Figaro pulled away - why was there so much concern written on his face? - and the night air seemed much colder than before. At least Moira had finally stopped shaking.

"No. It's nothing. It was a long time ago. I was a child and it was an accident."

How many times had she heard that? Not your fault, just an accident. The horse panicked, you couldn't have helped that. Except she caused the panic. It's not your fault you didn't go with him, it was inconsiderate of him to even ask you! If she went maybe she could have saved him.

Moira blinked, looking up at Figaro again. Still there. She was tired. She glanced towards the giant tree not too far from the cottage then back to him.

Figaro followed Moira's gaze to the large gnarled oak, its branches creaking in the wind. The two Hufflepuffs really hadn't started to get to know each other until the previous summer, but Figaro felt like he'd gotten a good idea about how much Moira talked about herself. She rarely offered it up on her own, and said only exactly what she wanted to. This, of course, in sharp contrast to Figaro's never ending cascade of Too Much Information. He scratched the back of his neck and looked down at Moira, unsure of what to do. His curiosity was nagging, but it seemed out of line to question her on it.

"Do you..." he proceeded cautiously, "do you want to talk about it? I mean, whatever happened, I'm the one who dragged you out. You're alright. Right?"

They were both tired, he knew it. But even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep. Not at least until he calmed down.

Talking to people had never been one of Moira's strong points, especially when it came to her emotions. Showing, and sometimes admitting, that she had them made her feel incredibly vulnerable, a state she actively tried to avoid.

"I don't need to tell you how stupid all that was." Judging from the hug alone he had a good idea. Anyone else might have ranted and raved to make him feel worse so they could feel better. That wouldn't help anyone.

"I'm alright." She would be. Neither of them were physically harmed and while it was her first run in with a werewolf it was not her first brush with death.

Moira ran her fingers back through her hair again. "Shit, Fig. There's a werewolf in the middle of London."

As if it were yesterday, Bagnold's words again echoed in her ears.

             "Aye, so long as you do the same," he said matter-of-factly.  "If you notice something odd, whatever it is, send word.  Kurby Bagnold, Level Four."

When Moira had first agreed to it the idea that she ever would run across something 'odd' had never crossed her mind. She really didn't want to mention what happened tonight to anyone, but regarding this she was honor bound.

And it was gone. Whatever had nearly escaped Moira seemed to disappear. She'd just put it away, scolded him (deserved), and changed the subject. Figaro wasn't really in a mental state to keep up with that, he was still wrapping his head around the implication that Moira had, what, accidentally killed someone when she was a kid?

But he had his answer. If she'd wanted to talk about it she would have; this wasn't like on the rooftop badgering her about her meeting his mother. Figaro wandered a way just a few steps, unable to help looking out at the massive open space and so very different from the tidy city park.

"Yeah," he blurted out, trying to leave behind what Moira didn't want to talk about.

"What are the chances? It was in the Prophet," he said answering his own question. "Uh, St. Mungo's had a statistic. Like more people are injured by cows in a month than werewolves in a year or ..." he trailed off. That wasn't the point. He started trodding off towards the cottage where he sat on the steps.

He opened the vodka bottle with a pop. It had also survived the close call.

Moira stood and watched as Figaro put distance between them. During her years at Hogwarts the movement would have delighted her. She did appreciate him not pushing her on the subject but she would rather not see that look in his eyes.
Wordlessly she walked over and sat down beside him and stared out into the night, not saying anything at first.

"I was almost five. It was April of 1998, the Second Wizarding War would be drawing to a close the following month. Not that it meant anything to me at the time." Moira didn't know why she was telling him this. In her whole life she had only told one other person, and that was because she had a complete meltdown.

"We had a pen, just there, with a stallion in it. The day was nice and I wanted to go say hi and pet him. Made sure he knew I was there." She stared at that spot where the pen had been, almost transported back to that time. As the paddocks had been improved on the pen became unnecessary and was taken down several years later.

"I'm still not entirely sure what happened, but suddenly he spooked and couldn't get out. His hoof struck my head, knocking me back against the fence. My head hurt and my vision was darkening as I stared up at his flailing hooves and suddenly my mum was there between me and that stallion. She tried to calm him down but... he struck her several times, got her head much harder than he had mine. I passed out shortly after but not before I watched her die."

Shaking her head she reached over and took the bottle of vodka, taking a swig before handing it back.

Slow, sleepy, coming down from a scare, Figaro needed a second to realize that Moira was telling the story. He looked out at the grassy path in front of them, trying to listen.

Moira talked about what happened so carefully. Step by step, just enough detail that he could almost see the oak with its spring leaves and the dreamlike shade of some unimagined horse - mostly a chaotic sort of energy. She didn't say that she was scared or that it hurt or that she was sad. Moira just told him what happened.

Moira told him how she'd seen her mum die when she was only five. Figaro felt frozen and sad and honored and awkward all at the same time. He didn't know what to say. But that never stopped him before.

He took the bottle and took an uncommitted sip.

"That's terrible. Do you miss her?"

Hearing him talk Moira took her eyes off the empty spot and glance sideways towards him. "Honestly, I don't remember her. If not for the photos I wouldn't even know what she looked like. I don't know, it's like my world started over when she died. It's hard to remember things when she was alive, but I remember some things from after. I miss the idea of her, I think, but then my uncle wouldn't have moved in."

There was a chance Duncan still would have taught her everything he had, tips on cooking, how to track and not leave a trail, how to swim... might have been left up to her mum. It would have been very different. She couldn't really imagine a world where her mom had lived and her uncle lived somewhere else.

Except for a chorus of crickets singing in the grass, silence stretched out between the two of them though there was no discomfort in it.

After a few more moments Moira glanced over to Fig, "I have to tell Bagnold about the werewolf."

Figaro didn't know what more to say. Moira didn't seem to need his sympathy or comfort. All he could do really was be there. And he was. So instead of attempting to fill a silence or find words for something he couldn't relate to, he just nodded. Seeing your mother die like that, to feel like it was your fault, what could he do other than listen? Probably the best comfort he could give Moira was to just keep treating her normally, he realized. A rare wisdom, maybe.

He sipped at the vodka, mostly from the nerves, and after a bit, Moira broke the silence.

Figaro stared at her. It would take a little while longer before Fig got used to people knowing who Kurby Bagnold was. Kurby was his family's weird adopted uncle or something who was just around. To Figaro Kurby was one thing but he was also now Fauna Blake's colleague and Moira's ... something? It wasn't bad just ... worlds colliding at a funny angle.

"Why? No, we don't have to," he fumbled a little. "We should report it, yea, but we can do it by owl. Anonymously."

There wasn't much at all about this evening that Figaro wanted any 'adults' to know about. Going out on a full moon, sticking his nose into Ministry business, getting bold with proprietary Daily Prophet information. And even though Kurby wasn't an Auror, his mother's words and smacks-in-the-mouth were tingling: Don't Talk to Aurors.

Moira couldn't blame Figaro for his reluctance. Telling any part of what happened was, in her mind, less than ideal. Out for a walk in the middle of London during a full moon? Anyone who heard that would have serious questions about her mental health. Or it could be passed off as teenage stupidity. With any luck, the head of the WCU would be discreet.

"You're right. We don't have to do anything. I'm the one who made a bargain with Bagnold back when he visited the farm." Moira half suspected the older wizard had forgotten all about it. He hadn't forgotten about her hiding something during his questioning, though. Either way, she remembered and, for this particular instance, couldn't ignore it or report it anonymously.

"Have some faith, Fig. I don't mean to tell him anything more than is necessary." That at least she was good at. All she needed to do was figure out what she would say and what half-truth she would go with. Before she told the hunter and he found ways to call her out.

She knew her friend's reputation with the Ministry was hazy at best. Moira planned to do her utmost to leave him out of everything.

Figaro was aghast. He rubbed his face in his hands and groaned.

"What bargain?" he demanded. "Maybe you and Kurby are like besties now but have you ever tried to lie to him? It's not technically possible. Lovely bloke. Absolutely sweet man, Kurby, but there's not a way this turns out with me not getting in trouble."

Nineteen was a funny age. You were grown and on your own and there was no such thing as detention. But every other adult in the world still had seniority and you still needed their help sometimes so yea, Figaro was reasonably concerned about getting in more trouble.

"What are you going to say, Moira," he asked wearily. "It's the middle of the night."

Moira snorted when he used the term 'besties'. That was more than an exaggeration. At best she and Bagnold seemed to be on neutral ground.

"He agreed to let me or my family know if whatever or whoever killed that man in Edinburgh was found. In return I am to let him know if I notice anything odd. A hungry werewolf running loose falls in that category."

Shaking her head when he reminded her how late it was she looked to him again. "I know it's the middle of the night. I have to be up at five thirty, Fig. I'm starting to consider not going to bed at all." How much coffee could sustain her before she had to rely on the potion, she wondered?

"I try not to lie, too easy to get found out that way. I'd probably say something like 'a werewolf was seen in the middle of London at Reagent's Park'. You're name won't even come up." If she did go tonight there was the hope that urgency would be called for and further questioning would be forgotten, until later when she wasn't so tired.

Figaro stared at Moira for another moment then gazed off into nowhere. Moira really did have some weird deal with Kurby. Fig remembered back in October when he'd visited with the talking jack o' lantern and Moira saying that Kurby had to rule her out of a werewolf attack because she was a wolf animagus. He rubbed his face again.

"Good luck with that," he said in resignation. It was the right thing to do: London had to be warned. Figaro really just didn't have the best luck keeping his name from 'coming up'. He couldn't help but worry his fingerprints were going to be all over this. Maybe he had it coming. He really had gone half-cocked on this one.

He stood up with a sigh and nodded towards the door. "Can I go in? Hafta piss."

Moira felt Fig resign before the words left his mouth. It was strange how a simple shift in energy could sometimes be so profound but so unnoticeable if no one was paying attention.

Nodding at his request to go inside she answered, "Sure. And if you don't feel up to traveling home you can borrow the couch." She had borrowed his couch, his parent's anyway, once so it only seemed fair. Except her house wasn't empty, her dad and uncle were asleep inside.

Moira watched her friend go inside and waited for both doors to shut before getting to her feet. Pulling out her wand she prepared a message for Kurby Bagnold[1] then sent it off to him with her patronus. Hopefully they found the beast quickly before anyone could get hurt.

Suppressing a shudder she put her wand away and also went inside the house. Maybe a few hours of sleep would be better than nothing.

1.	"A werewolf was spotted in London at Reagent's Park a very short time ago. It should still be in the area."