Afternoon, Outer Hebrides[ dragon reservation


Balfour Spectre glanced at his pocket watch before slipping it back into the pocket of his work robes. Technically this wasn't on department time - but he had listed it as having hired an 'external advisor' for the matter of newly born Hebridean Blacks on the reservation. Nobody was better at advising than Margo anyway. These were the third round of vaccinated bairns introduced to their natural environment since she and Vincent had returned from Australia with the answers to their epidemic problem.

... outside of that, nothing but an excuse to check on some cute baby dragons.

Still too young for the outdoors, the wee ones were in one of the larger bothies, lower down on the hill upon which Balfour now waited. This peak was one of the few places a person could apparate to; the reservation was mostly protected. It was a good place to start bringing the bairns outside.

And the day's weather, cloudy but not too windy, would be good for it. A loud POP! behind Bal was as sure a sign as any that Margo had arrived. He looked over his shoulder with a friendly smile.

"Finally. Are you ready to see the cute bastards?"

Margo did not usually apparate.  It was only by the skin of her teeth that she’d even passed her apparation test the third time around… but she decided to risk it.  When she’d gotten the invite to go see the hatchlings, well…

As much as she took to her new circumstances at Death & Co, there was a significant portion of her that did miss being outside.  For one, she saw significantly less sunlight.  For another, it just didn’t have the same… impact.  It was definitely less dangerous and required far less coordination, but the edge was something she missed.  And that was what drove her to risk splinching. 

Landing on shaking feet, her arms out to balance her, Margo wobbled for a moment before she got her bearings.  Everything was almost just as she remembered it, once she got her steady vision back.  A smile crept over her face as she straightened her back and took an even wider view of everything.

A breeze brushed her cheek; she heard a fire stream in the distance. She missed it so much the bones she had left ached.  “As ever,” Margo quipped in response – not one to stall or take the time to process.  “Lead the way, Spectre!” 

He laughed lightly at her enthusiasm, pleased to see this version of Margo - not the one that tamed the many wild patrons of Death & Co, but the one he'd known first and foremost. Dragon Handler. Friend. Adventurer. If he could have her back on level four.... Balfour would do it in a heartbeat, for sentiment just as much as for skill.

"The lady commands me to lead, so I shall lead!" he exclaimed and beckoned her to follow him down the grassy slope: it was still damp from a light drizzle earlier that morning, but Bal had chosen one of the less steep routes descending into the vast valley below.

It would be easier for Margo, and would give him time to point out all the little changes in the reservation since she'd last seen it. "It's a new bothy!" Balfour explained, pointing to where the ground levelled out by a stream that coursed down from a different hill. A large stone cottage slept peacefully by the water.

"Five bairns, all healthy, mother's being mended elsewhere - she had a wee bit trouble carrying them but nothing too serious," he glanced around the isle, keeping a careful eye out for telltale figures of other dragons but finding none. "There's a Horntail somewhere around here, carrying her own brood. Nidhug's kin[1], had a bloody good time with one of the Hebrideans."

By bloody good time, of course, he meant that she'd nearly ripped off her mate's right wing.

Balfour grinned at Margo, slowing down as they began to approach the bottom of the hill. "I'm thinking about naming the crossbreed. Hebridean Spectre! What do you think?" he raised an eyebrow. "Too much?"

1.	Balfour's favourite dragon, who died in the epidemic (Feb 3rd).

Margo followed the line of his extended hand to the bothy below as they started to descend.  It certainly was new!  She glanced downward frequently, not wanting to misstep (a common problem for the witch in even the most mundane of settings).  Her mind was only half on Balfour as they navigated down the incline.

In the old days, when she’d be running up and down these hills with plaited hair tucked away to avoid snags, she’d have insisted they go the fastest way.  Now, however, she had vastly different concerns these days – mostly not falling on her face and cracking her skull open on a rock.  She had things to do – babies to see! 

Margo wasn’t the sort of soft girl who cooed over all manner of small things, of course – only the scaly ones, so she was definitely looking forward to this.  Lifting her head to see how far left they had to go left, she caught the end bit of his commentary – a crossbreed?  Her eyes widened and she snorted loudly – it nearly echoed off the hills.  “Aren’t they typically named after a fallen colleague,” Margo motioned to herself less than subtly, “you know: in memoriam,” she laughed again. 

“To tell the truth, I’m right jealous,” she admitted with a quirked smile, “especially of how full of yourself you get to be.  Especially because then I’ll have to put it on my menu… and you know that’d kill me.”  So unfortunately accurate. 

            "...you know: in memoriam," quipped Margo.

Balfour laughed, his usually booming voice sounding small in the vast spaces of the Hebrides. There wasn't yet a dragon born who had earned Margo's name - but if he ever came across one with a missing wing or claw, it might be worthy of his good friend. She rattled on as the ground began to level out, the pair making their way towards the cottage.

"You could make it a shite drink, if it's any consolation!" he turned around to throw her a wink, walking backwards now with hands in his robe pockets. "Anyway, I am naming it after a fallen comrade. On paper anyway. My uncle Matheson[1], don't you know?"

The Scotsman raised his eyebrows, "Before our time, got his head bit off by a nasty Vipertooth."

It was, in some ways, a death that many a beast handler would have heard of if not expected. Some might have called it an honour to go in the line of duty. Balfour himself was not fond of an abrupt end, at least not these days. There was still so much he wanted to do!

He turned back around as they neared the bothy, and reached for the heavy door that stood out starkly against the structure's roughly hewn walls. Balfour pushed it open and felt the cold air outside give way to an almost balmy indoor heat.

"You're looking cosy, Fournier." Bal grinned at the sight of his colleague, sat on a wooden stool by a large fire that had been built in a hearth in the middle of the room. He was wearing ragged jumper, backpack already slung on his back. "We'll take over now."

Far more endearing than Vincent, of course, was the sight of five dragon bairns, sprawled about the stone floors in various poses - some getting to their feet, some dozing, another inching closer to a half-full bucket of chicken blood and brandy. Vincent got up with a grunt; ready to make the trek to the apparation point.

            "Mind the small one," he warned as he shook Bal's hand and then gave Margo a quick hug, "She's starting to breathe fire already, that one."

1.	Balthair's sixth child, whose death had put off most Spectres from going into dragon handling.

 “And ruin my pub’s reputation?” Margo scoffed and rolled her eyes with extreme exaggeration.  “I’d sooner lop off my other leg,” she added to underscore the seriousness of her statement.  Margo may not have been a fancy woman, but she had a lot of pride.  Most of it was wrapped up in her bar at the moment. 

Though, a lot of it could have also been in being decapitated by a vipertooth.  That sounded like the way to go.  It’d be fast, at least.  She’d thought she was going to die twice so far.  She hoped it wasn’t like American baseball (she’d thank Nate for that knowledge later): three strikes and she would be out.  She sorely hoped that whatever it was that did take her out, did it fast.  No more fires, if she could help it.  They were bloody hell to recover from, as she had learned.

Trotting awkwardly along behind, Margo couldn’t help but hold her breath a little as Balfour tugged on the door and a burst of heat hit her in the face.  It was something she’d desperately missed without even realizing it.  Maybe it was why she liked hanging about the kitchen at the pub so much when she wasn’t busy with the customers. 

She greeted Vincent quickly, but was immediately taken with the dragons.  They were the greatest things she had ever seen! Approaching the stone boundary that kept the wee ones within safe confines, Margo restrained herself enough to keep the squeaking to a minimum and instead elected to cover her mouth and just stare at them for a second.

The distraction of a hug was enough to pull her attention… at least momentarily… away.  “I’m standing right here, Mate, you don’t have to act like I’m not in the bothy,” she teased Vincent, as he indicated that one of the wee ones was already starting to smolder.  Turning back to them, she smirked.  It had to be the one scuttling forward for its snack. 

“Your Uncle can have the breed name,” Margo appraised, “but you call that’un,” she pointed as the wobbling baby let some swirling steam escape its nostrils, “Margo.” 

It was, he supposed, like love at first sight - and if anyone knew about that sort of thing it was Balfour.

He smiled as he watched how utterly enamoured Margo was becoming with the dragon bairns. Poor Fournier didn't stand a chance, instead grinning ruefully at her teasing and taking it in stride. It was hard to get anyone's attention when tiny, fire breathing babies were in the room.

            "Your Uncle can have the breed name, but you call that’un, Margo."

The two wizards laughed, Vincent going to the door and Balfour moving away towards the cabinet of brandy bottles in one corner. "The breed's not born yet, these are just Hebridean Black," he began taking down the fullest one. "Don't forget to toss your report on my desk by the way-" this bit he called out to the other dragon handler, "- let's not give Carter an excuse to grumble."

Vincent left. Balfour went to join Margo at the low enclosure, though not before he grabbed a bucket of freshly spilled chicken blood from a different cabinet. His guest could use their time to coo at the young ones but Bal had taken a shift to have this opportunity, so he wanted to do it right.

"Cute bastards, aren't they?" he leaned over, one hand braced on the stone barrier, and started topping up the feed of blood and liquor. "Next thing you know, they'll be carrying off cows." Balfour snatched his hand back before Margo the Second could nip at the brandy bottle. "Want to name the others?"

“Doesn’t matter which they are,” Margo pointed out, “that one is just a perfect Margo.”  She stood a little taller at the idea – though the bothy was not necessarily designed for such a thing. “Isn’t that right, Margo Junior?” she cooed to the little dragon as it wriggled closer to the bucket that was only narrowly outside of its grasp. 

It didn’t bother her that they laughed, quite the opposite.  She grinned along side her compatriots and felt, just for a second, like not even a day had lapsed since she left the reserves for the last time.  Some things would never change.  It was an oddly reassuring thought. 

“Carter’s still there?” Margo snorted, “didn’t know he’d last that long,” Margo was amused: owning to the fact that a good majority of level 4 staff strayed over to the pub after work hours and she still kept up with all the major goings on.  The pixie story had also just been one of her absolute favorites to hear repeated with rancorous laughter. 

Putting her hands behind her hips, she rocked on her good heel with a chuckle.  “Since I got you out of the office all day, I do deserve that, don’t I?” she surveyed the blacks and grinned as her progeny attempted to sink her teeth into Balfour.  Just like her, wasn’t it?  She rubbed her chin in thought: surveying their various attitudes and mannerisms to determine the best course. 

The one that was lying on its back, legs up and tail twitching just so… its eyes were wide and sort of twitching around, as if expecting an attack any second.  “The buggy eyed one,” she pointed and smirked, “that’s got to be Sylvain, yeh?” she snickered. 

Balfour smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling fondly as his friend expressed disbelief that their new department head was still holding on. It did feel good to be around Margo, who could (and would) say whatever she wanted about level four now that she was no longer beholden to any official standard. Not that she's ever stopped herself from doing so before.

            "The buggy eyed one, that’s got to be Sylvain, yeh?"

A deep laugh fought itself out of Bal's chest, and he had to put down the brandy to wipe away an unintended tear. It did look like Sylvain, bless that Frenchman's bug-eyed little soul.

"Aye, spot on!" he reached to playfully poke at the wee dragon's belly, letting it claw shallow cuts on his hand. "We should tell him, just watch him come all the way here just to see it." Balfour made an amused sound as he thought about how anyone with a dragon named after them would want to see the creature.

He drew his arm back before any real blood could be drawn, and lifted his gaze to one of the other bairns. It looked like the runt of them. Balfour had a weakness for runts of the litter, having been one himself. It lowered chances of survival in the wild but a surviving one could be a bloody good beast.

"That one's me," he pointed at it and glanced at Margo, winking. "Or is two Balfours more than we need? In a world with two Margos and Sylvains?"

 “He’d run here,” Margo assured Balfour, still gazing fondly at the baby dragons as they scooted along the floor.  Her namesake was happily munching on slop, blood and brandy dripping down her chin.  She’d grow into a fine dragon, that was for sure.  A healthy appetite as a hatchling made for a strong beast later on.

Of course, with all litters, there was the small one – and Balfour was going to claim it as his own.  It was an interesting choice, for sure, but then again, Balfour had always liked the underdog. 

There was probably a dirty joke hidden in there somewhere, but Margo couldn’t get a firm grasp on it quite yet (hah! Another one!).  “I think this crew would be lost without a Balfour,” she pointed out and Sylvain rolled onto his back with a gurgle before stretching his legs out. 

“Besides, what would Mini-Vin do without you?” she looked at the final, nameless hatching as it flicked its tail and fluttered its tiny wings.  It yawned, a tendril of wispy smoke escaping his mouth.  Looked like someone else was one step closer to breathing fire. 

A flash of light distracted her and Margo tottered backward onto her bum in the dirt as her namesake burped: a burst of flame surprising not only the human, but dragon version of herself.  Margo clutched her stomach and laughed, shaking her head.  “I miss this,” she lamented, wiping tears of joy from the corners of her eyes. 

He hoped that everyone in the world had a friend like Margo Amherst.

Balfour snorted, following Margo's pointed gaze at the final baby dragon and picturing Fournier's reaction when he returned later today to find that he's had a bairn named after him. "Probably sleep all day," the Scotsman muttered fondly before tilting the bucket Mini-Margo was eating from so that some of the spilled slosh would attract the others.

The little burst of flame set some of the brandy mix alight. Bal laughed, watching the other dragons jolt in surprise. They seemed to take it as a call to arms though - it drew them closer to the feed.

            "I miss this," Margo was saying.

He turned around to look at her, the smile tugging at her features and... yes. She did miss this. It was so obvious, moreso because Balfour would also miss it if he were in her shoes. This was their life, had been their life for years. He sat down properly on the bothy floor to face her, ruffling his hair self-consciously.

"I know," Bal smiled wistfully, "It isn't the same without you Margo. Who's going to haze the new trainees if you're not around?" he leaned his side against the barrier between them and the biarns, glancing at the voracious creatures. "Can't let them get off that easy you know. Someone's got to shovel the dragon shit."

Margo didn’t expect sympathy or pity for what she had to do, that had never been her goal.  Honestly, what had infuriated her most post her first big accident was the extra care and attention people seemed to take.  Injury and recovery were regular parts of their lives, she had never really understood why it was so different in her case (though losing a full limb might have had something to do with it). 

So, when Balfour started getting all nostalgic and talking about how it wasn’t the same and all that… Margo’s first instinct was to look away.  Emotions were not comfortable for the ex-handler.  At least not ones like this. 

There was some self-preservation aspect of it.  Even after time had passed and she had a new endeavor, it didn’t stop her from missing it.  “I’m sure you’ve all got it covered,” she quipped, trying to bring the same sense of humor back.  She didn’t come to look at amazing baby dragons and be sad while doing it! 

There was a brandy fire and scuttling hatchlings.  This was joyous!  “Though, I see you’ve softened up – giving them shovels now.” She shook her head, “You’re going to spoil ‘em.  The hand trowels are a better choice…” she paused, “If you were in the place for taking advice anyway.”  Margo snorted with a shrug and looked back to the dragons who were all now descending upon the bucket. 

“Boot cleaning duty is also particularly awful.” 

He laughed, happy to see that the Beast Division tradition of sadism for the trainees had not left Margo in spirit.

Balfour felt like he could do with a bit of brandy himself but the presence of chicken blood deterred the impulse; they would have something when they weren't responsible for the safety of these utterly daft bairns. In spite of how dangerous hatchling dragons could be, they were still fragile. All young things were in one way or another.

"Don't remind me," he snorted as he thought about how satisfying it would be to assign boot cleaning duty to the poor souls, "But they'll be clamouring for the mundane stuff after they see the hungry light in a Hebridean's eye."

Or the glint of a dragon's sharp, sharp teeth. "Do you remember what it was like, just starting out?" Bal mused and glanced at the low roof of the bothy. Someone had hung a makeshift mobile of glittering sheep to amuse the small things. "Felt like every day could have been my last. Still feels like that sometimes."

He patted his chest pointedly, remembering the wound that had nearly torn him in half before he had been promoted to Division head.