This was the part of Ministry politics that he struggled with the most: attempting to reign his temper back in when circumstances pushed him to the verge of exploding.  There was only so much that he could take of Ballentyne needling at him, and then reverting to a reasonable, even tone.  He didn't want to have a conversation with her anymore.  He wanted to hit something, probably a wall, and then he wanted to throw his hands up, storm out of her office, and not give a second thought to the disheartening madness that was currently Level Four until he had to come back into work on Monday.

Except that wasn't going to actually fix anything, and he knew by now that the problem would be a lot worse if he put off dealing with it.  Kurby shot his former mentor a frustrated, recalcitrant look, and then dropped his own gaze, forcing himself to take a deep breath, to swallow past the knot in his throat. 

This didn't matter.  The only thing that bleeding well mattered right now was the January full moon, which meant doing everything he could up to that point to ensure that as many people survived as possible.  If that meant swallowing his pride, if it meant standing down in front of a werewolf, if it meant constantly reassuring Iona Ballentyne that she was Merlin's gift to the Ministry and had changed Level Four inalterably for the better when she'd only been on the job for a little over four days, then so be it.  If shutting his mouth meant that one more person -- one more bystander, one more Muggle, one more member of his team -- might make it through, then she could call him soft in front of the United Kingdom's entire werewolf population.

He didn't really want to continue working on the drawer, but it was something to do that didn't involve conversing with Iona Ballentyne.  Silently, Kurby flipped it back over, grinding his teeth as he regarded the interior flatly for a long moment.

It wasn't black and white anymore.  That was what had changed.  Three years ago, the only thing he'd been focused on had been tracking and subduing werewolves during the full moon.  Now, he had a team of mostly green young wixes that he was charged with keeping safe and an entire public to protect, and that meant taking a hard, unrelenting look at which parts of the system were working, and which parts were making everything worse.

Kurby finally raised his gaze to meet Ballentyne's, his jaw set stubbornly. 

"Katopodis wouldn't have killed those Muggles if Tawse hadn't grabbed her," he said quietly, crossing his arms.  "The only thing she did wrong willfully was not register.  If we throw everything we can at her on this, then when another werewolf gets dragged into some other goddamned mess with him, there's no bleedin' way they'd ever come forward."

For a few silent moments, Kurby continued his work on the drawer, Bruce wondering if trying to work with him was a lost cause or not. He fiddled with the drawer and she read through the rest of the document he’d insisted she sign there and then. It gave her something to do rather than stare at him willing him to grow up and act like an adult. Kurby Bagnold, while sulking or hearing things he didn’t want to hear reminded Bruce of her own teenaged daughter. Worse than her teenaged daughter. They’d been able to ground Waverley.

When Kurby did finally speak, Iona looked back up to meet his dark gaze. He’d really thought about it. This wasn’t some guy reaction that she’d known from him in the past. It wasn’t that black or white opinion. Kurby was delving into the grey areas between and it surprised her.

Bruce nodded.
“Okay.” She picked up her quill and dipped it in the ink pot, signing her name with a quick flourish.

“Do me a favour, Kurby.” She put the quill down and pushed the parchment to the edge of her desk for him to take out with him when he was done. “Don’t rush to presume I’m fighting against you, here.”

The werewolf hunter watched her for a moment longer, the line of his jaw still tight.  After a beat, he glanced down, dropping his gaze to examine some distant corner of the floor.

This entire week had left him feeling exhausted, like he'd ended up on the wrong side of another midnight ambush.  Except this assault, which had happened in the halls of the Ministry rather than the dark corners of London, wasn't one he could solve through quick reactions and adrenaline.  Chewing over Ballentyne's request, turning her words over in his head to judge whether the implied accusation was fair, made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. 

Silently, doing his best to avoid looking at his onetime mentor, Kurby lifted his wand and returned to his spellcasting.  The next enchantment was a bit tricky to set in place long-term, but he'd been messing around with something similar at home the past couple of nights, trying to figure out how to charm his silver chain mail without disturbing the other enchantments on it so that no one could take the lighting trick he'd employed against the direwolf and turn it against him.  In the end, electrical energy and heat energy weren't all that different.  Protecting against one was similar to guarding against the other.

It took a few moments to finish casting the charm.  Kurby rose to his feet, grabbing the drawer in his free hand. 

"I need to get into the slot where this goes," he informed her, still avoiding eye contact as he started around the side of her desk again.  "What's the reason behind you wantin' to speak to Katopodis, then?"

Obligingly, even if he hadn’t asked, Bruce wheeled her chair to the side to give him easier access to the drawer. He may have been avoiding looking at her, but she was watching him quite carefully now. It was a nice gesture, charming the drawer. The odd howler alone was little to concern oneself over, but when they came as an onslaught with waves of them hurling nasty words and abuse? She wasn’t quite so able to ignore their effect.

His question made her frown. So, it wasn’t okay for her to question him on his motives, but he could ask her? Was he being hypocritical or just difficult?

“I want to know why she didn’t register.” It was a simple answer, wasn’t it? He’d want explanation. She knew that. “Carter’s tasked me with improving the registration process and numbers. It’s an intimidating and scary process as it is. It needs to change. People like this witch can help me understand how.” She gave a shrug before crossed her arms. “She could have avoided a lot of this if we’d known about her. I have some idea, but I need to know what stops these people from coming to us in the first place.”

Bruce had enough ideas of why. She, herself, dealt with the stigma on a daily basis. So many people didn’t think werewolves could hold proper jobs or keep families or be responsible wixes. Years before, Bruce hadn’t really had any understanding of much beside the capturing part. Now that she was faced with the struggles on a daily basis, she’d seen the other side of the coin.

Kurby set the drawer on the ground, and then dropped down to one knee.  Carefully, he bent over to examine the hole where the filing drawer had started the day.  Wand in hand, he began to cast the same series of spells -- first reinforcing the wood, and then adding a layer of an anti-flammable charm.

"Reckon you might want to talk to Iain Grant too, then, if you haven't already," he remarked off-handedly.  He cast a Silencing Spell inside the empty hole, and then grabbed the drawer.  It took a few tries to successfully jam it back onto its tracks.

"And Maya Irene-Strangely."  Kurby grimaced as he said the name, not quite making eye contact with Ballentyne as he partially straightened.  Three years before, they'd both spent plenty of time griping about the supposed werewolf expert whenever her name had come up in the Daily Prophet.  "Assumin' you can make it all the way through a conversation without wantin' to hex her."

He slid the drawer in and out a few times, checking to make sure that it moved freely, and then cast one last Silencing Spell on the outside of it.

"There," he said at last, straightening all the way.  He finally looked back at Ballentyne, a note of uncertainty in his eyes as he met her gaze.  "Next time the owl post comes in, toss any Howlers in there and use a Sticking Charm to seal it shut."

"Reckon you might want to talk to Iain Grant too, then, if you haven't already,"

Bruce blinked.

Had this become a conversation?

A real work conversation that didn’t involve sniping?

Kurby didn’t question or grimace or bite. He suggested who she could speak with.

"And Maya Irene-Strangely." The Werewolf hunter continued. Even as he talked about getting through a conversation with the ‘expert’, Bruce was pulling a face akin to a child who didn’t want to do something she’d been told to. No, she did not want to speak with Maya Irene-Strangely. They’d never gotten along before, now she could only imagine the kind remarks sent her way about the illness she now had. Iona would rather stick sparklers in her eyes and dance around the WCU naked than chat to Strangely.

No.
Thank.
You.

“I’ve never had that much self-control.” She said, still pulling a face. Bruce had usually coped well biting her tongue when necessary throughout her work life. But Strangely really had gotten on her wick.

Kurby was done and he finally looked back at her. His expression was weird. There was an unfamiliar uncertainty lingering that set the werewolf wing head ill-at-ease.
“Thanks.” She offered a small smile. The drawer would make a big difference as long as it worked. “Just got to wait for more hate mail to test it out.” She winked and crossed her arms. “I’ll add them to my list. Might send someone else to speak with Strangely, not sure I’m ready for ‘Oh, you poor dear helpless victim of the hateful and cruel society we live in.’” The last part had been completed in her best Swedish accent, of course.

The werewolf hunter gave a snort that might have almost concealed a laugh.  He reached for the parchment that Ballentyne had signed authorizing Katopodis's transfer and rolled it up tightly again, tucking it under one arm.

"You want to deputize Bellingham to take the hit for all of us, reckon I can free his schedule up," he said nicely.  Not that he was still sore at his coworker for publicly betting on him being an arsehole earlier that week -- except for the fact that he was still sore, a little.

Kurby gestured with his wand at the piles of parchment that he'd moved to the floor earlier to clear off a space for himself to work.  As one, the papers rose into the air and settled back on Ballentyne's desk in their original position, albeit in stacks that were considerably neater than the messy piles that they'd started in.

Tucking his wand into his belt, he started to turn towards the door -- and then hesitated, pausing for a moment as he glanced back at the werewolf, his expression carefully unreadable.

"I'm not hopin' that you'll fail at this, Bruce," he said quietly, the words steady and even.   

The wonders continued. Bagnold took Bruce’s joke in a good humour (for Kurby, it was practically hysterics), and even went so far as to offer their long serving colleague to run point on a torturous expedition in dealing with Strangely. It would never happen, but the thought was nonetheless appreciated. Bruce rose her eyebrows, smirking.
“I think I like him too much for that.” she shook her head. “I’d take an hour in a Penelope Pickler Positive Patterns for Prosperity for People and Pets class over ten minutes with Strangely.” Perhaps an exaggeration. Perhaps not.

Kurby went to the door and stopped, turning back. Bruce watched him carefully.

His words surprised her. Bruce blinked and didn’t reply for a moment. It was a strange thing to hear from someone she’d been friends and colleagues with for years. She and Kurby had trusted each other with their lives. They’d worked together, led together, fought together, drunk together. Then nothing. For 3 years, not only had she missed her job, but there’d been a big Kurby shaped hole there.

Not wanting to make anything big of it, she nodded. “Good to know.” After everything they’d said already in the past half an hour or so, this did come as a surprise. Perhaps he would try and give her the benefit of the doubt. She certainly was trying with him.

He'd tried to extend an olive branch -- tried to do so more than once today, if he were counting -- but evidently, the only thing that his peace offering got him was a bare acknowledgement.  After the exhausting last two weeks, he was tired of pushing it.  To hell with trying to make nice if Ballentyne didn't want to hear it.

Kurby regarded the Department Head for a moment longer, silent and stoic, and then finally started out the door, shutting it behind him.