1625 hours, Beasts Division.


He dismissed the fourth years early today and apparated to the Ministry from Hogsmeade. Although Sylvain did not strictly work for level four any longer, he still visited his friends in the Beasts Division and accepted commission work (in which he consulted on project proposals of his expertise). It meant more galleons on the side and being able to see the friends he made there.

           "Cheers," Balfour had bid him farewell at Mrs. L's desk once they were done, "and give Feliks a hug for me, eh?"

"Bien sûr!" he replied cheerfully as he left, folder in hand, and wandered over to the bullpen of beast handlers who were having a break for their afternoon tea - always so charming, that, the tall and burly wixes gathered at various desks with biscuits and steaming mugs.

There were not many today, most likely still in the field. Staff from other divisions had drifted over to pilfer snacks and socialise, as usual; Sylvain felt at home, sitting on the edge of one of the less busy desks to nibble on a ginger newt and bask in the familiar atmosphere. It was very nice not to be always surrounded by teenagers.

Not that beings or beasts on level four were any less excitable - but at least they had some of their impulses under control.

"Bagnold!" Sylvain greeted the head of the werewolf unit; he had familiarised himself with the werewolf division early on, as they'd been part of the reason the French Ministry wanted him in Britain[1]. "Ça va?"

1.	To ascertain if Direwolves were spreading from the UK to Paris.

It was the day after the full moon, and one only had to glance at Kurby Bagnold to know it.  The werewolf hunter's eyes looked dull, his expression drained, his shoulders seemed to droop, and his face appeared more scruffy than usual, as if he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days.  He moved slowly as he poured himself a cup of coffee, one last blast of caffeine to help finish out an endless workday.

Once upon a time, he'd been able to bolt for his flat as soon as the final full moon paperwork had been filed, but in a post-direwolf world, the WCU's monthly watch never seemed to end.  They had to stay on duty from the time the nearly-full moon rose a night prior to the normal full moon until sunset on the following day.  Most of the team rotated in and out during daylight hours to catch cat naps in the office, but they all knew that if something happened, they'd be called back into the field to deal with the problem.

At least this final daylight stretch had been quiet.  Kurby had used it to get a head start on his paperwork; once the sun had set just after four o'clock, he still had to wait for their new flea-ridden guest to transform back into himself and then file a final report with Carter before he could go home and sleep.  He'd come to grab a coffee, in hopes that the burst of caffeinated energy would help him find the words to explain the incident that he'd walked into the night before in a way that didn't leave him liable to getting hauled back into Carter's office for a more detailed questioning later.

It was apparently tea time for most of Level Four, and the break room in the Beast Division was a little too noisy for his liking.  Kurby had swiped a couple of biscuits, and then come to pour himself a cup of coffee, hoping to find a quiet corner to sit in and gather himself before heading back to the WCU office to finish off his report.

The sound of his name cut through the chatter.  "Bagnold!  Ça va?"

The werewolf hunter grunted, taking a moment too long to maneuver the coffee pot back to its home.  He stood still for a moment, considering if he really wanted to deal with something else today, and then rolled his shoulders in a shrug.  At least it would feel good to sit.

"Still alive," he said shortly.  He made his way to Onuris's table and dropped into a chair. The French beast handler had become a much less common sight around Level Four after he'd accepted the teaching position with Greyfriar.  Teenagers, parents, and a grumpy werewolf headmaster: Kurby didn't envy him.

He set the biscuits down on the table on a napkin, and then cradled his mug in both hands, feeling the warmth bleed through the ceramic casing and into his palms.  "You quit Hogwarts already, then?" he asked the Frenchman, as he stretched his legs out under the table.  "I wouldn't have lasted that long."

Even with his awkward social gauging, Sylvain knew that Kurby was not... a social butterfly. A solitary moth maybe. But he liked the werewolf hunter and especially liked how wary he was of Lycanism. Oui, werewolves are human, but in their moon forms they were also incredibly dangerous and irrational. They must never forget.

            "You quit Hogwarts already, then?"

He laughed, glancing into his coffee for a moment. "No, no. I think I like it there, in my little cabin," Sylvain confessed as he shrugged and reached for another ginger newt. "You think the children, they are disagreeable? Or the Headmaster?" his voice lowered slightly to accommodate the ominous tone with just a hint of humour.

It was easy to sympathise with the werewolf capture unit. They were necessary but not appreciated by the werewolves themselves. Sylvain crossed his legs, careful not to get his boots on the table as he continued chatting as if though Kurby was the most amiable creature.

"It is good we are taking precautions," he mused thoughtfully, "but, of course, I worry anyway. The students, they are made for trouble you know."

Like magnets. Maybe it was not so surprising that their Headmaster was a werewolf.

Kurby gave a snort that might have been approaching laughter, if he hadn't been so tired and if they had been anywhere but the depths of the Ministry.  He slowly raised his mug to take a sip, mulling over his thoughts.  Yes, the children were certainly disagreeable:  at least Fauna (hair toss) Blake had grown up considerably since graduating.  And yes, it didn't help that the thought of dealing with the school's Headmaster left him caught somewhere between complete disgust and abject terror.  His last two visits to the school had certainly not been pleasant.

"Yeah," he agreed, inclining his head.  He could read between the lines of what the Frenchman was saying.  Having someone at Hogwarts that worried about that sort of thing was probably a step in the right direction. 

He shrugged, glancing carefully at the other wizard.  It had been Onuris that Nicola had mentioned by name in her letter, hadn't it?  He'd been the professor who had been hesitant to mention anything related to werewolves, presumably at risk of angering their werewolf Headmaster.

"Seems like they'd be more inclined to keep out of it if Greyfriar wasn't prodding them in that direction though, aye?"  He made a face, his gaze drifting downwards as he snapped one of the biscuits in half.  "I heard about that goddamned history assignment.  You'd think he'd be a hell of a lot more interested in makin' sure they know how to keep themselves safe from werewolves, instead of wastin' everyone's time writing about persecution."

            "I heard about that goddamned history assignment. "

If Sylvain did not have a mouthful of biscuits, he would have immediately asked Kurby what he was talking about. But then again... he did not know what Greyfriar taught the pupils. History was not the kind of subject you caught students gossiping about; no, they preferred discussing murderous Ignan or shirtless Sylvain (death and hormones!).

"Persecution in the past, oui?" Sylvain's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Greyfriar is very, how do you say, keen on his lessons, though I do not remember him speaking of this particular assignment."

Or maybe Knox didand it just went in one year and out the other. If Sylvain was being honest with himself, history was not his strongest point. He sipped his coffee and sensed a troubling feeling in his stomach. Was the Headmaster trying to bring politics into the classroom? It would not be unusual. And yet.

"It is self-serving of him, if so," he commented with a proper scowl. "I do not think it will be welcomed by parents if they hear of it during the winter holidays."

At least some parents.

Kurby paused, his brow furrowing as he regarded the other wizard.  He was almost positive that Nicola had mentioned speaking to the Frenchman -- something about The Lycan, hadn't it been?  Or Tenacious Twine? Kurby had only remembered because Onuris was one of the few Hogwarts professors that he knew, now that Myrni was gone from the school.  It seemed strange that the man was acting as if he'd never heard of the assignment before, unless he had an extraordinarily short memory.

But he was too tired after the past couple of days to try and pry further.  Kurby rolled his shoulders in a shrug, returning his attention to the biscuit. 

"You might be surprised," he said bitterly, snapping half of the biscuit in half again.  One by one, he began to break each piece in two, splitting them into eighths. 

"There's already too many goddamned people about who think that werewolves just get a bit hairy once a month.  They probably think it's grand that Greyfriar weaves politics through it all."  With a snap, he broke another piece in two.  "My niece mentioned how all of you there are terrified that he'll get angry if the kids use sources he doesn't like.  It makes the bleedin' problem worse when he picks and chooses what they get to learn."

He watched as the other man began snapping his biscuit into little pieces, punctuating their conversation with the soft snaps that indicated a greater animosity towards Greyfriar than he'd estimated. Oui, it would be very uncomfortable to be in the same room as the Headmaster and Bagnold at the same time.

             "My niece mentioned..."

Sylvain's eyebrows rose slightly as he dipped the tail of another ginger newt into his coffee. Niece! That must be Feliks' little friend - Nicole. No, Nicola. The girl who came to look at the bees and who liked to go flying. Was she afraid of Greyfriar?? What sources did Kurby mean?

"Terrified? Non." Sylvain reassured with a placating gesture; his biscuit had dissolved into the mug. "Maybe it is that they do not wish to offend the professor?" he tried to guess. "Balfour's son, Feliks, he has committed some faux pas in History lessons before." Although that had been about muggleborns rather than werewolves.

He drank his murky coffee, frowning again. "It is good to be polite but if this is interfering with their studies...." Sylvain met Kurby in the eye. "That is not good. They must not be afraid to look at different opinions!"

The werewolf hunter shrugged, raising his mug to take a long drink of coffee.  It tasted bitter, warm,  and a little burnt, which was about what he wanted right now, with the last part of his workday still ahead of him. 

Onuris clearly did not understand a lot about the Ministry -- or about British magical society in general, he thought bitterly.  Unpopular opinions weren't tolerated; they were pushed out and ostracized, as the pendulum swung from one side to another.  Anyone who dared to question the current status quo that werewolves were fluffy, lovable pets quickly found themselves on the wrong side of Ministry politics.

Behind them, the door to the break room swung open just far enough to admit a handful of floating purple paper airplanes, which promptly swooped over to their intending recipients.  One of them made a beeline for Kurby, hovering in front of him until he grabbed it out of the air.

He took a moment to scan over the message, and then gave a grunt.  With a grimace, he downed as much of the coffee as he could, and then grabbed the handful of biscuit pieces -- he could inhale them on the way to the Level Four werewolf holding cells. 

"I've got to go," he told Onuris, moving stiffly as he heaved himself to his feet.  "Our newest mutt finally turned back into himself, and I have to deal with his idiocy before I can get the hell out of here tonight."