grins, and then pulls her by the elbow across the stone floor and towards a set of lifts she hadn't noticed until now. "SRI is the fourth floor, it's a rough stop, but, you know, the elevator is always fun. My mom works here, you know."

"Your mum is in New York," unless she isn't, which would be terribly awkward on her end and is a general no-no by ways of assumption.

His mum could be dead, his parents divorced, she could be one of those flighty women who can't quite manage motherhood and take off with some rugged guitarist to explore India. The last one is unlikely, as Tristan knows this place well enough to have the knowledge of where she is and clearly even carry on a semi-stable relationship. The first seems out of the question too, as he had said works, present tense, but there are loons in denial just about anywhere. Still, possibilities are endless, right?

"Right and we are in Washington," he answers with a smile.

Which no they aren't, they are in California last she checked, which was right before they stepped through the mirror. Unless the mirror works like some sort of transportation, which would actually explain a lot. Starting with the horrid sucking feeling and ending with how Tristan's very much not estranged mother gets here for work.

"Yeah, no, I knew that," she mutters it in the way of people who don't know. With the high pitch and questioning inflections. "Why would I possibly not know that?"

Tristan sniggers, and lets Rose into the lift, sorry, elevators, before stepping in. They aren't the only ones to get on, there are approximately four others crowed into the tight space. In theory, it's not too bad, except when the tight space bit of the situation is taken into account.

"Which floor?" someone asks briskly.

Rose studies the person's back as Tristan answers, tries deciding whether it's a witch or a wizard who's asked, and decides that she has come across an enigma she may never solve.

The man standing next to her smiles widely, nodding to a handle. "Keep a good grip. You
don't want to ride this one out on the ground."

No, she definitely doesn't want that, Rose thinks as she steps closer to Tristan. Good thing
too, seeing as he steadies her nearly a dozen times by the time they reach their stop, an entirely too embarrassing number to own up to.

America, Rose decides then and there, is too aggressive for her tastes. She likes things subtle and quirky. She likes not having to worry if the bloke next to you on a lift may be a serial rapist when he smiles to widely.

Then again, she also likes curse breaking and Director Kertis, as it stands.

When they arrive at the SRI office, a bleach blond witch shows off some impossibly straight, white teeth, directs them towards a lounge, and then disappears behind an oak door.

"Relax, London. That isn't where they keep the rabid dragons," Tristan reminds her, and it's awfully clear that he's having a laugh at her expense. "That's on the other side of the building."

"One can never be too cautious when presented with oak doors. Something ominous always lurks behind oak doors."

"And you are in a programme for aspiring curse breakers. Loosen up a little, will you? It's summer vacation, you are in a foreign country, and you are friends with the coolest wizard in the building."

"Well, I don't think Director Kertis is a friend, per say -" she starts, and then smiles when she catches his expression. "To the lounge, yeah?"

Fatal mistake number one of the day is walking into the lounge, Rose decides. Fatal mistake number two is letting her guard down around oak doors just because some chap she's met all of a day ago tells her its summertime and flashes her a gorgeous smile.

Then again, Tristan Mathews has the sort of smile on him that make witches think of motorbikes and lions, all in the most attractive of connotations.

Still, it's no excuse for the significant slip up of walking into a room with a load of aggressive potential curse breakers with perfect teeth and the label of fearless, intelligent, and fiercely charismatic without pulling out her wand first. Or, at very least, successfully avoiding being run into head long.

But no, she is just one of those girls who goes on holiday and forgets all sense of reason.

And that is why Rose ends up on the ground with a pile of muscle, robes, and a tuft of blue hair on top of her.

"Merlin, I'm sorry," he says- it's definitely a he, a relief on some note, a reason to panic on another. "Are you okay?"

"Maybe," she hasn't yet gotten around to taking inventory, what with him parked over her. "Mind getting off me?"

He scrambles to right himself, makes a bit of a general mess of it which has her wincing and wishing for her bed, then finally manages to get up right before offering her a hand. He seems genuinely concerned for the harm he may have done, but one never knows with this sort of thing. Anyone can run just about anyone into the ground and so long as they seem repentant, no one will say a thing.

She eyes him a moment before ignoring his hand and climbing to her feet, "forgive me if I chose not to let you help me. It's nothing personal."

Yes, it is completely personal, on every level of personal known to mankind, and then some.

He gets what she means, and nods, using the neglected hand to rub his neck. "Yeah, I hear. I wouldn't trust a guy after he's tackled me either."

"Is that what just happened?" Tristan, standing at the doorway and looking all sorts of confused, frowns. "You tackled her? What the hell, man."

"Well," now its blue-hair's turn to wince and Rose enjoys the irony. British, remember. "It wasn't intentional. The Asian kid started a bet, said that I couldn't bust down the door without magic and she walked in at the wrong time."

"It's Kevin," someone else says in frustration, and Rose turns to find a wizard she highly suspects is the Asian Kid. Slight, perfect black hair, no Texan accent this time, and on the shorter end of things.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

"I'm sorry, what does Kevin have to do with this?" she asks whilst rubbing an elbow.

Blue-hair turns startled blue eyes on her, "do you know Kevin?"

Unbelievable.

"Yes. We were fraternal twins until I walked through the door and you literally bulldozed me over."

"Dude," another bloke cuts in from a leather sofa, "she's British. Cool."

No, correction, now it's unbelievable.

"Knott, shut up, will you?"

"Why? I didn't run her over."

"Why can people remember your name and not mine," Kevin wonders.

"You're a minority," another wizard shrugs from the chesterfield, and Knott nods as if this clears away any queries.

The door opens and another two wizards walk in, stare at them all, and grin. Seriously, why are all these Americans so happy, she wants to know. There is something in the water that makes them aggressive, idiotic and happy, with the side-effect of perfect teeth and skin.

"Tristan, Oliver," one nods towards blue-hair in indication. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Oliver?" Rose repeats. "I've got a mate, his name is Oliver too. He doesn't have your looks though, or your manners."

"That was an insult, wasn't it?" Blue-haired Oliver is cleverer than he lets on, Rose will admit.

"Yes."

,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(the dice you keep on rolling takes away what is your life) ,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Bill leaves the ADM with considerable satisfaction, then Floos straight to Anne's flat. He has been contemplating getting his own place for the foreseeable future, simply because the foreseeable future always seems that marginal bit brighter when he has his own space, but now…

Anne is half-way through a feast of tea, beans and toast, peering curiously at yesterdays Evening Prophet and petting Whinny the Terror.

Whinny the Terror, named for Anne's best mate Winston Grant before either had realised the cat is female, is aptly named, what with it's playful and rather mischievous character. Bill, a firm believer in playfulness and mischief, gets along grandly with the white and grey feline.

"How'd it go?" she asks calmly, not bothering to get up.

"One month is all, and I'm gone by mid-July."

There is no hiding it – Bill Weasley feels triumphant. Well, he should, seeing as he's just managed to cut down his sentence to four weeks, and has the glorious prospect of Egypt, promotion and all, in his future.

Anne snorts. "It's not gonna be the same after this one."

Bill raises a brow at his cousin as he starts fixing himself a plate. "Sure it won't. It'll be loads better. Appreciate it once it's gone and all that rod, yeah?"

"Right, except it works both ways, doesn't it?"

"Is this your way of suggesting I'm going to fall in love with anti-culture and feminist birds? If so, I'm going to disagree and tell you that I will definitely not feel that passionately about Salem."

"Egypt smells."

"You smell."

"Like a million galleons, which is consequentially how much I will have made in the land of the free and home of the brave within the next little while of my life."

Bill resists seeming impressed. It's tough, but this is Anne. "Well, not all of us have money to warm our beds and tame our dreams at night, do we."

Anne smiles at that, and points to the empty kettle before Bill manages to get a chance to pull out a chair. "Care to refill?"

With exaggerated frustration, Bill pulls his wand from it's holster and flicks it. "So very complicated."

She laughs, then sets the newspaper to her left. "Speaking of, are you planning on living off of me and mine for the coming month?"

Bill watches as the tea kettle settles onto the table, and nods. "Well, you did do the same to me for thirteen years, didn't you? All that attention you took from me and stealing my best jumpers."

"Oh please, I took Percy's attention and Charlie's jumpers. The only thing I took from you is your sanity and your mates. And trust me, they were both glad to go."

"That's what mum and dad want you to believe, anyhow."

Anne nods condescendingly at this, and passes him the Prophet. "I've just spoken to them, actually. Nothing too exiting. Percy's gripping for Head Boy, Ron's successfully passed his second year exams and Ginny isn't having too many nightmares now. Oh, and Charlie seems to have taken a holiday, dad will have me believe."

Bill chokes on his first bite of toast. Charlie, on holiday? Not bloody likely. His brother has a passion for Dragon-taming so strong, it seems to have replaced every other area of value in his life. The last thing he would ever do isleave it behind for a week or two. To Charlie, dragons breathing fire at you and trying to convert you into tomorrows breakfast is a holiday. This isn't a personal choice by a long shot and both Anne and Bill know it.

"Yeah, and he's asking me for sanctuary so he doesn't have to spend it at home."

Bill whistles. "He's done himself a number, hasn't he?"

"Recon he slept with the new director and then her sister?"

"Nah, Charlie'd have more sense than that." Bill would hope, anyway. "So, you making this a Weasley summer then?"

Anne tilts her head right then left, drawing a sip from the chipped mug in a contemplative fashion. "I just might. Depends on how Charlie feels about cooking breakfast."

Charlie hates making breakfast, something Anne is fully aware of, seeing as they had more than a few tussles over that one over the years. But then again, Anne likes to have her daily dose of irony, and Bill does too.

"Sounds good to me."

"It would, it helps curb your pain over mooching."

"And how very great it is, isn't it?"

"Nah," Anne grins easily, setting aside her plate and standing. "It's just what family is for, right?"

A/N: Please, don't be shy. Let me know what your thinking as it's in everyone's best interests here. Until next time!