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Candle-light flickered, illuminating everything but the darkest recesses of the kitchen in a warm orange glow. It was still early in the morning, too early for the sun to have brightened the still darkened windows of the top level flat in the heart of Westminster. Other windows had already blossomed to life, pulsing with the sterile white power of fluorescent, but not Room Five Hundred Seventeen. Most of the apartment remained cast in shadows; the quaint living waned and waxed with the glow of a couple of smartly placed oil lamps for visibility, but the threshold to the bedroom remained quiet and undisturbed.

 The flick of Cat’s tail conformed around Tamis Raynor’s calf as the feline peered around her owner from under the safety of the kitchen table, bright yellow eyes staring into the abyss of the bedroom with accusation. Tamis shook her head from her position at the table, “It is futile, you know,” she told the cat, picking at her breakfast casually with her fork, “you know how he is in the morning.” Cat tilted her head to blink once up at the petite woman and then craned her neck back around the Auror’s legs to resume her ever vigilant watching.

The aloof Egyptian Mau had discovered a new-found appreciation for her owner once Rufus the Crup Mix moved into the flat during the week. Especially when she figured out sitting directly on top of said owners feet offered some level of immunity from puppy attacks. Rufus had only pounced on Tamis a couple of times before his victim and Archer both had made the point clear that it was not acceptable. Cat enjoyed the gloating. Raynor could not help but feel used.

It did not always work in the morning though. Whenever the puppy awoke, everything was decidedly New and exciting all over again; a growing ball of enthusiasm and energy.

It was a typical start to most mornings in recent months. Tamis was usually always awake and about before Archer, though not always this far ahead of him. While not dressed, she had showered, long damp hair still air drying about the shoulders of her robe. The beady eyes of her battered and discolored bunny slippers glistened in the organic light. Squeak was still busy about the more technical aspects of the kitchen; running the stove and watching the tea, considerate of sound control in honor of the still slumbering inhabitants (she usually even managed to get the tea off before it actually started whistling).

Delivering toast to her Mistress, the house-elf cast a wary glance at the bedroom in replicated form to Cat. She apparently, likewise, was not looking forward to the rousing of the flat’s newest inhabitant. Two months a resident and he was already gaining steadily on the exasperated house elf.

However typical things may seem one of the first lessons one learned in the Wizarding World was that appearances could be deceiving. And “Ordinary” was quite a subjective term. Smirking to herself, Tamis Raynor continued about her breakfast, glancing with only casual interest at the morning Daily Prophet beside her plate.

1.	A lyrical excerpt from Bonnie Tyler's Holding Out for a Hero, a running theme for Archer and Tamis threads.

Archer did not like waking up in the morning.  This was a well known fact by anyone who had actually ever been with him through an entire evening.  This was generally information reserved for family, old dormmates from Hogwarts, and most importantly, long-term girlfriends.  Now, this category had expanded a little to include creatures – including Rufus and Squeak.  Squeak was actually the far less egregious morning monster, however, as Rufus still did not understand that jumping on his stomach was not an appropriate way to indicate that he wished to go for his morning walk. 

The previous evening, Archer had finally remembered to put up the nice barrier to keep the rapidly growing puppy away from him and he rolled out of bed fairly early, as was custom, but no earlier than he anticipated.  Rubbing his eyes, he sat up, feet over the edge of the bed, looking at the floor for a second.  He put his slippers on, rubbing his hands on the fabric over his knees.  He had on a pair of pajama pants and a ribbed tank, nothing fancy, but would not even think about getting dressed until he had his coffee.

Hopefully Squeak would remember to have made his coffee this morning.  She always had Ray’s tea ready, so why was it when he wanted coffee it was never done?  Rubbing his eyes again, Archer sighed and stood up, wobbling a bit on his still sleepy legs, bags under his eyes and hair mussed.  He stretched his back out, yawned again, and looked at Rufus who looked up at him, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and tail thumping on the floor. 

Archer sighed and rubbed his head before he walked out of the bedroom.  Everything was strangely quiet, but at the same time, totally normal.  It was almost disconcerting.  But, Archer was not about to be deterred by whatever this was and made his way into the kitchen.  “Morning,” he called to Tamis, sitting quite like she did every morning, hair air-drying on the back of her robe.

Yawning again, Archer approached the kitchen counter.  The coffee wasn’t made.  No surprises. 

He mumbled something, not even sure what it was himself, and opened the cabinet.  Reaching in, he was surprised as his hand kept going.  Blinking a few times, Archer looked inside, expecting to see the bag of beans, but… nothing.  Opening the other door, he wondered if he had accidentally put it on the wrong side.  Still nothing.

Frowning a bit, Archer continued to the next cabinet, really trying to figure out where the coffee went.  Figuring maybe he messed up a little, Archer continued along.  One cabinet, none.  Next cabinet, none.  Cabinet after? Nothing.  He frowned and rubbed his forehead.  Had he run out?  He could have sworn he didn’t.  Glancing at Tamis, Archer blinked confusedly. 

“Have you seen the coffee, Ray?”

Rrrreeeow.

…

Hissss.

Cat darting out past Tamis Raynor’s feet with the dark, bumbling form of Rufus the Puppy in hot pursuit serenaded Archer’s return to the living. Stabbing at her eggs purposely with a fork, one of the petite woman’s eyebrows rose and fell in a personified shrug. She had tried to warn the feline.

“Morning,” she replied nonchalant as the large Auror ambled (perhaps only half alive) into the Kitchen, eyes still glued to the front page of that morning’s paper. It would have been cruel to preface the facade with a ‘good’. The woman had never outright lied to him. She had only progressed halfway down the page before the game of musical cabinets began.

Open. Pause. Grumble. Close. Open. Pause. Grumble. Close. Tamis gathered another forkful of eggs and reached the bottom of the article – and then let her gray eyes drift back to the top, and started again, waiting for the headline to change and carefully controlling her expression. And not letting the smirk threatening at the corner of her lips to betray her. Open. Pause. Grumble.  …. “Ray…”

Looking up expectantly, she traded her fork for her steaming cup of tea, leaning back in her chair as she cradled it between her palms. His furrowed brow and honest bewildered expression almost made her feel guilty. Almost.

“You are the only one who drinks it,” she pointed out, subtly avoiding answering the question directly.

Guilt could not be completely overcome, so she joined him over at the counter, peering into the cabinet with innocent ignorance. Squeak scurried up to the abandoned table to tidy it. She met the house elf’s gaze, “Squeak, did you move Archer’s coffee?”

“No, Mistress. Squeak does not touch Sir’s coffee,” was the honest response.

Crossing her robe clad arms, bunny slippers standing at perfect attention, the Head Auror leaned against the counter to face her boyfriend, tilting her head up to regard him. “Are you sure you did not run out?”

Archer could not understand what was going on.  There was no coffee to be seen.  None, anywhere.  He thought he had bought some just a few days earlier.  Was he that sleep deprived that he could not accurately recall buying coffee?  Maybe he had dreamt it – but he could have sworn there was an almost full bag of coffee in this flat in the previous few days.

Ray was right though, he was the only one who drank coffee in the flat, considering it was just the two of them and Ray would rather throw herself into the harbor than drink coffee, he was pretty sure it might have just been gone.  That was a terrible start to the day.  Rubbing his hand over his face, he figured Squeak wouldn’t touch it – he would punt her like a football if she did. 

Rubbing his temple, Archer couldn’t imagine where his coffee had gone.  “I’ll have to have something at the office,” he grimaced.  The whole idea was nauseating; the coffee at the ministry was terrible.  But, it was going to have to do in this instance.  Why did he have this bizarre idea that he had actually bought coffee the other day? 

“I… guess I’ll get dressed then…” he frowned with resignation.  He had no choice… since he could not start his day off right… he was going to have to make due.  Trudging back toward the bedroom, Archer grumbled as he tripped over Cat, who hissed loudly at him and scrambled across the floor and on top of the couch.  He could see her glaring at him – expressive, damn cat. 

Rufus scrambled between Archer’s legs after the cat, part of the typical morning routine, and Archer swore very loudly at the whole situation.  He had no coffee, he was listening to a hissing cat, barking dog, and had to get dressed to look forward to sludge at the office.  Aurors-in-Training could seldom do that right. 

He crossed the threshold back into the dark bedroom and sighed, he could fall back into bed now, since he was without his precious caffeine, but unfortunately, was not able to take that gamble.  Tamis would kill him.  He really wanted to though, and to get rid of some of the temptation, he started flicking on the lights in the room – no electricity here, of course, and the warm glow of the lamps was definitely not bright enough to fully get rid of the thoughts of sleep. 

Instead, he moved slowly toward the drawers where he kept his clothes and pulled out the shirt on top – one of his favorites, white with black pinstripes down and started to tug it on.  He blinked as he pushed his right arm through and the sleeve ended at his forearm.  The fabric pulled at his shoulders and Archer frowned, what the hell? 

Shrugging the shirt off, he tossed it on the bed and grabbed the next one.  It must have been shrunk by some careless washing… he’d have to ask Squeak about that.  The next shirt, just plain dark blue, Archer was not thrilled about wearing, for some reason or another, perhaps just the frustration of not going with choice number one, and he tugged it on.  Sleeves and shoulders fit comfortably, thankfully, and he started to button up mechanically. 

As he reached the last button on the bottom, Archer blinked.  There was another button hole… but no extra button… Archer looked down at the front of the shirt and frowned, it was lopsided.   He unbuttoned and started from the bottom this time, slowly fastening button-by-button, only to reach the top and find it was still lopsided.  What on Earth?  This couldn’t be right?  Had a button fallen off?  Who had been doing this laundry?!  Squeak was usually much better than this…

All of this was accompanied by the vocabulary of a drunken sailor who had been smashed on the hand with a crowbar in a mixture of volumes from aggravated growl to declaration of anger so directed, neighbors could probably hear him.  Growling to himself, Archer pulled one more shirt out of the drawer – only to find this one’s neck to be too tight and none of the buttons reached without pulling the shirt so tight across his back he couldn’t move… had he gained weight?  What was going on? 

In a moment of frustration, he threw the shirt onto the piles of others with a very specific, very agitated swear.   

When the other man turned away from the counter, Tamis fitted a hand over her mouth, covering the smile that could not resist forming now that his back was to her. Choking back laughter, she washed the amiable sound down with the rest of her tea as Archer stumbled back toward the bedroom. In a matter of moments, the flat had gone from peaceful and serene – the calm before the storm – to a battlefield of literal and metaphysical cat versus dog. And the battle was not over yet.

Resting her elbows on the counter behind her, the petite woman waited. Allowing Archer to have the bedroom to himself for several moments and… allow for him to discover a few oddities on his own. Dishes clattered and clanked as Squeak the House Elf began to eradicate the evidence of breakfast, shooting her Mistress the occasional “look” of silent disapproval during her trips between the table and the sink. The Auror just smirked pleasantly back at the little magical creature. Squeak did not appreciate being roped in as a pawn to her scheme, particularly in regards to its objective. The Elf was going to have to get over that, Tamis did not plan to dismiss the arrangement any time soon.

Quite predictably, curses began to filter out from the now illuminated bedroom, growing in fever that even Cat and Rufus looked up from their morning escapade, the feline’s paw frozen in a swat aimed for the canine’s nose from where he had cornered her.

Dropping her teacup into the sink, Tamis peered around the open threshold to the next room.  Archer was standing in all of his giant-esque height, glaring down at the pyre of shirts with enough intensity she was surprised they had not burst into flame. She almost felt guilty. Almost.

Transfiguration was a useful talent.

Slinking into the room, she pulled almost-dry hair behind her ear before reaching for one of the shirts from a strategic location at the other side of the bed. She picked up the white and black striped one he wore the most often and held it up to him with a carefully derived blank and curious expression, “Do you not like the color?” Complete innocence.

As if completely oblivious to his frustration, she drifted into the bedroom’s adjourning bathroom, reappearing a moment later with a brush in hand. “I like that shirt,” she commented mildly, carefully working the apparatus through her long hair in a constant plight against tangles. “It goes well with that one pair of black pants. I believe they were washed last night.”

Keeping a straight face was becoming impossible.

Really, Archer could not believe this morning.  His coffee was gone. His favorite shirts were not fitting.  Rubbing the back of his head, Archer scratched at a scab under his thick, dark hair and let out a deep breath.  He did not understand what was going on.  Moving stiffly, Archer let his chin fall and expelled another breath.  Maybe he was just delirious from a lack of coffee, or sleep.  Maybe this was all just some bizarre uncaffeniated, over tired dreamscape. 

That had to be it, because none of this would be happening if he wasn’t working on less than four hours of sleep without his bloody coffee.  The coffee was really where this was all coming down.  He could not believe this sort of nonsense – all over no coffee. 

The chant coffee, coffee, coffee… was going over and over in his brain, he didn’t even hear the door creak open.  Nor did he hear the tiny footsteps of his girlfriend behind him.  The only thing that did register was when she finally raised her voice, when she finally spoke.  ”Do you not like the color?”

Archer turned his head abruptly, a slack-jawed expression on his face.  What?  That didn’t… He rubbed his temple.  “Yeh… it’s a fine color,” he murmured – that was his favorite blue shirt.  He didn’t know how he could explain to her that he magically outgrew all of his clothing.  He couldn’t imagine she would have the requisite skills in mending charms – she wasn’t the… domestic type… of person that would.  And it would be murder to ask Squeak.  Too bad he couldn’t just owl that friend of her’s – Adon’s future sister-in-law – Dreogan’s fiancée.  She seemed like the type that would know.

But, he had Tamis, and she would probably look at him like he was a purple abraxon or something.  “I do too,” he answered her, watching the brush travel through her long brown hair.  He liked that hair for her – he liked how it felt under his hands – or in his hands, depending – and it always smelled good, like lavender.  He breathed in from his nose and let out a deep breath. “Pants… right.”

Archer turned to the closet again and lifted the black pants from the hanger; he waved them out – turning them around to make sure they were facing the right way, and started to put them on.  But… something was wrong.  As he put one leg in, and then the other, and started to pull up, he gave pause.

The waist… it was pulling tight around his hips… and as he managed to pull them up, the band… it was… not closing. It was not closing by a lot.  And he looked down.  Maybe they shrunk after getting washed, he thought, but the length was right.  That wasn’t… this wasn’t…. “Bloody bugger!” he growled angrily trying to pull the button and button hole together – as though tugging it would make them fit again. 

The brush traveled threw her hair longer than necessary, even after she had conquered the last knot plaguing it. She was fully aware of the way Archer’s eyes followed its path through the thick brown mass. He seemed to have a certain infatuation with it to the point she had become conscientious to how she wore it – and she had bought out the apothecary in Diagon Alley of its lavender shampoo to stock up. If the old witch ever stopped making it she might have to barter the recipe from her.

Leaning against the doorway, she crossed her arms, letting the brush rest against a fuzzy robe-clad arm as she watched him extract the before mentioned pair of pants. When he turned his back to her, she took a moment to appreciate the view – as she was allowed to when she was positive he was not looking. The man’s ego was horribly inflatable.

Squeak’s enforcement of his diet was paying off, not that had had been out-of-shape before the miniature elf began taking a self-imposed interest in his health, but he was starting to lose the beginning of the beer pouch he had going on (the one she would deny all presence of when he asked). And he certainly should not have been having such difficulty with the waistline of that pair of pants.  Since his back was to her, she pressed her mouth into the shoulder of her robe to hide her laughter.

She let him struggle a while longer and when he exclaimed the expletive carefully schooled her expression and moved toward him, depositing the brush on the dresser as she went. Placing a hand on his upper arm, she peered around him with the same air of curious innocence she had adopted all morning. No amount of tugging and sucking in was going to get that button to fit. She would have to thank Akiva Katz for her unknowing conspiring later.

“Problem?” she asked simply. Cat appeared in the doorway, tail flicking as she watched the couple but soon darted off with another hiss as a bounding Rufus came yapping once more in pursuit. A few seconds later, Squeak ran past the opening after the two, waving a leash vigorously in the air as she tried to catch the puppy.  Tamis did not pay them any mind.

Shifting in front of him she placed her hands on the two lapels of his pants and tried to help him tug them closed – taking care to make sure her knuckles just brushed his stomach. Nope. There was nothing short of Magic that was going to make those pants fit. Releasing her aide, she took a step back and rubbed a hand to her chin inquisitively, “Well, that certainly is just not going to do.”  She lifted her eyes up to meet his with angelic deception. 

Normally the antics of the cat and dog would have distracted Archer beyond anything, but when he was too busy tugging at his pants, trying to figure out what had happened between last week and this one, he couldn’t help but imagine that every piece of food he put in his mouth was going straight to his waist – which would normally not bother him, particularly if it was only making them slightly tight, but here this was a four inch gap.  Four inches he could not get back.

“Yes, problem,” Archer said tensely, trying not to sound too frustrated, but his voice was clearly seeping through his grinding teeth and he felt his shoulders and back tightening up.  This was so disgustingly annoying.  What happened to his pants?!  And worse than that, when Tamis moved in front of him, Archer looked down at her and his chest filled up with a sharp intake of air. 

Normally, in this sort of situation, pants would not be coming up.  That was frustrating enough, and to have her touching him – just barely brushing against him – that was just not even fair.  Taking a deep breath, Archer kept his stomach pulled in, as he didn’t want to show a sign of weakness as she tugged a bit, causing his hips to move forward a little – foul temptress. 

Licking his bottom lip, Archer watched her rub her chin and then look up at him – horrible woman with those gray eyes. They always cut right through him.  He could feel his throat tighten a little.  He considered perhaps being late for work, but felt that he needed to have the resolve to know when and where that was appropriate.  With his birthday coming up on a Monday this month, he was saving that.

“What do you suggest we do then?” he asked, trying not to sound too frustrated – finding it absolutely impossible at this point. 

He was very, very frustrated. It was an obvious conclusion plastered all over his face.  From the furrow between his eyebrows, the desperation in those very brown eyes, and to the stubborn unrelenting set of his chin. She should be more sympathetic, she rationalized, even as she compressed her lips and her stomach shook with barely restrained laughter.

What did she suggest they do then? Taking a step further back as if trying to gain prospective while analyzing a work of art, the petite woman continued to rub her chin. Her gaze ran from the tip of his hair to his toes, passive and unassuming; observing, thinking, calculating.

“Clearly you cannot go into the Office in this condition,” she deduced conversationally, as if it had actually taken serious, prolonged thought to come to that conclusion. The way she might think out loud while consulting a story board down in Headquarters. Then she lapsed back into silence, chin-stroking resuming.

The simple answers were to either have Squeak fix it or apparate back to his flat for unaltered clothing, but she quickly dismissed those. It would be counterproductive to mention them. She sized him up for several more long moments and then simultaneously shrugged her shoulders and crossed her arms as if coming to a forlorn and resigned conclusion, “We are just going to have to stay home today.”

“Magically” on cue, a steaming mug came floating into the bedroom, propelled by elfin manipulation. It drifted casually toward Tamis, who lifted one of her crossed hands expectantly to grab hold of it. She did her best not to inhale the contents. Horridly toxic. Once it was secured a muttering Squeak disappeared with a ‘poof’ from the living room with a leashed Rufus, preparing to be flung around a field outside of the city.  Still oblivious to the on goings outside of the bedroom, Tam lifted the mug in Archer’s direction.

“Coffee?” Not even one of her eyebrows twitching out of place.

The past few months had been kind to the growing relationship between the two Aurors. The job was demanding and always came first. That was the rule to the success of this arrangement. Their career did not give them the luxury to make plans or organize outings. And taking a day off with him had been something she had been offering later that month. But the Office was passive, she was caught up on paperwork, and the cauldron of major calamities had reduced to a gentle simmer for the moment. Conditions might not be as ideal in a few more days, let alone a few more weeks.

And he could not claim that she had tricked him on his birthday, she added with smug satisfaction.

“Thanks for that, Nostradamus,” Archer cut at her, immediately regretting having said it like that.  He was just having a bad morning, but he also didn’t intend on apologizing either.  It was that awkward place where he knew what he said wasn’t exactly on the up and up, but  he was really non-apologetic, considering she would actually be able to have her morning routine the way she liked it.  Bloody tea drinking tiny woman.  Grumbling, he tried to button his pants one more time, just in case.

But, there was nothing.  He sighed with resignation, ready to pull the trousers off and try another pair, even if he didn’t want to try another pair, as the legs would probably be too short or perhaps the pockets would be on inside out – he had no idea, with everything going the way it was going, he wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair with four legs.  He’d probably chuck them at Rufus if that were the case.

But then, then out of nowhere, the phrase was uttered that made Archer stop midway to reaching for the waistband:  “We are just going to have to stay home today.”

His mouth dried up instantly, and looking down at her, he was not sure if he could honestly believe what she was saying to him.  It was not as though she ever took time off, and to suggest that they take a day off together?  He raised his thick eyebrows at her, going to say something before that unmistakable smell – coffee?

She was suddenly holding a mug and standing there like a damn goddess.  “Who are you and what have you done with Tamis?”

“I am being fumigated,” she urged him pleasantly, holding the coffee mug at an appreciable distance. Her eyes followed the wafting smoke rising from the cup as if it were toxic. Horrid substance. There was a reason she usually avoided any morning displays of affection, though she would never admit it. That taste was transferable.

His frustration with his wardrobe had swiftly turned into careful, calculating consideration. Random and unexpected acts of kindness were doomed when confronted with an Auror’s well honed paranoia.  The normally, socially humorous comment lacked the expected mirth in its delivery.  Then again, she was Tamis Raynor. Suggesting a day off – of work.  She should be wondering if she had polyjuiced herself. Or be concerned that she was acting under a demented mind’s imperius curse.

“Do you like the imposter better?” she asked dryly, pursing her lips as she looked up at him. Then she sighed, moved to cross her arms and caught a whiff of the coffee still grasped in her hand, and quickly rectified the action. “You need glasses to read the paper,” she threw out with casually resignation, “but only use them when you think I am not looking.” Otherwise he stubbornly squinted at the fine print from various distances. Same with case files. Those (nonexistent) crow's feet lurking at the corners of his eyes had not got there magically.

Lowering the mug to grasp it with both hands (still carefully avoiding the smell), she fiddled with the rim of the ceramic cup in true, characteristic display of uncertainty. The ears of her bunny slipper flopped as she shifted her feet. “A lot has happened,” she summarized the past few months, including a rather taxing non-vacation on the coast of Scotland. “And there are not many predicted calm days at the office.” She was not very good at verbalizing any sort of touchy-feely hogwash. “We…” needed some alone time together that was not after ten at night following a stressful day of work? Or a weekend consumed by a million other things? That they needed to re-find some prospective with everything going on? “Could use it,” she decided to go with.

It wasn’t that Archer didn’t appreciate nice things.  It was just that, as an auror, one had to consider what nice things meant.  If someone was acting uncharacteristically it wasn’t sudden and unexpected romanticism to someone from their line of work, it was an imperius curse or polyjuice potion.  It was nothing against the actual person – and it had gotten him in trouble before, to be sure, especially with girlfriends who did not share their particular work situation, but the flat way in which she looked at him after – maybe they were just a good imposter. 

“Depends,” Archer commented, unable to keep the corner of his lip from twitching upward just a little bit.  That was her sense of humor, of course, and she did still have the coffee in her hands, but she needed to prove herself. 

He waited for her to say something.  He didn’t want to give any clues, just in case.  He wasn’t particularly swayed that this was someone else, but it couldn’t hurt to check.  Or maybe it could, particularly as the fact she chose was not his favorite.  Frowning slightly, Archer’s defenses dropped and grumbled.  He had not told anyone that fact.  He tried to keep it as secret as possible, particularly at the office, and especially from Tamis.  He wasn’t old, after all.  “You pass,” he smiled, going to reach for the coffee before she lowered it in front of her.

That was clearly too awkward for him to grab, as it was a good foot down and he would have to bend and that was just not worth looking completely ridiculous for.  Of course, then she went on and had to make him feel ridiculous anyway.  For some reason, when she acted like this – the bunny slippers and all, she looked so damned cute.  And that was not an adjective one used for Tamis Raynor at all.

Taking a few awkward steps forward – his pants still clearly too small for his waist and in his tank top, but he put his hands on her high waist, the cup of coffee between them – and keeping his abdomen warm with the steam, “You’re right,” he pointed out, “we could.” 

He leaned down, looking her in the eyes, as though he might kiss her, but stopped just short.  “Tamis,” he said, “What happened to my things?”

In another situation, the elapsing personal space would have been sultry. In a parallel universe, the hands curving along the top of her waste and into fluffy robe would have caught the breath of a woman whom rarely shared a handshake. But this was not an alternate reality. Archer Radley was in his undershirt with his pants awkwardly refusing to button. His shuffle forward was more indignant than predatory.  She bit down on the inner corners of her lips to keep them from pulling back.

She almost made it.

And he almost had her.

Very aware of the very hot cup of coffee nestled between them, all indecencies aside, she was not unaffected when he leaned down, lips nearly brushing and meeting her in the eye. Square in the eye.  And then he, very pointedly, asked another very simple question. The coffee cup quivered in her hands, the contents waking along the surface. She bit harder on the inside of her cheeks but there were some components of human nature that were involuntarily beyond her control.

She laughed. Not a full, mirthful, overwhelmed with joy laugh. But a knowing, could-not-resist, you knew very damn well who you were getting involved in laugh. Apologetic but not. It was as good as a confession. The transfigurations had been simple enough. And Akiva Katz had gladly given her the knowledge on alternations spells. The woman just had not known what she had intended to do with that knowledge.

 She had acted with noble intentions.  Arguably. Closing her mouth, she shook her head.  Opened it, try to say something, and closed it again. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I know how to fix it.” The coffee cup and the rest of her trembled again. This was the icing on the cake, “But I will need your measurements.”

Archer knew she had something to do with it.  As soon as she revealed that she wanted to stay home all day and that it really was her, this could only be the work of one person – of one diabolical woman who had a long and sordid history of pranking.  His brothers couldn’t stand her, especially Joel who had been the target of a rather cruel Quidditch based prank, and of course, Archer still would never forget his seventh year Halloween dance. 

The woman was evil, and even if she had given that up in pursuit of being an upstanding citizen in one of the most important offices in the wizarding government, it didn’t mean that a horse changed its stripes. 

This horse – more appropriately miniature pony – was not changing its stripes.  She started to laugh!  Tamis Raynor was laughing at him.  Grabbing the coffee out of her hands and firmly clutching it in his hands, Archer’s eyebrows lowered as he took a sip of his coffee.  That was at least making him feel slightly better.  He could not believe that after all this time, all the effort, and she was still going at it like this – “so immature,” he commented, watching her shake with laughter.

It was a good thing she wasn’t holding his coffee anymore or it would surely be on the ground. She was a horrible human being, laughing like that.  “You’re terrible,” he pointed out, drinking another long draw from the cup.  He was really, really happy to have that, at least.  And then, of course, he had a moment of revelation. 

“Well, can’t really do that with these things on,” he pointed out, “and my hands are pretty full...."