Caradoc Dearborn

There were many stories she had heard about the Ormond attack; some of them graphic enough to plague her for weeks every time she closed her eyes, other about how the Order Members had managed to rescue the kids. Emmeline had told her about the clowns, and Mary avoided them ever since. Just a year ago life had been different; not better, but different. She couldn’t remember how it felt to go out without thinking that she wouldn’t make it back home. And now that she was in the middle of hell, there were many things she regretted.

Mary regretted not eating and drinking more; life was too short to worry about eating enough vegetables when they sucked. She regretted not travelling more, and even though she had planned it a few times, there was always something getting in the middle. She regretted not hugging Atticus more; he was growing up so fast and he wasn’t that eleven year old kid anymore, he was a man and she had never been prouder. She regretted not visiting Minnie more often; she was her mother, blood was nothing when her heart was so full of love for the beautiful woman who had always been there for her. But most of all, she regretted not waking up next to Caradoc every single morning; they’d had way too many opportunities to make it work, they had been stubborn and stupid, and now she wasn’t sure if she would ever see him again.

It had taken one second, a tiny distraction, and she had lost him in the middle of the chaos. She hadn’t been at Ormond, she hadn’t even written about it, but as her lungs filled with dust and made it hard to breathe, she wondered if it was meant to be just as awful. For some reason she wouldn’t stop thinking about the Death Eater she had encountered, the way he stood, the way he hesitated when attacking her could have been so easy. Atticus’ face came to mind and she hated herself for it, knowing it was the confusion and the worry playing tricks on her mind.

So she had run after him, and she had ended up lost somewhere in the building, like she always did anyway, only this time there was no way out. It would have been easy if her head weren’t pounding painfully and her vision blurred, and as she reached to touch her forehead, her fingers found something warm. It was blood, her blood, and Mary tried not to panic as she was losing any sense of reality.

Screams filled the air, and Mary tried her best to help people, it was just so fucking difficult when people kept pushing her out of the way. Even so, she had always been skilled with her wand, and she wasn’t afraid of taking a few Death Eaters down with her if she had to. It was only then when she heard her name being called, in that way only Doc could call her, and she felt like she could breathe again.

“Doc!” Her legs reacted before her mind could even register what was happening, she simply ran as fast as she could go until she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her. “You’re alive,” she whispered, relief washing over her. “We need to get out of here.” She had heard something about the Dark Mark and she desperately wanted to go back to a safehouse just to make sure their friends were fine. Her hand reached for his. “Doc, please, come on.”

For a brief moment he forgot about the fighting. All that seemed to fill his frame of vision was the sight of Mary Macdonald, dirt-streaked and bloodied, running towards him. She was alive. She was alive. She was here, and running towards him, and engulfing him in her embrace, and she was alive. He clutched her close, needing to feel her flesh under his palms to assure himself that this wasn’t some pain-induced hallucination. His breath came more quickly as he felt her heart beat against his own chest, as the sound of her words drifted upwards. 

There were so many things he should say. Apologies and explanations and promises. He didn’t want to live another second without letting her know how much she meant to him. He didn’t care that the need to do so was due to the panic of war and the after-effect of all that he’d seen throughout the day. He needed her, and he’d been so utterly, utterly stupid, and she ought to know that.

She pulled out of his arms, and he reached for his wand, aware again of how vulnerable they were. Though it had seemed an hour since he’d called her name and she’d turned towards him, it couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds. She was reaching for his hand, and he remembered that they ought to be trying to get out. He’d forgotten the ultimate goal in his search for Mary, and his relief at finding her. He gave her his hand, but in looking at her, he noticed for the first time the blood dripping down her forehead. 

“You’re hurt,” he said, and rather than following her towards the exit, he pulled her closer. His left hand still in hers, he used his right to gently push back her hair, drawing in a sharp breath as he saw the extent of her wound. “Mare, I’ve got to heal this,” he said. “We need to get somewhere quiet. It won’t take a minute, but it’s too dangerous here and - ” 

An ominous creaking echoed through Level Five, causing him to break off. He looked at Mary, and for a split second the two of them were running hand-in-hand towards the stairs. He heard screaming. He saw the short wizard he’d been helping earlier trip over a body on the ground. He felt Mary’s fingers straining in his, as if every atom of her body was reaching towards an escape. He thought of Nia, and a day last winter when they’d had a snowball fight and she’d trapped him against the side of the house and pushed a handful of snow down his top, laughing hysterically at his reaction. He thought of kissing Mary, and her hands fiercely clutching at his hair. 

And then there was an almighty noise, a sound as though the universe was tearing in two. He felt himself falling, and he lost his grip on Mary’s hand, and he issued a cry of pure terror because this was what dying felt like. 

Putting her feelings into words had always been difficult for her, which was ironic considering she was a writer. Expressing her feelings was complicated, if only because she didn’t understand how it was possible to feel so much for someone, that she couldn’t breathe when she was around him, but when she wasn’t, she wanted to be, if that made any sense. He had always had his way with fancy words, so good at keeping distance, pretending he was untouchable.

There was a war out there and any day could be their last, shouldn’t they make the most of the time they had left? Being together had never been an option, if only because they both were stupid, and she was tired of it. She could remember everything clearly; the day they met, the following months and years, and all she could think of was how easily it was for her to fall in love with magic and Charms and him.

She had loved him at eleven, curious eyes and open mind, discovering a whole new world she knew nothing about. And she had loved him at sixteen, apologies falling from his lips so easily that made her wonder if he meant them at all or if he was just trying to do the right thing like the good momma’s boy he was. She had loved him at eighteen, as he walked out of her life with no goodbyes, no explanations, and a hole growing inside her chest as she waited for him to get his head our of his arse and accept that he needed her just as much as she needed him.

She had loved him at nine in the morning, lost in Charms and each other’s eyes, and at three as they sneaked into the Astronomy tower just to watch the stars, her head on his shoulder as he talked about constellations and galaxies. She had loved him when he had walked away, and she had loved him even more when he had fought his way back into her life, with a bag of chocolate covered marshmallows.

There were so many reasons why she should be the one walking away this time, but they weren’t enough when she looked into his blue eyes and admitted that, no matter what happened, she would always love him. Because there they were, almost ten years later, and she still loved him, more and more each day. It could be the alcohol, the happiness, whatever, she didn’t even care.

His soft voice and warm breath sent shivers down her spine and she sighed, eyes closing as she forgot they were in the middle of the dance floor and that they weren’t alone. What could she even ask about that kiss? Had he liked it? Did he think of it as much as she did? Did he want to do it again? She pulled back slightly and smiled at him. “You are so frustrating.” And before he could say anything, she closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his.

Caradoc didn’t enjoy dancing, exactly. He’d been forced by his traditional, tradition-loving grandparents to go to dancing lessons one summer, until he could waltz and tango as well as any eighteenth century gentleman. His grandparents had refused to listen when he’d explained reasonably that this was the 1970s, not the 1870s. They’d just assured him that it would come in useful, and that all well-bred children ought to be able to dance properly at a ball. He supposed that since then he’d always associated dancing with that stiff, strict summer, where an elderly witch had spent hours berating him for his poor footwork and lazy elbows. It certainly wasn’t anything he categorised as fun. 

This, though. This, was not dancing as he’d been taught. With Mary’s hand gently on his shoulder, and her soft hair brushing against his chin and neck, he thought he could dance for hours if it meant she’d stay there and stay there and stay there. 

And then, somehow, she was kissing him. He’d asked her, sort of, he’d done the right thing and had given her the space to walk away from this if that was what she wanted. But she hadn’t walked away, or slapped him, or told him gently that they shouldn’t confuse their friendship anymore than it already was confused. She just kissed him. 

He could faintly hear that the next song had begun, but he no longer cared about dancing. He pulled Mary closer, his left hand still resting on the small of her back, his right hand now entangled in her hair as his desire to keep kissing her held him enthralled. 

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t a tentative, ‘let’s take this slow’ kiss. It was a kiss in which he let loose all of his impatience and carefully controlled passion and intense wanting for the woman whose lips were meeting his so fiercely. He’d been so anxious about not letting his emotions get the better of him, about not ruining the fragile friendship they’d managed to build back up again. But the alcohol and the dancing and the closeness he’d felt to Mary all night was getting the better of him, and he couldn’t bring himself to care that in the morning she’d tell him it didn’t mean anything had changed between them. She was kissing him, and all he wanted was more. 

His left hand drifted lower, as though of its own accord, and he could feel the way this dance floor kiss was becoming less and less appropriate.  His lips left hers momentarily, finding instead the soft skin below her earlobe, and if he’d been a braver man maybe that would have been the point where he’d picked her up and carried her somewhere they wouldn’t be watched.