Shifting had been a mistake.  Of course, there hadn't been a whole lot of time to plan.  As soon as Cinaed was confident he was out of sight, he'd shifted down into the magpie form with the intent of winging away from the scene of the crime under the inky cover of blackness.  But, the strikes he'd taken during the scrimmage had left him so stiff and sore that he'd only made it four streets over before he'd been forced to land.  And, the effects of the polyjuice had vanished by the time he'd shifted back.

Cinaed Tawse stood in the shadow of the tree where the magpie had landed.  And, his last few flasks of polyjuice was back in the muggle's house.  Which was probably now teeming with Aurors.  They were already probably starting to scour the neighborhood.  Fluttering from tree to tree was bound to reveal not only himself but his animagus form.  He had to get off the streets quickly and he'd have to apparate, even if that risked giving away his presence on the other end. 

His plan decided, Cinaed turned on the spot, leaving a resounding crack in his wake.  With another loud crack, Cinaed reappeared in another part of London.  Pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head, he hurried up the yard and rapped his knuckle on the door.  Under normal circumstances, Cinaed would have shown more graciousness by waiting to be invited in.  But, these weren't normal circumstances and there wasn't time for formalities.  Without a word, Cinaed used his brute strength to push his way inside as soon as the door started to open and slammed it shut behind him, driving the locks into place. 

Once convinced the door was secure, Cinaed turned towards Nicola and grinned down at the home's rightful owner.  "Sorry for the late hour and unexpected arrival.  Hope you don't mind me dropping by to visit."  Visit.  Hide out for a few days.  Long enough, at least, for the initial furry to die down enough for him to get resettled. 

“You!” There was never a time a pronoun had such a singular force. The word was verbalised with aggressive intent as Nicola hissed at the intruder in her house. “You dare exhibit your bearded façade in here, Tawse?” Wand raised, Nicola pointed the end at the vase proudly decorating the hallway upon a wooden table. She flicked the wand and sent the ancient porcelain ornament hurtling at the tall burly wizard stood at the door.

No muggles, no playtime and no late night fun. The evening had been a boring one. A boring evening that had left Nicola falling asleep on the old, moth eaten sofa in the dusty, barely habitable living room.  Her helpless grief had consumed her and with sleep she had drifted from a conscious world of pain and loss.

Until the loud banging on her front door had stirred her from the slumber before a pair of feet creaked the floorboards by the front door. Like a shot the thin scruffy witch had been up and in the hallway to attack and give any intruder who dared enter her home their just rewards. But  Cináed’s presence had knocked her for six.  The already pale face had been completely drained of any colour and dark brown eyes had locked onto his grey blue ones. So similar to Billy’s. It made the witch feel psychically nauseous.

He wasn’t here to offer condolences. He was here for a ‘visit’. He was here for a break from the fun with his Weird Boys Alliance to call up on the favours he’d done for her. Well he wasn’t getting that. Billy was dead and he was the nearest person she had to blame.

“Not a word for months and you turn up after he’s deceased!” Before she could stop herself, a shot of blue split the air between them and soared directly towards  Cináed’s chest. “You killed him you bearded Scottish moron!”

Out of the cauldron and into the fire. 

Cinaed turned towards Nicola, both hands lifted in a vaguely placating manner, wholly baffled by the ferocity of the woman's less than friendly response.  He'd expected some manner of annoyance or displeasure but, certainly, an unplanned visit wouldn't maker her this angry.  Of course, women weren't always predictable or comprehendible. 

He knew better than to argue, though.  "Look," he said, his hands still lifted as he leaned against the closed door.  "If it's bad timing, just give me half an hour and I'll be on my way.  I just need some place to hole up until Level Two's gotten over their initial flurry."  That wouldn't just be half an hour, of course.  If things went as planned, this last little episode should leave Rosier's office in a tizzy for quite some time.  But, if he could sit down for half an hour, the bulk of the stiffness and soreness should pass and he'd be able to apparate or fly back to Oronsay.  "I just need someplace to lay low for a bit." 

"Well.  Circumstances have changed.  I can't just wander-"  Cinaed had started to offer in his own defense for the accusation of not having sent a word.  After all, that ought to be easy enough to explain.  She must know he'd been on the run.  But, he couldn't even get his whole defense out before both the second part of her accusation and the hex to the chest caught him off guard.  Cinaed grunted and coughed as the flash of blue struck him in the chest.  "What?" Attempting to disarm her, Cinaed knew, would probably just make matters worse. 

"Who's dead?"  Cinaed asked, reaching out with one hand to try to (as casually as possible) guide Nicola's wand hand away so the wand was point at something other than himself.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

“Who’s dead!?” The screech burst from the young criminal’s lungs as she maintained her weapon’s focus, targeted upon the burly, hairy mammoth of a man before her. Nicola had already hit him once, a mild hint to apologise for his involvement, a warning of what more would come should he fail to offer an apology.

People usually in Cináed’s present position were usually as ghostly white as she, eyes wide in terror and dumbfounded mouth agape to resemble a castle gargoyle frozen in time. It had always amused Nicola how, as if by magic, a wand trained upon a victim resulted in bright wide eyes and a display of saliva, an ugly pink tongue and the victim’s breakfast wedged between dull, yellowing teeth.

And in Nicola’s position? If another person had a wand eagerly against the chest of the ministry’s number 1 wanted criminal? They would no doubt have feared the recourse. They would have fearfully awaited the moment the ‘victim’ decided he had had enough and would take back charge. But Nicola was in no fear of repercussions. And Cináed didn’t appear scared or angry. He looked worse for wear and confused, clueless as to the perplexing situation he had presently stumbled upon. Habitually Nicola greeted the burly wizard with warmth. They had an unspoken, uncomplicated relationship and it suited both perfectly adequately. Now, after months of him hiding and playing little games with his weird boys alliance her welcome was worse than frosty.

“Your cousin, you hairy mug!” The wand was further jabbed into the chest of the wizard well over a foot taller than the petite witch. One solo tear formed in the corner of Nicola’s eye whether from grief or frustration. Whichever it was it made her more furious. So she lifted her spare arm and wiped the tear away with a coarse netted sleeve.

“He is dead because of you!” Nicola fell back a step as she wiped her eyes again, smudging whatever was left of her dark mascara over her cheeks and the white material cloaking her pale arms and figure.

In reality, it wasn’t the lost cousin or the lost spouse the young dark haired witch grieved over. It was his life and the chance to terminate it. William Tawse, five years prior had sold his devoted wife up the river. Well, he had sold her up the river and into the north sea. Nicola had trusted William Tawse with her life and he had cruelly snatched it away for a shorter incarceration with Azkaban.

“Because of you, Cináed, my husband is dead!” And that was when Nicola flipped. From her lungs she ejaculated an almighty scream of frustration and the next thing she knew, a green bolt shot from the tip of her wand and Cináed was thrown across the gloomy entrance hall and into the hard wooden staircase banister.

By this time the young witch’s pale face was smeared with tears as her frail body racked with emotions she had never experienced and had no comprehension of.

“Billy found out, Cináed.” Nicola spoke quieter, her voice taking on a taunting tone. “How did he find out? You’ve been gone a long time.”

Cinaed was confused and far too exhausted and sore to bother trying to hide that fact.  After all, only a few moments ago he'd narrowly escaped the reaching tentacles of fiendfyre and Rosier's wandwork.  He was in no state to be putting on some facade.  He was certainly baffled, tired and stiff but afraid?  Of Nicola?  Not at all.  So far, he'd chucked up her furious ranting (and hex) to the unpredictable moodiness that was just the unfortunate drawback to the members of her gender.  The sweetest berries came with their thorns; the most enjoyable women came with their fits. 

"My cousin?" Cinaed mouthed back until the tear formed in Nicola's eyes.  "William?"  He had a few cousins but William was probably the only one she'd cry over.  "He's dead?  How?"

No sooner had the question escaped him than Nicola provided the answer.  Or, at least, her own interpretation of the answer.  William had already been sent to Azkaban when Cinaed was released; the two cousin's paths haven't crossed since Cinaed had been in his fourth year of Hogwarts.  Despite having not seen his cousin since he was an adolescent, was the Ministry actually trying to find a way to pin this on him?

"Is that what they told you?"  Cinaed demanded, taking a step towards Nicola.  "Did they tell you I'd-" But, before he could get the question out, a blast of light erupted against his chest and he was thrown across the room.  The corner of the banister rail caught him in the back, knocking the wind out of him.  He half fell and half slid to the floor, lifting one hand in a second attempt to either calm or placate the woman.  Or, simply, gesture some sort of surrender or truce. 

Cinaed shook his head, looking up at Nicola when he'd finally caught his breath.  "I haven't seen or spoken to Liam in over ten years.  I don't know what you're talking about.  How'd he find out about what?"

“Billy!” The young witch screeched, throat sore with the guttural screams of before. Her pale face reddened with the rush of blood, the salt from her tears staining her cheeks. “He was called Billy, Cináed.” The blonde brute on the floor referred to her husband as Liam; a name unfamiliar and alien to the grieving widow.

Yet looking down at the man against the banister, Nicola took a long calming breath and lowered her wand. Tawse didn’t look like he knew. He looked confused, taken aback. If he was lying to her he could darn well tell her the hippogriffs conversed only in Arabic and she’d believe him with that expression. But the papers called him a liar. Every daily prophet she’d received at this house insulted her male companion. He was a criminal overlord or some rubbish like that. That meant a good liar. That meant he wasn’t telling the truth now. That meant that the papers had been true.

“How did he find out about us, Cináed?” Nicola finally asked, dropping to her knees in front of Tawse. “That I wasn’t a loyal wife?” The tears continued to flow and a sleeve was once more used to wipe the salted droplets from her cheeks, the rough material leaving her pale skin red and sore. However, very quickly dark eyes angrily snapped back onto the wizard before her. “The paper said you aided his escape. That you suggested it to him.”

The pair of bare knees shuffled forwards and the considerably smaller Miss Randall beat at the chest of her much larger foe. “You killed him, Tawse! I trusted you and you stabbed me in the back! You stabbed your cousin in the back!”

Cinaed's shoulders hitched up in a slow, reluctant shrug.  It was only the potential for getting hexed that encouraged Cinaed to be anything more than indifferent about how his cousin referred to himself.  Of course, if this were some casual family reunion and Liam - or Billy - were standing right in front of him, Cinaed would have likely given him playful familial lip for trying to blatantly anglicize his name.  But, it wasn't Billy Cinaed was facing, it was Billy's irate and slightly dangerous ... widow. 

The ex-Azzie liked to think he had a certain prowess when dealing with women in flirtatious or romantic situations.  As he looked up at the anger and accusations seeping down the Nicola's face, he was keenly aware he was firmly beyond his league here.  Confusion and uncertainty was still distorting Cinaed's expression when Nicola's fists began beating against Cinaed's already sore chest. 

He let the woman get a dozen or so pummels in in the hopes that, if nothing else, the physical exertion would calm her down.  Finally, "Stop!"  His two massive claws reached for Nicola's small fists just as he spoke.  He didn't try to pin her - not entirely.  She was free to keep punching even if her fists weren't making direct contact with his chest. 

"I don't know how he found out," Cinaed offered, cautiously.  There was really no way to predict what words would make things better or worse.  "I didn't tell him but we weren't exactly secretive.  Sometimes gossip gets back to Azkaban."  It wasn't common.  The ministry didn't invite ex-Azzies to write back to their chums still left on the rock.  But, there were flaws in every system and convicts had nothing but time to figure out ways to beat the system.  "Or, he could have guessed."  It wasn't like Cinaed was really unpredictable when women were involved. 

"But, I had nothing to do with his escape."  And, therefore, death.  But, he was avoiding saying that for the time being.  After all - if Cinaed had been helping Liam - or Billy - escape, he would have given a better suggestion then 'fling your body off the cliff.'  "I didn't even know he was planning on escaping.  Don't you think we would have been a bit more discrete if I knew your husband would be getting out?"  Now was probably not the time to be trying to use reason but he'd already said it.

“Stop!”

Two giant hands snatched Nicola’s small wrists and thick fingers wrapped themselves around pale hands, holding them in place and preventing the smaller witch from further pummelling her visitor. The physical and emotional exhaustion caused from letting rip at Cináed left Nicola simply staring down into his face through blood shot, teary eyes. The tight grip on her fists reaffirmed the company she presently had and even the attempt to continue beating at his large chest ceased. The hand that tightly gripped her wand loosened in the grip and she heard her wand clatter to the floor, momentarily forgotten about.

Gossip, guessing, rumours, they had all led to the same thing. Nicola’s husband was dead because he’d thought launching his body off a cliff was a marvellous idea. Well she hadn’t married William Tawse for his brains, apparently. It had been to do with the accent, the demeanour. This was no doubt why as soon as her own husband wasn’t around, she’d fallen into the bed with his slightly smarter, rather more intimidating cousin.

The question posed stumped the witch as she was slowly calming down. Dark eyes stared into those of the blonde Scotsman and lips parted in thought as the witch’s breathing slowed. Should they have been discreet? Had she wanted to be discreet? All Nicola had wanted on her release from Azkaban had been shelter, warmth and a food. With that had come to extra benefit of company, a company she had found herself finding a soft spot for.

That was until he vanished and only reappeared after her husband had died. It was so incredibly suspicious but what Nicola had to remind herself of was the reality she had wanted her husband gone. She never wanted him to return. So maybe she should have been rejoicing and thanking Cináed Tawse for setting the foolish Azkaban Prisoner up for his death.

Slowly, the witch leaned in to the man who was holding her wrists, preventing her from further beating him. Instead of attempting to once more, her warm lips pressed against his own in a first soft and then forceful kiss.