^{Rated M for what I am going to assume will be violence and language}

---

It was the night before the full moon and the wolf inside of Jack was getting restless. It prowled around its cage in the back of the boys mind; alternating between pleading Jack to let it free and threatening if he refused. When he wouldn’t, it banged against its bars and howled furiously. The cage withstood these tantrums, but only just. Each night that the moon grew fuller, the bars weakened and the wolf grew more anxious to be free, his power spilling over into Jacks waking life. It was a double-edge sword. On one hand, it made him stronger and faster, increased his reflexes, heightened his senses and he healed quicker. On the other hand, he was also insanely hungry, restless and worst of all, angry.

Tonight, though, the wolf wanted to run more than anything. It wanted the adrenaline rush, the wind its face and only gravity holding it down. Jack obliged, burying his camping gear in the woods before bolting away with nothing but the clothes on his back and some provisions in his pockets. He ran like a man possessed, letting nothing stand in his way. Underbrush was trampled, limbs sidestepped, people dodged, walls scaled and, at least once, car hoods vaulted. As he ran, stray dogs begin to follow behind. They must have sensed the wolf and thought there was a hunt to be had. It must have been quite a sight because several people yelled obscenities at him as he and his ‘pack’ wove between their cars, broke up happy couples and scared sleeping bums.

He didn’t stop running until he found himself in a strange, somewhat suspicious, part of town, and he only stopped then because his human body couldn’t keep up with the wolfs demands. Pulling up abruptly in front of a pub, Jack collapsed against the wall and slide down it, gasping for air. His dogs gathered around him, collapsing as well. He leaned his head back against the cool stone and sat there, his heart pounding and his lungs burning, for several minutes until he realized someone was looking at him. One eye opened lazily, its thick brow arched, and looked at the little girl standing there staring at him.

“What’s their names?” She asked once she knew he noticed her.

“They ain’t got nowt…” He replied, just as readily, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that a little girl as small as herself was wandering around such a seedy place so late at night.

“They have to have names… it's a rule.” She retorted, crouching down to give one of them a pat. The dog cringed away from her hand, obviously used to receiving harsher treatment from such things.

“I guess…” He shrugged and added “… Fido… Spot… Lucky and… ehm… Digby.” He recited all the ‘normal’ dog names he could think of, randomly pointing at each mutt. She snorted somewhat derisively.

“You can’t call em that! Those are stupid names” she said, rolling a pair of luminous eyes. Perhaps it was the light or the gauntness of her cheeks, but her eyes were huge. Jack leaned forward slightly and studied her, suddenly curious to why she was out there alone so late.

“Fine. Wot d'ya want’a call em, yeah?” He asked, scratching the back of his neck before crossing his arms against the November chill. She begin to list off names like ‘Fluffers” and “Bella”, and he couldn’t help but crack a smile when ‘Bella’ lifted a leg and begin to lick something that clearly indicated her naming choice was premature. He didn’t bother to correct her.

She had to be about 12, but small for her age, wearing a sweater for a much older child that she had fashioned into a sort of dress with the help of a belt. Underneath it, her leggings were ripped and one of her boot heels was peeled back. The sickly pallor of her skin was reminiscent of someone who ate low-quality food and didn’t see much sun, a theory backed up by the dark circles under her eyes. His nostrils flared and he caught the whiff of cigarette smoke, cheap detergent and greasy hair.

“What’s your name?” She asked, probably annoyed by the silence, as she rocked back and forth on her flapping heels.

“Jack.”

“I’m Sally.” She offered and then fell silent. This last for a couple minutes before she added suddenly “Me dads in the pub. Mum says I ‘ave to make ‘im come ‘ome tonight.” She scuffed her boot against the sidewalk as she said this and the wolf in Jack immediately sensed the fear radiating off of her. Perhaps she was scared of being there alone.

“I’ll go in with ya. Ya shouldn’t 'ave to be 'ere alone…” He offered, feeling obliged to be protective of her. Rising to a crouched position, he dug in his hoodies pocket and pulled out a small bag of jerky. Breaking off a few pieces, he fed and scratched behind the ears of each mutt, even the mangy one that bared its broken teeth at him. Then he handed the bigger of the two last pieces to her and popped the other in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Come’on then.”

 The moment he opened the pubs door, Jack was assaulted with a rush of smells that made his head throb. To most people, except, perhaps, the drunk ones within, it was just a generally bad smell. But to Jack, especially tonight, it was dozens of foul things wrapped into one disgusting package. There was a couple different cigarette smokes, body odor of varying degrees, vomit, rancid booze and what could only be a backed up toilet. Jack’s nose cringed and he considered leaving, but he could feel Sally behind him, her fear still tangible.

“Go find your da… I’ll be right 'ere.” He said as he took up a spot at the bar. She turned and reluctantly disappeared into the shadows, and he turned his attention to the bartender. “Um… Could I 'ave some wa'er, mate?” He asked as he rummaged in his pockets. After pulling out some random bits and odd ends, he found some coins and placed them on the counter “And...ehm... wha'ever food this'll get us."

11pm. The Rascal's Heel, London.


It weren't a busy night, being Sunday, but that 'ardly meant nothing 'round these parts. Roger was workin' one of the pubs down at the wrong end of Camden- which 'course promised him a fucking terrible night if anythin'. He hated the bloody place even if it prolly weren't the worst muggle shit-hole in town.

Eh. A job was a job. He needed t'make ends meet.

Lookin' drab in a grey sweater and jeans, the squib tended to the bar with s'much patience as the only sober person in a room could possibly 'ave. So not much really. "Another pint, luv?" an old hag-of-a-woman was asking for the eleventh time this evening. She was stinkin' pissed as it was. Real ugly thing too... sagging boobs and blotchy eyeshadow sorta crone.

"Aye, 'nother pint miss," Roger slid over a glass to the other end o'the wooden counter and turned away as he rolled up his sleeves, a disgusted cringe twitching at his lips. Ye get all types 'ere. "How can I help ye?" he glanced t'the next customer with an efficiency he hardly knew he had.

A big bloke had sat himself down. Not a familiar lookin' face, didn't look like he expected t'be here now. "“Um… Could I have some water, mate?” the fella asked, “And whatever food this will get me." He seemed a sorry-looking bastirt so Roger didn't much bother countin' the coin.

"Wa'er and a bowl o'chips," he ducked around the back of the bar and returned just as quick with the nosh. The bowl'n glass were set down carelessly. "Food's a li'l cold mate but the stoves aren't workin' tonight...." Roger lingered t'talk; they weren't anyone else clamouring for a drink and he preferred being 'round someone closer t'his age.

"Can I get ye anything else?"

"Wa'er and a bowl o'chips,"

"Cheers..." Jack grinned, his stomach growling in anticipation as the bartender set a bowl of limp, lukewarm potatoes and a glass of water on the counter. The bowl had barely touched the table before Jack snatched a handful, stuffed them in his mouth and swallowed hard, with almost no attempt to chew. To be fair, there wasn't much need to. As it were, they were one good pounding away from becoming mash.

"Food's a li'l cold mate but the stoves aren't workin' tonight...."

Gulping down at least half, if not more, of the water, Jack closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh. As much as it hurt, he relished that painful pleasure of food hitting an empty stomach. It was familiar. After a moment of this, he looked back at the other guy and gave him an honest smile, saying "No worries, mate, 's brilliant." Jack was a man of simple pleasures. The fact that the potatoes were probably a couple hours old didn't bother him in the slightest. In fact, it barely registered.

Neither did the bartenders attempt to socialize with him, for that matter. Jack was used to the old adage of 'be seen and not heard'. Actually, he was used to 'don't be seen or heard at all, just go to your room', but that was besides the point. The fact was that he wasn't used to people showing interest in him, unless they were criticizing something. So when the bartender lingered, Jack ignored him and focused on his chips with an intensity they didn't quite live up to. 

Suddenly, something tugged at Jack's nose, which was impressive considering the range (and rankness) of the smells that permeated the room. This one was definitely out of place, however, as it wasn't smoke, booze, sick, piss or a combination thereof. Instead it was something decidedly familiar... something herbal, Valerian if he could guess, mixed with the sharp tang of bile, the distinct powdery smell of crushed beetle and, the strongest of all of them, the copper-tinged scent of blood. Salamander blood, he was almost positive. During this time of the month, his ability to differentiate different 'shades' of blood was at its peak. He could taste it.

The wolf growled, the scent of blood being just strong enough to rouse him from his slumber. Jack stuffed a couple of chips in his mouth, desperate to get something in his stomach, but knew that what he really needed was meat. Fresh, bloody, still warm from the kill meat. The limp, lukewarm potatoes just couldn't compare. But Jack assured the wolf that tomorrow night, they would hunt down a deer and eat their fill for the next month. It was about the only night he got a really decent meal because, unlike the rest of the time, one didn't need to worry about hunting equipment when one was two hundred pounds of rage filled muscle and teeth. The rest of the time, he had to do with catching rabbits in homemade snares, which he found awfully depressing. The wolf was the one that liked to kill things, not Jack.

Fighting his urge to hunt, Jack focused on the cause of the smell. He knew what that particular combination was because he observed his mother mixing those exact same ingredients dozens of times for when his father took too hard to the brandy. The name of the potion was lost on him but it was certainly magical in nature and it was exuding from the young bartender in waves. Jacks eyes brightened, suddenly a bit more interested.

"M'names Jack...'s nice ta meetcha." He said suddenly, wiping his hand on his pants before shoving it towards him with a friendly smile. He was about to add that he knew he was a wizard and that they should be friends when another sensation crept over him, causing every hair to stand at attention. It was that fear again, but more intense this time. His ears perked up slightly, reminiscent of the wolf within, and he glanced towards a shadowy part of the bar. There was little Sally, clinging to the arm of a much larger man, larger than Jack, who looked absolutely pissed out of his mind. She was begging him to come home and when he yanked his arm from her grasp, she winced and another wave of fear hit Jack, leaving his stomach lurching. His eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced back at his new friend, jerking his head towards the scene "Oi, Mate... What's that about then?"

Funny bloke, didn't seem much interested in chatting. In Roger's experience- ye get two sorts 'round these parts. There be the sort who come to their waterin' holes just to get piss drunk... now that didn't none fit the guy tearing into the bowl o'chips. And then ye have the sort who come just t'complain 'bout their lives to the help. Not him either.

Just as it seemed like he weren't going t'get much of anything outta him, the bloke glanced up at Roger with a funny look. "M'names Jack...'s nice ta meetcha." They shook hands casually over the counter and the squib shrugged, offering his name in return. "Ye can call me Roger. What do y--"

He paused, following Jack's eyes to a corner of the pub. Oh, fuck. Not Douglas and his kid again.

Nobody really liked Douglas. The muggle had the build of a rugby player and the gut of a chronic drinker. Sometimes just lookin' at the bastirt made Roger want t'quit the ale. But it weren't his looks that got him hated, it was the wee girl. It was her comin' over and the way Douglas treated her. Weren't pretty. Echoing this thought, Roger's newly-made friend asked: "Oi, Mate... What's that about then?"

"Local drunk," he replied and glanced away from the muggle to give Jack a meaningful look. "Ye know the sort. We don't mind him 'less he starts gettin' violent or summat. Piece o'shit, really." And he meant it. There were a lotta weasels on Knockturn, where Roger dealt the gillyweed, but nothin' got him as sick as a da who'd lay a finger on his li'l girl. Made him see red, that did.

It weren't hard to see the anger written 'cross his face.

"Be'er t'keep an eye on him..." he looked back at Douglas, who was now spluttering and tryin' t'say something to his daughter. Whate'er it was, he knew it weren't nice. Roger realized he'd clenched his fists up real tight and forced himself to release them. Ain't no use gettin' mad yet. "A right animal. Nearly took out me fuckin' eye with a broken bottle, once."

As Roger explained the situation, Jack chewed thoughtfully, his eyes locked on the pair. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when the gravity of the situation dawned on him, that Jack turned and eyed his new mate.

“Wait… Ya mean ‘e… ‘its ‘er an’ whatnot?” He said slowly, his eyes squinting as he tried to work his mind around this concept. The idea of child abuse was alien to him, particularly the kind against little girls. No matter what could be said about Yorick Travers, no one could say he ever raised a hand, or wand, to his daughter. Not even to discipline her. As for Jack, well that was another matter entirely, but he had been raised to believe that he usually deserved any punishment he was given. Sally, on the other hand, didn’t deserve this at all. Brows drawn and lips pressed in a thin, disapproving line, he shook his head. “Tha’ ain’t right.”

He wasn’t sure what to do to make it right, though. Roger seemed like a decent bloke, so Jack didn’t want to make trouble for him by starting a fight. Besides, the man hadn’t really done anything yet—At that moment, as if on cue, the blokes hand shot up and hung threateningly in the air, the back of it displayed with a clear message of incoming brutality. Sally flinched, turning her head away expectantly and Jack felt her waves of fear intensify. It was all he needed to see.

In mere seconds, Jack was on his feet and between them, pushing Sally behind him protectively. Shoulders squared and fists clenched, Jack raised his chin and stared down his nose at the man with an expression that, in itself, wasn’t threatening except when he combined with a low growl of “Touch ‘er, an’ I’ll kill ya.”

The man balked at this, obviously surprised that anyone would dare stand up to him, let alone a kid several inches shorter and thinner. He laughed derisively and then leaned in close enough to Jack that he could smell seven different varieties of liquor on his rancid breath, “Yeah? Ya think yer some kinda ‘ero, kid? Ya won’t be so cocky when I'm done kicking seven shades of shite outta ya.” He sneered and then grinned, glancing around to see who else thought this kid was out of his bloody mind. No one made eye contact, let alone laughed.

“I ain’t scared.” Jack shot back, his eyes fixed and unblinking, like a snake poised to strike. Inside, the wolf pushed against its bars, howling to be let loose to tear this arseholes throat out. “Any man who’d ‘it a little girl is a bloody coward, an’ cowards don’t scare me none.” He added with a smirk, egging the man on in hopes that he would take the first strike. Charlie always said that he shouldn’t ever instigate the fight, only defend himself. He never said anything about getting the other guy to hit first.

Apparently it was the right thing to say too, because the man snarled “Cheeky lil fuckwit…” before rearing back and slamming a wild haymaker straight into Jack’s jaw. The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth and Jack felt the beast inside of him stir in excitement, eager to spill more. It looked like it was going to be a bad night for his assailant since being this close to the full moon meant that his punch was little more than a glorified slap in the face and served only to make the wolf more furious. It beat against its cage, bending the bars to the breaking point, as it howled for blood. Any moment it would break free.

Hands still in his pockets, Jack turned his head slowly back towards the man, his eyes glinting dangerously.  “Go ‘ome Sally…” He said to the little girl cowering behind him, though his eyes were still locked steadily on her fathers. She didn’t have to be told twice before she bolted, and Jack waited until he heard the door slam behind her. Then he sniffed a little and without a word, kicked the man hard enough in the stomach to send him barreling back into the tables behind him, splattering beer and glass over the patrons too stunned or knackered to get out of the way.

And with that, all hell broke loose.

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Douglas ye bloody bastirt," Roger had leaped legs-first over the counter the moment he saw the angry, drunken glint in the muggle's eyes. The other customers had gone t'either make themselves scarce or form a sort've loose ring 'round the brawl. It was gratifying t'see the li'l lass Sally running off. Merlin knew what 'er mum were thinkin', sending that sweet gil out t'some place like this. "Oi, out of me way ye rummy idiots!" Roger pushed past a few blokes in time to catch a sight of Douglas, come barreling past 'em to crash into the flimsy tables at the back of the pub.

That weren't gonnae feel any good in the mornin'.

The squib glanced up quickly at Jack, who didn't look none happy 'bout being punched. T'be honest... Roger didn't think he'd had much in him anyway. It took a soddin' strong blow to send the six-foot-something muggle flying 'round the place.

But he spoke to soon. Douglas was clambering up from the fallen chairs. Piss drunk, brainless shit of a muggle who didn't know nuffin' bout raising a kid. The sort've bloke ye'd put down if he were a mutt. Roger felt angry. There weren't no coin worth serving this bastirt. He could starve a coupla nights.

"Oi, Douglas..." Roger growled, kicking at one've the chairs as the muggle tried t'stand. "Ye cannae stay 'ere, mate. Get ye fuckin' face out've this room." The other man had a contorted look, like he'd gone stepped on a cow patty. He glared, first at Jack and then back to Roger. "Wot're ye kids tryin' to pull 'ere, eh? Get outta my way you litt--"

He weren't even gonnae get a chance. Roger'd been savin' this one up. None of that bar-brawling shite they were used to but a proper, fuckin' punch from the ring. A swivel of the foot, and a quick push- heaving his weight forward in one blow to the man's cheek that sent the bloke stumbling backwards.

"We ain't kiddin' ere, mate. Not even askin'."

As he waited for the man to untangle himself from the mess of chairs he had landed in, Jack prepared himself for a fight. Almost by second nature, he curled himself into a fighting stance, head down, fists up, knees bent. Douglas would be working himself into a frothing rage at this point and it looked like Jack was going to have to fight him off alo-- This thought had barely come to mind before Roger stepped into the ring, catching the codger with a powerful blow. This was certainly a pleasent surprise. Jack had hoped the two could be mates, but he hadn't expected him to join a fight that would likely lose him his job. The gesture was not lost on him and he gave Roger a grin "Nice one, mate!"

Disoriented and probably in a good deal of pain, Douglas focused his watery eyes on Jack with a wild gaze and spat blood tinged spittle through clenched teeth. "Ah'll kill ya" he snarled before rushing at him, swinging wildly. This time, Jack dodged, smoothly sidestepping the man as his fist breezed mere centimeters past his nose. As they passed, his own fist shot up and caught Douglas hard in the kidney. The blow was enough to stagger him and Jack was able to spin him around using his own inertia. "Ya 'eard the man..." He growled, grabbing the man by the front of his grubby shirt and dragging him close "... Now kindly piss off!". With this, he brought his forehead down into the bridge of the bastards nose with an audible crunch of bone meeting bone. Warm, thick blood splattered across his mouth and chin, and Jack was aware it was not his own. He barely managed to resist the wolf's urge to lick it away.

Douglas sagged and Jack used his sudden pliability to drag him towards the door, tossing him rather unceremoniously onto the concrete outside. There, Douglas writhed on the ground, gagging on his blood before vomiting it, alongside a fair amount of liquor and what looked like the remains of a Shepard's Pie, off the edge of the curb where it mixed with the putrid water. Jack stood over him, fists clenched, as he waited for him to try and attack again. Minutes passed and nothing happened. Douglas seemed to finally get the idea that he stood no chance against either of them, let alone both. Instead, he laid there limp and defeated.

Relaxing a bit, Jack wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his sleeve before turning towards the pub. Sally stood there, eyes wide with a mix of awe and horror, and mouth gaping. Jack froze when he saw her, realizing that she had witnessed the entire fight. Shame and guilt quickly filled him as the adrenaline and bloodlust faded, and he sighed. "Ya weren't meant t'see that... Why din't ya go 'ome?" He said softly, crouching down slightly so they were face to face. He waited for her to scream or strike out at him for harming her father, but neither came. Instead, a pair of thin arms wrapped around him as she whimpered softly against his neck "Th'nk ya". Surprised, and a bit bewildered considering the situation and the fact he couldn't remember the last time someone thanked him, Jack patted her awkwardly on the back. "Ehm... yer welcome..."

They stood like this for a moment or two before she finally pulled away, attempting fruitlessly to wipe the tears from her swollen eyes. Sniffing back a gob of snot, she said in a barely audible whisper "What do I do now?". Jack frowned and looked away, uncertain of what he should say. They had just beaten her father near to death, so anything he could think of seemed a bit... arrogant. Tearing a fair bit of cloth from his shirt, which was already ruined thanks to the delightful coating of blood, he held it up to her nose in much the same way he did for Samantha when they were children. "'ere, Ya got a bogie there... blow." He commanded gently.

She complied, quite loudly, and when she finished, he wiped away the tears on her cheeks and gave her a thin-lipped smile "Go 'ome, Sally... Tell ya mum what 'appened, yeah?" She nodded and he patted her head affectionately, adding "...An' if 'e ever touches ya again, ya come find Roger 'ere at the pub."

"What... What about you? Can't I find you?" She retorted, brows drawn plaintively. "Where d'ya live?"

"I... ehm..." He hesitated, not sure how to answer this question. He didn't want to lie to her, but he couldn't bring himself to admit the fact that he lived in an old tent in the middle of the woods. It just opened up a line of questioning he wasn't sure he wanted to go into. Finally, he added a weak, "...I live very fa' off, in tha country."

Sally pondered this for a moment before giving him a look that said 'don't take the piss, I'm smarter than that', before saying "Ya don't 'ave a 'ome, d'ya Jack?"

His thin smile twitched a little and he gave her an impercepible nod of his head before patting hers again "Jus' find Roger... 'e'll take care of ya..." Turning away, he walked over to where Douglas was laying on his back, his faint breath wet and dogged. Reaching down, Jack grabbed his shirt and yanked him over onto his side so he didn't choke on his own sick. Watery eyes focused on him as he kneeled down, shaking his head slowly in disgust. "Yer a waste, y'know? A stonking bloke like ya should be protectin' 'er, not 'itten 'er. Ya make me sick." Leaning close, so only Douglas could hear, he added coldly "So I will only say this once. Ya touch 'er again... I'll fucking end ya. Understand?" With a gurgle, Douglas shook his head lightly.

A couple minutes later, Jack was back at the bar. Ignoring the stares of the other, suddenly very quiet, patrons, he picked up his fallen stool and took a seat as though nothing had happened. Then he carefully put another chip in his mouth and chewed gingerly, finding a new appreciation for their softness. Finally, after a few chips, he glanced at Roger and grinned with bloodtinged teeth "Oi, Mate... Tha' punch was bloody wicked. Where'd ya learn to fight like that?"

There were skrewts that coulda left the pub with more fuckin' grace than that monster Douglas. Watchin' him get hauled off like the sack of shit they all knew him t'be... it were a satisfying sight. Roger was still breathing hard, partly in anger an' partly with a sort've fear when the doors closed over Jack's back.

Bloody hell. The bloke weren't all that tall but he were built for a fight if nuffin' else. Ye got t'have a stomach for violence to break someone in like that. "Lemon!" A harsh, feminine voice quipped from somewhere behind the crowd've customers that were gettin' back to their poison. "Stop that gaping and get back b'hind the bar, boy." Lady of the house, Mrs Jones.

Roger shrugged his shoulders and turned his back to the entrance as he returned to his post. Grey-haired and hunched, Jones went by with a mop in hand t'start on cleanin' the floors. Chairs were bein' clumsily set right, but still stares were cast 'round warily. Rule was, if ye take a fight outside, it weren't yer issue no more.

But then the doors creaked again. The squib were already at 'is taps and he peered up at Jack, who were the soddin' picture of calm. The pub went quiet, 'course, but Roger's gaze dropped and he went on with wha'ever bloody charade this was- actin' like nothing 'ad happened at all. He started wipin' down beer mugs. It were a few crunches into the chips b'fore anyone in the room began t'look away. Few more b'fore the other bloke said anything. "Oi, Mate... Tha' punch was bloody wicked. Where'd ya learn to fight like that?"

A small, grim smile twitched at Roger's lips as he set down the mug he was dryin' off and glanced up.

"At me school," he replied after a pause. "Ye cannae get by without pickin' up a sport there, can ye? Not so bad yourself, mate. Douglas weren't no pushover..." Carefully, he met Jack in the eye. Tryin' t'measure him up. Good in a fight, aye. Decent. Maybe even a li'l trustworthy. "Ye be'er not be staying round 'ere for too long. Might not look it but the man's got friends. Wouldn't call them pushovers either."

"At me school, Ye cannae get by without pickin' up a sport there, can ye? Not so bad yourself, mate. Douglas weren't no pushover..."

"Heh..." Jack tilted his head bashfully and shrugged one of his shoulders nonchalantly, though his smile clearly showed how pleased he was at the other lad's praise. He wasn't so distracted by it to miss the mention of 'school', however, and perked up a little at the word. He had almost forgotten that Roger was from the wizarding world, which meant that 'school' surely was refering to 'Hogwarts'. He wanted to comment on this fact but Roger continued on with a thinly veiled warning.

"Ye be'er not be staying round 'ere for too long. Might not look it but the man's got friends. Wouldn't call them pushovers either."

"Ah...Right." He said slowly, sucking in his lips as he thought about Roger's warning. He didn't want to leave, considering he had a long way to walk back and he was enjoying the food and company. However, if Roger was implying that there would be trouble if he hung around, Jack could hardly demand to do so. He didn't want to cause more trouble for the other lad, not when he was not only his chance to get into Diagon Alley, but to have an actual friend. Nodding, he stood "Well... It's ge'in' dark, innit?" he said, a bit reluctantly, as he stuffed a few more crisps in his mouth and tugged his sweatshirt closer "I'd be'er pack it in, then."

Before he left, however, he leaned over the counter so only Roger could hear him, and added with a grin "Mebbe next time we meet, ya could tell me about 'ogwarts, yeah?" He thumbed his nose and gave a conspiratorial wink before turning and heading towards the door.

"Mebbe next time we meet, ya could tell me about 'ogwarts, yeah?"

It were a bloody good thing Roger hadn't been working the taps when Jack made the comment, there would've been shattered glass for sure. He stared, nonplussed, as the other bloke's retreating back and then turned to Mrs.Jones. The pub proprietor was just done tidying up the stools.

"Tend the taps for me, won't ye mam?" the squib said and jumped the bar counter without waiting for a response. He pushed past the doors that Jack had just left through and found himself on the dark pavement outside. Street lamps flickered and the tarmac was quiet; there wasn't a car in sight.

Which were a good thing, no muggles about.

"Oi, Mate!" Roger exclaimed at the  figure crossing the street. "Wot're ye talkin' 'bout? Come back 'ere." Tell him about Hogwarts, was he a squib too? Or a muggle in the know? Fuckin' hell, talk 'bout coincidence.

As the pub door swung shut behind him, all its warmth and light, as little as that may be, died quickly in the grip of the November chill. The gloom of night enveloped him and Jack shivered violently in its embrace, his bones aching. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he breathed into them until little white clouds trailed from between his fingers while wishing fervently that he had bothered to grab a warmer jacket. Although it was true that the curse meant he ran hotter than most, he lacked the wolves fur to maintain it and now that the wolf’s bloodlust had been sated by the fight, Jack felt vulnerable and woefully human. Suddenly, the prospect of the icy wind in his face on the run home seemed much less…inviting.

Tucking his hands into his armpits and hunching his shoulders against the bone-chilling cold, Jack glanced plaintively back at the pub door in misplaced optimism that it would be open and beckon him back into its warmth. But, it wasn’t and it didn’t. With a heavy sigh, Jack ducked away and sniffed the air for the scent of home. He found it to the southwest, faint but familiar. Pulling up his hood, Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and began to cross the street.

He got to the middle of the road when a voice cut through the eerie stillness, stopping him short.

"Oi, Mate! Wot're ye talkin' 'bout? Come back 'ere."

Jack smelt Roger before he saw him. Flecks of blood from the fight had only intensified the potency of the sobering potion and the smell wrapped around him like a well-worn blanket. He turned with hopeful eyes and a smile budding at the corner of his mouth, the latter of which he tried to hide. “Yeah?” He said innocently, raising his brows quizzically. “Oh… Ya mean the ‘ogwarts thing, yeah?” His growing grin threatened to ruin the innocent act and he had to give up, letting it stretch his cheeks until they hurt, “Well… ye smell like brew pot, mate. Sober-up potion, innit?” He lowered his voice here, leaning towards the other lad, “Me nose never tells porkies[1], which means yer a wizard, ain'tcha?”

1.	Cockney slang for 'lies'