April 22, 16h00.
Just outside the abandoned Purge and Dowse, Ltd department store that guards the entrance to St. Mungo's.

It was cold, it was raining, and Kurby Bagnold was not in a very good mood.

Granted, he very rarely was these days; even Kurby would have allowed that.  Since December, the Werewolf Capture Unit seemed to be living on borrowed time.  For all of the legions and legions of fresh-faced recruits that Level Two seemed to draw in, new hands to replace the ones that had gone -- or worse, grown hairy -- were few and far between.  Another bad month, another attack, and he wasn't sure what would be left of them.  See how much the bleeding Aurors wanted to hog all of the potential recruits then, once they were relegated to playing dog-catcher alongside him and his kids.

To make matters worse, the next full moon was only a week away -- and yet here he was, running errands for the Werewolf Wing like he had nothing better to do.  One would have thought that between the clerks, mentors, and case workers, the WW had more than enough manpower to deal with errant paperwork on their own without burdening the overworked WCU, but no.  'We can't do punitive,' they always whined.  'We need to maintain positive relations with our clients.' 

Clients.  Like the werewolves who'd ended up on the Registry were not deadly murderous beasts, but simply absent-minded and slightly jumpy shoppers.  Kurby shouted and raged every time the subject came up, but it never made a difference.  The Registry employees always held firm.  If there were punitive actions involved, following up fell to the Capture Unit.  It was far more important that the rest of the damned Werewolf Wing stayed warm and fuzzy than they actually divide up their responsibilities the way they were supposed to.

So here he was, in the middle of a dreary drizzle, trying to find -- he checked the folder -- Hannah Bombay.  Kurby scowled.  The witch was infamous, even for a werewolf.  One would think that with all the trouble she'd gotten into with the Wizengamot, she'd take it to heart and turn in her paperwork on time every month, but no.  And now he was having to deal with it.

It was getting toward the end of the day.  The sky was already dark overhead, heavy with rainclouds.  A few stragglers were filtering in and out through the storefront.  Scowling, the werewolf hunter started towards it.  He had nearly gotten to it when another figure came barreling out, wrapped in a dark coat with its head down, and nearly barged into him.

"Oi!" he snapped, pulling back.  "Watch where you're going!"

There were certain things that didn’t really bother Margo on a daily basis.  The fact that her leg was leaving cuts and welts on her thigh was not one of them.  She didn’t know why it wasn’t fitting the way it was before, and the fact that it bothered her was not acceptable. 

In addition to her ill-fitted leg, she had to deal with the fact that she was still being barred from working in the field, it was just all around pretty terrible.  Then, it’d been suggested that perhaps her work with the dragon eggs might be spurring on the agitation to her injury.  Despite the fact Margo didn’t believe that was the case, she got sent to St. Mungo’s to get checked before the day had even been over.  Apparently getting caught in your cubicle with your hand in your leather pants to readjust your prosthetic was reason enough to be let out of the office early. 

So, she’d gone by way of the atrium to St. Mungo’s and got shuffled around from floor to floor to be checked out, which could have been mortifying if she cared about being in one of those little check-up gowns in front of people.  Thankfully, Margo lacked a capacity for shame. 

When she was finally seen by the right floor – Creature Induced Injuries – which she’d said from the beginning, they had a line of people apparently sporting a number of grisly sorts of injuries and the waiting was terrible.  She just wanted her leg fixed and she’d be on her way.  After the hours spent waiting, being seen was the biggest slap in the face – apparently, much to her mixed horror and pleasure – the muscles in her thigh had been developing more and thus, her prosthetic was too small. 

It was a simple enough fix, enlarging and fitting the piece again, though it left a sour taste in her mouth, knowing that it could have been fixed almost immediately.  The only bonus was the salve that immediately soothed the cuts and bumps – they’d even given her a little tub of it to take home before releasing her with a fixed prosthetic and newly smoothed skin. 

Of course, the five hours she’d waited versus the half hour it took to take care of her did make her just a little on edge as she stalked out, wrapped in her cloak, and didn’t even really keep her eyes up.  Which, inevitably led to the thing that Margo was best at: running into people. 

Of course – it would be him that she would run into.  There was a sort of sick joke of the world on her at this point and Margo grunted in response, “What are you doing here?”

There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to bite off someone's head -- perhaps literally, if an unfortunate neck presented itself.  He opened his mouth to fire back, but then the voice registered and his mouth snapped shut once more.

For the past three and a half months, he'd been avoiding Margo Amherst.  For the most part, he'd been successful.  Even if they lived in the same building, there was always apparition, and even if they worked on the same Level, the Dragon Restraint Bureau and the Werewolf Capture Unit didn't tend to overlap much outside of staff meetings, and he could usually come up with an excuse to send Ferris to those.  The odd encounter on the Ministry lifts had only solidified his resentment.  Kurby Bagnold had no intention of forgiving his former friend anytime soon.

And yet here she was:  standing in front of him, and acting for all the universe as if he'd just barreled into her.  Kurby's jaw tightened; his expression twisted into a scowl. 

"What am I doin' here?" he asked heatedly.  He gestured with one hand as if it were obvious, frustration already darkening his expression. "I'm working!  What the bleedin' hell are you doing here?!"

It didn’t exactly surprise Margo that he was looking at her like he wanted to kill her.  The evidence that they were clearly not going to speak to one another had mounted over the past couple of months.  Margo wasn’t the sort to actively avoid people if she had problems with them, but Kurby was.  Despite his fancy new(ish) position as Head of WCU, he never came to anything, and she knew that he didn’t just stop coming back to his flat.  He probably just took the floo and apparated just to avoid the bloody hallway. Whatever.  She told herself she didn’t care, initially, and then got pulled into the field because of the dragon epidemic, she wasn’t really in her flat either.

Thankfully, the other dragon researchers were just about the only people she needed at this point.  Work was easier when you actually enjoyed what you were doing, and even if she was just with the eggs and the hatchlings, that was better than sitting at the cubicle and was bored to tears about everything.  They’d put some interns on her old job and while it was a relief, it was also a bit of a ‘well, a trained money could have been doing that!’ realization. 

Taking a deep breath, Margo composed herself, though couldn’t get rid of her frown: she wasn’t an actress, and rolled her eyes at his question.  “Leg was acting up,” she commented in a snappy tone.  “Can’t have an extra gimpy leg around the reserve, can I?” she sniffed, a sort of verbal piss off latent in the comment: she remembered how he had said she didn’t care about taking care of herself or something like that… whatever it was, it had pissed her off.   She was still pissed off about it. 

“Enjoy work: I have to go,” Margo pulled on the fabric on the inside of her coat.    She didn’t even spare a look backward as she started to walk away – it was very clear she had no business standing around with him and… for April, she realized, it was suddenly very cold.  Shivering, Margo shook her head to try and reorient herself: that was weird; it was like her thoughts had just flown out of her head. 

Toward the end of the road, Margo looked up and pursed her lips.  When did it get so dark?  She swore it couldn’t have been like that when she left the hospital.  There was a weird sound in the air – like a crakly old man breathing, and Margo blinked, reaching for her wand in her robe pocket, hyper aware of movement – thinking she saw something… it must have just been a paper fluttering.  She shook her head and gulped, “Anyone there?” she called out, her teeth now chattering from how cold it had gotten. 

She was about to keep going when she heard a scream from further down the street and Margo’s eyes went wide: what the bloody hell?  Of course, she pushed herself to move, despite the cold and followed the noise, wand still in her hand under her robe.  “Holy sh-“ she started to say out loud before the socketless eyes turned on her and she suddenly completely forgot what it was like to be happy, her good knee buckling under her – there went her leg again.  Her wand went also, out of her hand and bounced along the pavement away from the fallen dragon researcher. 

There were two of the floating, shrouded figures, one focused on the other lump of a body in the street and Margo tried to scramble backward on her bum, shaking and overcome with the fact it was getting closer and flashbacks – terrible.  Fire and blood and pain - she started to scream too.

There it was again -- that fundamental misunderstanding, when Amherst answered his question like he'd actually asked it.  Kurby didn't care why she was there; she could be getting her other leg amputated, or interviewing for Head Healer, or even getting one final check-up before her marriage to Dugan Macduff for every damn that he gave.  But just like always, instead of shouting nonsense back at him and letting the situation escalate, Amherst snapped her reply like they were actually in a conversation together.

"I don't care why you're -- !" Kurby started to snarl, but it was too late.  Amherst had already taken off down the road.

The werewolf hunter gaped after her, and then let out an angry growl, kicking at the nearest puddle.  This did nothing other than soak his trousers; scowling, he stomped his boot again, angrily shaking out his leg.  It was cold; colder than it had a right to be, considering that it was only drizzling, and the fact that the freezing air, combined with his now-drenched trouser leg was making his teeth chatter just made him hate Amherst even more.

Scowling, Kurby looked back at the file folder tucked under his arm.  Hannah Bombay's name, written so carefully in black ink, was beginning to smear.  Clenching his teeth, he was considering what the consequences might be if he just tore up the folder and went home for the day -- it wasn't like anyone on Level Four cared what the WCU did -- when a scream cut through the cold air.

Kurby looked up sharply, his wand already in hand.  Automatically, he checked the sky, but it confirmed what he already knew.  It wasn't a full moon, which meant that whoever was screaming wasn't his problem.  Besides, it was probably just Amherst, running into one of her old boyfriends or --

The second set of screaming -- louder and more terrible -- and this was a voice that he knew.  The wizard's face went gray, and without stopping to think twice about it, he took off running down the street.

It had been cold in the mountains too, Margo was suddenly reminded, and wet, there had been snow the previous day and everything was covered in a thick layer of the stuff.  It snowed well through the entire month of March and she was used to it, boots on – ready for the field. 

The roars in her mind were deafening, the thundering of hooves headed toward her had been too fast and the stream of red-hot fire followed after the wide-eyed cow before she’d had a chance to even abandon her observation post.  The heat had melted her pants to her legs – she remembered that, in and out of consciousness, and she felt that again, the leather seeping onto her flesh and the thundering of the dragon’s beating wings as it rose in the air to follow its prey.  The memory was short lived, she had passed out – but it didn’t stop the fact that there were hundreds of memories to follow.

They flashed through her mind, waking up actually weeks later, one leg gone and covered in scars, every single failed attempt to walk.  Margo was practically back in St. George’s in her mind, freezing and dazed.  She opened her eyes, trying to push the terrible thoughts away and her eyes frantically searched for her wand.  “H-h-help!” she managed to yelp, looking over her shoulder.

Whoever else was on the ground was curled up – there was a stringy sort of white – it had to be a dementor’s kiss, she realized in a hazy glimpse into clarity and used her arms and good leg to push herself toward her wand.  The dementor who had spotted her was gliding closer and Margo panted, a fresh memory of the first time she’d seen her extensive scarring coming to surface, the overwhelming realization that she was disfigured: she clenched her teeth to try and push it away. 

Pushing her arm out, she felt like she was stretching her fingertips like elastic to manage to roll the red stained wand toward her.  Her hand shook and she dug her free hand’s nails into the pavement, a string of obscenities far more vulgar than usual (that was saying something) coming from her mouth as she managed to get her wand. 

She’d never been successful at casting a patronus, a lack of skill – perhaps a lack of true happiness, whatever the case, she’d never been good at wand magic to begin with, but there was something she could do.  Rolling over, Margo yelped – clearly she’d hurt herself in the process and pointed her wand at the other dementor, the one with the other person, and managed to grit out, “Incendio!”

The stream of fire served to stop what she supposed was the demetor’s kiss for a moment, both floating idly in the air and Margo panted.  The moment was still, cold as ever, and still dark.  And then the worst possible thing happened that she could think of: both figures started toward her.  “Oh sh-sh-shit!” she gripped her wand with both hands, trembling and becoming delirious again, trying to summon another bout of fire before she slipped back into her worst memories. 

He was charging into the darkness, and it was just like last time -- except then, he'd methodically picked out the place for his stakeout, and it had been danger that came to him.  He'd fought until the end, until the world had gone white with pain and helplessness, and even today, the mere thought of it made him sick to his stomach.  But it wasn't the pain that was the worst; it was the knowledge that he lay there dying amidst it all, and once he was dead, Dugan Macduff would be free to --

The cold cut through him, chilling him to his very core.  And with a cold, hard clarity, Kurby adjusted his grip on his wand.

"Expecto patronum!"

It had been a dozen years.  He'd been a stupid kid back then.  He could have hid behind his family name and he knew it, even if the name was Bagnold.  The last time the Dark Lord had risen, his grandmother had led the Ministry during his defeat; and she'd paid the price, his father had paid, and his whole family too.  That was the vision that the Dementors had triggered for him back then:  the snarling of a wolf, and he still wasn't sure if the werewolf he heard was his father, or if he himself had been turned.  But somehow over the years, his worst fear had changed.

The shining burst of light leapt from his wand just as someone shot a burst of fire at one of the two Dementors.  Kurby stood his ground, seething, as the two creatures turned towards him.  In front of him, the silvery light began to take form, stretching out into eight long legs and hairy, clacking mandibles.

It had taken him time to learn the spell back then.  The fact that all of the textbooks implied that he was supposed to be happy when he cast it had thrown him off; for a long time, Kurby's attempts at producing a Patronus had ended with him throwing his wand in frustration.  It wasn't until he'd been in the middle of the war, when casting the Patronus charm had been a matter of survival and not just a theoretical, that he'd finally realized the trick.  It didn't matter if he was happy; what mattered was that he had something worth protecting.

The enormous silver wolf spider took up position in front of him, bent low as if preparing to attack.  The Dementors were circling nearby, hovering warily as they tried to gauge it.  Kurby bared his teeth at them, balancing on the balls of his feet as he gripped his wand, staring into the heart of it just like he had when --

For an instant, he was somewhere else.  The world had gone white, and now a dark shape towered over him.  Everything hurt.  He felt dizzy, sick.  And then came the deep, rumbling voice of the direwolf.  "I would suggest leaving, Bagnold --"

"To hell with that," Kurby snarled, and his wolf spider let loose with a burst of light.

There was a bright burst of light and Margo’s stalwart attempts at her own defense, and defending the other person had faltered.  The white light shocked her and the voice that called out a spell she was incapable of producing (well, that she’d never devoted the time to learn because it had never seemed important enough) was jarring enough that the wand fell from her hands again. 

Crumpling into herself, she brought her hands up to cover her eyes.  Margo curled her good leg, the gimp one remained disjointed and at an odd angle, but she couldn’t muster the strength to move it.  It wasn’t as though that leg was going to stop her soul from getting sucked out or anything, anyway.  There was little else to do – she couldn’t cast the right spell and her wand had fallen from her hands.  When she’d tried to throw some fire, it’d just distracted the dementor and sent them both toward her. 

They must have been closer, it was freezing – she felt like she was going to stick in the position she was in, like being in the puddle on the ground was going to freeze her to her spot and everything was going dark.  Perhaps not a real memory, but the horrible feeling of being alone and not good enough overwhelmed her.  Papers with rejected stamped in red, there was laughter – though she couldn’t place it, it wasn’t her’s.  It was at her. 

“No, no, no,” she repeated practically rocking in her spot, feeling like she might never be happy again when all of a sudden, there was something bright happening, she could see it even through her eyelids and the penetrating cold was leaving.  She was sweating, she could finally tell, one of those terrified cold sweats, and she felt weak, it was a trial to mover her arms and lift her head. 

Dementors – gone, she realized and breathed heavily, her heart still thumping in her chest and though she still felt the residual anguish of the raw pain they had brought to the surface, she didn’t feel nearly as terrible.  The street was still dark and the person she’d heard screaming before, Margo blinked and turned her head.  They were still laying on the ground, like she was. 

She hoped she didn’t fire the incendio too late.  Still breathing deeply, Margo looked around the street and blinked, seeing someone standing.  “Thank you,” she called out in a cracking voice before she dropped to the ground again.  It was really hard to stay up when she felt like all the strength had been sapped out of her. 

Kurby wanted to shout, wanted to hit something -- preferably Dugan Macduff, but possibly a Dementor.  He wanted to cause as much violence and pain and anger as he possibly could.  It was lucky that the first charge from his Patronus had driven the Dementors away, because now the silvery creature was flickering out of existence again.

His hands were shaking, his palms felt clammy, and he really wanted to punch something, which was why it was unfortunate that Amherst chose that moment to muster her strength enough to call a weak thanks.  Kurby let out a low growl, gritting his teeth as he clenched his hands tightly into fists, so tight that one might have imagined they heard the wood of his wand crack.

"Why the hell are you always so stupid?" he snapped at her.  Angry, he looked back and forth down the street, but the Dementors were gone.  This was always the part of any capture mission that he hated.  Not bothering to bite back a groan, the werewolf hunter pointed his wand upwards and let loose a burst of red sparks.

Amherst was moving, albeit faintly, and if he were going to be honest with himself, even if he was worried, he really didn't want to look at her right now.  Scowling, Kurby stalked forward to the other fallen figure.  It was an older man, old enough that his hair was streaked through with gray; the werewolf hunter went to one knee beside him to check his pulse, and to bely the fact that his own legs still felt shaky.

She closed her eyes while she was laying down and kept breathing heavily, almost thinking that if she stopped breathing like this she might die.  Her eyes were blurry and she felt dizzy the second she tried to move again.  Closing her eyes tighter, she groaned into her hand and winced when she realized the person who had cast the patronus was the only person in the world who always showed up whenever she was in trouble.

She had a knack for getting into situations she couldn’t handle, and Kurby had the misfortune of appearing to be the only person who ever came to her rescue.  At least he hadn’t changed his opinion of her in the last… she didn’t even know how long that had been.  Her stomach turned as she shifted on the ground so that she could be on her back, whining at the sharp stabs of pain in her head, eyes, and core.  “It’s just who I am,” she replied tartly, her arm covering her eyes to avoid any of the streetlights that had come back on after the dementors left.

Hearing his footsteps, she hoped he was going to check the other person – and there was a faint crackling, it must have been a spell.   She could only imagine the medics would be coming soon and whoever else took care of these things.  “Are they okay?” she called out before her head started to spin again and she groaned at he sound of her own voice. 

She was just going to lay on the ground in the cold drizzle and puddles to wait for whomever to arrive, or Kurby to force her to get up… or for him to just leave her until she could get up by herself, she really didn’t know.  She didn’t really care, she just wanted to feel better… and make sure that whoever she had run headfirst to help was also okay. 

The thought then occurred to her as a rather large droplet landed in the center of her forehead, which weirdly felt like a brick had just hit her on the head: why was she so stupid?