Author's Note: Woo hoo! Thank you to GraceMonroe for your review! I think it was pretty clear that McGonagall and Dumbledore were last week's MVPs. You'll have to let me know in the comments who this week's MVP spot goes to. ;-)
Also, just a reminder that I will not be posting an update next Friday, as I will be spending the holiday with my family. I hope you all have a great two weeks, and I'll see you December 1st! 3
Chapter Thirty-Three: Firings and Firearms
Mairead was fired from the Diagon Alley Library the next day. Gerald pulled her into his office as soon as she arrived. He was profusely apologetic and claimed that he had advocated hard for her, but that the Board of Trustees had overruled him.
"I understand," she said, forcing a pained smile onto her face. "It's not your fault. Thank you for the opportunity to work here."
She had believed Gerald's line that he had fought the Board's decision, that he did not think her evil. But when she stood to go, Gerald visibly flinched, and Mairead saw his hand jerk towards his wand, which was lying on the desk between them. After spending her entire life being held to account for the actions of her father, Mairead could not say she was surprised. But she was still disappointed.
She chose not to comment on Gerald's moment of cowardice, held her head high, and headed out the door.
None of the other staff would make eye contact with Mairead as she made for the library's exit. Suppressing a sigh, Mairead listlessly dismissed the false notion that seven months' hard work and professional attitude might weigh against her last name in people's minds.
She thought she might go for a walk around town to clear her mind, but once she was outside in Diagon Alley, her vision was immediately assaulted by the Wanted signs that were plastered all over every available wall and lamppost. She was forcibly reminded of the summer before her Seventh Year, when Sirius had escaped Azkaban.
If only they were as innocent as Sirius turned out to be...
Mairead's eye caught on the Wanted sign depicting her father. She felt her shoulders grow tense and her neck prickle with nerves at the sight of him glaring out at her. All at once, she was convinced that he was nearby, watching her. That he had already found her, and he and his ten compatriots were waiting for a vulnerable moment to move in on her.
Mairead spun on the spot, looking around wildly. Her eyes picked out passageways and rooftops, darkened doorways and shadowed windows - anywhere someone could be lying in wait. Her breath was coming in short gasps and she was starting to see black dots swimming in her vision. She had to get out of here.
She stumbled out of the street and into The Leaky Cauldron. She anxiously avoided the eyes of the pub's patrons, but no one seemed to take notice of her. Not for the first time, Mairead thanked her stars that she bore little physical resemblance to her father.
Mairead paused at the door, pulled a hooded cardigan out of her bag, and shoved her cloak inside. She stepped out into Muggle London and at once felt a bit better. Despite how vulnerable all these Muggles were, wandering around without the slightest notion of the calamity that could be winging towards them at that very moment, Mairead felt safer among their numbers than in the wizarding community. At least here she had the benefit of anonymity. She wandered aimlessly, with nowhere to be now that she unexpectedly had the day free. She took the underground a few stops, got off, walked several blocks, hopped on a bus, and got off again some time later, still without a clear plan on where to go. So when she looked up and realized that she had come to the Combat Arts Academy, she laughed to herself in surprise.
Mairead stepped into the entryway and felt herself relax. She walked through the glass double doors and was greeted by a man with floppy, dirty blonde hair who was about her age working at the main desk.
"Hey, Nick," Mairead said, smiling at him. She took a deep breath, breathing in the melange of deodorants and colognes that did not quite manage to cover up the musky undertones of body odor in the air. Nodding towards the largest classroom in the place, from which the sounds of shouted voices and trainers squeaking against the floor could be heard, Mairead asked, "Is Omer going to be done soon?"
Nick glanced up at the large clock on the wall, which, for some unknown reason, was behind bars. "Just about," he said.
Mairead nodded and sat down on one of the hard, plastic chairs lining the wall across from the desk. The question she wanted to ask Omer had been floating around in her head for a while now, but every time she had come close to asking him, she had always been too cowardly in the end. Even now, with circumstances as dire as they had become, Mairead wondered whether she had the guts to ask. As she eyed the clock nervously, watching it tick towards ten o'clock when the first class of the day would let out, she felt her resolve draining away. She nibbled on the dry skin on one of her fingertips, having already bitten her nails down to the quick.
Omer's classes sometimes ran over, and when ten o'clock came and went, it took the last of Mairead's courage with it. She got to her feet, flashed a quick smile at Nick, and headed for the door.
"Didn't you want to see Omer?" asked Nick, looking up from the magazine he was reading.
"Erm, nah," Mairead said. "I'd better be -"
"He's right there - hey, coach!"
Mairead squeezed her eyes shut, wincing when she heard the coach say her name.
"Hey, coach," she said in a pained voice, forcing herself to pivot and face him.
Omer grinned quizzically at her. "I don't usually see you this time of day," he said, pausing to guzzle heartily from a water bottle.
"Yeah..." Mairead said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
"Is it my birthday, or something?" Omer teased. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Telling herself she might not get too many more chances to ask what she wanted to ask, Mairead mustered up some bravery and said, "I was kind of hoping to talk to you?"
"Sure, what's up?" said Omer, slouching on one hip.
Mairead nibbled on her bottom lip. "In your office, maybe?"
Omer's expression and body language shifted subtly. "Yeah, absolutely," he said. "Go ahead on in. I'm just going to grab a towel and I'll meet you in there."
Mairead nodded to Nick, walked behind the desk, and let herself into Omer's office. The room was small and cramped. Two tall file cabinets took up most of one wall, but they seemed to be primarily decorative, since paperwork and file folders were strewn atop them, across Omer's L-shaped desk, and even on the dusty windowsills. The walls were cramped with photos of various classes, students Mairead did not know competing in championships, and a couple of certificates asserting Omer's qualifications. The surface of Omer's desk was completely concealed by paperwork, as well as mugs, a couple of framed photographs of Omer's son, Asher, and an overgrown spider plant that Mairead ached to tend to.
There was barely room between the door and the seat Mairead would sit in, and she knew well enough to wait until the coach had entered to sit in it, because she would just have to stand up again in order to allow the door to swing wide enough for him to come in.
Omer didn't keep her waiting long. He walked in, mopping his face and bare arms with the towel. He closed the door silently behind him, then went and took his seat, draping the towel around his shoulders as he did.
"What can I do for you, O'Keefe?" he asked once he was seated.
Mairead took her seat and immediately began to fidget. "Erm," she mumbled, twisting her fingers together. "Well, d'you know how I've been practicing with firearms for a while now?"
"Yeah," said Omer, eyeing her with his sharp brown eyes.
Mairead swallowed. "Well, y-you've mentioned that I've gotten... erm, somewhat good with them, right?"
"Sure..."
Mairead took a deep breath. "I was... well, I was just... curious, I guess... what, erm, what would be involved in, erm... in like... getting one? Like, to keep? For me?"
Omer watched her in silence for a long while. Mairead pulled her lip into her mouth, then silently scolded herself that this looked weak, so she stopped. Her nose was itching, but she didn't want that to be taken as a sign of nervousness, so she did her best to ignore it. She tried to keep her face neutral while she sat there, subjected to Omer's scrutiny, but it felt like wearing dark clothes while sitting in direct sunlight. She could feel her palms and underarms growing damp.
Finally, after she was certain she would simply shrivel up and die under Omer's assessment, he said, "Well, the first thing you would need to do is to apply for a firearm certificate with the chief of police where you live. You need to provide some photographs of yourself, the names and addresses of two friends who can provide references for you - I can be one, if you'd like - and you'd need to show that you have a 'good reason' for owning a firearm. There's also a background check, obviously, to make sure you don't have a criminal record. Then, the constable would come to your home and you'll have to show him where you intend to store the firearm. It has to be in a secure, locked location."
Mairead's heart began to sink almost as soon as Coach Omer began to speak. Chief of Police? What was that? She didn't even know how to go about getting a Muggle photograph taken of herself. A tinny buzzing started to fill her ears, and it took her a few seconds to notice that Omer had stopped talking and was watching her again. "Oh, okay," she breathed. "Thanks for the information."
She braced her hands on the arms of her chair and began to rise.
"Mairead."
She looked up at Omer, whose expression had shifted to something far more serious.
"Look..." he sighed heavily and rubbed a hand wearily over his face. "People come to the Academy for all sorts of reasons. There are the people who send their kids here to learn discipline, or because they're too hyper. There are the people who come because they're looking to lose a couple stones. There are the fitness freaks, like Nick out there." He paused and shared a wry smile with Mairead, then sobered again. "And then... there are the girls like you."
Mairead looked at him warily. She wasn't sure she liked where this was going.
She said nothing, but Omer nodded and pointed at her. "Yep. They've all got exactly that look you've got on your face right now. Like a feral cat that accidentally got trapped in your basement." He sighed again and shook his head. "Look, I dunno what happened to you - who happened to you, I should say - and I don't imagine you want to tell me. I guess if you wanted to talk about it, you'd see a shrink. But you came here instead, which tells me you don't wanna talk about it; you wanna do something about it."
Mairead looked down, fingers playing with the cracked vinyl cushion of the chair she was on. "I can't do all those things you mentioned," she admitted eventually. "I... I can't wait that long, I..."
"You need to disappear."
Mairead looked up at him, startled. When she had first met Coach Omer, she had been terrified of him. He had no patience for those who faffed about, he did not coddle his students, he had at first appeared to have no sense of humor at all, and he did not tolerate whingeing or excuses. The first couple of months Mairead had come here, she had worked her weak, out-of-shape body so hard that, on more than one occasion, she had thrown up from exertion. She had never expected that in such a battle-hardened warrior, she would find sympathy and true understanding of the urgency of her situation.
"What's changed?" he asked, his voice a low growl, but a gentle one.
There was simply no way Mairead could tell him the whole truth, so she settled for the highlights, which she knew would be understandable to a Muggle. "My father just got out of prison," she said, her own voice lower than usual. "And I'm the one who put him there."
Omer sighed a third time, and then a fourth. "Motherfucker," he muttered under his breath. He let out a frustrated growl and glanced at the closed door behind Mairead. Then, looking deeply conflicted, he leaned forward in his seat, staring at Mairead intently. "When's the next time you close?" he asked in a very low voice, his lips barely moving.
"Friday."
"Can you plan to hang around a bit after? Say an hour or so?"
Mairead's eyebrows rose in disbelief. She nodded.
Omer's jaw tightened until he was almost grimacing. "If you tell anyone about this... you have to swear -"
"I swear!"
"All right," Omer nodded. "Eleven o'clock. Bring a bag. And as much cash as you can get your hands on."
Mairead sat back on her heels and sighed. She was sitting on the floor of her bedroom at Grimmauld Place, Muggle money spread in a semi-circle around her. As soon as she had returned from the Academy, she had brought her bag upstairs and tipped all the contents out onto the floor.
She only found ninety-seven pounds.
After counting the money twice to make sure she hadn't misplaced a few hundred pounds, Mairead went to her car, where she spent the next twenty minutes shoving her fingers into every dusty nook and every crumb-filled cranny, searching for anything she could find. She brought her findings back upstairs, added them to the pile on the floor, and then went through every article of clothing she owned, searching the pockets for loose change.
The fruits of her labor brought her total life savings up to one hundred and four pounds and twenty-three pence.
She needed a drink.
She made her way down to the kitchen and retrieved a butterbeer. She suffered a few minutes' indecision, holding the butterbeer, debating whether she should mix some Firewhisky in with it, before she shook herself out of it and headed back upstairs. How much did a gun cost, anyway? She honestly hadn't the slightest idea. And even if she did, that was the cost of acquiring the thing legally. Surely purchasing one illicitly, as she was certain Coach Omer was helping her to do, would involve significant added costs. For all she knew, Omer could be expecting her to bring thousands of pounds in cash. Perhaps that was why he had suggested a bag. Maybe he wanted a duffel filled with cash, like Mairead had seen in a few Muggle films.
He can't possibly expect that from me, she tried to reason with herself. After all, Omer was the one who had worked out a work/study plan with her. She had told him that she could not afford to take lessons as frequently as he had recommended. He knew she was hurting for money.
"Mairead?"
She was jolted from her thoughts by Remus's soft voice. Looking around, she saw Remus poking his head out of the doorway to the drawing room.
"Oh, sorry, was I being too loud?" she asked, worried she had done something that might disturb the portraits.
"No, no, not at all," said Remus quickly. "I was wondering if you had a few minutes?"
"Oh." said Mairead. "Yeah. Sure."
Remus stepped back and pulled the door open for her. Mairead walked in and set down her butterbeer, grateful she had not given in to the temptation to spike it with whisky. She knew Remus would have been able to smell it and she did not want to give him the impression that she was medicating her problems that way. She had not seen him since she had left him alone with Dumbledore earlier that morning. Thinking about how she had spent the previous day - in Remus's bed, held tightly in Remus's arms, who had faithfully, unwaveringly supported her through the darkest day she had experienced since Cedric had died - made her feel flushed and embarrassed, and she avoided Remus's eyes, opting instead to pick at the red and inflamed skin around her nail beds, which she had been bothering all day.
"How are you doing today?" Remus asked. She didn't have to look at him to envision the concern that must be on his face, the line between his eyebrows.
"Oh, I'm grand, thanks," she said, working a smile onto her face and giving him the briefest of glances. "You?"
Remus's mouth tightened. She knew he did not believe her. "I've been thinking," he said instead of answering her question. "And I wanted to make sure that you are all right with Dumbledore's directive that we resume defense lessons."
"Oh, right, those." Mairead felt her cheeks warming at the thought. On the one hand, she would get to be in Remus's company again, something she desperately craved. As truly horrid as the day before had been, it had also served to solidify in her brain that she missed Remus more than she resented him. But on the other hand, could she go back to being his student after all that had happened?
"I just want to say that I completely understand if you don't want to go back to that... dynamic," Remus said quickly, and, for what felt like the millionth time, Mairead was beset with the feeling that he had read her mind. "I agree with Dumbledore that your continuing to train can only serve to benefit you. But if you don't feel comfortable with me, I can ask Sirius, and I'm sure he would be happy to train you instead. In fact, I bet it wouldn't be too difficult to convince Mad-Eye to work with you. He's an outstanding duelist - far better than me - and I know you know him well... I just want you to know that you have options other than me."
Mairead pulled her bottom lip into her mouth uncertainly. "Do you - are you... d-do you not want to, then?" she asked in a small voice, avoiding his eye. Then, in a sudden frenzy, "I mean - I totally get it if you don't. That's - I mean, it would hardly be a good use of your time. It's not like you or the Order get anything out of it. And plus, it's not your job anymore, so you really shouldn't have to if you don't want to. And I know you're really busy with the Order and over at the Ministry and I know you've taken on extra guard duty shifts with Sturgis in Azkaban and -"
"Mairead."
Mairead broke off, aware now that Remus had said her name several times while she had been rambling.
"That's not what I'm saying at all," he said sincerely. "I would be pleased and honored to teach you again. But I understand and won't be upset if you decide you don't want me to."
"Oh," Mairead breathed, scratching her chin awkwardly. Looking at the ground, she softly said, "No, that... that would be okay with me. If you did it. If it was okay with you."
"It's okay with me."
Mairead's head jerked in a pathetic little nod. "Okay, then."
"Okay."
Mairead chanced a lightning-fast look at him. Something in his tone told her he was teasing her, very slightly, and the almost imperceptible smile playing around his lips confirmed it for her.
"Well," said Remus, suddenly businesslike. "When would you like to start meeting? My schedule is considerably more flexible than it was at Hogwarts. Though there are all those extra guard duty shifts at the Ministry to take into consideration..."
Mairead looked at him again. He was definitely teasing her now. She felt her mouth tug irresistibly upwards into a tiny smile. "Erm," she mumbled, trying to hide her smile behind her hand. "I dunno. D'you want to do Monday and Wednesday evenings, like we used to?"
Remus's brows tugged together. "Don't you work at the Diagon Alley library on Monday evenings?" he asked.
Mairead let out an awkward little laugh. "Aha, well, I used to... but then I got fired this morning, so my schedule's pretty flexible right now, too."
Remus's mouth dropped open. "You were fired?" he asked, agog. "What for?"
"For existing while being an O'Keefe?"
Remus's shoulders slumped. "Mairead, I'm..." he faltered. "I'm so sorry."
She shrugged. "'S fine."
Remus looked at her sadly. "Of course it isn't fine," he said quietly.
Mairead shrugged. "It's not like it's the first time," she said.
Remus frowned. "That doesn't make it better," he said. "Can you go above the head of the person who made this decision? Who is their supervisor?"
Mairead smiled wryly. "The Board made the decision."
Remus's expression darkened. "You would think that a library of all places would be just a touch more open-minded," he said softly but fervently. "How long have you worked there? Is there a union? There must be something -"
Mairead shook her head. "No, really," she said, mustering up a smile. "It's fine. I mean, I... I understand why they did it. They've all got families and they've got to look out for the staff as a whole, not just me. And besides - the Board's job isn't to care about the staff. Not really. They have to safeguard the library, and the public who use the library. And... I mean... just imagine if they were right about me."
"But they're not," Remus argued quietly.
Mairead shrugged again. "Yeah, but imagine if they were," she said. "They don't know they're not right. They don't even know me. I mean, in a way what they did took a lot of courage. If they were right about me, they'd be drawing giant targets on their backs for what they did. They're risking their own safety to protect the staff and the patrons. That's... that's admirable, in a way."
Remus looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment. Eventually, he chuckled under his breath. "You haven't changed a bit, you know," he said fondly.
Mairead wasn't quite sure what to say to this, and so she bit her lip and said nothing.
"Well," Remus said again in an abrupt return to briskness. "If your schedule has opened up, how about we meet three evenings a week instead of only two? Say, Monday, Wednesday, Friday?"
"I can't do Fridays," Mairead reminded him.
"Saturdays, then? We can meet before the Order meetings."
Mairead thought this over and nodded. "That works."
"Excellent."
Silence fell again and hung thick in the air over their heads. "Okay," Mairead said softly. "Th-thank you. I'll just -"
"Mairead."
"...Yes?"
Remus looked away from her, looking troubled. "I... may I say something? I'd... I'd like to - I need to - to say something, if we're to work together again."
Mairead frowned at Remus's uncharacteristic stammering. She looked at him and waited while he gathered his thoughts.
Remus massaged his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. "I am... deeply ashamed of the way I have behaved over the past several... well, months, really. But mostly the past few weeks."
Mairead's eyelids fluttered in surprise. After the breakdown she'd had the previous day, she hardly expected Remus to start apologizing to her. If anything, she felt she should apologize to him.
Remus sighed fretfully. "You have every right to go out with other men," he said. "I had absolutely no right to object, and I had no right to speak to you the way I did."
Mairead fought not to throw up her arms in exasperation. She settled for saying, "It wasn't a date."
"Which brings me to my next point," Remus said with a self-effacing smile Mairead couldn't help but find absolutely lovable. "I should have believed you. Make no mistake: I had no call to be jealous had it actually been a date. But you told me repeatedly that it was not a date, and I didn't believe you. I..." here Remus looked away again. "I thought that you were either lying to spare my feelings, or that you weren't aware that Pye had other ideas. I thought about what happened to you at Hogwarts, with Patrick Daily. And I just... I was suddenly so worried about you. I didn't spare a thought for how insulting and disrespectful I was being. All I could think about was what could happen to you if you found yourself trapped in the home of someone who was determined to have you one way or another. "
Mairead folded her arms protectively around herself. "I learned from Patrick Daily," she said in a low voice.
"You also wiped the floor with Patrick Daily," he added with a small, rueful smile, and Mairead couldn't help the smile that tugged at her own mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, and far, far sadder. "But... I do want to be clear, though, that despite your insistence that it was not a date - which it wasn't!" he clarified when Mairead's eyes flashed. "But if it had been... you still would have been fully within your rights. I have no claim on you. Not least of all because of the way I treated you."
Mairead felt heavy all of a sudden, like her limbs had turned to clay. "What way?" she breathed. She was perfectly well aware of the way he had treated her, but she needed to hear him say it himself.
Remus met her eyes again, and all she saw was regret and sorrow. "I never treated you the way you deserved to be treated," he murmured. "I drew you as close to me as I could, and then I convinced you that you had imagined our intimacy. I insisted on a level of secrecy you were never comfortable with, and then I placed the entire burden of that secrecy on your shoulders. Worst of all, though..." He looked away, then, as though he couldn't hold up under the weight of both her judgment and his own. "I was such a fool. You offered me a place in your life, at your side, and I was too foolish to see that for the gift it was. I was too cowardly to take my place beside you, and I was too proud to see my cowardice for what it was. And in so doing, I made you feel as though your attention and your affections were things to be ashamed of, rather than the precious things to be treasured that they are. I was the sole agent of my downfall, and I deserved what I got whole-heartedly."
Mairead couldn't breathe. She could feel that her eyes were wet, but she was not sure whether she remembered anymore how to lift a hand to dry her tears. Remus finally shook his head and turned his palms upward in a gesture of humility.
"My point is: date or no, I was out of line," he said. "I had no right to interfere the way I did. I had no right to be so condescending. And I had absolutely no right to follow you without your knowledge."
Mairead let Remus's apology wash over her. She had already forgiven him in her mind, but she still could not quite get past the pain he had caused her. She could not let go of what he had said.
As if he had read her mind, in a voice low with shame Remus added, "Most of all, though, I am deeply sorry for what I said about Cedric."
Mairead felt as though she could finally draw a deep breath again at the feeling of the weight of his words lifting off her chest. "You were trying to protect me," she said in a small voice. "Y-you were worried."
"I was jealous," Remus countered in an unforgiving tone. He looked at her then and she could see the self-loathing roiling in his eyes. "I was jealous and I was hurt, and I wanted to hurt you the way I was hurting. I have no excuse. There is no excuse, not for that. Not for using your grief as a weapon against you."
Mairead looked away, blinking to try to clear her vision.
"My point is," Remus said quietly. "I want you to know that I am aware of what I've done... what I've destroyed. I know that I destroyed your trust in me. But Mairead - nothing is more important than your being able to defend yourself. Nothing. And you have to be able to trust the person you're working with. I know that Dumbledore asked me, and I know you said a few minutes ago that you are okay with the idea of working with me, but - while I won't deny that I would very much like to work with you again - I would much rather you work with someone you trust."
Mairead tightened her arms around herself. She still felt entirely raw from the previous day, and recalling how vicious things had gotten between herself and Remus made the pain sharp and vivid again as if it had only just happened. But she had also said things she hadn't meant. She also had a sharp tongue, far sharper than Remus's - or at least, she was much quicker to use it than he was. And, brilliant though she knew Remus to be, when she considered all that had happened the previous day, and the way he had single-handedly gotten her through, she knew that his assessment of the situation was wrong.
"I still trust you."
Remus's eyes snapped to hers. Studying his face, Mairead saw surprise and doubt, but also hope. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves and muster up her bravado, Mairead stepped towards him, and extended her hand.
"Friends?"
Remus stared at her outstretched hand, his mouth partially open in surprise. Then, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a crooked smile, he reached out and accepted her handshake.
"Friends."
At eight o'clock that evening, Mairead stood outside the drawing room, twisting her fingers around themselves and trying to work up the courage to walk inside. Her stomach had been in knots for the past three hours, her nervous excitement taking up increasingly more space inside her head until she could not think of anything else.
She was going to be meeting with Remus. He was going to teach her again. Just the thought made a blush explode on her face. They were going to be working together, side-by-side, the way they had used to. She had often recalled over the past two years the many sweet memories of sitting next to him at his desk, flipping through books, mumbling half-formed thoughts to one another, scribbling down ideas on the same piece of parchment, sometimes even using the same quill, their handwriting mingling on the page in a closeness the pathetically lovesick, definitely hormonal Mairead had wished she and the other writer could have imitated themselves.
And then there were the practice sessions themselves. Mairead had faced Remus across a room more times than she could count, and yet she had always gotten a nervous thrill from it. It was a kind of attention he had given none of his other students, even if it was adversarial in nature, if not in intent. She wondered what it would be like to duel him now; whether the malice and hurt feelings would make their way into their duels.
Or whether the passion they had shared would make an appearance.
She told herself to get a grip. They had reconciled only a few hours earlier. They were friends at best, though she doubted whether either of them was actually ready to resume a friendship. There was absolutely no reason to read anything more into this than was on the surface. Mairead's life was in danger. Remus was trying to give her her best chance of survival. And he wasn't even doing it of his own volition, but because Dumbledore had instructed him to. Remus was following Dumbledore's orders, just as he had been doing at school. Nothing had changed.
Mairead took a deep breath, let it out through pursed lips, and reached for the doorknob. But her stubborn heart still fluttered unsteadily in her throat.
The room was empty.
Mairead couldn't help but laugh breathlessly.
"Late, as always," she murmured to herself.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry."
Mairead let out a small yelp and whipped around. She must have looked scared out of her wits, because Remus stopped short, looking guilty.
"Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Mairead quickly forced a smile and shook her head, trying to save face. "No, sorry, I just didn't mean for you to hear that."
Remus considered her for a moment, then mercifully decided to let it go. "I've been looking everywhere for a book I wanted to go over with you," he said, continuing on into the room. "I thought I had it here with me, but it must be at home."
"In Yorkshire?" Mairead asked. Remus hummed and nodded. Mairead had always been curious about Remus's house. When they had been... whatever they had been, Mairead had hoped fiercely that he would take her there one day. She couldn't imagine anything better than an entire house made up of things that belonged to Remus. More than once, she had imagined nestling herself down into a burrow of Remus's things, like a little dragon guarding her clutch of eggs, or a niffler that was only attracted to Remus's possessions.
"Oh, well," said Remus, breaking Mairead's reverie. "We'll have to make do without it." He pulled his jumper off over his head, mussing his hair and revealing a light blue button down Mairead loved. She averted her eyes, feeling a twinge of awkwardness as though she had seen him shirtless.
Which she had. But now he was her teacher again so she should probably - no, definitely - not be thinking about his chest, lovely as it was.
Oh, Lord.
Remus pulled out his wand and glanced over at Mairead. "I think we could do with a little more light in here," he said, looking around.
Mairead nodded and pulled out her own wand. They drifted to opposite sides of the room and lit the lamps, working their way towards each other, just like they had used to do in the History of Magic classroom back at Hogwarts. When they met on either side of the fireplace, their eyes met briefly. Remus's expression was unreadable, but he was watching Mairead in such a way that somehow made her feel certain that he was remembering their old rituals, too.
"I think the best use of our time tonight would be to assess where you are with your dueling skills at present," he said. "Nothing too strenuous," he added with a small smile at the flash of trepidation that must have shown on Mairead's face. "Perhaps just a few short bouts. From there we can develop a more targeted plan. What do you think?"
Mairead tried to say, "Okay," but it just came out as a tiny squeak. She settled for nodding instead.
"Let's move some of this furniture out of the way," Remus suggested, turning back to consider the room. "It'll give us more space to work."
If this were old times, Mairead would have said something about how the furniture would break his fall when she blasted him off his feet, and he would have laughed and said something about how she shouldn't worry; there would still be plenty of places for her to sit down when she wanted a break from losing.
Instead, she ducked her head shyly and carefully used to her wand to guide an armchair over to the back wall.
By the time a large space had been cleared in the middle of the room, Mairead's heart was pounding with nerves. What would it be like, facing Remus again? Mairead hadn't gone to the Dueling Club in half a year. Surely she was going to get her arse handed to her; that much was unquestionable. But how disappointed would Remus be in her? Would she be able to see it on his face? Or worse, would she not be able to tell what he was thinking at all?
Remus cleared his throat quietly. "Ready?"
Mairead tried to take a deep breath, but it caught uncomfortably in her throat. "Yep," she said hoarsely.
Remus walked backwards away from her, saluting her with his wand as he went. Mairead returned his salute, gripping her fingers tight around her wand so that she wouldn't drop it like she had done when facing Moody. She wondered if Moody had told Remus about that. She hoped not. The memory was quite embarrassing enough without the added humiliation of Remus knowing about -
Remus flicked his wand, and Mairead went flying backwards. She hadn't even begun to collect her thoughts.
"Sorry," she gasped, pushing herself to her feet and blushing furiously.
Remus smiled mildly and waited for her to get back into position. Mairead willed her mind to find the flow she needed. Getting into the rhythm of dueling felt sort of like lowering a boat into moving water. It was an already existent stream that she was adding a still object to, getting up to speed and matching it. She had gotten used to this flow in Dueling Club. By the time she had stopped going, slipping into the stream had become almost as easy as blinking.
Remus raised his arm, and Mairead raised hers, watching his wand. He flicked it towards her right shoulder. She shifted to guard it, only to have his spell hit her in the abdomen instead. She stumbled backwards, doubled over and gasping for breath.
She straightened with an effort, avoiding Remus's eyes. "I'm sorry I'm so rusty," she apologized again.
Remus waved his back hand dismissively. "Don't worry," he said. "You're just getting warmed up."
Mairead sighed and scratched the back of her neck. "'Kay," she mumbled. Even the back of her neck felt warm from embarrassment.
Get a grip! she scolded herself. He's Remus! You know how to duel him!
Yeah, but it's kind of hard to duel somebody I can't even bring myself to look at, she argued back at herself.
All at once, it clicked in Mairead's brain that this was precisely the problem. Moody had identified her ability to read her opponent as her greatest strength in dueling, and she was letting her shyness of Remus get in the way of that.
Determination lending her boldness, Mairead locked eyes with Remus as he raised his wand again. She moved her hand just in time. For the first time, she stayed on her feet. She was so relieved that she took too long to counterattack, and Remus stepped into the void. She twisted her body and felt the spell sail past her. She could feel the strength of his spell; it made her hair wave as it went by. It also brought her attention to the fact that she was not in proper dueling stance, but rather the defensive stance she would adopt in hand-to-hand combat. In one move, she corrected her body and sent a spell towards Remus. He easily blocked the spell but his face broke into a wry smile.
"Thank you," he said emphatically, gesturing at her improved stance.
"Yeah, we'll see if you're thanking me later when you're picking yourself up off the floor."
The heckle came out before she realized what she was going to say. She could tell that Remus was startled. His eyes widened and a surprised laugh bubbled out of him. Mairead took the opportunity and, with a flick of her wrist like she was trying to get an insect off the tip, she caught Remus off-guard and sent him stumbling backwards when her spell hit him.
Mairead paused, her wand lowered while Remus righted himself. Remus's eyes flashed with excitement, and just like that, it was as if no time had passed.
As one, they raised their wand arms. Spells flew through the air. Mairead made liberal use of the few blocking spells she and Remus had managed to come up with that were within her reach, as well as a couple of others she had learned since they had last worked together. Remus never sent anything dangerous her way. Rather, anything that hit her either knocked her backwards or caused her mild inconvenience. For Mairead's part, since any baneful magic was not within her powers, she chose from a range of spells that were designed to delay and distract. They circled the room, wands a blur and never taking their eyes off one another as they volleyed spells back and forth.
In the end, it was the environment that toppled Mairead. Literally. She tripped over an ottoman and landed in an undignified heap on the floor.
Remus immediately stepped forward to help her, offering her his hand. He easily hauled her to her feet, and Mairead saw a broad smile on his face. His lips moved, but Mairead could not hear him over the sound of dozens of bells ringing and whistles blowing, which she had conjured and directed to float in a circle around his head in an attempt to take his attention off their battle.
"WHAT?" she bellowed over the sound.
Remus laughed, his eyes dancing. He flicked his wand and the noise stopped. "I said you have improved significantly since we last dueled," he said.
Mairead's eyebrows shot up. "Err, are you sure about that?" she questioned.
"I'm positive," said Remus, smiling confidently.
Mairead rolled her eyes. "Okay," she said with heavy skepticism.
Remus chuckled. "Your ability to accept positive feedback, on the other hand," he said, grinning teasingly as he walked back to the opposite side of the room, "is, I am very sorry to say, as dismal as it ever was."
Mairead's mouth twitched towards a smile, which she fought down. "Another go?" she asked.
"Yes, I think so."
Dueling had used to terrify Mairead. She remembered how nervous she had been before facing Remus for her very first duel. Even after a year's hard work in the Dueling Club, she still struggled with nerves when stepping up to the dueling line, particularly against a new opponent. But dueling Remus? Dueling with Remus was fun. He was unquestionably far better than she was, but he was also clever and creative, and had a fantastic sense of humor. Some of her favorite memories of dueling him were from times when she had pulled out a spell so outlandish that they had both had to stop until they could get their laughter under control.
With this in mind, Mairead couldn't help but show off a few of the sillier spells she had come up with that he had not seen her use before. Sure enough, Remus was clearly amused. He still clobbered Mairead, but by the time he called out for them to stop, he was surrounded by a carpet of banana peels, there were flowers growing all over his clothing, and Mairead had charmed all the cushions in the room to lob themselves repeatedly at his head and stomach.
"That was the weirdest fucking duel I've ever seen in my life."
Mairead and Remus both looked towards the doorway (Mairead hoped Remus did not hear her small yip of surprise) and saw Sirius standing there, elegantly leaning against the door frame, watching them with his arms folded.
Remus laughed and plucked a daisy off the sleeve of his shirt. "Effective, though," he said, offering the flower to Mairead, who felt a blush explode on her face. "You try dueling when you've got tulips poking you in the face."
"Your hair is green, Moony," Sirius commented casually.
"Is it?" Remus asked, looking up and pulling a longer lock of hair into his line of sight. "So it is." He tapped the top of his head and restored it to its usual light brown flecked with grey.
"I was going for turning your skin green and missed," said Mairead, scratching her ear.
"Your arm hair's green, too," Sirius said, pointing.
"Yeah, it's, erm... it's going to be green everywhere," Mairead admitted, shuffling her feet awkwardly.
Remus's eyebrows rose. "Everywhere?" he asked significantly.
Mairead winced. "...Yeah. Everywhere."
Remus gave a little sigh. "I'll take care of it later, I think." He checked his watch. "I think we should call it a night. Well done, Mairead."
Mairead shrugged bashfully, her shoulders coming up by her ears. "Sorry about your hair," she mumbled self-consciously. "And the flowers. And the cushions."
Remus cocked an eyebrow. "And the banana peels?"
"No," she said, feeling her mouth tug upwards in a shy smile. "I'll never apologize for the banana peels."
The next morning, Mairead was lying awake in bed, watching the ceiling slowly lightening as the sun rose. She had awoken from her third nightmare of the night, and decided to give up on sleep. She was listening to the rain hitting her windowpane, willing the steady tapping to soothe her anxiety, when she heard a different kind of tapping on the glass.
Sitting up, she saw an owl perched outside, tapping her beak on the window. Mairead hurried over to the window and let the owl inside. The owl fluffed her feathers before extending her leg to Mairead. Once Mairead had unfastened the string and relieved the owl of her burden, the owl flew to the top of Mairead's bureau and began running her beak through her feathers.
Mairead lit the lamp underneath her window and stood next to it, unfurling the parchment. She immediately recognized Ansel's handwriting.
Dear Mairead,
I hope this letter gets to you quickly. I am writing with The Daily Prophet in front of me. I'm so sorry, May. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am.
I expect you've already made plans to get out of town, but before you do anything drastic, I wanted to see if you would be interested in coming to Paris. The Embassy has a few positions open right now. There was something of an exodus following a speech that Dumbledore made before the British Wizengamot last July. I don't know if you read about it in the Prophet or anything, but it caused quite a bit of divisiveness within the Ministry, and the ramifications are rippling across Europe even now.
Regardless, like I said, there are multiple openings, and I would of course enthusiastically recommend you for anything you might be interested in. A couple of them are high up enough that you would be assigned a security detail, so you would have far less to worry about in terms of your personal safety.
I really hope you'll take this into consideration, Mairead. I love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you. Feel free to hang onto this owl until you have an answer to send back to me.
Love,
Ansel
P.S. If you're worried about not speaking the language, don't. I heard somewhere that "Mairead" is French, so you'll fit right in.
Mairead let out a surprised guffaw when she read the postscript. She nibbled on her bottom lip and re-read Ansel's letter. Her immediate thought was that this sounded too good to be true. Her secondary thought was that this obviously was too good to be true. She had just been fired from a position stamping and shelving books because of her last name. How did she expect to get a job that was sensitive enough she'd have her own security detail? It wasn't like she had any special skills to bring to the table.
On the other hand, Ansel said that he would vouch for her. He knew of her limitations perfectly well. He was not the type to set her up for failure, or to put her up for something he didn't think she could do. Mairead smiled reluctantly, picturing the stony look of disapproval that would be on Ansel's face right now if he could hear her self-doubts.
And besides, getting out of the country sounded like a pretty good idea at the moment. Mairead glanced up at the owl. She had tucked her chin down into her breast and gone to sleep. Mairead decided to take the morning to think things over and send her answer back when the owl awoke.
Mairead brought the letter downstairs with her, thinking that she might ask Remus or Sirius's advice. She was leaning heavily towards going to Paris when she opened the door to the kitchen. Remus and Sirius were already inside. Remus was sitting at the table pouring steaming water into three mugs and Sirius was standing by the stove, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder. The two were chatting quietly, and as Mairead watched, Remus said something in a wry voice that made Sirius laugh his characteristic bark. Sirius twisted around to look at Remus and saw Mairead hovering in the doorway.
"Hey, there she is!" Sirius called, his face breaking into a broad grin. Remus looked up and smiled at her, his grey eyes warm and gentle.
"Good morning, May," he said. "Cup of tea?"
"I made breakfast," said Sirius, beginning to scoop something red and gloppy out of a pan and slop it onto the three plates on the counter beside him. "I really think this one is going to be a hit. I call it Eggs Pizza."
Mairead shared a doubtful look with Remus.
"Sounds grand," she said. Remus arched a brow at her and it was all she could do to stifle a giggle.
Sirius brought the three plates over and set them down at each of the three place settings.
"Oh, my God," said Remus, looking down at the contents of the plate. He sent Sirius a repulsed look. "Padfoot. Please don't do this to me."
"Do what?" countered Sirius. His bottom had just touched his seat when he leapt up as though he had sat on a nail. "Wait!" he cried. "I forgot the pepperoni!"
Mairead clapped a hand over her mouth. Remus looked from the Eggs Pizza to Mairead.
"Toast?" he suggested. Mairead nodded.
"Yes, please."
Remus prepared himself and Mairead two plates of toast and marmalade while Mairead fixed Remus's tea for him the way he liked it. Sirius tried one bite of the Eggs Pizza, declared it a bad job, and had a breakfast of toast he swiped off Remus's and Mairead's plates, and slices of pepperoni. Mairead nibbled on her toast and watched Remus and Sirius banter back and forth.
She decided she would write back to Ansel and tell him thanks, but no thanks.
On Friday night, Mairead drummed her fingertips on the top of the desk and shot another glance up at the caged clock on the wall. She had shown the last of the burliest, loudest stragglers out ages ago, at which point the clock had promptly slowed down to a quarter its usual speed, leaving Mairead shifting anxiously in her seat and chewing the ends of her hair (an old habit she'd thought she'd broken years ago) while she waited for eleven o'clock.
She had briefly seen Coach Omer when he had strolled out of one of the classrooms, chatting with a few of his students, looking completely relaxed and like he wasn't about to facilitate an illegal firearms deal. But since then he had disappeared into the cluttered storeroom and had not emerged.
Mairead had tried to keep herself calm throughout the evening by taking deep breaths and drinking from her water bottle, but all this had accomplished was that she desperately needed a pee. When she couldn't wait any longer she slipped away from the desk, vowing to make this the quickest trip to the loo in recorded history.
Finally, at eleven o'clock on the dot according to the caged clock on the wall, Coah Omer emerged from the storeroom.
"Ready?" he asked, his face expressionless.
Mairead nodded, wiping the palms of her hands on her denims.
"Get your bag."
Mairead picked up the bag she had brought with her and showed it to him wordlessly. In a last ditch effort to scrape together enough money, she had gone to Gringotts the day before and drained her account, converting the Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts she had been saving since Hogwarts into Muggle money. Omer jerked his head in the direction of the storeroom and Mairead followed him down the corridor. He stood back and nodded for her to go inside.
A man stood inside the room, clad all in black and watching her with a menacing expression that made Mairead stop short. How did he even get in here? Mairead wondered to herself. He certainly hadn't come in the front entrance, unless he had been hiding out in this stockroom all day.
"Relax, he won't bite," Coach Omer said from behind her, nudging her to continue into the room. "Not unless the situation calls for it, anyway."
The room was small, crowded, and stuffy, and Mairead immediately felt claustrophobic, especially when Coach Omer closed the door behind them, closing off most of the light and leaving them with just a single, bare light bulb dangling from a chain affixed to the ceiling.
"Hear you're in the market for a weapon," the man said, his voice a low growl that sounded as dangerous as he looked. He reminded Mairead of someone, but she couldn't quite put her finger on whom.
"Erm," was all Mairead managed to squeak out, looking wide-eyed over her shoulder at Omer.
The man looked at her, a mixture of pity and scorn on his face. He shifted his gaze over the top of Mairead's head to Omer and said, "You sure you wanna vouch for this chick, David?"
"I told you, she needs it," Omer said evenly.
The man looked back at her and said, "Your daddy just got out of prison, that right? Scared he's gonna come after you?"
"He will," Mairead said. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but her certainty lent her conviction.
The man exchanged another glance with Coach Omer, who shrugged and gave him a significant look. The man sighed. "Think he'll bring his friends?"
Mairead looked sharply at the man. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean, do you think he'll come for you alone or will he bring some cronies?" the man said, folding his arms.
"Oh." Mairead's shoulders relaxed, just a touch. For one tense moment, she had thought the man somehow knew about the other Death Eaters who had escaped alongside her father. "I'm not sure. He might bring friends."
The man nodded. He bent over and grabbed a large case that had been sitting at his feet and hauled it onto the table. "Well, for crowd control, my favorite is this baby." He snapped open the clasps and lifted the lid of the case. Inside was an array of parts Mairead had trouble even recognizing as a firearm. But within seconds, the man had joined all the pieces together with a series of clicks and snaps that managed to sound both satisfying and terrifying at the same time. "The Striker Twelve," he announced as though introducing Mairead at a social gathering.
The finished product was a gun that looked to Mairead like a rifle with a beer belly. Her mouth hung open in dismay. This was not at all what she had had in mind when she had asked Omer about buying her own gun.
Fortunately, this also did not seem to be what Omer had had in mind, either. "What?!" he exclaimed, staring at the man, who was now holding the gun in his arms like a beloved pet cat. "A Street Sweeper?! Why the hell would you bring her a Street Sweeper?!"
"It's a great gun," the man said unabashedly.
Omer scoffed. "That is debatable," he shot back, putting his hands on his hips and looking thoroughly unhappy with the other man. "Street Sweepers are junk. And what is she supposed to do with it, anyway? Tuck it into her purse? If you were going to bring her an enormous piece, why not just bring her a MAC-Eleven or a TEC-Nine? At least they're good guns."
"You said she was a novice," the man replied, still cradling the Street Sweeper lovingly. "She'd need to modify the MAC-Eleven or the TEC-Nine to get it to fire automatically. Granted, she could just use a paper clip, but she'd still have to know what she's doing."
Omer threw up his hands. "Oh, as opposed to this, which she can just pull out of the box and start shooting with? Look at her! She'd get knocked on her arse the minute she pulled the trigger!"
"She wouldn't have to pull the trigger," the man said placatingly. "Her dad and his lot come for her, all's she's got to do with this is pull it out and hold it the right way. If they know their arses from a tea kettle they'll head for the hills."
Omer sighed and massaged his face roughly with both hands. "A handgun," he said in a voice of forced patience. "She needs a handgun. Something discreet. Something she can tuck into her bag, or her belt, or on a holster under a jacket."
The man looked disappointed, but reluctantly disassembled the Street Sweeper and tenderly tucked each piece back into its foam slot in the hard plastic shell. He put this case on the floor and reached for another one. When he opened the second case, Mairead felt a wash of relief. At least she had seen weapons like these before.
The man reached for one that almost looked like a toy gun and pulled it out. "Here," he said, looking slightly sulky as he jutted the gun towards Mairead. "Nine millimeter. Semi-automatic."
Mairead took the gun and was pleasantly surprised at how it felt in her hand. It was far lighter than the handguns she had practiced with on the shooting range. She liked the way the weight was distributed across her hand. It felt like it would be far easier to aim and operate than the ones she was accustomed to using.
Unfortunately, Omer did not approve. He made a noise of discontentment. "No, give her the Three Fifty-Seven," he said, pointing at another gun in the case. "That's what she's been trained on."
The man looked at Omer like he had just announced he was the Queen of England. "She's a novice and you gave her a Magnum?" he questioned. "Were you trying to break her wrist?" Turning to Mairead, he said, "After the Three Fifty-Seven, shooting with a Nine is going to be a dream."
Mairead stayed silent, but she couldn't help but agree with the man. She had always struggled with the weight of the revolver Omer had given her to practice with. She had gotten used to the recoil by now, but she recalled how she had thought her teeth were going to shatter inside her mouth when she had first started shooting with one.
"Nines are too fiddly," Omer insisted. "Unless they're manufactured pristinely, they're prone to jamming. She can't afford to have a gun that misfires."
"They're not prone to jamming," the other man argued. "They're prone to being mistreated by ignorant gun owners. Most people don't take the time to care for them like they should. As long as the Nine is properly cleaned and regularly maintained, it's the best handgun available."
"She's a beginner," Omer said yet again, clapping the back of one hand into the palm of his other for emphasis. "She doesn't know how to properly clean and maintain a handgun."
"Well, she should learn!" the man growled. It finally clicked in Mairead's brain who he reminded her of.
Muggle Mad-Eye Moody, she thought, and had to fight down an inopportune giggle.
"Yeah, that's great and all, but she kind of has to be alive in order to learn," Omer said irritably. "She needs something that's going to work every time, no matter the circumstances. She needs a Three Fifty-Seven."
The man rolled his eyes, but said, "Have it your way, then," and pulled the Nine out of Mairead's hand. He gestured at one corner of the case, where several revolvers lay in their foam beds. "Take your pick, David."
Omer considered the options, and then selected a smaller handgun than the one Mairead had practiced on. He handed it over to Mairead. "It's a bit smaller than Dirty Harry," he said, referring to their shared nickname for the gun Mairead had used at the range. "But I think that would actually be good for you. You've got small hands, and you also want to be able to conceal this, I imagine."
"That's not the gun Dirty Harry used," the man said. "He used a Forty-Four Magnum by Smith and Wesson."
"Yeah, but he swapped it for a Three Fifty-Seven Colt Python in Magnum Force," Omer said, like they were discussing Quidditch scores.
Which also would have gone over Mairead's head.
Mairead took the handgun and examined it. The barrel was much shorter than Dirty Harry, and she found that the weight distributed itself a little more naturally as a result. She nodded up at Omer. Then, looking at the man, she asked, "How much does this one cost?"
Omer held up a hand before the man could answer. "I'll take care of it, Mairead."
Mairead opened her mouth in surprise. "But -"
Omer looked at her sympathetically. "How much did you manage to scrounge together?" he asked shrewdly.
Mairead's mouth twitched. "About three hundred pounds," she said softly. She doubted very much that the money she had scraped together would be enough. Her suspicions were confirmed by the derisive snort the man let out.
Omer nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. "Use it to get out of town," he said softly. "I'll take care of this."
Mairead wasn't sure whether it was her Irish roots or her Catholic upbringing, but the concept of letting him pay for the gun - the gun he had undoubtedly broken several laws and endangered his career and his family's financial security in order to put into her hands - did not sit well with her at all. "I can't," she said, handing it back. "I can't let you buy it for me."
"Mairead -"
"No. I'm sorry. No." Mairead turned to the man and bowed her head. "Thank you. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
She made to squeeze past Omer, but the man spoke before she could reach the door.
"Goddammit," he hissed. "Fine! I'll take the three hundred for it. Jesus Christ."
Mairead looked over her shoulder warily. "I don't want your charity, sir," she said respectfully but firmly.
The man took a deep breath and held it in his chest, then let it out explosively. "It isn't charity," he admitted begrudgingly. "It's stolen. I didn't pay anything for it." At the look Omer was giving him, he defensively added, "I filed the registration number off!"
"You were going to let her pay you a thousand pounds for a gun you nicked?" he muttered.
"She's paying for the convenience," the man shrugged, no sign of shame in his expression.
Omer was not amused. "You'll take two hundred for it and leave her a hundred to get out of town with," he said, folding his arms.
"Two hundred?!" the man yelped, his dark and dangerous persona more than a little dampened by his indignation. "I could've gotten at least five for this piece. At least. I'm already doing her a favor."
"I'll pay the three hundred," said Mairead readily. "I don't want any more favors than have already been done for me." She opened the zipper on her bag, reached in, and pulled out the wad of cash she'd secured with a hair elastic, the only thing she'd had on hand. "It's all there," she said, handing it over.
The man accepted the cash greedily and thumbed through the notes. "These non-sequential bills?" he asked.
Mairead frowned. "Huh?"
"Never mind," Coach Omer said firmly. He reached back into the case, plucked out the small revolver, and handed it back to Mairead. "You know how to load it?" he asked softly.
Mairead nodded. "Yes, sir."
Omer looked over her shoulder, then reached for something on a shelf behind her head. The box he took down rattled in his hand when he turned it towards the dim light bulb to examine the label. "These will work in it," he said, handing the box over to Mairead. "Remember: you only get six shots per round. Make 'em count. Make 'em hurt."
Mairead forced a tight smile, feeling emotional. "Will do, Coach," she said, her throat hurting as she spoke.
Coach Omer reached out and clasped her shoulder, looking solemnly into her eyes. "Take care of yourself, O'Keefe."
Mairead nodded. "Thank you, Coach," she whispered.
Coach Omer released her shoulder and shoved open the door. As Mairead hefted her bag onto her shoulder and walked out the door, the last thing she heard was the other man sullenly remark, "The Striker Twelve would've gotten her twelve shots per round."
Author's Note: Thank you all for reading! Oh, and just in case there was any confusion, I wanted to point out that handguns were not outlawed in England until 1997, and so, to the best of my knowledge, the information Omer gave Mairead about how she could legally procure a handgun was accurate circa January 1996. :) Anyway, I'm so curious to know whether Remus's apology cut the mustard for you, or if you all still hate him, lol.