June 25, 2004

'Retirement' fell awkwardly on Jason MacDonell's ears and sat oddly in his mind.  It seemed such a strange concept, hanging up the scarlet robes and setting aside the badge he had worn for a quarter of a century.  He had been fighting for so long, a warrior for so very long, that he had begun to wonder if he knew how to live any other way.  If not for Aurora, Jack, and Alexander, he wouldn't have known what to do.

But the time had come, as every step with his right leg reminded him.  The pain had changed from the fiery, stabbing sensation that had kept him awake the first few nights after Azkaban, and the Healers assured him that it would gradually fade to a dull ache, but for the moment he still leaned on his heavy mahogany staff for support, clunking along like Alastor Moody, his teeth gritted against the feeling that someone was sticking a knife in his lower thigh.

Despite this, he smiled to himself.  He would have given the leg entirely, taken a prosthetic like Moody's, for the chance to snuff out Dolohov and break the will of the Death Eaters for good, and here fate had consented to hand him that prize and leave his body intact, if not fully functional.  A worthy trade.

They had taken it rather well, he thought, as he limped back to his office, smiling again nostalgically as he thought of Scrimgeour, whose limp had been so very similar.  The other Aurors had given the polite protests of his decision to leave them, but accepted it as he knew they would.  His injuries would keep him from front-line fieldwork, where he belonged, and he knew now he was too old for the game.

There were other reasons for his departure, of course, but they might not all have sympathized with these.

Nearly to his office door, Jason easily detected the footsteps shadowing his own, their cadence a furious march.  He resisted the urge to reach for his wand, smirking to himself as he opened the door that would bear the inscription, "Jason D. MacDonell: Head of Aurors" only a little while longer.  Then, striding forward, he spun on his left heel, sat gratefully on his desk, and faced his pursuer.

"The decision is made, and Kingsley has already signed off on it," he said firmly, though his expression was amused.  "Ye can nay change it now."

Muttering a string of incoherent curses, Tamis Raynor stomped after the retreating figure of Jason MacDonell.

She wished he had not had the insight to leave the door open. That way she could have knocked the obstruction off its hinges.

That is, would have if, in her current state, she had not forgotten that she could have done so easily with a wave of the wand. Or if her brain was not subconsciously registering that it was about to become her door – and consequently she might have to be responsible for replacing it.

Of all the inconceivable notions. Of all of the ridiculous stunts he could have fabricated. It was absolutely preposterous. She should have known. While MacDonell was particularly conniving, he usually let her in on his inner turmoil unless he knew she wasn’t going to like it. His dodging of select questions and particular subjects should have set every single one of her alarms blaring. Tamis had ignorantly let it go, wanting to give the man space to deal with any emotional trauma his injury might have inflicted upon him. Raynor could hex her stupidity. She should have known him better than that. He was going to fix this. He was going to take it back. She was going to bind him to his office and not allow him to leave.

She could not decipher the melee of emotions racking her. But the old acquaintance of anger was prevalent enough. Irritation at being caught off guard. Resentment at not having been informed beforehand. Rage provoked by the horror at what was being dropped in her unwitting lap. And raw fury, not at the concept of him retiring, but at her grudging acceptance of it.

It did not help matters that he was calmly perched on the edge of his desk. And that expression. She knew that infuriatingly pleased expression. He wore it every time he knew he had outmaneuvered her.  And worse, when he knew there was nothing she could do about it.

“You.”

She jabbed a finger at him with her left hand as her more dominate arm was still obstructed in a sling. It had been broken by a spell; a prisoner’s attempt to make her a casualty during the uprising.  Her ambidextrous abilities had been the only thing that prevented his vision from becoming reality. The arm was taking forever to heal. The healers assured her that if the wand that had cast it had not been smuggled from a fallen hitwizard, it might have never healed. Raynor had assured them that if he had not been such a poor shot, it would not have mattered. He had been aiming at her chest.

"The decision is made, and Kingsley has already signed off on it. Ye can nay change it now."

Selective hearing could be a marvelous thing. The finger trembled in sync to the flare of her nostrils.

“What the bloody HELL was the meaning of that?”

The finger deviated long enough to jut back out the door. At least it was not a wand.

"You."

It took skill to make a personal pronoun a malediction, but Tamis Raynor accomplished the feat magnificently.  Raynor was radiating waves of indignation so powerful Jason was surprised his face didn't warm from them.  Jason smiled back innocently, brushing a stray bit of dust off the gold epaulettes on his shoulders, a symbol of his rank as Head of Aurors.  He found them far too frilly for his tastes, and thus he could almost always be found in plain scarlet or his Ravenclaw-blue trenchcoat.  Every Auror knew that when MacDonell broke his dress uniform out of whatever closet it lurked in three hundred sixty-four days of the year, something unusual was going on.

Well, this certainly counted, he thought.  The picture of contentment, he nodded.  "Me."  Then, unable to help himself any l0nger, he smirked and brushed the epaulettes again.  "These will look good on ye.  I could never pull the look off, myself, and Kingsley didn't approve of changing them to black..."

He raised an eyebrow at her jabbing forefinger, and prevented himself from glancing at her mending right arm only through long-practiced discipline.  It had frightened him badly when he'd first awoken in St. Mungo's and been told she was only two doors down, her arm badly injured.  Horrifying visions of Dolohov's curse leaving Raynor's arm as lame as Jason's had been for a decade and a half had haunted his mind and, unable to walk, he had enchanted his hospital bed to move down the hall under its own power so he could check on her.  Mostly to keep him quiescent and healing, the Healers had assured him repeatedly that the wound was bad, but it would heal.

For just an instant, MacDonell's composed expression flickered.  Ten of his brothers and sisters lay dead after the uprising.  To lose them had been heartbreak, but to have lost Raynor, his protege, would have been unbearable.

"What the bloody HELL was the meaning of that?”

"Ye can nay begrudge me a chance to say goodbye to my comrades, can ye?" Jason asked, looking wounded, though he knew perfectly well that the meeting was not what she was talking about.  Unbuttoning the gleaming gold buttons of his snug-fitting robes one by one, he wisely removed his wand from the pocket and then tossed the dress robes to the coat rack, where they landed awkwardly, hanging by the inside of one sleeve next to his coat.  The black dress shirt he wore beneath seemed to flow seemlessly into the glove on his left hand.

"Besides," he added, winking, "I can nay introduce their new leader by letter, can I?  Or Heaven forbid, memo.  Imagine the news of your promotion being delivered as a paper airplane!"

The gold sheen reflected balefully in her gray irises as he haughtily brushed invisible dust from his shoulder straps. Her complexion darkened to an impossible shade of red, even threatened on purple if she denied herself oxygen for much longer – and then abruptly flushed back to a dull pink. At the precise moment her gaze flashed back up to his, the mocking smirk plastered on his face decapitated. If she had not been an auror – if she had not worked with him practically in the parameter of partners for seven years – she might have missed it.

The condemning finger fell and the woman regained her posture, but she continued to scowl, pretending not to have noticed. It was easier to be angry, after all. It was a pseudo passion that could mask true emotions. When caught up in it, she could forget what had happened a mere two weeks ago. She could avoid thinking about the comrades that had fallen, the irreversible changes. And she could not dwell on what almost had been lost. There were very few stabilizing factors in Tamis Raynor’s life. The man mercilessly mocking her happened to be one of them; she could not have afforded to lose him. So, she was angry.  And he was allowing her to be, allowing her to rant and spit like a feral cat, because she needed to.

"Ye can nay begrudge me a chance to say goodbye to my comrades, can ye?"

The scowl deepened, unimpressed with his ‘offense.’

“You could have done so without bringing me into it!” She snapped back, not realizing that her voice had carried down the hall. One of the trainees still lingering outside physically jumped and sprinted away. Rolling her eyes, the door shuddered against its frame as she slammed it shut with her good hand. “Meddlesome eavesdroppers,” she spat, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was making it rather impossible not to ‘eavesdrop.’

"I can nay introduce their new leader by letter, can I?  Or Heaven forbid, memo.  Imagine the news of your promotion being delivered as a paper airplane!"

Air plain? That gave her a moment’s pause. Right, the large tin can that was a wannabee multi-seater broom. That was how her Muggle Studies Professor had, out of final desperation, described it to her, right before she had magnificently failed the class. Muggle Concealment had been the hardest part of her Auror Training. Not the point, currently.

“Promotion? I nay recall being offered a promotion,” she growled back, mimicking him.

With meticulous care, he undid each button of his dress robes, as if slowly representing his resignation from the mantel her currently held. And then (rescuing his wand first), he tossed them aside like a forgotten pixie infested curtain. She swallowed, hard. This simply was not fair. He did not have a right to leave and then leave her expecting her to take that up. Out of habit, she avoided glancing at his left arm and hand. The arm that had lain dormant for many years, but was now fully functional. He never told her that story, and she had never asked, part of her suspected that she did not want to know. It made her self-conscious of her own mending arm, but more so of his now permanently injured leg. The higher powers did not seem to want the man to have full fuction of all his limbs.

It was, according to his “announcement”, the reason for his retirement. While she was sure it played a part, it was not sitting well with her.

“Do you even realize the damage you’ve done to the informal chain-of-command?” She grumbled with a child’s indignation. It was a poor support, but it was at least that. There were a number of Aurors ahead of her in the ranks, more experienced veterans. For the most part, promotions ran through that chain. It allowed exceptions – for child prodigies like Potter, for example. Not for mediocre performers like Raynor. When she first joined, she had had to prove herself. Now it would be the same all over again. She was sure Harcroft had laid a dragon egg when the promotion was announced.

She eyed his wand dubiously. If it came to that, she was the faster draw, barely. But she was one arm down and he had the better endurance.

Now and then, Jason imagined that his relationship with Tamis Raynor was the same he would have if Aurora Le Fey had been his daughter, rather than his love.  Both women shared a trait that endeared them to him immensely; namely, their ability to speak volumes without saying a word.  Jason noted the change in Raynor's posture, and saw that they understood one another perfectly.  The moment need not be cheapened with words, boiled down from its true nature with the constraints of vocabulary.  So he continued to smirk, his expression maddening.

"You could have done so without bringing me into it!”

"Could I, then?" Jason asked mildly, watching with a pleasantly amused expression as she slammed his door so hard that the hinges rattled in their metal sockets.  "But making the announcement in front of everyone, and having it made by the outgoing commander, shows so much more confidence in your abilities than a memo would."

"Muffliato," he added, pointing his wand at the door.  "Did I teach ye that one?  Learned it from Potter, bloody useful thing..."

"Promotion? I nay recall being offered a promotion."

Wincing theatrically, Jason gave her a pained look.  "Your brogue hurts my ears, lass," he said, his own thick Scottish accent as much a trademark as his smirk.  "And of course you wouldn't dream of refusing the Minister for Magic when he offered ye such an appointment?  Such an honor, such faith in ye?  Why bother with an offer when it would be a formality?"

She was right, of course, she hadn't been offered the post, simply handed it without warning.  The others would think that it was so they couldn't protest until the decision was final; in truth, knowing Raynor as he did, Jason had done it so she couldn't.

"Do you even realize the damage you’ve done to the informal chain-of-command?"

"The chain of command will recover," Jason said, imperturbable.  He tried and failed to keep the grin off his lips.  "I'd say it's my worry, but it'll be yours in ten days, so scratch that.  Minister Shacklebolt has always judged his officers and leaders by their talent, not by their age, and I agree with him."

He wondered if she'd see through the formality.  Kingsley Shacklebolt was the most informal Minister under whom Jason had served in two and a half decades at the Ministry, and they were also brothers in arms and fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix; calling him anything but "Kingsley" outside professional correspondence was very rare, but Raynor was one for formality, and MacDonell knew it.

Noticing her eyeing his wand, Jason smiled winningly.  He almost considered trying his fledgling Legilimency on her -- her current mood probably negated all the Occlumency he'd been teaching her -- but he doubt it would reveal anything her eyes hadn't.  In a cheerful voice, he said, "Ye can try it lass, but ye're nay that fast.  So why not a celebratory drink instead?  A toast to your promotion?"

It was fascinating how expressions manifested on Jason MacDonell’s stoic visage when the man was enjoying himself.  It was almost as entertaining as a kitten with a ball of yarn. Except, he was more a grinning lion than a mewing kitten, and she was made of flesh and blood, not yarn.

She took it in stride when he silenced the door, mentally filing away the spell, simply grunting at his explanation. It was true, he had a point. Raynor was the all for protecting reputations, but she didn’t have to admit that he was right.

“Your brogue hurts my ears, lass."

“At least something is getting through,” she muttered.

Popular vote would suggest he was attempting to entice her with grand notions of her would-be significance. Quite the contrary; he was horrifying her. Tamis Raynor, protocol personified, would only ever dream of negating a direct command from the Minister of Magic in her nightmares. Right before she miraculously found herself standing before the entire Wizengamot Body in a skimpy, frilly, pink dress. Her mouth worked soundlessly at the sheer conceptualization at such a monstrous proposal.

Then her jaw snapped tight. There was only one very imperative flaw to the scheme he was weaving. There was no way she was that noted on the Minister’s radar. Not unless he had a little birdie in a blue coat chirping in his ear. For, after all, there were wizards with more grandeur. Witches that were far more powerful. And if experience was not a factor, they damn would have promoted Harry Potter. Her eyes resumed their narrowed state. No. This had Jason MacDonell written all over it.

“You,” she repeated. Not with as much malice, but just as much accusation. “You orchestrated this.”

“Ye can try it lass, but ye're nay that fast.”

“I’d be faster if I wasn’t down a proper dueling arm.” She turned her scowl on her bandaged extremity. It was a wonder that it did not shrivel. “I don’t have the patience for this.” She gave his wand a last thoughtful glance and then snorted indignantly, “I could still hold my own.” But she did not say that she could win. She was not a fool after all.

“ So why not a celebratory drink instead?  A toast to your promotion?"

Trying to quell the fire while he had her cooled, was he? Lifting her chin, the woman sized him up again and then wrinkled the bridge of her nose. “I think that leg injury of yours has made you delusional. This is insanity.” And then, after a long resigned pause, “Mead?”

Jason was having far more fun watching the range of Raynor's expressions than she seemed to be having observing his permanently cheery face.  She wanted so badly to fight, to deny, to put anyone else in the line of fire, but the words "Minister for Magic" might as well have been the incantation for a Tongue-Tying Curse.  Wondering exactly what was going through her mind, and sure she was so distraught that even his fledgling abilities could break through her Occlumency, Jason tapped his wand surreptitiously with his index finger and thought Legilimens.

Upon receiving an image of her in a frilly pink dress, he had to cover his laugh with a choking kind of cough.  Apparently he still needed practice, that couldn't be right...

"You.  You orchestrated this."

"I?  I had only the most tangential association with the decision, if ye must know," Jason replied airily, though he didn't quite meet her gaze.  "Minister Shacklebolt asked me for my advice, and I gave it to him."

This was straining the truth.  What Kingsley had actually asked, in a brotherly sort of way, was, 'What shall I do without you, Jason?', upon which MacDonell had launched into his advocacy of his protege.  So while he would not lie, the truth took an a certain elastic quality around his lips.

"I’d be faster if I wasn’t down a proper dueling arm.  I don’t have the patience for this."

"A Snitch is faster than a Bludger, but I'd still rather be hit by the Snitch," Jason quipped back, smirking.

"I could still hold my own."

Nodding more seriously, the retiring Auror leader replied, "Yes, that's so.  Ye've been a good student these years, Tamis, but it's your time now.  Ye have nothing more to learn from me."

"I think that leg injury of yours has made you delusional. This is insanity.  Mead?”

"Ye see yourself so unclearly," Jason said, his fond smile returning.  He then flicked his wand at the cabinet on his wall, which popped open with a rush of cold steam from the Refrigerating Charm.  Catching the bottle that flew forth in his gloved hand, he conjured a pair of goblets and poured them each one.

"Do nay forget that," he added, sending the mead back to the cabinet and pointing at it.  "Keep a poisoned bottle in case ye need to incapacitate someone who takes ye hostage.  Make it something ye'll never drink -- ye know how I hate firewhiskey, so that's mine.  I prefer a neurotoxin, it limits their ability to curse effectively, but whatever ye like, really."

An empty thought bubble could have been drawn over Raynor’s head to compliment her equally blank expression as MacDonell was overcome by an inexplicable coughing spasm. It was short lived, but she swear she caught the corners of upturned lips. Sending him a lingering, perplexed ‘look’, her jaw set.

“You should drink some of that,” she said drly, motioning to the mead.

Tamis did her best to ignore his witticism and the proud little smirk that accompanied his cleverness. Train under Jason MacDonell was more than five minutes and one discovered that the man was full of more words of wisdom than the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower. And, worse, they were usually more correct. Nothing was more aggravating than opening a session with a epigram, being drilled into the ground for not heeding the imparted wisdom, and then ending the session with a reiteration that took on a very “I told you so” characteristic. While she might have been stubbornly defiant at first, she never ignored a piece of advice twice. The bruises were enough the first time around.

“Yes, that's so.  Ye've been a good student these years, Tamis, but it's your time now.  Ye have nothing more to learn from me."

She brooded over that. She never quite saw her relationship with MacDonell in the parameters of set-in-stone “student” and “teacher.” It bothered her now to here it put as such. Sure, there were many  instances where he had been her instructor – and not all of them had ended as poorly as their little showdown many years ago at Hogwarts. The giant man-eating snakes usually stayed out of the picture, Merlin be gracious. They had just as often stewed over cases in camaraderie, acting as equal partners. And, then, most often than not, they filled the roles of disapproving daughter and scolding father. And even at other times, they were nothing more than good friends.

But, she did not want him to tell her there was nothing more to learn. She did not want that to mean he would stop being all those things. She wasn’t ready for that.

"Ye see yourself so unclearly."

“Stay out of my head,” she grumbled, choosing the wrong moment to think he was prying through her thoughts.

Fearing he would turn the statement against her and make her keep him out, she tested her luck with the occlumency he had been trying to teach her. There was a pleasant smugness when she succeeded in closing the doors on the inner workings of her thoughts. However, it was a short lived victory. Her control abruptly shattered as irritation bubbled when he offered a tip of the trade -- even if she did mentally file the information away.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she growled. But she took the second glass in her good hand and plopped into one of the chairs in front of his desk. A careful observer would note that she took the further chair, to avoid accidently bumping into his bad leg.  There were very few people that saw this almost childish side of Tamis Raynor, a remnant of a woman that she once had been – and usually only provoked when she was grouchy.

She grew more serious. “You could have convinced the Minister into someone else.” She shot him a glare, almost daring him to deny it again, “Don’t brandy words, MacDonell. Give my intelligence some credit.”

Jason watched the twist of displeasure on Raynor's face for a moment, and his own expression turned contemplative.  He wondered if she had taken his pronouncement as 'okay, you're on your own' -- hardly what he had intended to convey.  A matter to be rectified.

"Ye know, Occlumency only works inside the mind -- the face is up to you," he said gently, though his emerald eyes were sincere.  "Do nay think ye've gotten rid of me just yet, Tamis.  I expect to see ye out at Bannochdaen soon, complaining about the office.  But it's true to say ye have nothing left to learn from me -- ye know everything ye need to do this job much better than I ever could."

And that, truly, was the crux of it.

"Stay out of my head."

The thin eyebrows raised.  Had she sensed....no.  Only a throwaway comment, of which she apparently didn't appreciate the irony.  In no hurry to correct that miss, MacDonell simply grinned and said, "But it's so amusing there."

"I haven’t agreed to anything yet."

"But ye will," Jason said pleasantly, sipping his mead and finding it surprisingly refreshing.  He was hardly ever one for speeches, and so the announcement of his retirement and succession -- and the hailstorm of questions that had ensued -- had taxed his vocal chords a bit more than usual.  "And the office will be better for it, I might add."

"You could have convinced the Minister into someone else. Don’t brandy words, MacDonell. Give my intelligence some credit."

Looking at her for a long moment, Jason sipped his mead and set the goblet back down.  His expression grew more solemn.  Joke though he might, he had convinced Shacklebolt to make this appointment for very serious reasons, and it would do Raynor an injustice not to share them.

"Yes.  Yes, that's so, I could have," he confirmed with a nod.  "And it would have been the easiest thing to do, there are a dozen Aurors who all have seniority over you.  But Minister Shacklebolt believes, and I agree in this instance, that the Ministry must continue to move forward, and none of my colleagues could do that."

He sighed, then fixed the younger witch with his intense gaze.  "I'm a soldier, Tamis, I have been since commissioning.  I was trained to battle Death Eaters, brought into this job under Barty Crouch, who made some decisions that may have been the best, but were never good.  He made us what we needed to be, but not what we were meant to be."

A slight wince betrayed him; for an instant he was back in the woods of 1982 Scotland, raising his wand and snatching a Death Eater's life away.  But he refocused immediately.  "But they're finished now.  Voldemort will never return, and after Azkaban, their power is broken forever.  We've fixed all the security gaps, they'll never have that kind of breakout again.  The war -- the long war, that started before ye were even born -- is ended.  And I'm ended with it."

"I'm a soldier," he reiterated, his smile a bit rueful, but perfectly composed, "but the world doesn't need soldiers now.  It needs professional, top-notch law officers, the kind who could never be doubted, whose integrity will never be questioned, who the wizarding world will look to in times of crisis without a second's hesitation.  I can nay be that."

Taking his glass, he raised it in a toast.  "But you can."

"Ye know, Occlumency only works inside the mind -- the face is up to you."

Her mouth worked silently at that one, opening wide and then closing. It opened again and fell shut with an exasperated exhalation of air. Verbally trapped, she fell into resigned brooding, swirling the mead to vent the pinch of humility that overcame her. It was not a word commonly associated with Tamis Raynor – at least as far as she was concerned. It was unsettling to be caught with her feelings red handed.

The smirk briefly won over, flashing for the briefest moment into a rather brilliant smile that touched her eyes and then was gone. Emotional expression was not Raynor’s forte and therefore she did not make an attempt at it now. The soothing words had the desired effect. Tamis visibly relaxed as the tension drained from her shoulders.

 “The war – the long war, that started before ye were even born -- is ended.  And I'm ended with it."

“You’re not an antique,” She snapped at him. Before the thought could be thwarted, she was overcome with the image of a deluxe Jason MacDonell sitting on the shelf of an antique shop, super poseable and complete with cane action feature. It was rather difficult to both smirk and scowl at the same time. No doubt whatever her expression contorted into was amusing.

He grew serious, depriving her luxury in trying to find humor in the situation. So, the verbal dance was done, the clashing theatrical song had trilled its last tune. Now, he was going to give her blunt honesty. She was not sure which she preferred. Made the Aurors what they had to be. The younger Auror took the words to heart while her mind took her back to when she first met Jason MacDonell. That acquaintance had been anything but anticlimactic. They had argued extensively, heatedly, over ethical convictions, particularly the use of the Unforgivables. They had both come a long way since then.

The wince did not escape her. And solemnly, she surmised that his mind had drifted in the same, but more personal, direction.

It was no secret that Tamis Raynor was a different type of Auror. Most would say that she was too compassionate. That she was not willing to use every means necessary to get the job done. In her entire life, she had never once attempted an Unforgivable Curse. Not many Aurors could say that. It was that same innate characteristic of her personality that initially had led her to a career as a Healer.  She probably would still be on that route if select experiences had not morphed her, changed her into the person she was today. It was not a secret that, as a soldier, Tamis Raynor had many shortcomings.

“…the world doesn't need soldiers now.  It needs professional, top-notch law officers, the kind who could never be doubted, whose integrity will never be questioned, who the wizarding world will look to in times of crisis without a second's hesitation. I can nay be that. But you can. ”

There was a long drawn out moment of silence, when Tamis simply sat there, not quite sure how to respond to that, how to react to that. That was a lot of expectations. It would be hard enough for anyone to try and fill Jason MacDonell’s shoes. They were putting the man in the history books, a fact she had mercilessly mocked him with earlier. Did he really think she could lead? Did she? For the longest time, her plight as an Auror had been based on personal convictions.  Being an Auror defined her now. It was her life. But this would mean that she could no longer lurk in the shadows of self doubt, clinging to the past, as she went about that life. She would have to actually make something of it and help make it of others.

She swallowed, hard. The silence lasted a little while longer.

 “No pressure,” she finally replied.  One side of her mouth pulled upward as she attempted to smile, inwardly in hysterics. Oh, Merlin. The man was actually serious. Since the moment he made the announcement some part of her had hoped, some part of her had prayed that it was all a part of some twisted joke. She consumed an amiable amount of the Mead in her glass and then looked at it. “Do you have anything stronger?” She asked weakly.

"You’re not an antique."

He couldn't help but smile at Raynor's expression; she looked as if she had chewed something extremely sticky, which had glued her jaws together, and was trying to work her mouth free.  His own expression twisting awkwardly as he attempted plainly not to laugh, he said, "Aren't I, then?  A vintage collectible, a First War Auror!"  He paused, glanced down at his bad leg, and said with a smirk, "Well, perhaps nay vintage.  But rare nonetheless."

The gravity of the words he spoke thereafter, laying the burden of leadership and command upon her shoulders, was lost on neither of them.  MacDonell watched carefully, seeing her buckle a bit as the weight of what he said hit her, then adjusting almost unconsciously, taking it all in.  He had known when he went to Kingsley with the idea that Raynor would take it like a sledgehammer to the jaw, but he also trusted that she would recover and don the mantle far more successfully than Jason himself.

"No pressure."

"If ye dislike pressure, ye may have a few snags with the job," Jason said wryly, sipping his own drink.

"Do you have anything stronger?"

"Only the firewhiskey, and do nay even think it," he replied with mock sternness, though his eyes glimmered.  "Though I do recommend finding a form of stress relief, the paperwork alone will drive ye mad.  I used to duel with Belisario on Fridays to let off steam until..."

He cleared his throat and let the rest of the story die unspoken, though it would not be news to Raynor; the two Aurors had destroyed a section of Level Two and accidentally cursed one of the Magical Games and Sports wizards, who had spent a week in St. Mungo's.  Afterward, Shacklebolt had gently insisted that venting duels take place as far removed from Ministry property as physically possible.

"Anyway," Jason continued rather loudly, "stress relief.  This job can make ye edgy, ye need a way to cool down after a long week.  But ye'll handle the pressure well."

Anticipating her disbelieving look before it came, he smiled fondly and added, "Ye have nothing to fear, lass.  I have faith in you."

The jibe at the man’s bum leg had meant to be humorous. Knowing this, Tamis offered a strained smile, letting it linger on her lips briefly before allowing it to fall. He had scared the hell out of her when that wall came tumbling down on him. It had been that distraction that ultimately led to her own, less permanent, injury. That little spark of information she kept covertly to herself. Along with the tinge of guilt that, if she had been watching his back as closely as she could have been, that Blasting Curse might not have snuck by. It had been so chaotic. Spells and combatants everywhere. It had been extremely difficult to keep any of their men covered when everyone was locked in individual life or death situations. Azkaban had ultimately become a brutal, every man for himself operation that they mercifully came out on top of. And they had lost good comrades for it.

"If ye dislike pressure, ye may have a few snags with the job."

That produced the approximately the sixth indignant sniff of the day. Not too high above the daily average, though their frequency most certainly was. She could handle the pressure. In fact, Raynor often discovered that she functioned smoother when under it. However, the level of humility she would be subjected to if she fell short of expectations would be unbearable to live with. His persistent petting of her ego, nonetheless, was beginning to brainwash her into acceptance of the idea.   

She blinked up at him with faux naivety when he negating stronger alcohol consumption. No, there would never be a fear of Tamis Raynor turning to such a source for comfort. Her nonexistent tolerance level was a major hindrance.  As was her stanch moral conflicts over allowing anything to mentally incapacitate her to level such acts would require. Intoxication made idiots out of men, women should know better.

"Though I do recommend finding a form of stress relief, the paperwork alone will drive ye mad.  I used to duel with Belisario on Fridays to let off steam until..."

“ -- until the collateral damage came out of your pay,” she finished for him, not without a saucy grin.

Oh yes, she remembered that one. Those Friday escapades had been something of a spectacle for the Trainees and Aurors young enough not to know better than to stay out of firing range. Raynor had been innocently enjoying a rather fine brew of tea at her cubicle when the aftershock rattled Level Two. The subsequent debris had promptly ruined the cup. Unfit to drink, she had mourned its loss.

He hurriedly pushed the conversation forward. Normally, she would have lingered on the topic and mercilessly used it as ammunition. But that included the risk of Alexander Belisario claiming more lime light from it. She spent too much effort avoiding that particular wizard, wasted too much on trying to make any relations between the two of them mutually exclusive to risk more than a simple mentioning of his name.

So, she allowed MacDonell to painstakingly obviously redirect the conversation – even if she did so with her cheeky grin still wide in place.

“Ye have nothing to fear, lass.  I have faith in you."

He caught her descend halfway into skepticism. Not wanting her pleasure at the praise to show, she grunted in response. The critical eye she gave him lacked the former heat, instead conveying a resigned if weary acceptance.

“If anyone asks, you are still off your rocker in my opinion.”

And then, as if it had just hit her, she consulted Jason again, a thought just occurring to her. “How did Aurora take the news?” She could not outright bring herself to call it his “retirement.” The word just did not feel right in conjunction to Jason MacDonell. But there was an underlying accusation to her tone that conveyed an unspoken ‘you did discuss it with her first, right?’ She truly asked out of a sense of self preservation. The last time Jason evaded telling something job-related to his wife, Tamis had become the hapless referee – and then an almost victim of the cataclysmic event when Aurora realized Tam had known and failed to tell her.

Raynor's politely blank look when discussing the firewhiskey was a little too well-constructed to be real, and Jason raised an eyebrow.  He had often wondered whether she really believed him about poisoning his firewhiskey; certainly he had never actually killed anyone with it, though more than once he had needed the bezoar he kept in his coat.  But while Raynor might not use it on herself...

"And no offering the Hitwizards a drink either!" he added sternly.

"-- until the collateral damage came out of your pay.”

Jason cleared his throat rather conspicuously.  "I forget the details.  Something of that nature, perhaps."

He did not miss Raynor's reaction to Alexander Belisario's name, but this time he kept his face carefully positioned, his express unchanged in the slightest, his mind totally clear in case she tried Legilimency.  Hints -- bare stirrings, the merest speculations -- had begun to reach him about Belisario, and other senior leadership positions in the Department that might come open.  Positions even Jason's support could not get for Raynor, but with Jason himself retiring, might be offered to another veteran Auror...

Blocking the thought away again, he shrugged it off.  By the time Raynor found out, he would be back at Bannochdaen, where her piercing shriek of disbelief would reach only faintly at most.

"If anyone asks, you are still off your rocker in my opinion."

The outgoing leader considered adding that half the department shared that same opinion, but thought better of it; she was unlikely to see the humor, given the topic.  Instead, he smiled and said, "Ye'll prove me right in the long run, I'm certain.  And besides, being an Auror requires a bit of....creative sanity."

"How did Aurora take the news?”

"Rather well, all things considered, thank ye," Jason replied wryly, rolling his eyes.  He had not missed the implication of the question; he had not forgotten what almost amounted to a three-way duel any more than Raynor had.  "She seems to think it might be time I slowed a bit, that time away from the Department and its accompanying stress might be of benefit."

MacDonell sniffed disparagingly, as if the idea was offensive to him.

“And no offering the Hitwizards a drink either!"

Her nose twitched at the sharp remark, betraying her thoughts. Instead of coming up with a witty rebuttal the younger witch offered him a wide, sheepish grin. The type of grin a daughter might offer a father when she was trying to find a loophole from her bedtime. It had only been a passing musing. Just to keep on hand. Hitwizards were notorious for their alcoholic habits.  An ex-specialist in plants and poisons, she would take the proper precautions and – it would be wrong. Unmoral. Unprofessional. Catching his eye, she quickly corrected her train of thought, should the man choose to try and snoop through her thoughts again.

It was little secret that Tamis Raynor did not share much love for the street-wise counterpart of the Aurors.

Now it was MacDonell’s turns to craft a carefully blank expression. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not call him out. Chances were she did not want to know. And, if it was not some secret as to how to live through her newly paved career path, she did not need to know. She sipped on the beverage, letting the sweet honey texture take the bite off her frazzled nerves.

“Creative sanity,” she muttered in return and barked a small laugh. An extremely fitting term.

She glanced into her glass and found it nearly empty.  Grumbling thankfully indistinguishably under her breath, the Witch summoned Jason’s bottle of mead and topped glass. Instead of returning the bottle, she wedged it into the side of the armchair for safe keeping. The woman had a extremely low alcohol tolerance and far too much restraint, so it was doubtful that she would wind up needing to repay the man with a new bottle. If anything, it was wonderful for humor’s sake.

“Had to ask,” she replied to his eye roll, smirking behind her glass. “That red hair of hers is not a bluff, as you well know.” And Tamis found it a completely healthy habit to watch her own skin – she preferred not to lose it.

"She seems to think it might be time I slowed a bit, that time away from the Department and its accompanying stress might be of benefit."

Not to mention that it would give Aurora more time to actually spent time with her husband, and give him more time with his blooming family. Tamis could not see Jason becoming senile with retirement and Rory was not exactly inactive either. The two would enjoy the added free time together – though Tamis pitied the furniture.  The MacDonell’s relationship was anything but cliché, instead of arguing with words, the two were much more civilized and did their communication with wands. While perfect for one another, they were equally stubborn and had equally fierce tempers when provoked. After the first few months, Aurora might be able to go on an interior decorating project.

“Escaping Law Enforcement does not mean you have to slow down, per say,” she suggested airily and left it at that. She would not openly propose the idea of finding a hobby – Aurora might actually kill her if she provoked Jason into … Merlin knows what he might come up with… right after the woman had managed to get him to “settle down.”

And, on one level, Tamis reluctantly found herself agreeing. She could not help worrying over what would happen if something like Azkaban occurred again – Jason MacDonell was still three times the wizard she could ever hope to be. But if his leg slowed him down, just for an instant. It had been a concern that had nagged in the back of her mind since they were released from Mungo’s.