Continued from It’s Gonna Take a Superman


7:17 PM

The apartment complex was blatantly upper-class and very private in its on goings. One of those buildings where a covert whisper was the equivalent of a shout, the halls were so quiet, and discrepancy was a complimentary amenity. The type of place where the staff were held to a “do not ask, do not tell” policy and were too afraid of their high-dollar patrons to dare break that truce. As for the inhabitants? They were too concerned with their worldly dealings to be bothered with one another. Why should they care what their neighbor was up to when they did not even bother to learn their names?

Yet, even in such a community, the oddity of the tenant in room five hundred seventeen could not go unnoticed. A single woman in her mid-thirties with no defined profession was enough to draw what gossip did exist. Though, that, believe it or not, was the least of the concerns. She had a very peculiar sense of fashion and most of the other tenants were adamant that a woman able to afford a top-floor flat could afford decent style. The what’s-his-name Chairman in five hundred sixteen and the Lawyer in five hundred eighteen believed she had an exotic avian fetish – both would swear they had seen a barn owl casually passing through her window more than once. Perhaps she sold them illegally for income. Even more peculiar, the proprietor claimed that she never had an electric bill, it was as if she did not even use the lights, the woman must be incredibly frugal (might explain her marital status) -- or maybe it was to appease her nocturnal merchandise. But she kept to herself, always paid her rent in advanced, and did not cause any trouble, most of the time she was not even there. Every building had to have ‘one’; at least theirs was well mannered.

It was a well suited accommodation for a Witch who wished for discretion both from the magical and muggle world and yet to remain within close proximity to the Ministry of Magic.

Tamis Raynor fitted her hand to the doorknob of room five hundred seventeen and the handle warmed pleasantly before turning on its own accord, swinging the door inward. Much like the enchantments used on high profile offices in the Ministry, the door was keyed for magical recognition. An attempt to break in by muggle means would seem impossible, even for the most skilled of locksmiths. An attempt with magic was far less passive and far more severe than the consequences used by the Ministry. Never doubt an Auror’s paranoia.

The flat could be termed as organized clutter. It was spotlessly clean yet the furniture looked as if it had been crammed in and not a single piece matched. The fixtures were as equally bi-polar, some were obviously more modern (such as the sofa) and yet others looked like they dated back to the Dark Ages.

The second most noticeable fact about the living quarters was that it was entirely lit with flame; the candle chandelier in the middle of the large multipurpose room, the roaring fireplace, the strategically hung and placed oil lamps. Every single light switch had been unceremoniously taped over to prevent from being used. Well, once a pureblood, always a pureblood. Electricity was far too uncanny to trust.

“Shoes,” Tamis told Archer as she entered and began to remove her boots. “She just did the floors.”

Who ‘She’ was did not remain a mystery for long. A small house-elf scurried out of the kitchen to the immediate right when she heard the door open, her scrawny little hands placed purposefully on her white pillowcase covered hips. “Mistress Tamis!” came the signature high pitched shrill, though this one’s tone seemed even more ear-racking than the norm. “Mistress Tamis told Squeak she would be home on time tod--.” There was a hint of disapproval in that voice, but it cut off, her already oversized eyes widening further. “A guest! Male guest. Mistress never has company.” One could almost see the panic of not having prepared for a guest running through Squeak’s head.

“Not now, Squeak,” Tamis sighed at the fairly named elf, having already removed her other shoe and was now working on the breast buttons of her coat. “We are not staying long.” Just long enough for her to change to go only Merlin and Radley knew where. The petite woman clicked her tongue in agitation.

Archer did not think that Tamis Raynor, of all people, would live in a muggle building.  It was the last place he would have put her, especially since she had such an affinity for staying very far away from anything that had to do with muggles at all.  He remembered the look on her face when Dreogan had slid the mobile phone across the desk at her.  She appeared more lost than Red Riding Hood in the woods.  Of course, he did not intend on being the woods for that – he had run away as quickly as possible on that.

For this, however, he was going to stick around.  He wanted to make sure that Ray got the most out of this experience.  He stuck close by, didn’t want to make things look weird, and at one point even put his hand on her back, winking at her as a neighbor passed looking at them strangely.  Archer winked at Ray, though he suspected she didn’t like it as she kept moving and he shook his head. 

When they arrived at the flat – non-descript and strictly Ray, he followed her in.  “Be quick,” he murmured, but was cut off by her order on the shoes thing.  He rolled his eyes and then looked at her when  she said ‘she.’  His movements stopped and Archer was about to ask – he hadn’t pegged Ray to be like that, he knew she had been with Tait who was a complete man’s man.  He was one of Archer’s friends and for her to say she had a she around that cleaned for her – he was going to make a sweeping generalization that would probably warrant him a swift punch to the gut. 

Before he could do this to himself, a little creature – bulging eyes and greenish brown skin scurrying in.  He disliked them.  House elves made his skin crawl and he took a step back as it began to speak in that high pitched and whining little voice.  He was about to say something when its big eyes turned toward him and what he could only assume was a she looked at him in horror – like he was some kind of monster – announcing a male guest.  Bravo, stupid gremlin. 

Lifting his leg up, he raised his brows at the creature, keeping eye contact with it as he removed the boot and unceremoniously dropped it on the floor.  It hit the floor with a smack, letting stray particles of dirt – probably from their trip to Hogsmeade and other such travels around London.  The little thing seemed to shake as he went to drop the second, eyeing him.  He was not making a good first impression.  He took the second one off and put it on the ground gently. 

Ray would probably kill him. 

Glancing at his watch he sighed.  “Ray, make like a snitch and go.  I am going to lose my normal spot."  He glanced down to the quaking gremlin, "Don't worry, I'll have her home by midnight... unless she doesn't want to leave." He smirked.   She was going to kill him.

Shrugging out of her coat, Tamis laid it over the back of the nearest chair, watching the scene as it played out. If she did not know that a number of her creature-loving associates would bristle over it, she could have throttled the little elf. A rather private individual, she was not keen about facts about her personal life – such as her lack one – being blurted out so bluntly. They would have to have a little discussion about that, Squeak and her. Not that Squeak ever met many of her associates.  And the house elf was an undeniable asset, one that was in her apartment willingly. Some leniency was given for that.

Well, Archer had obeyed the request to remove his shoes, though he could have had a little more tact about it. The well seasoned boots hit the freshened tiles with an audible ‘smack’ spreading a radius of thinly sprinkled dirt against the gleaming floors. Squeak’s eyes went from widen to narrow in the change of a heartbeat and shook with what Raynor knew was the urge to berate the man. But scolding a guest of her Mistress was, for a house elf, entirely out of the question. The petite Auror cast a disapproving look up at Radley.

“You are the one that insisted on me changing,” she reminded him when he complained about the time. A shower would be nice before changing, to get rid of some of the wear and tear of the day. She almost honestly considered it until his next comment.  He was too far away to give another nice hard elbowing in the rib. So she picked up one of her discarded boots and chucked it at him instead. If asked, she would claim she had not intentionally aimed below the belt, but that it was a result of her ‘gnomish’ stature.  He could catch a flung boot and if he could not, well, he deserved it and she was not apologizing.

Squeak, however, had an entirely different prospective about the comment. Her bug-eyes widened to saucers then as she broke out into a feral grin, now very excited. “Is Sir calling on Mistress Tamis?” The elf seemed to take a moment to reconsider this, “what kind of wizard is Sir?” 

“Squeak,” Tamis warned through a clenched jaw. “That is an inappropriate question.” On all accounts. The little elf flinched as if physically struck and bowed with questionable apology to Archer.  Raynor shook her head and sighed. “Squeak, Archer Radley. Archer Radley, Squeak.” She pointed a finger at the house elf, “Do not let him get into anything.” The finger shifted to Archer, “be nice.”

With that, she proceeded through the living room in sock-clad feet, heading for the door in the back that led into her bedroom. Running a hand through her hair, Tamis muttered to herself, trying to think what on earth she actually had that would be considered ‘appropriate’.

He sighed, “Yea, today,” he clarified with a bit of a heavy sigh.  She was making this so difficult and he really wanted to be out.  Maybe he needed the stress relief more than she did at this point.  She had expelled all her pent up energies within fifteen minutes, maybe she transferred them to him by some crazy magical methods that he didn’t know – she would do that.  Whatever the case, the range was waiting. 

She was being slow though – and feisty.  Strangely, he liked it.  Grinning at her, he noticed that she was thinking – he could see it – she was planning something, and he stepped back a little, just in case, and then saw her fiddling with her boot.  Ah! That was what was brewing in her eyes and – SNATCH.  He caught the boot before it made its way to the target.  He gave her a dark look as he dropped it by his side.  “That was low,” he informed her in a low voice, looking down just to ensure that nothing was going on there – nothing was damaged, check.

He was about to continue when the thing spoke up again.  It didn’t leave, no matter what, and he was a bit upset by the fact.  Its eyes were disturbing, and the way it shrilled when it spoke, it hurt his head.  He could have kicked it and felt much better about the fact it would fly from the room and somewhere he couldn’t see it – but Ray would throw her other boot at him and he was sure, this time, she wouldn’t miss. 

That thing asked about calling on and then looked at him – Archer didn’t know what the hell it meant, but whatever the case, he didn’t think he was calling on her.  That term seemed archaic for something he didn’t even want to think of and Ray echoed his displeasure in her clenched tone.  “Yeh,” he breathed with a curt nod in concurrence with her declaration and smirked as the thing cringed and apologized to him.  Much better.

“Squeak?” he raised his eyebrows at Ray.  So telling, far more than the chilly exterior she put out.  Her elf thing was named Squeak.  Quaint.  He was being ordered around though and sighed. “Don’t worry – there’s nothing here I want to touch,” he smirked, “Well… unless you let me follow you, that is.”  He grinned, that typical little victory that would have him strutting around like a thoroughbred stud for a day or two, until he got himself put in his place anyway.

When she walked away, Archer glanced down at the thing with the eyes – looking at him, following Ray’s orders to make sure he didn’t touch anything.  Wow.  He didn’t even think they were like that, so obedient.  Though, he guessed it had to be true.  “So… uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, it barely came up to his knee – it made it even creepier, “She doesn’t get many guests, does she?”

Well, at least he caught the projectile. Tamis doubted he would have appreciated her asking Squeak to bring him some ice otherwise. No. She was certain he would not appreciate that at all. Choosing to ignore the dark look, she almost made it completely to her bedroom when he finally retorted. Well worded and well played, she had to give him that much.

“I do not think that would be productive for me changing,” she quipped back, “and you are in such a hurry to be out,” giving him an offhanded wave, she closed the door firmly behind her. And locked it.

Leaning heavily against the frame, Tamis closed her eyes and titled her head back. Radley was trying to be helpful, in his own obnoxiously charming way. She put up with him far more than she should, but she also knew that was true for him with her as well. On a personal level, anyhow. Professionally she was his boss and he had to put up with her. In either case, it was still a relief to finally be alone, at least for a moment.

She had made Archer uncomfortable back at the Ministry. Merlin, she had made herself uncomfortable. Arrogant and confident and proud in her own right, the woman was not accustomed to self-provoked unease. Transitioning sorrow into anger had been better for both of them. It was a much more familiar defense mechanism. 

A sigh escaped her. If she was going to continue to humor Archer about his mystery location, she needed to get changed. Moving into the adjacent bathroom, she lit the oil lamp in there and for the first time that night stared back at her reflection. Horrified, she deduced that she really could have murdered Archer Radley if it would not take so much effort. She looked like absolute hell. Why had he not told her? She could only imagine what her muggle neighbors had thought when they came in -- before Archer had made it worse, that is. While no longer red, her eyes were still puffy and her complexion was far too pasty. Lifting a few strains of her disheveled hair, she ran her fingers to the tips, letting them drift back into place. She really had to stop running her fingers through it when she was frustrated. Maybe freshening up would be a good idea after all.

Turning on the cold water, Raynor grabbed a washcloth and her brush and set to work, being as efficient as possible. Leaving the giant of an Auror and the miniscule House Elf together for too long of a stint was bound to turn disastrous.

….

No sooner had the door closed did the house elf scurry over to the discarded coat. Snapping her long thin fingers at it, she pointed at its current position on the back of the chair and then to the coat hooks near the front door. On command, the coat lifted and rested neatly on the desired hooks. She gave a sharp satisfied nod.

“Sir is the first in many years,” Squeak responded grudgingly, and she could have used some forewarning. Now that her Mistress was safely out of both eye and ear shot, she dropped the obedience act and this time when she smiled up at him, she purposefully showed off her razor sharp canines. Her earthy colored arms crossed and those large blue eyes stared up at him intently. She did not like the way he has talked to the Raynor descendant. “Mistress is sad. Mistress has been sad for many weeks. But now Mistress is very very sad. Squeak can tell. Male humans must stop upsetting Mistress Tamis.” It was both a threat and an accusation.

Though Archer had intended on smiling after her, that pleased look faded when he heard the deadening click of the lock on her door.  He had only been joking – only being himself to restore some of the normalcy that had been disrupted by her impromptu fit in the middle of her office that he had endured out of concern and respect.  He had also given her something he carried around for almost eighteen years, a large gesture for a man who barely threw away anything as the extension of the fact he barely bought anything.  And that had been a gift. 

Setting his jaw, he put his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground, unable to avoid seeing the little creature by his feet.  He wanted to take out the frustration he was feeling by booting it across the room, but thought better of it.  It was busy anyway and he didn’t want to disturb it from the cleaning up of the coat and things.  He didn’t know why anyone would have one – though judging from the stark differences between his and her apartments, maybe he could tell. 

When its voice broke the uncomfortable silence, Archer’s dark eyes, in little slits regarded the sharp teeth and posture.  It was a brazen creature for something that he could probably crush with one hand.  He felt a little bit of pride, being the first visitor in years, but his soaring suddenly turned into the dropping of his stomach with something that felt akin to that feeling when a criminal got away – a mixture of anger, disappointment, and frustration.

That thing was accusing him of making her upset. Now, Archer was not the smartest man alive, but he wasn’t stupid and he could tell that the aptly named Squeak thought he was the reason she was upset.  If only that little bugger knew. 

Well, there was only one way to deal with the thing.  Dropping down in something like an American muggle thing - baseball catcher’s position, Archer balanced precariously on the toes of his feet and stared at it in the eyes.  Easiest to convey information when two beings were eye to eye.  “I might do a lot of things, Squeak,” his voice was thin, he was restraining himself, “but I do not make her sad.  I am her partner and by Merlin, I do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”  He flared his nostrils before standing up, pulling his shirt back down and he checked his watch out of habit. 

He looked down the hall toward her door, wanting to hear her come out so badly.  He needed her to validate what he had just said, the fact that he didn’t cause her that sort of pain.  He gave her grief, yes, he liked to frustrate her on a daily basis, but he was never the cause for real emotional pain.  He wouldn’t dream of it.  He had been there for too many things, the little blighter didn’t have room to make threats or accusations about him and his role in Ray’s life in any capacity. 

"Ray," he called out - his voice a little less pumped full of testosterone and pride, "I'm sure whatever you've got is fine - I'm going to lose my normal place if we don't leave soon."  Unlikely true, but he couldn't be here for another second - he would punt the elf out the window.

Sometimes Squeak wished her Mistress had not encouraged freedom of speech. Squeak squeaked as the big Sir hunched down, meeting her eye to eye, and lethal rage clearly roaring in his darker ones. He was bigger than Squeak was, but Squeak was stronger. Though Mistress would surely punish her – or worse, give her clothes – if she hurt this big man. Her large ears wiggled when Sir announced that he was Mistress’ partner. “Auror partner?” She asked enthusiastically and then wilted again under that scrutiny. Yes, Mistress would give Squeak clothes if Squeak hurt this man. Mistress sure talked about him a lot.

That made Squeak all the more worried and defensive if he was that man and was making Mistress sad. “Master Tait said similar words,” Squeak muttered under her breath. Eyes widening the little elf yelped realizing she had said that out loud and wisely took a dozen wide side-steps away from the towering, menacing Auror, and wishing as well that her Mistress would hurry.

Meanwhile, Raynor was busy scouring her wardrobe, grumbling as she rooted through it a third time. All in all, this would be a lot easier if she knew what occasion she was dressing for. Not ‘frigid’ or business-like, she had gathered that much. A simple, long sleeved maroon top was eventually tossed onto the bed. Followed by a pair of gray slacks she favored. After a moment of consideration for the dropping temperature, she pulled out a cardigan. Better to layer, anyhow. Last but not least, she grabbed her plain yet durable field boots. When in doubt, reliable and secure footwear was always the best option.

She had the shirt halfway over head when her partner’s muffled voice filtered through the door. It caused her to hesitate, elbows bent awkwardly in the air and still gripping the scrunched up fabric. Something was wrong. His voice did not have its usual arrogant chirp. Pulling the shirt down the rest of the way, she smoothed it over her pants, and grabbed the boots as she opened the door and peered back into the living room. If she knew what a western movie duel was, she might have made the analogy. 

Usually good natured and nonchalant, the tall and imposing Archer Radley was wearing a far too serious expression. A pang of worry rippled through her. There was frustration lurking in that clenched jaw. And a frightening anger. A few feet away, the impish house elf was doing a poor impression of not looking guilty. Her long fingered hands were clamped under her armpits and her arms were crossed so tight that it was a wonder bones did not break. House elves were not as fragile as they appeared, though.  The urge to close the door and hide in her room and pretend ignorance was overwhelming. Guilt won in the end, however. She should have known better than to leave Squeak with a guest. The little elf had worst social skills than her Mistress did.

Silently, Tamis strategically sat down in the chair nearest Archer, the same chair she had placed her coat over and began to pull on her boots. “Is everyone okay out here?” She asked quietly, purposely keeping her eyes fixed on the laces as she began to tighten the second boot. Squeak fidgeted uncomfortably. As far as most house elf owners went, she was an incredibly lenient one, but Squeak came from a long line of elves that had served the Raynor Family and the fear of disobedience was still there.

 Freshly brushed hair spilled over the petite woman’s shoulders as she bent over, obscuring her from view. As she sat up, something silver glimmered around her neck, an oddity for a woman who rarely wore jewelry.  She had already strung the small silver rune onto a box-linked chain she had found lurking in her desolate jewelry box. Subconsciously, the woman tucked the pendant back under her shirt.

Gray eyes drifted between the pair and finally she shook her head. She would have to interrogate Squeak later. As of right now, damage control was in order. Looking back up at Archer, her lips pulled upward into one of those rare, genuine smiles, this one broader than the one she had offered him in her office. “You cannot be that worried that I will ruin your reputation at this place, can you?” She joked.

Not looking at the tall Auror, Squeak appeared, put Raynor’s purse of the table and then scurried away again. Yes, she was being far too meek and quiet all of a sudden. “I am ready when you are,” she told him.   

Archer looked at the elf as it asked about whether or not he was her partner.  He gruffly nodded with something of a grunt that could have indicated anything, but it was more likely an indicator of his agreement in the issue.  He was Ray’s partner alright, had been for years, better or worse.  In the beginning, it had been a hassle and a chore to get them to work together, investigations had not worked quite as well as they should have and several times they needed a third party to intervene in their squabbling.

Years passed and their partnership was never revoked.  They were forced to work together despite their obvious struggles with one another and eventually reconciled after dozens of duels and training sessions, eventually reconciling to the fact that they were all the other had in the field and had saved one another on more than one occasion.  He enjoyed their work now and felt like through the years they had cultivated the best partnership that could have been forged in the office.  They were talented and helped one another at every turn, which was why he was so upset over the accusation flung at him by the pipsqueak that didn’t have any right to say a word on what he did and did not do. 

It appeared the thing had more to say as it muttered and Archer’s dark eyes turned toward it.  His nostrils continued to flair and he pursed his lips even tighter.  “Did you say something?” he scowled, hoping it would spook the thing into leaving.  It already appeared to acknowledge that it had done somethi9ng wrong and scurried away like the underfoot bug it was.  Clearly, he was going to have to avoid it at all costs.  He didn’t go to Ray’s apartment, clearly, so that wouldn’t be hard.  Interaction could be had outside of these walls and away from the bug-eyed monster. 

When Ray came out of her room, Archer sighed.  She looked like a human and she wouldn’t stand out too much from anyone else who would be at his place on a Tuesday.  His shoulders drooped, though he was still angered, clearly evident in the features on his face and the tension he felt in his back.  He would have asked for a backrub if he didn’t think he would get something thrown at him or the sharp teeth of the pesky little thing lodged into his leg.  “Everything’s fine,” he mumbled, glancing at the elf.

Maybe if he covered for it, it would feel obliged to be less of a bother to him.  At least he could know that Ray was ready and put back together.  He wouldn’t mention it, but she had looked pretty bad before, the eyes and the red nose, and the whole sad thing.  It made his stomach churn to see her like that; he liked the normalness of her appearance now.  Of course, when he looked down, getting ready to put on his own boots, Archer saw something – a little glimmer around her neck.  The accusations levied by the minuscule thing were no concern when he saw that, and when she tucked it back, he was pleased.

He didn’t mention it, however, and smiled at her.  “Not now you won’t,” he grinned in return to her smile: he liked when she looked at him like that, and took a moment before he kneeled to put his boots on.  “Definitely not,” he smirked from the anle he was at now, looking up at her.  He ignored that he was on the same level of the world as the elf at the moment and concentrated on his boots.  They were big, clunky things and he liked them, didn’t have laces, which was good, and he slid the one at a time before standing and brushing himself off. 

Putting his hand on the doorknob, Archer gladly opened the door for her and sighed.  “Good – let’s get going,” he reached back and took her hand, pulling her out quickly.  He was ready to head out and only gave her a moment to lock the door before continuing to pull her down the hall. 

“It’s not too far off,” he explained as they descended from her floor to the ground level and swiftly exited the building – no it was actually just a few blocks down and over, they’d get there quickly if they kept up the pace, though he had to remind himself that she was barely up to his chest and couldn’t be expected to walk as quickly as he did.  In his hurry and excitement, he completely forgot he was dragging her by the hand.  “You'll get a rare peek into my life," he informed her with a bit of a sly smile, "how I relieve stress."

When she produced herself from the abyss of her bedroom her guest seemed to release some of his tension, but he was quite obviously still in a bother. Was he actually angry over the amount of time it took her to get ready? Somehow she doubted that was it, knowing the man. At least, that was not it directly. Very rarely did Archer Radley get truly angry. Raynor, of all people, would know. She had spent a great part of the fourteen years they had worked together pushing his buttons. She had the proper sequences memorized. Each of them was long and complicated and usually did not rile him up within fifteen minutes.

The return grin was relieving if bewildering. Her smile widened, this time actually showing teeth, but was mingled with just a hint of awkward confusion. As if there was some inside joke that she was not getting but was playing along with anyhow. Cocky arrogance to seething, sulking resentment… to pleased and anticipant. And the Auror Office claimed that her emotion flavor changed faster than the flash of a Killing Curse. Yes. Yes, Squeak and she would be having a very interesting little chat when she got back.

It was a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach when he bent down to put on his boots and smirked up at her. Almost as if something was fluttering inside but not unpleasantly so, yet it made her uncomfortable. A feeling that felt almost familiar, but she could not place it. It was a grateful double edge sword that she was not given time to further evaluate the emotion.

The improvement of his mood only served to enhance his impatience.

She had barely slung her purse over her shoulder when Archer latched onto her hand, sling-shooting her through the threshold. Her hand managed to grasp the doorknob on the way out and it shut with a loud SLAM behind them. The moment her hand left the metallic handle the sound of a lock resounded again, sealing the entrance – and just like that she was being propelled down the hallway again. Door five hundred fourteen creaked ajar and a pair of eyes peered out, widened at the unruly pair, and then swiftly closed again.  A low growl escaped the petite woman. There went the rest of whatever reputation she had on the floor.

They made it down the five flights of stairs (as Raynor ultimately refused to use a lift supported by muggle mechanics) and out of the building and he still had not relinquished her hand. “Archer,” she complained. Her legs simply were not long enough to keep up such a pace for this long. But he remained oblivious, a small mischievous glow flickering in those brown eyes. Oh Merlin, this was not good. Tamis managed to glimpse the devious smirk sliding across his lips as she bobbed behind him like an attached buoy.  Most certainly not good. Where he went for stress relief? Horrified, her mind began to contemplate the possibilities.

“Archer,” she repeated this time with an irritated growl as she almost tripped over a rather large crack in the sidewalk. The woman gave a firm tug on the hand grasping hers but it was to no avail. The man was like a very large puppy; his mind became single facetted when he was excited about something. A small stitch was growing in her side. “Radley.”

They came to a sudden halt and Raynor dug in her heels to keep from knocking into his back. Tugging her hand again, she thrust a finger up at him, red faced and panting, disregarding the sidelong glancing they received from passerby muggles. “Do. Not. Do that again,” she breathed.

Her gaze drifted wearily upward to the building they were now standing outside of. “This is it?” She asked, refusing to give him the victory of actually asking where they were. A part of her was afraid to ask. 

This was actually a giant venture for Archer Radley.  He never took anyone to his special space with him; he went there to be alone.  Usually, it was the people he was avoiding when he went, so to have someone with him – someone he was actually excited to introduce this part of his life to, well that was novel.  He wondered what kind of reaction it would garner, if any at all, considering how “popular” the place was on a Tuesday night and wondered, secretly, if she would be completely bored and uninterested or would share this particular fascination of his. 

He did not do very many muggle things, he had been brought up in a magical atmosphere.  Of all of his immediate relatives, there were no Muggles in the mix and no one that had ever fostered that sort of environment.  He was a Hufflepuff, so several of his housemates were muggleborns, but even then, he didn’t really have much of a want or need for that type of exploration.  As he got older, however, a colleague, a hitwizard, had introduced him to a muggle hobby that he just couldn’t get enough of and went at least once a week to keep his skills sharp.  To take Ray along and let her learn (yes, he was letting her into this – it was not a club everyone could join), was something he hadn’t even dreamed of doing until about twenty minutes ago.

It was the best part about being a person who didn’t put too much into planning.  He came up with things on the fly and then it became a game of using it to forget what had just happened.  His agitation over the idea of being the cause for Ray’s recent sadness had affected him in a very odd manner.  It made him sick to his stomach and able to actually feel the blood pumping through his temples.  It was painful and had actually caused him discomfort in his chest.  He supposed it was because he was supposed to be her partner, and had spent twenty minutes with the sobbing mess of a woman – and it wasn’t his fault.

He didn’t even pay attention as she called his name, they were almost there, he reminded himself, and tugged her along again.  If she kept it up, he might have had to carry her – thankfully, it did not come to that as the stopped in front of the face of what appeared to be a warehouse.  There was nothing remarkable about the exterior, the doors were large, and there was nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary.  The only sounds were that of Ray trying to catch her breath, red in the face, puffing and practically wheezing. 

Looking down at the finger pointed up at his nose, he hoped the roguish, charming grin would be enough to sate her anger.  “I got carried away, sorry.”  He wasn’t really sorry for bringing her, though making her look like she might pass out was regrettable.  He would have apparated with her, but that would have likely been worse.  Holding the door open, he smiled, “Yeh, this is it.”  He smirked triumphantly, ushering her through the door and into the front room of a dimly lit area. 

There were firearms hanging on the walls, a pool table, some magazines, display cases of ammunition, and a front desk.  Behind that desk was a young woman, barely in her mid-twenties, with long, black hair, pale skin, and copious layers of black lipstick.  Her expression, which had been deadpan, brightened considerably as Archer strolled forward.  “Hullo Kendra,” he greeted with his normal, easy cadence, “This is Ray,” he indicated the woman he brought with a little gesture and smiled, leaning against the counter. 

“Radman!” she replied in her distinct accent, coming from around the counter to give him a hug only to quickly bop back around to her post, “Didn’t expect you here tonight!” Her eyes, rimmed by a thick layer of eyeliner moved to the woman and her expression immediately turned sly and conspiratorial.  “I knew you were a romantic at heart!” she declared with a bubbly sort of giggle – not what one would expect from someone decked out in such a manner, “Lucky you, Rad, there’s no one else here.” She immediately produced two sets of goggles and two sets of earphones, one pistol, and a small box that jingled when she put it down - ammunition.  “Your favorite,” she smiled and looked to the woman again. 

“You’re lucky,” she said in address, “Rad is a great shot.” As she did this, Archer picked up everything she laid out, and chuckled softly.  He assumed Ray would be too much in shock to do much of anything, and he would have the whole back room free so he wouldn’t have to whisper too quietly about what he was teaching her.  Rolling his eyes, he looked back, “Plug in for number eight,” the last lane in the row – his favorite, “and I’ll pay you after.” 

"You got it Radman!" she chirped and started typing on the computer on the top of the counter.  Ray was never one for excess words, thankfully, so he didn't have to worry about her saying anything - though inwardly, he hoped her patterns continued now.  He stopped again and looked to Ray, taking her hand again (keeping up the charade), "It's this way."

“Do not do it again,” she growled up at him, refusing to be defused by his signature grin. The innate feminine attraction to his, aggravatingly prevalent, male appeal went to war against her disgruntled irritation with the clemency granted to him for tonight acting as referee. In the end, the temporary leniency succeeded in separating the two, but they were still jaunting each other as she begrudgingly stalked through the held open door. Her clip “thank you” was just as hard to interpret.

The building was non-discrete and easily overlooked by the eye. Most wizarding locations were hidden in such a manner from the muggle population. It was opposite from the Ministry so it was unsurprising that she did not recognize it but, as a requirement for her career, the woman knew where all the magical locales were hidden – the ones known by the law, anyhow. She was not ignorant enough to believe the Auror Office knew where all the shady and copious black market dealers set up shop. Archer would not frequent a place like that…

It was not a wizarding location.

The fact hit her once her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the room. Blinking once and then twice, Raynor took in the odd objects on the walls with a blank expression, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. She had seen them once before, she believed. While passing a muggle shop with their boxes of moving photos showcased in the window. They were the thinks muggles put holes in each other with, were they not? Blinking, Tamis was suddenly more horrified than ever at how Archer might handle his stress relief.

Completing the circle, Raynor found herself faced with perhaps the most peculiar muggle she had yet to meet. Youthful face, skin as white as snow, and what appeared to be an unhealthy fetish with the color black. Archer, whom the young muggle woman – Kendra -- greeted as an old friend, was no longer allowed to contest her wardrobe again. Ever.

The perky little creature left Tamis completely and utterly dumbfounded. ‘Radman’? That was actually amusing. A great shot? She had no idea what that meant. A Romantic? That was not amusing. What did she mean, she knew that he was a romantic? Why did it matter that… wherever they were… was empty? Why were those black smeared lips smirking like that? Horror stuck, the Auror just stood there, gray eyes wider than usual, completely and uncharacteristically flustered.

She could not possibly think that this was… that Archer and she were… why was he not correcting her?

A hand closed over hers and Tamis jumped, frowning down at the connection. He was really making a habit out of this. The socially inept woman still was not sure how to feel about it. “She does not think that we are… that you an I?...” The question was left hanging in the air as she, in her bafflement, allowed herself to be steered through the unfamiliar building, casting one more look back at the unusual muggle woman moving her fingers over some strange instrument.

“Where are we?” She finally asked, unable to withhold the question any longer.

Archer would have said something about her uppity comments and stalking anger, but figured it best to keep his mouth shut for the moment.  She was ticked, he could tell, but she wouldn’t be for long.  He was certainly starting to feel better and entry into the range made him even more at ease. The familiar sights and smells of his favorite haunt were even more appealing at the moment and he knew with just a little bit of coaxing she would feel better about it too.

Kendra probably wasn’t helping, but the spunky squib (no one would ever know), had more than enough energy to diffuse the possibility that she was going to hex Archer into next month.  She was actually one of the reasons he kept going back – and one of the only reasons he knew about the place.  Barnes, a young hitwizard who would have been better suited to an accountant’s office, was apparently her boyfriend and he had taken Archer there for the first time.  Talk about weird, but anyway, he had introduced Archer to a love of the firing range, and Kennie immediately took to the oversized man.  She was glad to see him come around.  “Have fun!” she called as Archer started to walk forward, chuckling at her – and then looking at Ray who seemed more upset than happy.  Well, that was curious.

Raising his brows at her, he finally understood.  He hadn’t even thought anything of it – dismissing Kennie’s comments as her typical behavior whenever he came in.  Ray, however, was not quite so accustomed to her – and clearly took everything far more seriously than Archer ever did.  Her analytical skills were showing and he sighed, rolling his eyes.  “Relax, she was just kidding.” 

He didn’t really know if she was just kidding, but he had far more people skills than Ray and he really hoped she just listened to him and left it at that – he was going to, if that meant anything.  Instead, he moved to her next question, where they were.  Walking through the next door where the lanes were, Archer smiled, “This is called a firing range,” he explained, “and we are here because I am going to teach you how to shoot,” he thought, to accent his point, he might poke her in the forehead, but thought better of it, stopping at the end of the rows of lanes, happy to have the station all set up and ready to go.

Placing  the goggles and ear phones on the counter behind which they would stand when he got to the actual firing part, Archer had more important issues to address first.  He wasn’t going to let her even touch the weapon without a short lesson on how it worked, what would happen if she didn’t use it correctly, and the safety precautions to take. He could only imagine the heinous acts of devastation the small woman with no experience could participate in if he didn’t intercede first.

“First,” he smiled, holding up the pistol – empty and on safety for extra precaution.  “This,” he motioned to the weapon, “is a gun.  Specifically, it is a beretta Px4 Storm, a pistol, hand-held and automatic.    It’s Italian,” he continued to explain, “but, they’re some of the best on the market. Some American law enforcement agencies use them,” he added, turning the muzzle away from them and assuming a space next to her so he could accurately show her something, before he spoke on that, he added, “Never point the muzzle – this,” he tapped it to connect the term with the physical attribute, “at you or anyone else unless you want to risk killing yourself or them.”

He was surprisingly serious about this and moved on, “This lever is the safety,” he flicked it up and down once, “it keeps the gun from firing when you don’t mean it to.  But, we still never point it at another person, just in case.  Following so far?” he rose his eyebrows at her, not wanting to go too fast-  this was important and he was willing to play teacher for as long as it took - he didn't need her killing anyone, particularly him and especially that night. 

Giving the woman one last forlorn glance, Tamis reluctantly followed the much taller man into the next room. The accusations themselves did not bother her as much as she did not know the woman handing out the allegations. The name Tamis Raynor floated around the wizarding world enough on its own, there was no need to insert romance rumors as further provocation. Well, the young lady was only a muggle. What harm could come of it?

Once in the next room, her natural curiosity took over. Rising onto the tips of her toes, the petite woman peered down the various lanes as they passed them. Like much of what she had seen of the building, the walls were plain and non-discrete concrete, except these were not even adorn with the muggle weapons as the lobby had been. The lack of embellishment gave the room a very simple yet professional feel, individuals who came here came strictly to… shoot… there were not any false pretenses. It made the ignorant woman feel like an intruder.

He was going to teach her how to do this shooting? Her inquisitiveness mingled dangerously with her ineptitude with muggle artifacts of any sort. Raynor knew the basics of muggles; how to talk to them and how to share living quarters without breaking the Stature of Security. She had nothing against the non-magical folk – after all, she lived among them… though that was more out of necessity than preference. But when it came to their technology, well, the woman was downright helpless. She still maintained a fear of can-openers after a rather unfortunate experience.

“Okay,” she finally agreed, following him to the last lane and compliantly watched as he laid the earmuffs and goggles out on the counter. In fourteen years, the two partners had never really interacted outside of their professional lives. Granted, their career took up a great part of a day, they had rarely mingled in a more personal setting. Sure, they sometimes went to the ‘Cauldron for a meal together after work, but that was the extent of it. While Archer had always known roughly where she lived, he had never been in the building. And now he was teaching her something he did as a hobby, a stress relief. He was inviting her into his private life, even in a small way, and Raynor recognized the significance.

She would do her best to try and understand.

A gun, check. That was a simple enough term for the weapon to remember. Come to think of it, she believed she had heard it before. Gray eyes glazed over as he rambled off with the expertise of a Quidditch fanatic would about the latest broom models and the same enthusiasm. She understood brooms, but even if she understood Muggle she doubted she would be able to fully comprehend him. It was hand-held. She comprehended that much. The fact that it was Italian seemed like extraneous information, but she refrained from commenting.

As he tapped the tip of the gun – the muzzle – she rose up on the balls of her feet again and leaned over him to get a better look at what he was pointing at. It was a round opening at the front of the gun, a hole for lack of a better term. The term ‘shooting’ suggested that something was emitted from the gun, which she figured was what put holes into muggles. A hole to make a hole. It made sense in her mind. She might have peered over further, but she doubted he would approve of her actually looking into the little opening with all this talk of not pointing it at people.

Which brought up a rather plaguing question. After he showed her the safety she frowned up at him. “If you do not point it at people, what is the rationale behind shooting one?” She asked proud of the terminology incorporation, as if it were a classroom setting. Waving her hand, she quickly explained to elevate misconception. “Not that I believe you should direct one at another person. But is that not the purpose of this device?” 

Archer gave her a stern look as she tried to peer into the muzzle of the gun.  “No,” he stated clearly.  He didn’t intend on letting her near the end of the gun – even if she wanted to see just how it worked like he knew she did, but not even magic could fix a hole to her forehead.  He wouldn’t have that on his soul for any reason, particularly because he felt that he couldn’t get a better partner and with the leaps and bounds being made recently, that would certainly off set all progress being made.  Plus, the paperwork would be overwhelming and the Azkaban cell would be cold and dark, considering. 

No, he really didn’t need that and sighed softly.  “The bullet – the projectile,” he had to use terms she would understand, hard considering she was the most inquisitive woman he had ever met, “comes from that end,” he informed her, hoping that would make her stay away from the end.  She was certainly going to get herself in trouble if she didn’t listen.  Or at least didn’t take what he said seriously.

It didn’t appear that she wasn’t taking him seriously though, which was something of a relief.  She was just curious, and Archer was glad for it.  He could get more accomplished if she was interested in what he was trying to do rather than staring around and not even paying attention to what he was saying.  She was paying close attention though, her furrowed brows and pursed lips told him enough of that. 

“Well, if you’re going to use it out of a range,” he motioned around him, indication of where they were, “then you’d want to use it against something, or someone.  They use guns for hunting too, though I wouldn’t – beastly sort of sport.”  He shrugged his shoulders and continued, thinking more about what she was asking.  “You should only use it against another person if you’re defending yourself though,” he sighed, trying to think of something to equate it to – something she would understand. 

When it finally hit him, Archer smiled, “Like dueling.  Only, a gun can only do one thing – a wand, a little more versatile.  If you fire a gun at someone, if you’re a good enough shot, it’s going to hit them – and it’s like the only spell you can fire is an unforgivable.  Muggles don’t use them very often,” he explained, “at least the good ones don’t.  They’re for protection, and if you use them the right way, recreation in places like this.” 

Turning the gun over in his hand, he wondered if he had anything else to teach her about the actual gun itself.  “To get the gun to fire,” he paused, “you know, like casting a spell, you pull this – it’s called a trigger,” he showed her little protrusion that clicked back and forth without anything happening.  “I’m going to load it up now,” he explained, moving toward the counter and opening the little box, “and I can show you how to shoot.  There’s a stool in the corner you can bring over so you can stand on it,” he meant nothing mean by this, just to make it easier, and started to load the firearm. 

“When you’ve brought it over, we have to put the goggles and earphones on.”  He didn’t want to fight with her on it, but she was going to wear them regardless.  He put the weapon down and put on the slightly yellow tinted glasses and phones, waiting for her to do the same.  Then they could have the real fun involved in going to the shooting range.

The stern expression was met with a quirked eyebrow when Archer flatly and unmistakably told her ‘no’. It was not a word most offered to Tamis Raynor and she most certainly was not accustomed to it being directed at her. Not for a great many years. She had heard it a lot as an adolescent and the petulant urge to rebel against the command was almost as strong as it had been through just about all her years at Hogwarts. But they were off duty, she could not use magic here, and he was bigger. He would win.

How did one know how it these guns worked if they could not and would not observe how it functioned? Her eyes met his darker and very firm ones one last time, the debate of continuing her forward motion reflecting unadulterated in those gray irises. Finally, though, she rocked back onto her heels, planting her feet and straightening, making it clear that she would try it again.

His explanation continued and she nodded her head, hands clasped comfortably behind her back as she observed the instrument. As she had suspected, a projectile was emitted from this gun in order to penetrate flesh. That would have to require a rather high velocity. It was rather amazing, the contraptions that muggles invented in order to live without magic. Raynor was not entirely sure how they did it.

“Like dueling?” she replied with an easy smirk. Comprehension of these concepts came slowly, but she believed that she was beginning to understand. “Not entirely like recreational dueling,” she contested, eyebrow lifting again, “at least with wands you can actually duel another person. Shooting in a … Range… does not seem as engaging.” But she supposed Muggles had to get on somehow. Like most Aurors, if not every Auror, Tamis knew and loved the thrill of a good face off with a talented opponent.

Casting a spell the equivalent of to pulling a ‘triger.’ Simple enough. Why could her Muggle Studies Professor not have explained muggle engineering this way? Granted, there had not been any discussion of topics such as firearms, but instead of making the class more relatable for the youthful Raynor, the Professor, after the fifth ‘incident’, had kindly asked her to leave the class and to not come back. It probably was not a good idea to tell Archer this.

“I beg your pardon?” She asked him dryly when he advised her to fetch a stool. Why would she need to stand on a stool? He handed her the goggles and the odd-looking ear muffs and she handled them just as skeptically, even after he donned his own set. Her lip twitched at that – it was perhaps one of the most peculiar fashion statements she had ever seen. The small smirk returned in good humor. Until she realized she was suppose to be mad at him. Grumbling, she put on the odd eye-shield and fitted the earmuffs over her head, settling them on her ears after his example.

But she was not fetching that damn stool. The woman was usually not very conscious of her height. She never felt the need to wear heels (not that she could walk in them) to try and compensate. Had never felt it made her inferior. Sure, that counter came – to about her chest. Hand-held device. She suddenly realized Archer’s point. Cheeks warming in humility, she cursed, stalked off, grabbed the forsaken wooden bench and then came back, placing it down on the concrete floor beside them. Was it really necessary for those counters to be that tall?