The Head of the Werewolf Capture Unit was not a familiar sight on Level Two.  Most days, Kurby Bagnold kept his skulking confined to Level Four, where at least some of his coworkers tended to let him intimidate them into staying far out from his path, and the others mostly just avoided him.  The Aurors were not nearly as willing to slink out of the way if he growled at them; snap at the wrong person here, and it was far more likely that a complaint would land him on the wrong side of somebody’s desk, or that he’d be hexed back to the Atrium with a speed that would have put a Peruvian Vipertooth to shame.

Kurby wove between the cubicles, avoiding eye contact with any witch or wizard with a red robe.  The werewolf hunter looked slightly less scruffy than usual, a hint that the full moon from the week before had not quite been as trying as lunar cycles past.  The silver chain looped through his belt still jangled against his leg as he walked, and silver rings flashed as he drummed his fingers against the top of a cubicle as he stalked by.

Judging by his expression, this was clearly not the part of his job that Kurby Bagnold enjoyed – although to be fair, there was very little that Kurby would admit to actually enjoying.  Expression sour, he stopped to scan the room.  One way or another, this would likely be excruciating – but perhaps there were options that would be the tiniest bit less excruciating than having to play nice with a red-robed, know-it-all nuisance for the rest of his morning.

Ah.  There.

Kurby gritted his teeth as if he were steeling himself for something very painful, and then squared his shoulders, making a beeline for the familiar head of flouncy hair on the opposite side of the office.

“Blake.”  The word came out like a bark as he stopped short.  Kurby eyed the young woman as if she might suddenly sprout a second head, or grow fangs and attack. “Busy?”

Fauna stepped out of the filing room, looking like she did everyday. Black slacks, black trainee jacket with silver buttons, and a patch of golden dog fur stuck to the jacket flap over her hip, where Pez had pushed his nose against her and whined for breakfast this morning. She'd forgotten to lint-roller or Scourgify it away. She was a bit distracted.

Her head of dark hair swished over her shoulders as she glanced from side to side, greeting the Aurors she passed with a smile or nod, holding a plain manila folder in her hands. This was a common sight. The grip she had on the folder was not as common, her fingers clenching the edges of the folder shut. Within, a memo fluttered like a beating heart.

Which was appropriate.

This was the memo that had gotten away from her last week as she'd been preparing for Penny Pickler's surprise birthday party[1] on the 16th. She and Theta had planned, prepared, and produced polka-dot invites for the occasion, and it had been Fauna's role to enchant them and send them out discreetly, without ruining the surprise for Penny or attracting attention from the sharp Aurors on Level Two. It had all gone very smoothly, both the party and the preparation for it. Too smoothly.

The invite with Cepheus Gamp's name on it had flitted away from her and hid in the dusty recesses of the filing room. She'd enchanted the memo with the strongest of charms, ensuring it would fly right into Cepheus, and only Cepheus' hands, and making it immune to injury, fraying, fire, and Penny's prying eyes. When it had escaped her clutches, she'd had to produce a new one. The old one had been banging against the walls of the filing room since last week, irritating everyone within hearing range.

Today was the day Fauna had finally caught it. Now it was time to destroy the evidence. Destruction by flushing. Fauna headed for the loo.

Fauna couldn't let the Aurors find out, especially Pratt, that she'd spent any office time planning a party. She'd woken from a nightmare this morning involving the lifts in the atrium. The lift doors had opened, spilling out hundreds of crumpled paper balls. One had hit her in the head, and opened to reveal - not Eleor's soulful gaze, no, that would make it a lovely dream! Pratt's disappointed, frowning face. The illustration of Pratt had opened its mouth, yelled Vertigio, and she'd woken as the atrium spun around her.

Was it foreshadowing? Was she perhaps a secret seer? Because someone else came grumbling down the aisle, another face from the atrium she'd rather not see. For a second she remembered Bagold bellowing at the lifts a year ago, and fought the urge to laugh[2].

"Er, sort of?" She smiled. "What's up?"

Yes, Fauna had just greeted Bagnold nicely. It was her only defense. The memo fluttered inside the folder, causing it to rattle in her hands.

1.	Penelope's Party People
2.	And I Know Things Now

For all their whinging about the enormous stress they were constantly under, Aurors had it easy.  Miss Fauna "Sort Of" Busy Blake was the prime example of that, still flitting around in her trainee blacks after what must have been over two years of training.  Two years, and she still hadn't been given a badge or her Auror robes.

It was a constant sore point for him.  No other department at the Ministry spent nearly as long "training" their new recruits.  Within the Werewolf Capture Unit, recent hires were lucky to get a few weeks before getting thrown in the field.  Kurby did his best to keep the greenest employees away from the most dangerous assignments, but even so, there was no better way to learn than to actually do the job.  He hadn't had the benefit of any kind of training period back in the day, after all. 

As far as he could tell, there was no real reason to force recruits to stay in a trainee role for so long other than the Auror Office's notorious distaste for paperwork and love for burnt coffee.  In that regard, smiling Fauna Blake and her rattling file ought to thank him.  At least he wasn't trying to sentence her to another full year of spell checking, filing reports, and halfheartedly tagging along on patrols.

"Good," he said shortly, as if 'sort of' meant that she had all of the time in the world to help.  "We still haven't been able to track down that werewolf outside of Stirling.  Grab your cloak and let's go."

Fauna blinked in surprise, tilting her head at him. Considering. If she were honest, she was itching to get out of the office for a while, far away from the humiliation of last week's dueling mishap.

She never in a million years would have expected Bagnold to ask her for help directly. If at all. An actual Auror - or someone from his own unit - would be better suited to the task, unless he'd driven every single one of them away with his tendency to snap and bellow. He was the Head of the Werewolf Capture unit. Weren't they used to his special brand of grumpy by now?

Fauna decided to be flattered. Fauna decided that he must have asked her because some part of his subconscious knew that he couldn't harangue or hex his way out of every situation, and Fauna Blake, staunch werewolf sympathizer, former SAWS leader[1], wolf paw-tattooed-on-her-back-above-her-scars-like-a-badass, that Fauna, was the perfect good cop in this scenario.

Fauna did not often make the most sensible decisions.

"I'll check with the boss."

Without further ado, she turned toward Pratt's office, meandering down the rows of cubicles and startling when the file jumped in her hand. A curious senior auror popped his head over the wall, glancing at Bagnold and back at her. She explained the situation.

"Well, get on out of here, Flora, and I'll give Pratt the message. Play nice with Level Four, it'll look good for us."

The corners of Fauna's mouth began to tug down.

"And try not to spew all over the pavement!" He guffawed.

Fauna frowned. He turned away.

She opened up the desk drawer on the other side of the auror's cubicle and stuck the rattling filing folder inside. She shoved it closed, locked it with a swish of her wand, and turned as it began banging up a racket in the aisle.

"Not this again!" Came a voice from down the hall amidst dark mutterings from the aurors.

Face flushed, Fauna walked back down the hall. She strode past Bagnold.

"Let's go."

No cloak. It was summer. Her dark trainee jacket would have to do.

1.	Students Against Werewolf Segregation

It wasn't often that events unfolded exactly the way that Kurby thought they should.  But this time, somehow, the world was cooperating.  Fauna Blake had readily agreed to his request, she'd been efficient, and she hadn't tossed her hair once.  Maybe her past two years of training had been worth it after all.  Maybe she'd had to grow up since the last time he'd dealt with her, back when she was a seventh year at Hogwarts.

It almost made him wish that he'd thought of this brilliant plan sooner: enlisting a trainee or two as a Level Two rep instead of dealing with their obnoxious, red-robed mentors.  Almost.  He'd have to see how this went.

He caught up to her just before they got to the lift.  The door opened almost immediately.  Eyeing it like he might an old nemesis, Kurby got on, waiting for Blake to join him, and then pressed the button for the Atrium. 

"So," he said, drumming his fingers against his as the lift began to descend.  He kept his eyes on the lift doors, still glowering, as if daring the device to misbehave.  "There's been three attacks in the same area in the past six months.  The first was back in February," he said darkly.  That had been a bad month.  The thing with the werewolf kid, and the other kids, and a bad full moon on top of it.  "But the town's right in the middle of the Trossachs, and the Muggle didn't die, so we never followed up."

He watched the arrow tick across the numbers that represented the different floors.  Five...now six...almost there. 

"The next was in May, when some poor old idiot got his throat torn out," Kurby said shortly.  He didn't look at Blake, but he was listening, alert to see how she took it.  "Muggle again.  We sent a team out, but they didn't turn up anything.  Couldn't find any hint of a wolf.  The Muggle authorities decided it must have been some wild dog."

Seven...eight...the lift gave a ding as it shuddered to a stop, and the doors slid open again. 

"The last attack was last week.  No one dead, but I've had enough.  So we're off to track it down."  He glanced at her finally, a cool sideways look, as he strode off through the open lift doors.  "Questions, Blake?"

Fauna stepped into the lift, listening for any odd lurches. The blasted lifts had it out for her, making her suffer through Kurby's ranting whenever they decided to delay. Nothing good came of waiting around Kurby Bagnold. His every fidget spoke of the need to move. Maybe that was the key. Keep moving, keep her answers brief, and pray to the patron saint of floo powder power that both the lifts and the floo system would operate efficiently.

Her eyebrows drew together in concern. Poor Zel Trumble, such a sweet kid. They hadn't talked since his kidnapping, but a few years ago, she and Zel had owled back and forth after Figaro had outed him as a werewolf at Hogwarts. The students who had been kidnapped from Hogwarts had not deserved the tragedy and terror that had befallen them, either. Level Two remembered that February well.

Her heart sank at the story Bagnold laid out, painting a picture of someone (or someones) careless, possibly recently cursed, possibly callous, possibly criminal, breaking free three times in six months (that they knew of) and attacking people who had no idea how to defend themselves. She gave a slight shake of her head. Too many at the Ministry spoke of muggles in indifferent tones, or with relief, grateful it hadn't been a witch or a wizard or 'one of them' who had come to harm, but Fauna could only picture her mother or her sister in their shoes.

Fauna returned Bagnold's cool look with one of faint bemusement. He hadn't insulted her once, and the only thing she could try to take offense to was the way he called the werewolf 'it'. Not worth brushing the fringe out of her eyes.

"Always," she gave him a small, tentative smile. Some Aurors were more receptive to her questions than others. She supposed she'd find out how Bagnold would take it.

"Was the third one a muggle, too?" Fauna exited the lift and circled by the statue in the Atrium.

"Did the victims of the attacks say anything useful before they were obliviated? Were there any witnesses to the attacks, or sightings of a wolf? Or even... complaints about pets going missing, aggressive strays, that sort of thing?"

Sometimes the muggle police could be surprisingly helpful, even if they didn't realize it.

"Are there any registered werewolves in the Trossachs area? Have they all been, um," she paused to find the right word. "Compliant? Was it calm there, before February?"

All basic questions, but she wanted to get a good understanding of the situation. She waited before the row of fireplaces, prepared to follow his lead.

And here was Miss Fauna Blake, again a pleasant surprise.  Normally, when he posed that question to new recruits in the Werewolf Capture Unit, they simply stared blankly at him, leaving him to roll his eyes and tell them all the questions they should have asked.  But Blake responded with a series of reasonable questions, which showed that she'd been listening -- and even better, that she was thinking through it. 

He gave her a gruff nod as they started across the Atrium.  "Aye, all three were Muggles," he confirmed.  The only good thing about that was that it meant they wouldn't have more monsters running around at the next full moon.  But it also meant that there were limits to what they could do to help the community protect itself. 

"One Muggle woman saw the second attack -- the old man's wife," he said grimly.  "She was Obliviated, but hopefully they left enough of her memories intact that we might be able to get something useful out of her.  The first attack back in February involved a bunch of idiot kids out drinking, but since no one died, Level Four weren't the neatest when they cleaned up after.  And the one last week, the man was alone." 

Blake had stopped alongside the fireplaces, but Kurby kept walking, towards the golden fountain in the center of the Atrium.  Even now, more than a decade after it had been replaced, he still hated it, but at least the area around it was usually free of a crowd, leaving some space available for apparition.

"There's one wizarding family that lives near the village," he said, as he stopped just short of the fountain.  "A couple of the kids -- Smith and Fenneken -- stopped in to question them after the June attack, but they said that nothing seemed amiss.  There's been rumors around the village about a pack of wild dogs living up in the mountains.  They've had a couple of pets lost, but nothin' out of the ordinary, and no one can point to it happening around the full moon for sure."

"No known werewolves in the area," he added, continuing through the checklist of her questions. Automatically, he touched a hand to the chain hanging from his belt, hefting it, and then began to twist the rings on his fingers, one by one. "But it's right at the start of the Scottish Highlands, so if I were unregistered and out lookin' for a place to transform, it'd seem a grand place to spend a full moon."

He touched the chain around his neck, glanced down to make sure he still had the dagger in his boot, and finally turned to face Blake.

"So the plan is," he said matter-of-factly, "we call in to the widow first.  Follow up on any leads. If nothing surfaces, we can chat up the family again and see what the kids missed.  Sound all right, Blake?" 

Ten minutes before, his next question might have been accompanied by a nasty comment or a smirk, but Blake surprisingly hadn't done anything to deserve his ire yet.  Instead, she seemed to be taking this seriously, in a way that few of the other Aurors and Hitwizards tended to do with the WCU.  So Kurby merely raised an eyebrow at her, his expression even. 

"You've got your apparition license now, right?"

Fauna listened, hiding her surprise when Bagnold answered all her questions so readily. She wondered whether they would get any decent information from the widow who had been obliviated, but it was a place to start.

"Sounds good, Bagnold," she confirmed. They stood next to the golden statue, where the crowd thinned. Fauna expected his next question, though again, his even tone surprised her.

When Fauna had been a seventh-year mere months away from graduation, events (or people, let's be honest) had conspired to land her in the holding cells at the Ministry during a full moon. Fauna had not yet managed to obtain her license at the time, and she and Bagnold had wasted precious seconds sniping at each another as Knox the werewolf escaped his cell to go on a howling, murderous rampage[1].

That had been a very bad night.

"Yes," she said, her face flushing out of habit. "But I haven't been to that area before."

Fauna doubted Bagnold carried a photo of the Trossachs in his pocket next to his secret SAWS badge. Cautiously, she extended a hand to his arm, and smoothed down her hair with her other hand.

They apparated away. The ends of her hair flew up despite her best efforts.

---

For a mostly muggle area, the town breathed magic. Under the chatter of the villagers and the shop doors ringing a welcome to tourists, the faint fall of water sounded in the distance, spilling into one of several lochs to the northwest. Fauna passed a row of Victorian houses with bay windows and tall, steepled roofs. A gentle breeze curled around her collar and cooled her neck even as the summer sun beat against her black jacket.

A pair of tourists wove around her on the pavement, white ribbons in their hands as they challenged each other to make a wish on the ancient pine tree sequestered somewhere on a craggy hill.

"Well, where is the fairy hill?" They faltered.

"I don't know."

One looked back at Fauna. Fauna shook her head and shrugged. Off the tourists went, crossing the road, stopping at a flower stall, and then looping back in the opposite direction. A stray ribbon flew and tumbled down the road and wound itself around the silver button on her jacket.

She untangled it, glanced at Bagnold, and tucked the ribbon in her pocket.

She wished to find the source of the attacks. She wished for both her and Bagnold to get home safely, before dark. However, wishes could be frayed and lost, and she patted her wand, thinking of the tree upon which the wishes were hung.

On the outskirts of town, they found the widow's house, obscured by a hedge of overgrown bushes. The pathway crunched and crumbled beneath Fauna's boots, the grass snagged at her ankles, and the colorful flowers in front of the bay window leaned away from the breeze in rows, like tiny soldiers against the wind. She looked at the clear window, then looked above at the dust coating the higher windows. Her brow furrowed. She could imagine, all too easily, an older couple taking care of separate aspects of the house, trusting and nagging each other in turns. She could imagine an older man, teetering on a ladder, swiping at those high windows as his wife held the ladder steady.

Fauna cleared her throat to get the sudden prickle out.

"Do you have an approach in mind?" Fauna wondered quietly, treating Bagnold like an Auror. "Anything special I should do?"

1.	These dog days aren't over

In his worn leathers and tarnished silver, the werewolf hunter could never hope to blend in with the Muggle tourists dressed for a warm summer day.  Kurby had stayed mostly silent as they had made their way out from the town, though he was clearly alert, scanning their surroundings and the people that they passed.

It hadn't taken long to reach the house that was their first destination.  Kurby started briskly for the door, pausing only briefly as Fauna spoke up. 

"Do you have an approach in mind? Anything special I should do?"

"Keep your eyes open," he replied, reaching up to knock.  "Ask questions if you notice somethin'." 

He paused, considering again as he lowered his hand, and then gave Fauna a sidelong look.  Aurors didn't always take their trainees into the field, especially when they were dealing with the messier side of Ministry work.  Couple that with the fact that Level Three tended to prefer actual oblivion over preserving any chance of tracking down a werewolf, and this could potentially be even less pleasant than the former Hufflepuff was expecting.

"I don't know what her memory's going to be like," he added warningly, returning his attention to the frosted glass window next to the door.  If he almost squinted, he might be able to make out movement through it.  "If she can't help us, we'll head out.  We don't need to bother her for longer'n we have to."

No sign of movement yet inside the house yet.  Impatiently, Kurby knocked on the door again, this time louder, and then began scanning the wall nearby.  Seeing a round white button embedded in the wood, he stuck out one finger and pressed it, holding it down firmly as a buzzing noise sounded on the other side of the door.

Finally, after several seconds, a blurred shape stirred on the other side of the glass.  A few moments later, the lock was turning, and the door was slowly pulled open.

The older Muggle woman who blinked out at them was far shorter than he was, and hardly looked prepared for visitors in a purple t-shirt and gray stretchy pants.  Her face looked thin and pinched behind silver-rimmed glasses.  Her gray-brown hair, the roots clearly growing in, had been pulled back in a messy knot.  Somehow, she looked much older and much more tired than he remembered, even in the immediate aftermath of her husband's death.

 "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, Missus Harris."  He gave her a pained smile.  "I'm Kurby Bagnold.  We spoke back in July -- you remember?"

She peered up at him, her hand shaking very slightly as she reached up to adjust her glasses. "Aye.  You're one of the dog wardens who came through."   

Kurby grimaced, and then swallowed it back again.  "Yeah.  This is my co-worker, Miss Blake.  You, uh, mind if we come in?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.  "I'm really sorry that we have to bother you again, but we had something come up, and we were hopin' you might be able to help."

The old woman regarded him for a long moment, her fingers pressed tightly against the wood of the door.  The silence stretched between them.  Finally, she nodded, stepping back inside to allow them entry.

"Aye, of course," she said in a wobbly voice.  "Please come in."

Kurby gave her a short nod, and then glanced sidelong at Fauna, waiting for the Auror trainee to move first before he followed them both inside.

The inside of Mrs. Harris's house somehow looked as lonely as the outside.  The curtains had been left undrawn, with only a few whispers of natural light dancing in through the frosted windows near the door.   Their host led them down a short hallway, past matching frames on the wall, filled with photos of smiling, still people; past a coat rack decorated with garments from another season, a bright yellow raincoat too big for their host. 

They emerged into a tired-looking sitting room.  A faded, flower-printed sofa and matching armchair sat facing one of the Muggle talking boxes, a moving picture still playing loudly on its glowing glass.  A few bouquets of flowers were scattered around the room, set on end tables, bookshelves, the coffee table, tucked into mismatched vases.   All but two were wilted and starting to crumble, a dark mirror to the shabby flowers of the sofa's print, as if their owner couldn't quite bear to throw them away. 

Mrs. Harris walked slowly to the end table, and then fiddled with a small black box that was sitting on it.  Instantly, the moving picture blinked off, taking its blaring conversation with it.

With that, the old woman turned back to face her two guests.  "How shall you take your tea, dear?" she asked Fauna, her voice gravely as she peered at the young woman. 

"With a splash of milk, please." Fauna paused, then made as if to stand from the sofa. "Would you like a hand, Mrs. Harris?"

"No, dear, you sit."

The older woman posed the same question to Bagnold, then left to putter in the kitchen. Bagnold looked more out of place in this domestic setting than any place Fauna had ever seen him, and that included the time she'd caught him glowering next to a display of whipped cream-topped coffee as he ordered his black, and stalking through the muggle town a few minutes ago. Still, he was full of surprises today. He'd treated her with respect so far, and he was being kind and considerate to the older woman, which showed he was capable of changing his attitude when needed. She glanced around the living room, at all the fallen petals she wanted to scoop up and throw into the rubbish, and understood why he advised that they leave Mrs. Harris be if she couldn't remember much.

To give her something to do other than try not to notice Bagnold fidgeting, Fauna picked up a frame sitting on the end table and brushed off a petal stuck to its edge. She glanced over the three children in the photo, who were smiling with an old man holding up a large fish in front of a lake. He wore a large, yellow raincoat that Fauna thought she recognized from the coat rack in the hall.

Mrs. Harris returned with a tray, glanced at Fauna holding the photo, and went about pouring three cups of tea with a hand that shook slightly. Fauna set the frame back on the table.

"Are those your grandkids?" She wondered shyly.

"Yes, from last summer. With my Louis. He liked to take them fishing as it's one of the few things they haven't grown bored with around here. Once you've seen the fairy hill," Mrs. Harris smiled a bit. "When they were younger, they thought they'd find fairies on the trails."

Fauna smiled, adding a touch of milk to her tea and then holding the cup in her hands.

"I took my little cousins to Soar Mill Cove - in Devon - a few weeks ago, thinking we could avoid the tourists and look for crabs. Ten minutes of that, and one of them asked me when the sea would churn up something interesting. A kraken, maybe? I don't know," Fauna shrugged.

Mrs. Harris chuckled dryly, "We hear that a lot, about the Loch Ness."

"Did your grandkids visit this summer too?"

The woman settled into a faded armchair, squinted at the sliver of light peeking through the curtain, and then rose again to open the curtains. She looked faintly embarrassed as she sat, cradling her tea. A shadow passed over her face.

"I told them not to. As much as I would love to see them, I thought it best, until they catch the wild dogs in the hills."

Fauna offered a sympathetic nod. She glanced at Bagnold, suspecting that he must be itching to get to business.

Kurby had taken the cup of tea -- black, no sugar -- and stayed standing, his back to the wall, giving him full view of the room. 

"About that," he put in, sounding somewhere on the gruff side of apologetic.  "Have you heard much about the hunt for the dogs?"

Mrs. Harris's eyes darted over to him.  She blinked, reaching up to rub her eyes behind her glasses, and then took a moment to take a long sip of tea.  "No," she said, her voice wavering for only a moment.  "I haven't.  I've been watching the paper, but..."  She trailed off, her brows knitting.  "There hasn't been much in the way of news, aside from that poor lad last week."

The werewolf hunter inclined his head to her.  "Yeah," he said simply, as if acknowledging the pain that came from a lack of answers.  Of this continued uncertainty.  That was the worst part of dealing with werewolf attacks among Muggles.  There were no explanation that he could give that would help, no reassurance that could lessen the pain.  Werewolf attacks were senseless, but at least with witches and wizards, they could offer hope that the culprit would be found.  Muggles were left struggling to understand how a tragedy like this could happen in the first place. 

Kurby cleared his throat.  "The kid who got attacked last week," he started, his eyebrows raising.  "Do you know him, by chance?"

"I..."  Mrs. Harris blinked, her expression growing clouded for a moment.  "I don't...think so?" she ventured after a moment, sounding uncertain.  "It's not a very big town, but you don't come across everyone."

Well.  Kurby's eyes narrowed sharply.  "Yeah," he agreed evenly, his gaze locked on the older woman.  "Do you know his family?  The Murrays?"

Mrs. Harris raised her tea with a slightly shaking hand and took a long sip, her brow furrowing.  "Aye, I...yes.  I know Anne Murray.  She...has a son?"  She stared at a point in the room that was near neither Kurby nor Fauna, at a bouquet of wilting roses that sat on top of the Muggle moving picture box.  "I...I can't remember his name, though.  It has been so long," she murmured, more to herself than to either of them.

There were moments when he wished he could punch every single Obliviator in the gut.  "I'm sure it has," Kurby agreed, slanting Fauna a frustrated, unhappy look over his shoulder. 

Sighing, he looked back at the old woman.  She had slumped a little at his words, as if he'd released her from a spell.  Now she was blinking up at him again from behind her thick round glasses, still looking lost.

"I'm sorry we had to bother you today, Missus Harris," he said, trying for a smile.  It ended up closer to an uncomfortable grimace, but he plowed ahead anyhow.  "How are you keepin' up?  You've had plenty of friends stop in to check on you?"

"Oh, yes, dear," she replied, with a slightly dazed smile.  "I've been all right.  They've been dropping in from the church, and then last week..."  She trailed off again, and then looked to Fauna, starting back to her feet.  "Would you like some more tea, dear?"

Fauna thanked Mrs. Harris for the tea and shared the sentiment of Bagnold's unhappy look as she followed him, pausing to watch him glance over the bouquets of flowers on the table in the foyer. Ah. He was looking at the greeting cards. She didn't have time to do the same as he hurried out the door.

Fauna tripped over the crumbling porch step, righting herself on the pavement. Glancing at the window, and around the hedges, she slipped her wand out of her sleeve and muttered a quick Reparo at the brick underneath the step. It fitted into place, and Fauna hid her wand in her sleeve once more.

Assuaging her guilt about leaving Mrs. Harris alone in that house, she fell into step beside Bagnold with a suspiciously neutral expression.

"Afternoon!" She nodded at a couple passing them on the road.

---

Fauna caught glimpses of the loch through the trees as she and Bagnold walked the winding trails leading to the Grant home. The pine trees and homes dotting the hilly landscape reflected off the water, where boats skimmed the lake and hikers stopped to picnic on the shore. Though the birds sang and the sun shone, she felt urgency in every step, imagining another like the Murray boy, attacked or killed the following month.

Anne Murray's son would recover, Bagnold had told her, lucky like those kids out drinking in February. He'd come home a day ago. His parents were taking care of him as he rested up in bed, covered in bandages, fearing wild dogs from the mountains. The muggles didn't even know what to fear. Did his dreams tell him the truth, in flashes of snapping jaws and sharp claws, rancid breath on his face, his heart bursting out of his chest as the wolf howled? Or did he wake in damp sheets, stray labradors and shepherds haunting his mind. She imagined his hand hovering over his scars, wondering at the damage a dog could do. Her own back prickled in sympathy.

They turned the corner and stopped at a large white cottage with bay windows and a black roof. The Grant house, home of the only known wizarding family near town. Here, the lawn was cared for, the paint trim on the house looked new, and the steps felt sturdy beneath her feet. Before they could knock on the door, young voices drifted from the pier.

"We would have caught something if you'd just stay still," a girl stomped into view, gripping two fishing poles in her hand. She gave Fauna a sulkily surprised look and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Uh oh. A young teenager.

"Who are you?" She kept her hand out, stopping her younger brother from barreling past her.

Fauna and Bagnold introduced themselves, Fauna showing her Ministry badge when the girl demanded it.

"Where's your robe?" Hamish edged past his sister.

"Hanging on a hook in the bathroom," Fauna joked. He blinked at her, lost interest, and went into the house.

"Where are your parents?" Fauna asked Greer.

"Working at the visitor center. It's half a mile away," she pointed north, then disappeared into the shack next to the house, chucking the poles in with a clatter. Fauna winced.

"We have to go to the tea shop before it gets too late," the girl rolled her eyes at them as she emerged from the shack, but Fauna brightened. The Murray tea shop? That was a nice coincidence. "My father's making me help out after the attack last week. All I do is carry trays and fetch things. I don't see how it's helping."

She moved into the house, and held the door open for Fauna.

"There's water in the kitchen."

Greer poured a cup of water for herself, watching Hamish open the cabinet doors, then close them. He opened more cabinets. He weighed two bags of crisps in his hands, deciding between onion flavor and salt and vinegar.

"That's why you're here, isn't it?" Greer looked at Fauna. "To bother the Murray family? The capture unit already asked my parents questions."

"In June," Fauna clarified, glancing at Bagnold. They could head out, perhaps head to the Visitor's Center or to the tea shop, but Greer was watching her as she sipped at her water, and Fauna wondered whether Smith and Fenneken had asked the kids questions too.

"The tea shop must be busy this time of year," Fauna leaned against a counter.

The boy opened his bag of onion crisps and left the other bag on the kitchen table, leaving the cabinet door open as he wandered off. She heard the crunch of the crisps and watched him trail crumbs.

"Are there locals that come by often?"

"Yeah. Old people."

Fauna's mouth twitched.

"Have you noticed anyone new hanging around recently?"

Greer shrugged, "No."

Fauna bit her lip, trying to think of the right question to ask. The girl set her cup down next to the sink with a clatter.

"Someone left a giant tip in the jar a few days ago. A lot of those little rectangular papers, filling the whole jar. Mrs. Murray only gave me a pound and she took it from the register. Everyone else got more. What am I going to do with a pound?"

"A pound of galleons?" The boy appeared from the living room.

"No, dum dum. Muggle money. Close the cabinet."

He kicked it closed.

"Do you know who left the tip?" Fauna asked casually, her elbows propped on the counter behind her.

"Some older boy. Still looks like a teenager. Spotty!" She smirked.

"Like around my age."

The girl gave her an assessing glance, from her windblown hair to her scuffed boots, "A few years older."

"Shame you didn't get much from the tip jar," she offered. "Um, do you know his name?"

"Spotty, I said," her smile widening, she moved past Fauna and clambered up the stairs.

The boy pointed at her with the second bag of crisps in hand. "You ask a lot of questions for a no-robe."

Fauna held back a sigh.

Hamish gave Bagnold his own assessing look. "Why do you wear so much silver? Are you going to lop a wolf's head off?"

He swung the crisps in the air while Fauna tried to mask her distaste at the question.

"Get changed, Hammy!" The girl hollered from her room upstairs. "You have to come with me and you smell!"

Hamish shot a glare upwards, then sniffed his own armpit. He looked at Bagnold, considering his reaction, and didn't move.

The werewolf hunter had been relatively quiet since they'd left the Harris home.  As Blake had engaged the two siblings, he had hung back, his gaze playing over the kitchen counters, the table, past Hamish into the cabinet. 

At the boy's question, Kurby blinked, and then let out a harsh laugh.

"Yeah, every full moon," he agreed with a smirk.  Flashing his teeth in a sharp, ferocious grin, he dropped a hand to his belt, tugging on the silver chain that hung loosely at his hip.  It popped free into his hand.  Hefting the coils, Kurby extended his arm to the boy, holding it out in offering.

Hamish blinked, and then took a step back.  Looking a little uncertain, he squinted at the chain, as if trying to determine how it could be used to lop a werewolf's head off.

"HAM-MY!" came his sister's louder, more insistent cry from upstairs.

Scowling, the boy jerked back, shooting the two Ministry wixes one last suspicious look over his shoulder.  "Coming!" he shouted in response, trying to stuff a handful of crisps into his mouth as he scrambled up the stairs after his sister.

Kurby watched him go, and then glanced quizzically at Blake, his eyebrows raised, as if trying to read her expression.  "Helpful family," he remarked nonchalantly, hooking the chain back on his belt.  "One of the flower bouquets at the widow's place was signed from them, too."

"Was it?" Dismay flickered over Fauna's face as she understood what Bagnold was implying. She hated the thought of the family somehow being involved, sending bouquets or helping at the tea shop out of guilt, especially after she had just met the children.

She also hated the thought of poor 'Spotty', a boy not much older than she, stuffing the tip jar full of pounds on the day that Ann's son was meant to return home. There were no easy answers, only a resolution to pain and loss for the victims and a continuation of misery for the werewolf.

Fauna straightened her shoulders. She and Bagnold spoke in lowered voices for a moment, deciding to head to the Visitor's Center and check in with the parents.[1]

"Greer?" She called up the stairs. "Thank you for having us! We're heading out now."

There was a pause, a crash of something falling, and a whoop from the boy. "See ya!"

"...Gonna lop... off!" Hamish taunted his sister.

Fauna paused in the front doorway, shaking her head. She sent a displeased look at Bagnold's back for encouraging prejudiced attitudes and showing off his silver in front of the boy.

And yet, two. Two types of people he was capable of being decent to - old, obliviated ladies, and scrappy, energetic children - and, Fauna realized with a start - Auror trainees. When he felt like it.

Three?

---

"Sorry to bother you during work, Mr. Grant. We'll only take a few minutes," Fauna smiled at the burly man who shared Greer's warm brown eyes and Hamish's overlarge ears.

She glanced at Mrs. Grant, who was selling maps behind the counter, and behind her at the small cafe attached to the Visitor's Center, where a few people were ordering energy drinks to go.

"You take this path to the waterfall here," Mrs. Grant's voice drifted with the sound of the drinks being filled, the pair of dogs barking and playing in the picnic area outside, and the footage of the forest wildlife displayed on the television screens over their heads.

Fauna and Bagnold had explained to Mr. Grant that they were following up after the werewolf attack last week. He told them that both he and his wife had been home with the kids at the time, taking no chances with their safety during the full moon.

When Fauna mentioned that they'd run into Greer and Hamish on their way to the center, Mr. Grant became less jovial, even curt, sharing glances with his wife from across the center, whose smile looked strained.

"It's kind of you, to send the kids to help the Murrays at a time like this," Fauna said, hoping the compliment would encourage him to talk.

He shot her a grim smile, straightening the displays of brochures. "It's good for them."

"Greer especially, during her summer off from school," Fauna straightened a few of the brochures alongside him. "She reminds me of my sister when she was around that age. Confident, direct. A little bossy," she smiled a little. "But protective. Only she could poke fun at me for taking a tumble out of a tree or losing my school books."

She remembered the girl flinging out her arm, stopping her brother from running into Fauna outside the house.

His shoulders stiffened. That was strange, Fauna thought, glancing at Bagnold.

"Um, it must be hard, knowing there's something still out there? With both kids home."

When the tourists left, Mr. Grant moved closer to the counter, where Mrs. Grant watched them.

"They're always at home," he told her over his shoulder.

"Sorry?"

"We homeschool Greer, and plan to do the same with Hamish."

"Oh," Fauna said, surprised. She thought she remembered a Gryffindor lion statuette on the mantel at the Grant home. Perhaps it was one of the parent's.

"After those poor children were kidnapped from Hogwarts in February," Mrs. Grant added, glancing around the empty center, "we made the decision to keep them home with us."

Fauna nodded in sympathy. "It's horrible, what happened. Targeting kids in a place where they should be protected."

A shadow passed over Mr. Grant's face. "She didn't like Hogwarts much anyway, her first term there."

"Who?" Fauna tilted her head.

"Greer," he said shortly, glancing from her to Bagnold, and missing the annoyed look his wife shot him.

1.	godmodding approved by Sparky

He'd read through the notes from the interview that Smith and Fenneken had conducted with the Grants back in June.  Everything had been recorded in Fennekin's neat, precise handwriting, a careful chronicle of their conversation.   She'd noted that Mr. and Mrs. Grant had offered help, and had expressed their concerns about a werewolf attack striking their quiet village.  They seemed to be friendly with their neighbors; no sign of animosity toward Muggles.

In the ten months that she'd been with the WCU, Fenneken had proven to be a decent judge of character.  And so Kurby had taken note when, in the margin, she'd scribbled a half-formulated note:  Doesn't seem to like the Ministry??

Seeing them here, living apart from other witches and wizards -- (wixes, an annoying inner voice that sounded too much like his sister Rosheen automatically broke in to correct him) --  in this Muggle village, interacting with the Muggle tourists who came through this Muggle greeting center, he had an inkling as to why. 

Blake had taken the lead in the questioning again.  The Auror trainee had a natural, open manner about her that made it easy for her to get conversations started, and a seeming innocence that kept them on track.  She was better at this than he would have guessed, before dragging her along on the investigation this morning.  There had been no hair-flipping, no attitude.  She was taking the excursion seriously, and for once he wasn't left feeling like he wanted to grit his teeth and abandon the Level Two representative to whatever werewolf they were out hunting.

He'd listened attentively to the conversation, keeping a sharp eye on Mr. Grant's body language, Mrs. Grant's expression.  It didn't take much in the way of observation skills to pick up on their tension.  They hadn't expected to be paid a visit today.

"She didn't like Hogwarts much anyway..." Mr. Grant was saying.

Interesting.  Kurby mentally filed this fact away, along with a mental note to admonish Fenneken and Smith once he was back in the office.  One more point to Blake.

He cleared his throat.  "Can't say I disagree with her," he put in with a smirk.  With Blake here to play the role of the friendly neighborhood Auror, he could afford to be an arse and kick the hornet's nest a bit.  "Does anyone like Hogwarts their first year?"

Mr. Grant had already been watching him, with his silver and leather, and he twitched a little at Kurby's words.  "I suppose not," he said, giving a little shake of his head, a fleeting smile.  "But there's plenty of learning to be had, even outside of school."

"Yeah, I bet."  Kurby kept his dark eyes locked on the other man's face. "That's got to be tough, though," he said with a sardonic smile.  "How's homeschooling work in a Muggle village?"

The other wizard pressed his mouth shut, his lips forming a thin, tight line.  "It works well enough.  We keep things out of sight.  We don't violate the Statute of Secrecy, if that's what you're implying," he added tensely.

The werewolf hunter chuckled, and then gave a shake of his head.  "Naw, we leave that to Level Three.  We just worry about the stuff that'll kill you," he added nicely, flashing a smirk.

There were pamphlets scattered across the counter, promising helpful maps of the village inside.  Kurby picked one up from the stack and began to unfold it, resting it on the counter.

"Seems like an interesting village," he remarked nonchalantly, glancing up at the Grants again.  Mr. Grant was standing stiffly, his eyes still locked on Kurby.  His wife was still hovering a few paces away, her own expression uncertain. "How long have you both been livin' here?" 

That broke the spell, at least for a moment.  Mr. Grant swallowed, and then ran a hand over his face.  "Ahh, close to fifteen years?" he said, glancing at his wife. "I think there's been one or two other attacks, if that's what you're asking.  I know there's been reports of werewolves in the Trossachs -- sometimes, they get too close to town."

Kurby gave an unconcerned shrug, returning his attention to the map.  The main tourist attraction was marked with a poor illustration of a fairy, wearing some sort of silly outfit that only Muggles could dream up.  It wasn't too far from the village, on the same side of town as the Widow Davis' home.  There were other points of interest labeled, too -- the tea shop, a petrol station where the first February attack had happened...

"Can we help you with anything else?" Mr. Grant was asking uncertainty.

Kurby glanced up at him.  "Where'd you work before the war?" he asked nonchalantly.  "The Ministry, right?"

A shadow passed over the other man's face.  "I don't see how that's any of your business," he said coldly.

Mrs. Grant started forward, reaching for her husband's arm.  "Iain --" she began firmly.

Her husband jerked back out of her grip.  "That has nothing to do with this!" he snapped at his wife.  He turned back to face Kurby, his gaze icy cold, and opened his mouth to retort --  just as the bell jangled on the front door, and another group of Muggle tourists began pouring in en masse.

It was as good of an excuse as any to make an escape.  Kurby caught Blake's eye, and jerked his head towards the door.  Wheeling on his heel, he turned to go.

They had the Why and the Who.  Now, the only question remaining was Where.

---

They'd walked in silence again after leaving the Muggle center.  He had an idea of where to go next, but Kurby was much more intent on watching the pavement beneath his feet, kicking at rocks unlucky enough to be too close to his path. 

One man dead.  Too many others with their lives changed irrevocably.  Even one werewolf could wreak a lot of pain.  It made him want to kick something bigger and more satisfying than a rock that this sort of thing could happen, and that it would keep happening unless he did something about it.  But at the same time, he felt like fuming at the Ministry for its own role in this, and at that stupid golden fountain, standing at the center of everything in the Atrium.

Teeth gritted, he kicked at one more rock.

"You're Muggleborn, aye, Blake?" he asked, breaking the silence as he glanced sidelong at her.