It was back to work, but calmer work now. It had been a few weeks since she had arrived in the UK now. And she had started work this week, her experience had allowed her to sweep back into the work easily, there was some changes but it was mostly the same, just in more urban areas then open end plains as the country was smaller. It was relaxing, felt easier somehow. The lack of incredibly deadly bugs being able to kill her as she goes to the toilet was a relief, perhaps it was that, perhaps it was the lack of dangerous magical creatures living in the wild, or that there wasn't as many hiding spots for criminals to loiter, maybe the country was finally knowing peace after the war. Or just simply it was good to be home.

An Auror had requested her, well not her specifically. But they had called for a Hit-Wix and she was given the task, admittedly she wasn't sure if she would be able to tell who the person was but they would likely recognize her by her uniform. She was happy the rules were fairly loose as to what could be worn, made it easier for her to have something comfortable, as long as it was black trousers and blue shirt it seemed a done deal. So she went along in black combat boots, cargo trousers and a dark blue denim jacket. They even gave her a lovely little silver badge...that she could not touch and had to apply magically to avoid being burnt.

The place had changed, she had only visited the DMLE in this ministry a couple of times. And that was mostly her being brought in for interviews, following the battle of Hogwarts she was taken in due to 'vigilantism' they thought she was giving them a bad name for going by herself. It could of not changed, but there seemed to be a different atmosphere.

Tara rubbed her left cheek weakly, she hadn't bothered to apply anything to hide her scar today, she was starting to not bother. Most people knew she had it at work now, it was only really if she was going out it may be worth hiding it. As she walked down the hallway her hands moved to busy themselves with tying her hair back, if an Auror needed her it most likely meant she was needed for muscle or protection, it would be better now to tie her hair back incase that was the situation.

"You the one that called for a Hit-Wix?" She asked in a somewhat bored tone as she approached a figure that seemed like an Auror, or by her judging powers they were one. "Someone apparently requested one." She removed a hairband from her mouth to use for her ponytail before she gave them a good look up and down. "You know its a Friday right?" If it was combat related she hoped it wasn't serious, she didn't fancy the idea of dying before a weekend, it felt cruel. Atleast on a Monday its expected.

It had been a windy and cold morning[1] when Omari had left his apartment in Edinburgh, and his travelling cloak hadn’t done much to protect against the weather. He had also forgotten an important memo at home, which he had only realised as he had already apparated to London, and had had to turn back. And to top it all off, he had been dumped with a case involving a rogue wizard suspected in smuggling a young Welsh Green, and a comment to bring along a Hit-Wix, in case it got ugly.

In other words, Omari’s morning was not doing him any favours.

The extra trip back and forth to Scotland had made him late, and he hadn’t had much time to read through the documents and he had almost instantly had to send an interdepartmental memo over to the Hit-Wix office, requesting back-up. It did hurt his pride just a smidge, as he considered himself quite an accomplished duellist, but orders were orders, and sometimes the two offices had to work together.

Omari didn’t dislike people, but he had a strange aversion to the Hit-Wixen. Everything from their lax dress code, to their usually quite aggressive way of working annoyed him, and he couldn’t really put his wand on why.

He had grabbed his coffee mug and file, and headed out into the corridor, trying to read as he walked. Since the coffee still hadn’t really done its part in waking him up, the words blurred together, and he struggled to take the words in. Also, walking, drinking coffee, reading, and trying not to bump into walls or people was a task on its own.

     “You the one that called for a Hit-Wix? You know it’s a Friday right?”

The dragging tone, steeped in annoyance (or was it boredom?), almost made Omari drop his coffee cup as he came to a halt in the corridor. In front of him was a witch, black hair, scar on cheek, dressed in a very Muggle-friendly attire. She looked at him up and down, and Omari could feel something akin to anger rise inside him.

“Aye, I’m aware it’s Friday,” he said back with a tone of superiority not often associated with him. “An’ as I hope yer aware, criminals don’t take weekends off?”

He had taken an instant dislike to this Hit-Witch in particular, that much would've been clear to anyone who knew him.

"I don' recognise ye," Omari said, eyeing the witch suspiciously. "Are ye new?"

1.	Weather Almenac

Who spat in his coffee? It wasn't her fault she was requested, he needed a Hit-Wix, perhaps he felt insulted at needing backup. She knows she has felt insulted at having backup before, but its usually been policy over anything. There are moments she certainly needed backup and it hasn't turned out well for her. The scars that do a better job at tattooing then tattoos are a testament to that reality. But really that just further illustrated the point as to why backup was required, so you don't get...that happening again.

He had a tone of superiority, which is why she doesn't like Aurors much. Oh they got given good scores so they can be the ones to solve stuff and get in the news. She is just a Hit-Witch and therefore is meant to serve under, Aurors are the big dreamy job that always get the attention. Hit-Wix do the more dangerous jobs and are called in when assistance is needed. Hit-Wix are the ones who throw their lives on the line more, they're the ones performing raids on the front lines, Aurors are there sure, but their not the main combat specialists. They're the few, not the army.

They just can't help themselves from rubbing their smugness and supposed superiority over others. If they were good at their jobs she wouldn't of been taken in several times and Voldemorts followers wouldn't of made it out of the country.

"Served for twelve years in Australia. Only arrived here this week." She says in another half bored tone, talking about herself is not a topic she wants, and it isn't important to the job is it? Does she really have to be on a first name basis with those who think themselves elite.

"And yes, I know they don't take breaks. But getting injured or dying on a Monday is more preferable." She now said in a more interested and with it tone, starting to pep up with the idea of already getting into a fight, its not that she liked being in them, but it wasn't as boring as sitting around and training. She slid out her wand and gently tossed it into a spin in the air before catching it, the chain lazily swinging in the air behind it. An addition she made after a few years, disarming spells were annoying and without a wand you're mostly defenseless, having a dislocated shoulder or a broken arm is preferable to losing your wand.

"What's the job?" She again threw her wand into the air to spin and catch.

It didn’t escape Omari that the Hit-Wix never gave him her name. He couldn’t say he was surprised. She seemed like the kind of person that was in this job for herself, and no-one else, and if an opportunity arose where she’d have to choose between going back to save some colleagues or run off to keep own skin safe, she’d choose the latter. (Of course he had no real reason to think this, but he wouldn’t admit that. Not even to himself).

Her comment about preferably getting injured on a Monday, rather than this close to the weekend, annoyed him further. Not only because it was a stupid attempt at a joke, but also because Omari agreed with her. He knew that everyone, including himself, gave a little inward groan if a dangerous mission decided to land on their desks on a Friday. But that was the job, and he would’ve never expressed it openly. Not like her.

   ”What’s the job?”

“Some bampot up’n Cotswolds got a Welsh Green,” Omari said, now looking back at the parchments in his hand. If she was too eager to introduce herself to get to work, they might as well start. “Ye got called in ‘cause it might get ugly. Might be nea danger, but Office wants ter be cautious.”

You could hear on Omari's voice what he thought of Level Two wanting to 'be cautious', as he looked up form the parchment and caught the Hit-Wix's eyes.

"No one from Level Four involved?" She asked with a slight raise of an eyebrow, she didn't mind, she had done jobs involving creatures before, her favourite being the idiot who tried hatching a Basilisk but didn't know the difference between Frogs and Toads, how they planned on raising a Basilisk if they didn't know that was beyond her, but they had shut it down quickly enough. She'd only been involved with Dragons a couple of times and that was mostly working as security during transportation or keeping an area clear so Dragon Handlers could deal with them.

Perhaps at this stage it was only the size of a dog still.

She looked back into his eyes when he stared, was there something on her? Was he just trying to gauge her for something? Trying to stare into her soul or judge if she is that good? Aurors always liked to pretend to be the best so it could just be that. Either way she wasn't going to lose in this so she continued the lock.

"Oh and I'm Tara Sallow. If you need my name as you're about to be eaten by a chihuahua sized dragon." She tossed her wand into the air again before catching it by the chain on the end. "And if you were into Quidditch over a decade ago, it might sound familiar. Or if you were an Auror during or following the second war."

She remembered it well, afterwards being grabbed by Aurors and dragged into the Ministry where they told her off, calling her a vigilante as she went after those of Voldemorts followers. If the Aurors had done a better job then she wouldn't of been required to have done so now would she? Not her fault the Ministry was incompetent, if anything they were to blame for the followers to escape. Something which wouldn't of happened if they had let her be or gotten their ass into gear. But that was behind her now, she was over that sort of thing.

“Not yet,” Omari said. “Level Four will get involved after we take out the bampot. Reports say it’s just a wee hatchling, so we go in first.”

It did strike him as odd why the Office hadn’t asked him to get a Level Four to tag along, rather than a Hit-Wix, but he wouldn’t voice those concerns to Tara. To her she felt the need to seem in control, and wouldn’t give her the pleasure of thinking otherwise. But he hadn’t dealt much with dragons, and he secretly wished that one of the Level Fours were accompanying him on this rather than this witch.

The Hit-Wix finally offered him her name, and a completely unnecessary tangent about it afterwards. Was she trying to brag? The name didn’t ring a bell for Omari, as he had spent most of the Second Wizarding War in Canada (which was yet another thing he wouldn’t tell Tara.)

He closed the file in his hands, and looked back up.

“Omari Warrington,” he said with a small, almost unnoticeable nod of the head, before continuing. “The bampot’s livin’ outside o’Cirencester. Report says he lives alone, but has a tendency ter lash out when surprised, so we’d better be prepared. We’ll Apparate to just outside the woods, and walk ter rest o’the way. Questions?”

Tara gave a nod and looked away from him, giving a flourish of her wand as she took a step back to lean against the wall. Glancing down the corridor. She figured it would be worth to get her bag with her, some supplies were needed for taking on a dragon, even if young.

She wasn't entirely sure what his deal was, even for Aurors he was seeming stuck up and gloomy, she thought Level Four had the monopoly on being dicks and gloomy, especially the WCU group, she did need to see them sometime, but the atmosphere was always horrible around there. It may also be because Level Four stunk badly all around due to the amount of animals and creatures there, not to even mention the centaur that wanders about the floor.

"Just waiting on my bag then, I don't want to go without something to help burns if a dragon is involved. Already have a burnt hand, I don't want the rest to be burnt." She gave a bored but amused smirk. "I'm too beautiful to have scars over my body." She joked as her hand idly rubbed at the large scar on her face. Although given the situation she was told she doubted it would be too serious of an operation, maybe two people they can take out quickly, likely flee upon a raid starting. They may not get the culprits but they can shut down the operation at the very least, better than nothing at all.

He was asking if she had any questions, she tried to give a thought as to any but most eluded her. "How many years have you been serving." She shrugged, before she looked down the hallway to wait for her bag again. "Oh and do you want a smoke?"

Tara’s nonchalant attitude was grating on Omari. Being an Auror, he often came across wixen who had an air of cockiness about them, or an aura of being invincible. Taking down dangerous criminals had that sort of effect on people. But Tara was new to the force, and even though she might have gone through perils before (and based on the scars she was joking about on her face, he assumed she had) she could benefit from being a bit more serious. At least that’s what Omari thought.

     ”How many years have you been serving? Oh and do you want a smoke?”

When Omari had asked if she had any questions, small talk was not what he had had in mind. He rolled up the file in his hand and shoved it in one of the coat pockets.

“I don’t smoke,” he replied shortly. “And I’ve been on the force fer five years now. Good, honest work.”

He straightened out, and glanced up at a clock hanging on the wall.

“Do yer wanna head out fer yer smoke before head off, or shall we get goin’?”

Ah there it was.

Tara held out her hand and grabbed her approaching bag, in a quick rehearsed movement she pulled it over her shoulder and quickly delved into it, her hands soon swiftly pulled out a jar of burn-healing paste and offered it towards the Auror with a nod of her head for him to take it. Be best if they both have some just in case, even if the dragon isn't meant to be that old yet, or if it old and big by now. It's safer to be prepared, especially as the one raising them might not care too much about using fire as Dragons are likely to survive it after all. A house is cheaper then a grown dragon after all.

"Was just offering, but if you're not then no reason to delay." She shrugged, made sense to her atleast, if he had wanted one then sure. She wondered if you could teach dragons to light cigarettes'. Maybe she should find out later.

"Only five years?" She asked as she secured her bag around herself, the black messenger bag locked over her opposite shoulder to secure itself on her.

"Only seven years below me, good work surviving so long." Especially when of course Aurors obviously do the hardest work.

Only seven years below me? Only seven years below me!? What was that supposed to mean. For each passing second, Omari felt more and more inclined to head back to the Auror Office and ask for a replacement tag-along. Only seven years below me. He hadn’t counted the ten years before that where he had become a Duelling Champion in multiple tournaments, but he decided against saying anything. Boasting wasn’t a good look on anyone. His mother had been sure to teach him that.

He decided to ignore the comment as he accepted the burn cream with a short “Ta’”. It was a good idea, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of saying that sentiment out loud.

“Then I suggest we had out,” he said, turning and heading for the lifts. He assumed Tara would follow. She seemed ready enough, with her bag hoisted on her shoulder, and her better-than-you attitude. He hoped for Merlin’s sake that she wasn’t all talk.


Continued in The Fog, the Dust, and the Pain