AN - I am both pleased and frightened to announce that I have officially written and edited through to the end of this story! I currently intend to continue updating the story weekly until the last chapter is posted.
Mike stood with his eyes closed, listening to the splashing to his left. He had to force concentration when he was on this side of the lake, as it was easy for his mind to wander to more enticing times. Additionally, he had to concentrate past the dull ache behind his eyepatch as his eye regrew.
It nauseated him to think about it. Madam Pomfrey had elected to describe the process in disturbing detail. It was a process he had since spent many hours trying to scrub from his brain. Tiny eye growing...nope. Just drink the damned potion every morning. That's what was important. Another week or so, really.
On a whim, he decided now was the time. His eye snapped open and he reached down to his thigh holster. He fumbled, grabbing the sidearm without managing to get his finger in place to slide into the trigger guard.
He adjusted, automatically stepping to the side. A moving target was better than a stationary one. He hadn't forgotten everything. As he stepped, he brought the handgun up. Thankfully, even if half of his vision was gone, he still had his dominant eye.
The handgun was skewed slightly to the side so he adjusted. When both sights lined up with the target beyond, he sent a double tap. He shifted targets and sent another pair of bullets into the center of mass, repeating the process one final time for the last target.
The slide kicked back, indicating he'd spent the six rounds he'd allotted himself for this drill. He slid a new magazine in and chambered a round before reholstering the weapon and inspecting the damage he'd dealt.
The first target had two holes, center of mass, though only one was within the "kill zone," marked by a box. The other was slightly outside. The second target had better grouping...in a manner of speaking. Two shots, both on the line marking that kill zone. The third target had grouping he was more familiar with. Both in the box, less than half-an-inch apart.
It wasn't what he was hoping.
"Hey," a welcome voice called from behind him. He turned to see Hermione standing there, a tentative smile on her face which eased into a full one the second he faced her. He couldn't help returning the smile when he saw her.
"What's up, gorgeous?" Mike asked, crossing over to kiss her. The contact of their lips in this familiar setting sent a few stray thoughts his way, but he made sure to behave.
"Classes are out and Brad said you were out here," she explained. She looked at his targets and her head turned to the side a bit.
"It's been a while and I'm pretty rusty," Mike said, gesturing at the targets. "Doesn't help that I'm a pirate." He growled at her with a finger hooked, eliciting the response he'd hoped for. He'd do about anything to see that smile.
"It's been a while for me, too," Hermione said, glancing over at them. Mike chewed his lip. He'd been at it for several hours now and going longer wasn't likely to do him much good. Really, he needed to grow the damned eye back...the thought sent a shudder through him.
"Well, let's fix that," Mike said, unclipping his gun belt. He fixed it around her waist and tightened it around her. She looked pretty damned good with a gun on her thigh, actually.
"So," Hermione arched an eyebrow, staring at the target.
Mike stepped behind her, against her, and felt her relax against him. He had to fight to stop himself from kissing her exposed neck...fuck it...he kissed her cheek. A compromise.
"Feet about shoulder width," he muttered. "Bring this one back, yeah. Good." He gently grabbed her wrists, bringing her hands to where they needed to be, and then mimicked the motions slowly for her. "Draw, bring it up toward the target...sights lined up, yeah. You've got it. Boom. Pull the trigger. Good?" Mike asked, stepping back.
Hermione nodded, looking down to holster the weapon properly.
"Alright, whenever you're ready."
He watched her take a deep breath. She reached down, grabbed the handgun and yanked it free of the holster. She brought the weapon up fast, slightly askew, but she corrected that quickly.
Cra-crack. She fired two shots in quick succession before lowering the weapon and flicking the safety on. Atta-girl. She holstered it and they walked together to the target.
Two new holes in the center of mass, about three quarters of an inch apart, both well within the box. She glanced at Mike with a look of apprehension, not knowing how to react.
Mike gripped the invisible handle of a knife sticking from his chest and made a choking noise. "I thought I was the badass warrior."
She smiled at him and sighed. "This isn't really my thing." She gestured to the sidearm before unclipping the belt and handing it back to him. He put it back on.
"I don't know, you're pretty good," Mike said as he clipped the thigh portions of the belt.
"Maybe if you can do better than that…" Hermione let the comment trail off, but the look in her eye and the flushing of her cheeks implied everything. Mike's eyebrows shot up.
"I mean, I could probably do better, sure," he said as they walked together back to the shooting line.
Tony, despite himself, found that he was again swaying with the music. The steady rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump of electronic beats, almost entirely made from different variations of bass, was kind of catchy. It was also loud enough that he could feel it in his chest.
It wasn't his typical music, but he had to admit, there was something about being there. The palpable enthusiasm of a few hundred people jumping and losing themselves to the obnoxious music was, at least partly, enjoyable.
They were strangely dressed for muggles. Rather, their lack of dress was strange. Many of the women wore what amounted to underwear, and some just wore paint. The men hardly wore more, though everything seemed to either glow or sparkle in the dark clearing, lit by black lights, lasers, and strobes.
Tony glanced back over his shoulder, to where he'd seen a pair of unattractive muggle women kissing. He was pleasantly surprised to see the boss there.
"Eden," he greeted loudly, not sure if the boss heard him. Eden gave a quick wave by way of greeting and stepped beside Tony.
The boss hadn't been the same since the estate had been hit. He knew that losing Bellatrix was a loss that stung, the two had been getting close from what he could tell.
Eden had always struck Tony as having a...presence. Some nebulous x-factor that just spoke of authority. Since the raid, since losing Bellatrix, Eden had become more reserved. Reserved and focused.
Tony had seen the books, heard the rumblings. Eden was looking for the Deathly Hallows. There was a renewed vigor and ruthlessness that Tony hadn't seen before, but one he admired. Eden was dedicated to his people, judging by how far he was going to try and get Bellatrix back as Master of Death. A worthy trait.
"It's almost time," Eden shouted. Tony picked up his voice easily enough, his hearing better than that of a normal human. He could still pick up nearby voices, even through the deafening thump of the music.
Almost time. A twist of apprehension formed in Tony's gut. Apprehension, yes, but also anticipation. Eden was planning something big. He and Narcissa were often seen plotting together and rumor had it they'd been talking about Hogwarts. Perhaps there was something at that school that could get the boss his lady back.
Eden gripped Tony's shoulder after a long moment and gestured toward the crowd. Tony nodded and began working his way to the platform where the...what do you even call it? Musician? Band? Technician? Where the asshole responsible for this thumping sound was, anyhow.
A hulking bald man with a thick, red beard stepped in his path as he reached the front of the dancing crowd, blocking his way to the platform. Tony didn't hesitate. He whipped his hand up, catching the brute in his throat. He felt the crunch of cartilage and the man's eyes bugged, both meaty hands gripping his neck.
Tony stepped past, not even bothering to watch as his foe dropped to their knees. His mind already on the next task, he hopped up and pushed the...musician...aside. The beat kept thumping anyway. Pathetic.
Gripping both sides of the control station, Tony ripped it free. At least one of those wires appeared to be critical, because the forest clearing descended into blessed silence. A din of upset voices began to break out at the same time as the phony musician recovered. At the same time as moonlight began to break free from the clouds.
The phony grabbed his shoulder and Tony gripped his fingers hard, locking the man in place as the painful transformation begin. A guttural, painful scream ripped from his throat as his bones crackled and elongated, tugging on his skin but never breaking it.
Tony felt his mind being shoved down, stuffed into a little box and locked there. But, he wasn't without consciousness. Not yet. He had enough presence of mind to see, with some satisfaction, that the crowd was staring, horrified, up at him. Not one of them noticed the several dozen Death Eaters behind them, quietly killing.
New additions to the army, he thought. His last coherent thought before he ripped apart the closest person to him, uncontrollably hungry.
Brad found it difficult to believe how quickly each day passed by once his team had been taken from him. He'd spent a few hours a day with Mike since his release from the hospital wing, and yesterday the two of them had a little shooting competition. Mike had lost, but it hadn't been by much, especially considering the whole eyepatch thing.
It sounded like he'd be ready to take the patch off in the near future, his new eye regrown. Mike didn't talk much about it and Brad didn't ask. It sounded like something he didn't need details about.
The majority of his time was spent in Hogsmeade with the Delacours. He went on morning walks with them to get out of the house. He went shopping with Apolline to search for a few gifts and trinkets to bring back to Gabrielle, who was still studying at Beauxbatons.
Bringing Henri to the firing range was definitely one of the highlights. The man didn't intuitively pick up on the operation of firearms, but the absolute delight with which he fired the tactical shotgun was infectious, and the way he kept bringing it up to his wife, dropping hints that owning a shotgun was something he was interested in...well, that was icing on the cake.
Mostly, he spent his time with Fleur. In fact, with the exception of his few outings with her parents, he'd spent every waking moment with her. Most of his sleeping ones, too.
He cringed thinking back to the awkward and uncomfortable conversation with Apolline, when sleeping arrangements had been brought up that first night. He'd set a pillow up on one side of the couch and there was already a blanket draped over the back. Before he could pull it down, Fleur's mom called them out.
"Mon dieu," she'd said, batting his hand away as he tried to pull the blanket down. "What are you doing?" She followed up by gesturing to the single ground floor bedroom. Fleur was standing in the doorway, a two piece striped pajama set on, her eyes wide.
"I- well-" Brad stammered, but Apolline rolled her eyes and gave him a firm look.
"You think I don't remember being young?" she'd asked. Brad didn't know how to respond, and so he'd kept his mouth shut. A quick glance at Fleur revealed her cheeks were vibrantly pink, however.
"You went to an island alone," she remarked matter of factly. "Share a room, be quiet, and be responsible."
With that, she gracefully departed, not making so much as a sound as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom.
The two of them had remained still for a long time before Brad finally had the courage to look over at Fleur. Still standing there, she shrugged, a questioning look on her face. So, they shared a room each night, and neither of her parents had said a word about it after that.
The two of them had, however, remained very responsible. Sure, they'd shared a bed, and they'd slept closely. They'd even made out several times...but it hadn't gone past that. That was a line neither was willing to approach. Not with parents in the house.
Fingers, soft and comforting, slid between his, bringing him from his thoughts. He glanced over to see Fleur sitting next to him, her eyes inquisitive and beautiful. What are you thinking about? she seemed to ask with her gaze.
"Are you sure you don't want to go with them?" Brad asked, voicing his concern...for the final time, judging by the glare she gave him.
"I am staying here with you," she said resolutely. No room for negotiation, not that he wanted to. Her parents were sitting on a separate bench, talking to each other animatedly about their trip to London. They were planning on taking the underwater train back to Paris.
The four of them were sitting at Hogsmeade Station, waiting for the train. It had recently arrived with supplies for the little village and hopefully it would soon begin boarding the few passengers wanting a ride back.
"I'm just checking," Brad insisted innocently. Now that the school was again occupied by friendly forces, namely his task force, he wasn't that worried about her being in danger. Still, her at home felt the safest.
On the other hand, her here meant he could spend time with her, for however long it took for Sumner to give his team the authorization to get back at it. He didn't think it would take long, but he wasn't certain. He simply checked his networked computer for new orders every morning and night and got the same "Inbox Empty" message. His pager would go off if he was being recalled to duty, but it didn't hurt to be sure.
"Well, stop checking," she replied, squeezing his hand affectionately, and yet still maintaining the air of absolute confidence and authority. He smiled despite himself.
"Boarding!" someone shouted from down at the end of the little platform.
At once, the four of them stood, the only ones at the station aside from an elderly woman that looked to be well over a hundred, though she was moving rather spryly.
"You two stay safe," Henri rumbled deeply as the old woman darted up into the train.
Brad tore his eyes from the sight and looked at the Delacours. He was sorry to see them go. As exciting as it was to have time alone with Fleur, he really enjoyed being around them.
Brad nodded as Fleur and her mother hugged tightly, muttering something incomprehensible to each other in French. Henri squeezed Brad's shoulder before surprising him by pulling him into a hug.
"You didn't think you'd get away without a hug, did you?" he asked, squeezing Brad tight.
Brad, for his part, seized the moment and hugged Henri back. A part of him waited for some shoe to drop, for some sign that he'd gone too far, but he hadn't. Henri just squeezed him tighter. "Take care, son."
"You too," Brad said as Henri released him. Brad was quickly pulled into another tight hug by Apolline, who murmured something in French.
With that, the two stepped up into the train and went to find seats in the mostly empty train. Fleur slid in beside Brad and he wrapped an arm around her. With no one else boarding, the train simply closed its doors and started rolling.
Brad thought he caught sight of the Delacours ducking into one of the little rooms, but he wasn't certain.
"Well," Fleur said, rubbing a hand up and down his back as she remained pressed to his side, "I promised to go see Sara for a little bit," she reminded him, as though he needed reminding.
It was usually the point in his day, just after lunch, when he'd go visit Mike. Mike, however, had told him he was taking Hermione out for a picnic or something, and had rain-checked until tomorrow.
"Absolutely," he replied, hugging her. "Go for it." They kissed, more chaste than he would prefer, and she glided away, leaving him to enact his plan.
He was going to make dinner for her.
He didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing, but he was damned sure going to figure it out.
Once he was certain she was out of sight, he headed to the shopping district of Hogsmeade, consciously avoiding the stores most students liked to go to. Instead, he went to a butchers shop. What a selection!
He knew of the broad strokes. There was beef, chicken, and pork. If you went outside the norm, you could get elk and deer, bison, goat, and basically any other meat out there. He hadn't realized there were so many different cuts of meat. Loin, t-bone, chuck, breast, legs…all of it was different. He went with tri-tip at the suggestion of the butcher, who loaded him up with several...hopefully good, cuts.
Next, a regular market. The witch here was extremely helpful, offering several suggestions on both seasonings and cooking methods, as well as different vegetables that paired well with the meal.
Never in his life had Brad considered that certain foods paired well with one another, accentuating the flavors. He figured you just...ate. He bought a pound of red potatoes, a few apparently great carrots, and some corn. He figured it would be hard to mess up the corn.
Back at the cottage, he spent half an hour searching through the cupboards for cooking utensils. Why they were hidden in so many different places in the kitchen, he was not sure, but dammit he found them...along with an apron. He threw it on, deciding he could at least look the part.
He washed the potatoes at the suggestion of that kindly witch and began slicing them before boiling them, planning to make mashed potatoes out of it.
Once the potatoes were on, he chopped the carrot into small cubes, only afterward realizing he wasn't sure what to do with them now. He poured the cubes into a bowl and called it good, doing the same with the corn.
Then he remembered the meat. He needed to season it and get it cooking. He found salt and pepper in the kitchen, along with a number of other seasonings he didn't recognize. He found one that smelled like it would probably work well with meat, sprinkled it on liberally, and realized he didn't have a barbecue to work with.
Biting his lip with frustration, he searched the cupboards again to find the pans and began to sear the steaks that way.
Once the steaks were on, he heard a different sizzling noise and looked over to see that the potatoes were boiling over. Cursing his lack of attention, he pulled the potatoes off of the stove. Again he realized he wasn't prepared. What the hell do you do with boiled potatoes?
He poured most of the water into the sink, struggling not to let the potatoes slide out from the pot. Then, he began painstakingly slipping them into a bowl with a fork, trying to keep the last bit of water from pouring into the bowl as well.
Almost half of the potatoes were in the bowl when the smell of burning meat reached him. He dropped the pan into the sink and splashed boiling water against his arm.
"Damnit!" he cursed loudly, both at the water and himself. He turned the steaks over in the pan and grimaced at the charcoal black appearance. Maybe he could cut that part off or something.
"Brad," Fleur's voice called from the front.
FUCK! Not only was he not done, but he was failing...hard.
"Uh, hey," Brad started, turning toward the living room and trying to pull the dorky apron off.
Fleur was already standing there, eyes wide and brow furrowed in worry, her hand covering what was no doubt a smile of pity. "Oh, amour."
She rushed into the kitchen with him, planting a quick kiss on his cheek and pushing him out. He watched as she expertly found every device she needed. She waved her wand and a strainer leaped from a cupboard into the sink. The pot poured itself into the strainer and the bowl did the same. All of the potatoes were dumped back into the bowl and a masher began working them as Fleur cut the burnt portion away from the steaks and began working her non-literal magic on them.
It was a wonder watching her work. She knew where everything was, how to do all of it. Absentmindedly, he stripped the apron off. He snuck back into the kitchen, grabbing a pair of plates and glasses and getting the table set.
Not long after that, she was done. The plates dished themselves, perfect portions of steak, mashed potatoes, and corn working their way to spots on each plate. A pair of small bowls worked their way free from a cupboard and filled themselves with raw, diced carrots.
Brad sat across the small table from Fleur, who was staring at him with loving eyes as the plates set themselves down.
"Thank you," she said, smiling at him.
"For what," Brad muttered in defeat, "you did it all." He had to admit, the portion of tri-tip sitting on his plate looked a lot more appetizing than what had been in his pan. Damn it all.
"I really appreciate you trying," she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. They ate together, Fleur filling him in on how Sara and Eric were doing. Brad asked for a few tips about cooking after that, at which point they were both done eating.
"It's getting late," Fleur mentioned, glancing at the windows and pulling at the band behind her head, releasing her ponytail. She was right, it was getting darker out.
She stood up, reaching to grab his plate, something he wasn't about to allow. He waved her away and reached for hers. "I've got this," Brad said.
Fleur arched an eyebrow for a moment, but handed him her plate. If she was going to cook, he could at least clean.
He brought the dishes to the kitchen and began rinsing them in the sink.
"I can magic them, if you wa-" Fleur started, calling from the dining room, but Brad cut her off. He didn't mean to be rude, but he was going to do something to pull his weight.
"I've got it," he called, "you relax!"
He scrubbed pots clean, plates, silverware...all of it. When he finished that, he scrubbed at the counter and stove, making sure that, if nothing else, the kitchen was immaculate. He might not be a great cook, but he could be useful.
"Brad?" Fleur called from somewhere on the other side of the cottage. He quickly finished drying his hands and forearms and then began to search for her.
"What's u-" Brad's words stopped in his throat at the sight of her, standing with her back against the door of their shared bedroom.
Long hair, now released from the ponytail, framed her beautiful face. Long, sensuous legs stretched from a silk bathrobe which only covered part way down her thighs. It was tied around her waist loosely, fabric at the top relenting to gravity and accentuating her chest.
She didn't say a word, simply beckoned him to follow her to the bedroom. As she did, her skin seemed to glow and he could swear her shimmering hair gently floated around her shoulders, as though underwater. Conscious and articulate thought left him for the night after that.