Chapter 26—Push
Dakota rose his hand in a salute, fingers outstretched. His entire hand was shaking underneath the white glove, but he was trying his best to hide it.
He held the magazine in his left hand, swirling the bullets around in his right palm like marbles. He'd always liked everything about holding them: their surprising weight for their size, the coolness of the metal, the solid clinking sounds they made against one another. The silence of the early morning in the forest around him was unbearable, and with a sigh, he began pushing the bullets into the magazine one by one.
The crest of his index finger brushed against his brow, moist with sweat. The heavy wool of his Dress Blues was practically suffocating him in the heat; the blinding sunshine flickering at him from behind the enormous rippling American flag above him.
As the magazine became close to full, the bullets were harder and harder to load, the spring of the magazine fighting against him with a familiar resistance. With a frown and a furrowing of his brow, he pushed the last one into place.
"I pledge allegiance, to the flag..."
Dakota switched the loaded magazine into his left hand, picking up his matte white Beretta M9 with his right. Custom Merryweather. Of course.
"To the United States of America..."
He slammed the magazine in with his left palm, and pulled back the slide until his ears were met with that satisfying click. The first round popped out and bounced to the forest floor, soft among soil and pine needles.
"And to the republic..."
He adjusted his feet to shoulder-width, cocking his head to one side and raising the gun out before him, his left hand cupped around the bottom, supporting his right hand's grip on the gun, his finger already resting on the trigger. He squinted in aim at the gnarled surface of a tree trunk about twenty yards away.
"For which it stands..."
He inhaled. Stayed completely still, and pulled the trigger. The kickback barely affected him as he stayed rooted in place, watching the bark from the tree trunk explode and shatter away as the bullet made contact with it. Exhaled, and dozens of birds cried out in protest and surprise, rising out from their camouflaged places in the trees and fleeing into the open sky.
"One Nation..."
Inhaled. Pulled the trigger. Reveled in the satisfying, echoing crack of the gunshot in the quiet forest. Exhaled.
"Under God..."
Again. And again. He was absolutely decimating the tree; the old, dark brown bark, threaded with emerald moss on the front side now completely blown off; the raw, naked heartwood exposed.
"Indivisible..."
His latest shot made a whirring sound through the air, fleeting as it missed the tree and continued on, invisible in the distance. He frowned and fired again and again, not bothering to keep his aim anymore, a choking sensation rising in his throat.
"With liberty and justice for all."
Click, bang. Click, bang. Click, bang.
He finished the pledge, and his initiation as a United States Marine was complete. His fellow officers grinned and gripped each others shoulders, jostling and congratulating one another in joy. Family members sitting in the bleachers before them rose from their seats, spilling on to the field and rushing toward their sons and brothers and boyfriends and husbands.
"Are you ready to go, son?" A sudden voice came from his left.
Dakota didn't turn. He continued staring straight ahead, fighting his lower lip against trembling, the shiny black strip around the base of his white hat suddenly feeling as though it were getting tighter and tighter, about to split the top of his head clean off. He replied with a single, curt nod.
"Good. Your sister will be real happy to see you." The voice was suddenly connected to an arm, and a hand rested on Dakota's shoulder, squeezing it in an almost fatherly manner.
It took everything Dakota had to not physically flinch away, and pinpricks of tears bit at his eyes. Eighteen was still a teenager, after all, and he hadn't yet perfected controlling his emotions.
"I—I get to see Taylor?"
The hand squeezed again. "Yes."
Although the word had left the Merryweather representative's lips, Dakota could practically taste the lie in his own mouth.
"Ready to go?" the voice asked again, but he didn't wait for an answer. He increased his pressure on Dakota's shoulder and began pushing him forward and to the right, steering him away from the celebratory crowd.
Before he left the field completely and approached the black car awaiting them,the engine quietly humming, he allowed himself one small look behind him.
The bleachers were nearly empty, but right in the center of them sat his parents, desperately clinging on to one another and visibly sobbing as they watched another one of their children whisked away by Merryweather.
Dakota realized he'd lost count as he squeezed the trigger one final time, and the gun merely clicked in response. He'd emptied the entire magazine into the forest before him.
"Dakota. Dakota!"
The voice woke him out of his trance and he jumped slightly, whirling to his left, the unpleasant sensation of his heart dropping down through his stomach heavy in his abdomen.
Ava was standing a few yards away, watching him. She wore that stupid look on her face that she seemed to always have on: curious but simultaneously incredibly guarded and skittish. The expression reminded him of trying to feed a wild animal; their eyes wide and their limbs stiff, ready to make a run for it any second, but their hunger and desire apparent.
She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Dakota, are you...are you crying?"
He did nothing but stare and blink for a moment or two before jumping again and mashing his left sleeve against his face, a faint feeling of salty moisture whispering against the back of his hand.
"What? No! I'm—I'm shootin'!" He rose his right hand, which was still gripping the gun, and waved it around for a second as if to prove his point.
She pressed her lips together. "I see." Her arms were folded against her chest as she took a few steps forward, closing the space between them until she stood on the other side of the tree stump beside his hip. She gazed down at the surface of the stump, where his additional Beretta lay, its magazine and two boxes of bullets beside it.
A breeze made its way through the dense forest, weaving through the trees, and it made her light blonde hair flutter and flare out towards him. She reached up and tucked it behind her ears, and he swore he caught the scent of it before the wind died down. He found himself breathing it in as deeply as he could.
What the fuck am I doing? He found himself thinking, shaking his head to himself. Sniffing a girl's damn hair. God, he was lonely.
"We were looking for you," she said quietly, looking up at him.
Dakota suddenly felt itchy; not on his skin but all over, as if something was crawling around inside of him. Her greyish-green eyes remained unwavering, and the feeling intensified. This is why he couldn't stand to look directly at the girl. This is guilt.
"Thought Fred said the transport was leaving at eight," he replied, and checked his digital watch. 7:16.
"The Portkey? It is," she replied, still watching him intently. "But we were still looking for you."
"Thought I'd run off, did you now?" he muttered, beginning to push bullets back into his Baretta's magazine.
"Why are you so uncomfortable?"
Dakota froze, his thumb paused over a bullet, about to load it into the clip. He blinked down at it a few times before looking back up at her. "'Scuse me?"
"You're so..." she trailed off, letting her hand rise and fall, vaguely gesturing towards him. Her face was screwed up as though she were in a considerable amount of pain, or confusion. Or maybe both. "Writhe-y. Like you're about to crawl out of your own skin. What's with you?"
"Right," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "You're little brain thingy you do." He gestured towards the side of his skull with his index finger whirring around, mockingly, before busying himself with the bullets again.
"Yeah, that brain thingy I do, thanks to your little friends," she retorted, stomping around the side of the stump and approaching him closely.
"Woah, woah, woah, back up, woman!" he exclaimed, dancing out of the way.
Ava scowled at him. "I'm not going to hit you," she said in a disgusted sort of voice. "I just want you to put the damn bullets down and look at me!"
"Well maybe I don't like lookin' at you!"
"Why?!"
"Why are you do gosh-darned insistent?" he hissed back at her.
They were at a stalemate; staring at one another with identical mixtures of fury and frustration and scoffing.
Dakota broke the silence first. "You take that one," he said, jabbing his index finger at the second gun laying across the surface of the tree stump.
He expected her to come at him with some annoyingly witty retort, or question the hell out of him. But instead, she chewed her bottom lip and tapped her foot for a moment as though deciding what to do, before turning in place and striding back to the stump. Dakota watched her, fixated, as she impressively emptied a handful of bullets from the box and loaded the magazine quickly, cocking the gun and releasing the first round easily, with a practiced hand.
"Alright, then," he said softly, stepping up beside her and loading his own gun. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she shuffled in place and dug her heels in the ground before raising her arms with the gun out before her. "You know I told you, I heard you'd shot one of us—one of them," he amended quickly, "right between the eyes, but I dunno. I thought it was dumb luck. Didn't know you actually knew how to handle a weapon ." He raised his gun and fired, hitting the same tree again.
Ava momentarily ignored him, tilting her head to the right side and squeezing her left eye closed. He watched her chest rise with a breath, and then pause, right before she squeezed the trigger and fired. The shot made a sharp whizzing sound before making a solid impact on a tree about five yards farther than his.
She let her arms fall slowly, the gun hanging in her hand at her side, and she grinned over at him. "What was that you said about dumb luck?"
Dakota couldn't help it; he laughed sheepishly and shook his head. "Your Daddy teach you?"
"Of course." She raised the gun and fired again, making a second bullet hole closely beside her first.
Dakota let out a whistle. "Alright, then. Alright. That one's yours."
Her lips parted in surprise, her arrogance gone. "Mine? What do you mean, mine?"
He smirked at her. "By the word 'yours', I was implying it is no longer 'mine'. The word 'yours' implies I am gifting it, to you."
Ava simply stared at him for a few seconds, her face blank, before suddenly bursting into ridiculous laughter, throwing her head back and holding her belly with her free hand.
"The hell's got you laughing so hard?"
She straightened up, shaking her head, her cheeks bright pink. "I think I've figured out why you and Fred can't stand each other!" she exclaimed amongst more giggles. "I mean...you're basically him, you know that? You're like the American, military, country boy version of him! You two sound just like each other sometimes, I swear!" She laughed again, panting slightly to catch her breath, before clicking on her gun's safety and pushing it inside the waistband of her pants, against her hip. She didn't wait for him to say or do anything else, she simply continued grinning and turned around, slowly walking back through the forest towards the Treehouse.
"Hey...I am not!" he argued back, staring at her swaying blonde hair and shoulders intently as she walked away. He frantically collected his supplies from the stump and scrambled after her.
"Are too," she said in a sing-song voice over her shoulder.
Dakota let out a puff of air through his nose, frowning deeply and aiming a kick at a passing bush as he followed her.
"Am not," he muttered.
Kingsley...Harry...Ron and Hermione, bickering about something...
Fred scanned the first floor of the Treehouse, mentally making note of who'd shown up for the 8am Portkey to St. Kitts.
Percy's wife, Audrey...Vlad...
Fred noticed he was nearing the end of the group, and realized what he'd said the night before had indeed been taken at face value.
The room had once again become swallowed by the dull roar of arguing and protesting after he'd insisted the Order was to intercept Merryweather at Ross University.
"We're going," he'd repeated, "but." He paused, holding up his hand as though he were making an oath of some sort. The room went quiet. "This is to be strictly an at-will mission. No one is required to go, no one will be looked down on or penalized for not going. This is dangerous, I realize that. Now, for those of you who want to come," he'd paused pointedly to look around the room with raised eyebrows, "we leave at eight in the morning tomorrow. Kingsley, you can approve Percy for producing a Portkey, right?"
The plans had been made, and now, at 7:33am, Fred finished counting the members of the Order who'd volunteered themselves.
McGonagall...Lee...George. But what about-
The door to the Treehouse slammed open, and a twangy accented voice assaulted Fred's ears.
"You can try to hide it all you want, but that gun makes you happy as a gopher in soft mud, don't it?"
'Happy as a gopher in soft mud.'
Dakota. Of fucking course.
The Marine strode in, or rather, strutted, looking rather pleased with himself. Directly behind him was Ava, who was quick to meet Fred's eyes, jab her head in his direction, and send Fred a look that quite plainly said: 'is this guy serious?'
Fred's heart did something of a somersault as she grinned at him and he grinned back, watching her squeeze by George and Lee and maintain eye contact with him the whole time as she neared.
Dakota suddenly slid into his line of vision, blocking Ava from view before she could get to him.
"Mornin'!" he greeted Fred in a voice that was way too cheerful to not be sarcastic.
Ava appeared at Dakota's side, walking out from behind him and coming to stand beside Fred. He felt her fingers weaving though his hanging at his side, and watched as Dakota's hazel eyes traveled down briefly to stare at the tender gesture, then back up to his face.
"Where were you?" he asked the Marine flatly.
Dakota reached behind him to swipe a pastry off of the platter sitting on one of the long wooden tables, and shoved it into his mouth greedily before answering.
"I was in the forest," he said in a muffled voice as Fred watched him in disgust. He gulped heartily and jabbed his finger down, pointing to the floor. "Down there."
"Well, I figured you weren't climbing the trees like some sort of spider monkey," Fred mused, feeling Ava's hand vibrate within his as she shook with laughter. "What were you doing, 'down there'?"
Dakota shoved another pastry to his face, and somehow decided that was the opportune moment to grin, sending croissant crumbs raining down to the floor. "Why don'chya tell him what we were doin', mm?" he said, staring at Ava with an amused expression.
She rolled her eyes. "We were not doing anything," she started, looking up at Fred. "He was shooting."
"Shooting? What the bloody hell were you doing that for?"
"What the bloody hell were you doing that for?" Dakota imitated Fred in his best attempt at a British accent.
Ava let out a small yelp, and Fred realized he was squeezing her hand in suppressed rage, nearly crushing it.
"If you must know, I was just lettin' off some steam," Dakota replied, sighing dramatically. "Couldn't stand the quiet of the forest no more. I'm not much for the quiet. It's just plain creepy." He reached behind him for yet another pastry, patting his hand around on the table, until he grabbed a handful of something and brought it around to his mouth.
"What the-" he yelled, nearly going cross eyed at the sight before him.
Grasped in his fist and close to his lips was a rather fat, wart-ridden toad, that let out a comically loud "Rrribbit" before Dakota dropped him, sending him hopping across the floor. Behind him, George and Lee's wands were out, pointed at the tray that had formerly held the mountain of pastries. They were practically holding on to one another for support as they doubled over with laughter.
"Hungry this morning, are you?" Fred said lightly, winking at George over Dakota's shoulder. He looked down his arm to see Ava laughing along, beaming up at him, and he winked at her as well, bumping her hip with his.
He froze.
"What...what is that?"
Fred was gaping down at Ava's side, particularly, at the hard medal object his hip had made contact with when it touched hers.
Ava's smile faded, and she looked worried. "It's a gun," she said in a low voice, nearly a whisper. "He gave it to me." She jabbed her head in Dakota's direction again, and Fred's eyes bulged for approximately six seconds before he snapped out of it, shaking himself and blinking a few times.
"Can I talk to you...in private?" he muttered to her, squeezing her hand. She nodded, and he began pulling her away.
"Something the matter, Fred?" Dakota called after them. "You look like a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest!"
"Enough with the stupid metaphors!" Fred snapped over his shoulder, tugging Ava along with him until they ducked behind the thick spiral staircase, bathed in shadow.
She surprised him by immediately rising up on her tip-toes and wrapping her arms around his neck; pressing her chest and pelvis against his in a deep kiss. Lost in the moment, he reached forward to grasp each side of her butt firmly in both of his hands, but flinched again when his wrist skimmed the gun sticking out of her waistband. He sighed, pulling away.
"I...I hate that thing," he offered pathetically, shrugging.
Her expression softened, and she reached up to touch the side of his face. "I know," she said softly. "But...and please don't hex me for saying this...Dakota was right to give it to me."
Fred opened his mouth in protest, but Ava quickly continued. "Look...he's right! I am a good shot. Granted, my extent of combat experience is shooting at rusty coffee cans in the old quarry back home, but I can make a hit."
Fred made a disgusted guttural sound and turned his head as though he momentarily couldn't bear to look at her. "You're...you're talking about shooting people, Ava!" he argued in a hushed voice.
"I'm talking about shooting at Merryweather, not people," she corrected him, narrowing her eyes, "and what the hell is the difference between me doing that, and you using this?" She reached forward to touch the spot where Fred's wand waited at the ready: fastened to his belt loop in a thin, leather holster. "The two are equally as deadly, if you ask me."
"Shooting at Merryweather, eh?" he said softly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "So you want to definitely be there? Really be there? Front lines and all?"
"Where else would I be?"
Fred paused. Frankly, his common sense was telling him this wasn't about to go over well, but it was worth a shot.
"I was...hoping you'd stay back. Here. With-with Ginny! Or at the flat. Home." He tried to end on a tender note, reaching out to take her hand, but she shook him off.
"Stay back?" she repeated back to him sharply. "Why in the world would I do that?"
Fred paused again, but before he could say anything, a look of realization crossed over Ava's face and she scoffed.
"You don't want me there, do you?"
"No," he replied both quietly and truthfully, finding it difficult to look her in the eyes. "I don't."
A few seconds of silence passed before she said something again.
"Part of me wants to believe you're just saying that to be romantic and protect me, but the bigger part of me knows that's bullshit." She studied him for another moment. "You think I'm going to be useless out there, don't you?"
"That's not it," Fred said quickly.
"It must be part of it," she countered. "And by the way, you wouldn't be wrong. The fight at the shop—you wasted so much time and attention trying to just give me something to do!" She threw her hands in the air. "Transfiguring a fake wand, giving me a pep talk! So yeah. If that's what you were thinking, you'd be right. I would be useless. That's why this-" she paused to rest her hand on the gun- "as much as you hate it, is pivotal. It gives me purpose. It gives me a reason to be there. I want to face them, Fred."
"I know you do," he hissed in a near-hysterical whisper, leaning down close to her face. His voice was shaking. "But I don't want you to face them. I..." he trailed off. He couldn't quite explain why, but in that moment, his eyes were filling with hot, stinging tears. George's voice, the night before his wedding, echoed back to him: You're falling in love with her, aren't you?
Ava suddenly reached up, cupping each side of his face in her hands, her thumbs gently passing over his cheekbones. "You want me somewhere where you'll know I'm safe." She somehow managed to say it and make it sound like both a question and a statement at the same time, and Fred realized she'd filled the sentence he'd trailed off with.
He sighed lightly, and closed his eyes. "Yes."
Ava's lips met his, softly, a whisper of a taste the way lavender smelled. "I'm safe wherever I'm with you. I chose you to protect me, remember?"
Their foreheads rested against one another in a comfortable, accepting silence, breathing each other in and out the way they did the night Ava finally told the Order about Merryweather. Fred found himself pushing away his wishful visions of Ava curled up on the couch at the Burrow with his family staying behind, safe and together and away from the approaching fight, but it was immensely difficult. Ava—much like Fred—was stubborn, and he had to remind himself that she—again, like him—was on her own personal journey for redemption as well.
And the whole time he fought—fought to accept, fought to convince himself everything would be alright, fought to calm down—his chest was twinging, and he couldn't figure out whether the wall in front of his heart was crumbling away further or attempting to rebuild itself.
If there was ever a bad moment for a Muggle to stumble upon the Order going about their business, this was it.
The bronze-skinned man stood practically paralyzed, opened mouthed and staring. The wheelbarrow piled high with fishing nets and rusty buckets remained frozen in place before him; the black rubber wheel still halfway buried in the sand and the wooden handles remaining in his fists. He was shirtless and barefoot, donned in nothing but a shredded pair of denim shorts and a straw hat. The turquoise waters behind him continued gently lapping at the shore, a shallow tide even creeping up the sand to meet his toes, but he remained motionless as he stared up the small hill, into the open-walled hut where the Order had convened.
Fred sighed, realizing what a sight they must be—there were twelve of them: himself, George, Ava, Lee, Dakota, Kingsley, Harry, Ron, Hermione, McGonagall, Audrey, and Vlad. They were assembled in a circled group, all reaching forward to collectively hang on to a crumpled, empty bag of crisps. Kingsley and McGonagall were decked out in their usual heavy robes; his green and silver and hers, a crimson tartan, complete with a tall hat. Dakota still wore his all-white Merryweather military gear: bulletproof vest, combat boots and all, and Harry and Ron wore matching brown Auror trenchcoats.
The twelve of them and the St. Kitt's native continued staring at one another for a few moments, unsure of what to do, until McGonagall whipped out her wand smartly and pointed it at the man's head.
"Obliviate."
The man jumped in place as though he had awoken from a trance, blinking rapidly, then reached up and patted around his hat vaguely as he turned away from the group, continuing his walk down the beach.
Fred cleared his throat. "Right, let's make this a bit more private."
He pointed his wand at the row of white, Bahama-style shutters that were pulled up and away from the front of the bungalow, leaving the entire ocean-view wall airy and exposed. They released from their places with a collective clicking sound and swung down, slamming on to the front of the bungalow and blocking the ocean view.
They all released their grip on the shiny crisp bag and Harry was left as the last one holding it. He looked confused and awkward for a moment before crumpling it into a ball and shoving it into his pocket.
"Only one bed, eh?" Lee called out from behind Fred. He turned to see his friend flopping down on the enormous four-poster bed, complete with flowing mosquito net curtains draped around the banisters. "Looks like the rest of you will be sleeping on the beach! Or I reckon you can all cram inside the outhouse in the back if there's bad weather-"
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Jordan," Kingsley addressed him. "Our bungalows have been specially arranged for us by the Caribbean Magic Consulate. There's one for each of us—except for you two." He paused to look over at Ron and Hermione standing beside one another. "I took the liberty to assume that as a married couple, you wouldn't mind sharing."
"Sharing a bed with her?" Ron pointed to Hermione with a look of mock disgust on his face. "I don't know about that."
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione hissed, but she couldn't help the smile forming on her lips at her husband's humor.
"This is nice," Fred said aloud to no one in particular as he strode around the bungalow. It was an open-concept, single room, with a tiny kitchenette on one side, and the bed Lee was climbing off of on the other. He made his way over to the front wall made of shutters and peeked through the wooden slots. Just down a small hill, more like a large dune, really, was the beach. It was blanketed in sugar-white sand accompanied by large boulders clustered together here and there, leading to an endless expanse of sea that changed from crystal clear, to turquoise, to emerald, and finally, to cobalt blue, in a spectacular natural display of ombre. "I dunno how you ever managed to leave a place like this once your honeymoon was over, George." He straightened up and looked over his shoulder at his twin, who was looking around with a rather disgruntled look on his face.
"Just wait," he said in a grave voice. "It looks all pretty and shiny and then BAM-" he spread all of his fingers out as if to mime an explosion "-before you know it, you're as red as a lobster and practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation of cloudy old England."
"Nice, indeed," Kingsley replied, deeply nodding and joining Fred at the shutters. "Potter, remind me to send some Fudge Flies and a bottle of brandy to our Head of International Magical Cooperation for organizing this for us with no questions asked. They are his favorite."
"Speakin' of drink," came Dakota's voice. They all looked in his direction to see him holding open a cabinet in the kitchenette with both arms, eyebrows raised impressively as he stared at the contents inside. He let out a whistle, and reached in, extracting a tall bottle of what appeared to be coconut rum.
"Don't even think about it," Fred warned him firmly. "We're not on vacation. Let's talk strategy, shall we?"
Although he looked disappointed, Dakota placed the glass bottle back into the cabinet with a clinking sound against other bottles and made his way over to stand with the rest of the group, who had formed a crescent shape to face Fred. Ava met his eyes briefly and attempted to give him and encouraging nod and smile, but for some reason, his heart was suddenly threatening to pound clean out of his chest with nerves.
"Dakota," he started, "can you tell us again what you've heard about what Merryweather is planning for tomorrow?"
Dakota suddenly straightened up, puffing his chest a bit and raising his chin. "Unfortunately I don't have the specifics. The extent that I do know is how they were excited that the student body is reasonably diverse. There's a ton of Americans that come down here for the Vet school, 'long with native Caribbean folks from all different islands, and even some Europeans who are lookin' to get their degree and transfer to work in the States. Apparently tomorrow starts the time of year when a week-long partyin' binge starts up. See, it's the first week of June which for them, means the last week of term. And like I said, there was a lot of talk about how the Caribbean authorities are a little slow on the uptake when it comes to crime, and, uh..." He trailed off to raise his hand and rub his thumb against the rest of his fingers. "Their silence is easily bought."
Ava was staring at the ground, shaking her head. "We have to stop them."
"We will," Fred replied firmly. She gave him a small nod, but the lack of confidence was written all over her face.
He shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Here's the problem I see," he said to the group, and he held his arms out. "A week long partying binge. How are we supposed to know where or when or how they're going to strike? Any idea, Dakota?"
"No."
Fred sighed.
"How about we have a couple of us get in there and do some spying?" George offered. "Ask around for the biggest party plans. If what Dakota heard was true and they'll be attempting to snatch students among shenanigans, they'll be picking the biggest, wildest parties, hoping that a random will slip through the cracks."
"I believe the word you're lookin' for is 'recon', not 'spy'," Dakota drawled. "Anyway, I'm in. I need some excitement. Whose with me?"
"Oh, no, no, no," Ava suddenly spoke up, reaching out and catching Dakota around the shoulders as he strode forward. "You're not going."
"And why the hell not?"
"Are you mental?" Ron questioned him, a sharp edge to his voice. "They probably have their own spies trolling around for recon. What do you think they'll do once they see you, share a pint and reminisce about old times?"
"Well what in creation am I supposed to do around here in the meantime, then?!"
"Nothing," Fred said firmly. "Nothing at all. You lay low and keep your head down. Same goes for myself, and you guys—George, Lee, Ava, Vlad-" he looked at them all one by one as he said their names. "We're the ones who've had firsthand experience with Merryweather. They'll recognize us out. Ron, you're to stay put as well. They know the Weasleys have their eyes on them, and your hair's too obvious, mate."
"Fair enough," Ron sighed.
"I'm sure they are familiar with the face of the Ministry of Magic," Kingsley said. "I suppose that puts me out of the running."
"And something tells me university students won't exactly be forthcoming with party plans when I ask them," McGonagall added.
Hermione and Audrey looked over at one another. "Well, that leaves us, then," Hermione said.
"No," Ron immediately protested.
"Ron, we already talked about this," Hermione said quietly, looking slightly embarrassed. "I need to get back out there and do something. I'm not porcelain. Have some faith, please."
'Sympathetic' wasn't exactly a main word used to describe Fred, but his chest suddenly ached for Ron in empathy.
"Let's do it," Audrey said enthusiastically in her high-pitched voice, nodding and straightening out her shirt across her petite frame. She glanced over to Fred. "What would you have us do?"
"Blend in," Fred replied, looking from her to Hermione. "Act casual, don't do anything stupid or try something on your own. Stick to the plan, we're just looking for information right now."
"Fred Weasley," said Hermione, shaking her head in what looked like disbelief, a soft smile on her face. "I'd have never guessed in a million years you'd be the one telling us not to do anything stupid or break any rules."
"Shut it," Fred replied, sharing a grin with George and realizing just how right she was.
Fred couldn't stop pacing.
He hadn't paced around in a while; in fact, he hadn't done this since before he met Ava. He'd spent countless nights awake when he should have been sleeping, pacing around the flat and worrying George half to death, no doubt. But tonight, as it neared ten o'clock, he found himself doing it again, taking some time alone as the others sat cramped around the kitchenette table, eating and playing cards to keep themselves preoccupied as they waited for Hermione's and Audrey's return.
"I feel like I'm going a little mad, too." Ron suddenly appeared in front of him as he reached the end of the room and turned on his heel to face the other way. "Waiting for them."
Fred stumbled to a stop and crossed his arms, chewing on the inside of his cheek and nodding. "Why did I do this to myself, Ron?"
"Do what?"
"Push to Head this mission," he replied. "I'm falling apart. I'm going mad. I have no idea what I'm doing."
"What's wrong with you, eh?" Ron questioned him. "This isn't the Fred I know. I'm sure this isn't the speech you gave George before you dropped out of school and almost set the whole place on fire-"
"That Fred isn't here right now," Fred replied, realizing that he sounded slightly insane. "He comes and goes but he's not here."
"Hasn't exactly made consistent appearances in about four years, huh?" Ron asked in a knowing voice.
Fred was quiet for a moment. "I'm not sure what's wrong with me, to be honest," he replied in the lowest voice he could muster without full-on whispering. "You'd think a bloke would be more himself and better than ever after dodging death, you know? But I dunno, it just fucked me up in the head permanently." He stared at the expanse of wall over Ron's shoulder blankly. "You think a part of me really did die that night, Ron?"
"Stop this," his brother said firmly, reaching out and grasping both of Fred's shoulders. "You remember what I told you. You're not broken. You keep telling yourself that until you believe it, you hear me?"
At that moment, the door along the back wall of the bungalow swung open, banging against the wooden frame with a slam. Both Dakota and Vlad jumped to their feet with impressive speed; Dakota whipping out his handgun and pointing it to the door and Vlad extracting his wand, standing nearly identically as the Marine.
"Are you two completely harebrained?" Hermione was the first one to step inside, with Audrey following closely behind. She stared at Dakota with an expression of slight disgust as he cleared his throat and lowered his gun. "It's just us."
"You can never be too careful," Vlad said in a deep, serious tone.
Dakota nodded vigorously. "Yeah, what Dracula said."
"Hermione, I was so worried," Ron breathed, his face white as he rushed over and embraced his wife. Audrey closed the door behind them, and Ron suddenly pulled away, his nose crinkled. "What are you two wearing?"
Fred had noticed it too; both girls had changed out of their original clothing and had returned wearing what looked like uniforms, made of a short-sleeved top and pants constructed out of a stiff looking, greenish colored fabric, adorned with a generous amount of pockets.
"They're called scrubs," Hermione said with a laugh. She looked over to Fred. "All the vet students wear them. You said to blend in, right?"
He grinned. "Well done."
About twenty minutes later, as the girls summoned extra chairs and sat down to help themselves to the leftovers of the meal, they finished telling the tale of the days events, complete with the gossip they'd obtained.
"I'm still intrigued about this mud pit party," Lee said, leaning across the table eagerly. "You said they vacate the pigs out of there and the girls dress in bikinis to wrestle one another?"
"That's not until the end of the week, unlucky for you," Hermione said smartly, rolling her eyes. "The biggest bash is apparently scheduled for tomorrow night. Like an opening ceremony of sorts."
"Merlin, I hope I don't die tomorrow so I can go to the mud pit party," Lee said wistfully, clapping his hands together as though he was praying.
"Nobody's dying."
The quiet sentiment had come from Fred. He continued staring down at the white table top at first, before looking up and scanning the attending Order members one by one, and ending on Lee. "You hear me? Nobody's bloody dying tomorrow."
"Well if you say it, I believe it," Dakota said, nodding heartily and slapping his palms down on the table as he stood. "I'm guessin' we'll reconvene here in the mornin', then? Work out a plan for not dyin'?"
Fred could only bring himself to nod tightly, and Dakota turned to leave.
"Oh!" he exlcaimed, turning around. "I almost forgot." For a second, his face took on a slightly more serious expression. "Make me not a Merryweather."
"Change your appearance?" Hermione said, leaning forward across the table to look at him at the other end of the room.
"Nah, nothin' that extreme. I'm too pretty." He smirked and stepped forward, and Fred rose to his feet, walking over to meet him. "I just...I still look like them, you know? I don't want to. I'm one of you now, aren't I?"
The room was silent, and Fred and George fighting the urge to say something witty and snarky back to him was nearly palpable.
"You are," Kingsley said simply. He extracted his wand and pointed it at Dakota's chest, and the whole room watched in wonder as an enormous phoenix rapidly appeared across his white kevlar; in a spread-eagle position so that the tips of its wing feathers touched the edge of the vest near his shoulders. It was ruby red and gleaming even in the dull light of the bungalow, nearly swallowed by night time.
"Well," Dakota said simply, staring down at his chest, and that was seemingly all he could muster. "'Night, all."
His exit to his own bungalow down the beach prompted a mini exodus of sorts; nearly everyone at once rose to their feet stretching and yawning and proclaiming it was time for them to turn in for the night.
"Remember what I said," Ron addressed Fred softly, clapping him on the shoulder before he left with Hermione.
"Should we all leave?" Lee asked loudly, shuffling the playing cards on the table. "I for one am not tired, come on boys, lets have ourselves another game-"
"Let's go, Lee," George interrupted him, grabbing his friend by the collar of his shirt and practically dragging him to his feet. He looked back and forth between Fred and Ava. "Let the grown-ups have a moment to themselves." He winked at the pair of them, and Fred offered his twin a gracious smile as the door slammed shut behind them.
Fred stared at the door after it closed for a moment before turning to Ava, who was still sitting at the table, and gave her a pleading sort of look.
"I know you're not a fan of the whole liquid courage thing, and I promise I'm not going to get stinking drunk, but please, would you let me drown my sorrows in a spot of whiskey?"
Ava's face remained blank at first, before breaking into a grin that looked slightly mischievous. "Make it two."
Fred sighed with relief, and rummaged through the liquor cabinet Dakota had found earlier until he found whiskey, bringing it to the table and setting down two glasses beside it with a clunk.
Ava eyed him as he sat down beside her and poured into both glasses.
"I couldn't help but overhear what you were saying to Ron before," she said, watching his face closely to gauge his reaction.
He set the bottle back on the table and picked up his glass, downing a sip before he spoke. "So you eavesdrop now, eh?" He smirked at her and nudged her with his knee under the table.
She took a sip of her own, squeezing her eyes shut at the harshness of the drink before replying. "I call it 'creative listening'."
Fred laughed, swirling the contents of the glass and staring down at it. "Yeah. I dunno, I guess I'm having a hard time separating the common man's self doubt from feeling completely lost." He shrugged. "How the hell do I tell the difference?"
"Look," Ava said, taking another sip of whiskey, shivering, and reaching over to take Fred's hand. "I know I didn't know you...before, what happened to you, but from knowing you now? Feeling you now-" she paused to squeeze his hand "-I don't think a part of you is dead inside."
"You might say different if you did know me before," Fred replied softly. "Arghhh, I just feel like I'm playing a damn volley with myself, like I'm driving myself mad, you know?" He emptied his glass and slammed it back down on the table a little too hard. "I promise myself to feel better, and then I do feel better, and then there are times like these where it just feels worse and I just can't seem to quiet the shit inside of my head-"
He was suddenly cut off as Ava leaned to the side, hanging off the edge of her chair, pressing her lips to his firmly and cupping the side of his face in her hand. His stomach jumped as the kiss lingered, their mouths moving against one another, the sharp and warm taste of the whiskey passing back and forth between them.
Ava broke away first, but kept her forehead pressed up against his, their lips only a finger's length apart.
"Tell the shit inside your head to pipe down, then," she breathed, and his pulse quickened again at the scent of the whiskey on her breath.
"That was actually making everything go nice and quiet, what you were doing there," he panted back to her, and she laughed softly, kissing him again.
He didn't know whether it was the gentle sounds of the Caribbean sea lapping at the shore, or the taste of the whiskey upon Ava's tongue, or the bundle of anxious nerves flitting about his chest at the thought of the looming fight tomorrow, but whatever it was, something inside of him finally released all he'd been holding back with her. Even in their most flirtatious of moments, Fred had been reigning himself in, constantly letting Merryweather and Gridgeon and what he'd done to her friend, Sarah, swirl around in the back of his mind, making him restrain himself, coming up with as many reasons as possible not to touch her the way he wanted to: she's been through so much, she needs more time, show her respect and treat her like a lady; don't do to her what you've done to so many other women so meaninglessly.
But then came that mental release, and all of that faded away. He realized he'd been doing to her exactly what he'd begged so many others to stop doing to him: treating her like a breakable object; a vase that had shattered into a million pieces and had been glued back together haphazardly, ready to fall apart again any second. Maybe she didn't want to always be handled gently, maybe she didn't want him to always hold himself back for what he thought was her sake. Maybe she actually just wanted to be touched, touched like she was a real thing, a real person who was breakable, who wasn't all the way back to normal, but touched and wordlessly assured that it was okay to have scars.
It was okay to have scars.
Fred leaned forward, sliding his hands under her thighs on her chair and pulling her towards him. She eagerly obliged; swinging her leg over his hip and straddling his lap, her knees hugging his hips and their pelvises grinding against one another. Their kisses were always that perfect symphony of chemistry and feeding into each other's needs; their heads tilted together, exchanging tongues and breathing heavily through their noses against one another's face. Ava arched her back, pressing her chest against his seemingly as hard as she could, determined to eliminate as much space between them as possible.
Fred couldn't put into words how enormously grateful he was for the way she was kissing him: like it was his last kiss, his last night on Earth, like he was the last person she would ever touch and ran her hands through his hair and around his neck and up the back of his shirt, memorizing what human contact felt like and absorbing as much of it as she could.
She suddenly took both of his hands in hers, and pressed them up against her breasts, as though she was giving him permission to touch her there. His fingers curled, squeezing her soft flesh as her chest rose and fell rapidly with excited breaths, and he let his hands fall to the bottom edge of her shirt, grasping it and pulling it over her head.
Fred couldn't stand sitting any longer, he had to move, had to touch her more, had to do something. He tucked his hands under her thighs again, rose to his feet, her legs wrapped around him, and shuffled across the room, depositing her gently down on the mattress. She sat up, curling her fist in the front of his collar to drag his head down, greedily kissing him; he swore he heard a couple seams in the fabric of his shirt popping.
Fred pulled his face away from hers and reached behind him to yank the shirt off from over his head, tossing it away on the floor, Ava was staring up at him, her eyes positively shining, and she slowly reached up. She placed her hands against each of his pectoral muscles, flattening her palms against his skin, dewy with sweat, and dragged them down, her fingers tracing along the faded white scars criss-crossing his chest. Her hands stopped to rest on the waistband of his jeans and she stopped, looking up at his face again.
She said nothing, only smiled, before leaning forward and planting a kiss on his abdomen, right beside his belly button. He was so preoccupied with the sensation of her lips against his stomach that he didn't even realize she'd managed to undo his pants.
Fred doubled over, leaning down and grabbing her face between both of his hands and kissing her roughly as he felt her shuffling the fabric down his legs; the rest of his clothing escaping him. He stepped out of his pants and kicked them away, standing in full nakedness before her.
His hands traveled from the sides of her face to her shoulders, gently pressing her backwards to lay on the bed.
He grasped the waistband of her jeans, snug around her hips, his fingers curling around the fabric firmly and feeling the warm skin of her pelvis on the other side. His groin ached, and with a bite on his bottom lip, he pulled the pants downwards. Ava lifted her bottom off the bed to allow the pants to slip off, and his groin filled with sensation again, even tingling and seemingly jumping slightly as he looked down at her, taking in her naked form in full display. Fred relished in the sight; she looked like a mermaid: her long blonde hair fanned out behind her, her arms extended backwards and resting on either side of her head, her legs pressed together and slightly bent at the knees, writhing her torso against the bed.
"Fred," she breathed, looking up at him and rocking her body side to side again.
And that was all he needed.
He stepped forward and brought his knees up, kneeling on the edge of the bed where her feet were. He reached out with both arms and rested his hands on her knees lightly, and slowly let them travel up her thighs. Ava giggled slightly, biting her bottom lip right back at him as a river of goosebumps rose along her skin behind Fred's touch. When his hands had reached the top of her thighs, he let them float towards each other, meeting in the center and then traveling back down. She parted her legs and he rubbed his palms up and down the inside of her thighs, feeling the warmth radiate from between them.
Fred crawled forward and rested his knees between her now-parted legs. He moved his hands from her thighs and put them on the bed, his palms pressing against the mattress on either side of her hips, and watched her eyes widen as he leaned down and brushed his lips against her; her legs on either side of his head parting more. He kissed along the top mound of her flesh lightly, gently, and then let his tongue escape from his mouth and press forward, feeling each side of her move apart as his tongue met the space in between. He could hear her gasp a little and her hips shuddered as he tasted her. He pressed his lips down firmly as though he was kissing her mouth.
Ava's fingers pushed through his hair and curled into fists, holding handfuls of it as she shuddered again, a whimpering, breathless noise of dreamy disbelief escaping her. He lifted his head, copying what she had done before and planted a kiss on the skin of her belly. She tugged on his hair and he lifted his chest off of the bed and crawled forward, his knees pressing against her inner thighs. Fred leaned down to meet her lips with his, and she wrapped one of her arms around his neck, and he was the one to shudder in excitement this time, realizing the deep intimacy of the moment as he passed the moisture inside of his mouth to hers, letting her taste what his tongue had just explored inside of her.
Their sternums were pressed against one another and Fred could almost swear he felt the rhythm of her heartbeat against his, their pulses syncing together. His heart was pounding hard; each thud hammering in his chest and sending echoes of a tingling sensation throughout his ribcage and abdomen. It was an amazing cocktail of excitement and lust and...nervousness. He was nervous, he realized.
Fred was no virgin; his years of depression had led him to sharing a bed with more women than he liked to admit, and mindlessly making love to strangers in an attempt to go numb had always come naturally to him. But something about this—something about Ava—was different. For some reason, his naked chest pressed against hers, their hips grinding together, made him forget about everything he'd ever done with every other woman. There was something about her body writhing under his that made him feel like he was about to take a tumble off of something tall, or melt like an ice cube left out in the sun, or burn up and curl away into ashes like a piece of paper set afire.
Ava pushed her hand down between their bodies and grabbed him, placing him against her and swelling her body forward in a wordless attempt to show him how much she wanted him.
So he pushed inside of her, because he wanted her back. He didn't just want her body, he didn't just want to feel wanted, he didn't just want the pleasure and desire she was showing him. Fred wanted to continue feeling the way he felt now, and every moment he was ever with her: breathing in one another's oxygen, reminding each other that they were alive, alive, alive.
He pushed into her, because he wanted all of that, every second, with her.
He pushed into her, because the threat of the looming battle was enough to make him finally push himself to go back to the way he was—to live like he was dying, all the time, throwing fireworks over his shoulder and cracking jokes and busting into every room like he owned the place.
He pushed into her, and as he did, he realized the tingling sensation in his chest had returned, and he finally knew what it was. The wall was not rebuilding itself.
The last of it was coming tumbling down,
Down,
Down.