It had been the worst sort of day, and it wasn't even a Monday. 

Kurby was tired of dealing with the outfall from the week before, tired of ignoring the smartarse remarks and letting the snarky comments roll off his shoulders.  After his meeting with Graves that morning, the rest of the day had gotten to the point where he wished he could simply punch the next person who smirked when he walked by or made some knowing comment that alluded to his personal life.  He'd already deputized Li and Bellingham to coordinate with Level Two about the full moon response later that week, but even not having to deal with the Aurors hadn't really helped.  He'd still had to put up with the rest of the goddamned Ministry.

It didn't really help that they weren't any closer to knowing the likelihood of another direwolf attack during the weekend's upcoming full moon.  The idiot flea-ball that they had in custody was still refusing to talk, despite their best efforts to make him.  Without any information, all they had was a guessing game: guessing where an attack might take place, guessing where to put teams in response, guessing whether the plan they'd put together could get everyone through the weekend without someone getting killed.

He was past the point of work productivity, so Kurby had decided to get the hell out of the office.  The rain over the past few days had finally stopped, but it was still bitingly cold on the streets, with a harsh chill that penetrated to the very bone.  He'd picked a direction and started walking, cloak pulled tight around him and hands shoved deep in his pockets, half-wishing someone would bump into him so he'd have an excuse to bite their head off.

The way to Diagon was a familiar path, and he'd ended up outside of the Leaky Cauldron without really realizing that that was where he was going.  The sun was already setting, leaving the alley awash in grays and purples that were quickly deepening.  He didn't feel like heading back to his flat, where he wouldn't have anything to do to keep his mind off the past week's disaster, and so he kept walking.

Before long, he had ended up in front of the Bridge House.

For all the Ministry's efforts, the transitional housing in Diagon Alley still managed to look like the worst sort of tenement building.  A crooked roof with mismatched eaves, a sagging porch, a yard that none of the residents cared about tending.  Most of the windows inside it were still dark, with curfew not yet calling the inhabitants home.

There were a few Bridge Houses scattered throughout London, all in magical neighborhoods away from Muggle places of gathering.  All of them were technically kept secret from the public, but they weren't hard to spot when one knew what to look for.  He'd looked up the location of this particular Bridge House a few days before:  it had been where Harley Gibbon[1] had been staying, before he'd been found mauled half the country away. 

Kurby turned up his collar and leaned back against a wall, coolly regarding the building on the opposite side of the street.  If there was trouble brewing, this could have been one of the places where it had ignited, with failed former Death Eaters and all other kinds of blundering criminals keeping company in close quarters.

1.	The ex-Azzie found dead on 12 September, just before the full moon.

Slowly, methodically, Bran traced a fingertip over the top edge of each card, only half-aware of the roughened edge that traced along his skin.  Dale was taking his sweet time deciding whether to play or fold and the bloke's hesitation was playing on Bran's already frayed nerves.  It was Dale, right?  No.  Maybe it was Derrick.  Daryl.  Not that it mattered.  As the Bridge House's most recent arrival, recently assigned to the empty lower bunk in Bran's room that had vacated by the poorly, dearly departed Gibbon, Bran was sure he'd commit the guy's name to memory before too long. 

Things at the Bridge House tended to move at their own, slow, pointless pace.  The limited opportunities to occupy one's mind and hands with could fray the edges of any sane person's temper.  But, they were now just over two days away from the start of the next full moon and Bran was already starting to feel the excitement of extra moonlight through his veins.  Sitting here, pretending to give a crap about a card game was getting progressively more difficult. 

"If ye lookin' for a personal sign from the Lady Morgana, might want t' give up now," Bran prompted, reaching across the table to flick the back the Big D's cards, causing the man to jump and grumble.  But, the guy made no attempt to play his hand.  With a sigh of impatience, Bran set his cards face down on the table and got to his feet to fetch a cup of water from the pitcher by the window.  Water.  Provided to them by their Ministry kennel workers.  Because no one in the House actually had a wand to get water for themselves.  The old, ex-DE shook his head as he filled his cup. 

"Going to step outside for a smoke," Bran announced, folding his hand and brushing the small stack of shirt buttons they used for currency closer to the center of the table.  Cup in hand, he slipped through the door and strode the length of the creaky porch to plop himself down on the long, splintery bench. 

"You don't look easy to impress, mate," Bran spoke loudly, slipping a smoke free from his pocket and lighting it with a match.  "Don't imagine you're here to get a good story to discuss around the cubicle tomorrow.  Looking for someone specific?" 

He spotted the figure lurking across the street as he lifted the cup to take a sip.  Brooding.  Dark, indistinct robes.  More silver than the typical man wore for aesthetic purposes.  Bran didn't recognize the man from his time at the Bridge House, but there was always the chance he was a previous resident passing by on a stroll down memory lane.  He turned to beckon one of the more long-term residents over for an assessment but caught the ever-watchful eye of the Dog Catcher on Duty. 

Cup in hand, he snaked his way back to the seat and nudged Eddie under the table with his shoe.  "Might want to go get yourself some water.  Tourist outside, moody sort.   Curious if you recognize him."  For a few moments, laziness seemed to spar with curiosity but, eventually, the older wizard got to his feet and went to peek out the window. 

There was more activity inside the ramshackle house than it had seemed at first glance.  A figure popped out on the porch, tall, pale, and wiry.  It didn't take long for the ex-Azzie to spot him in turn, calling out a half-challenge in a strong Welsh accent.

Kurby stayed where he was, his expression impassive, as the former convict spoke his piece and then ducked inside again.  Just some idiotic purist trash.  But then...there was something there, some flicker of familiarity that made him almost think...

The werewolf hunter's eyes narrowed.

It had been over thirteen years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and almost as long since the trials that had followed it had come to an ignominious conclusion.  The Wizengamot, in its unjust mercy, had applied all sorts of rules and mitigation in sentencing the Death Eaters and their purist brethren for their crimes.  In his opinion, too many of those sentences had been too short, too forgiving.  He hadn't kept up with news of any of the more recent releases.  It made him feel sick inside, knowing that after everything that had happened, all of the cruelty and death and torture, that some of them were getting let out back onto London's streets.

Straightening, he pushed himself off the wall and began to stroll across the road in front of the house, his expression nonchalant.  However many ex-Azkaban inmates might be camped out inside the Bridge House, none of them were supposed to have wands.  They weren't a threat to anyone but goddamned society.

Of course, your average Bridge House resident was the sort who easily got bored and lacked the coping strategies of appropriately managing that boredom.  If they didn't thrive on rabble rousing before they ended up in Azkaban, they definitely left it that way.  So, it didn't take a lot for some of the other residents to notice Eddie's mirroring of Bran's trip to the water cooler and back.  Soon, other residents started popping up to grab a cup of water, either individually or in pairs. 

As such, the entire rec room knew the moment the Man in Black started across the street towards the front porch.  Even the cognitively-dense pair of hitwizards manning the desk at the front of the room noticed the emotional shift.  Bran dropped his head and grumbled under his breath, scooping the cards into his pocket just as the hitwizards got to their feet. 

"Dog catchers' getting antsy.  Pending lockdown," Bran mouthed to his tablemates.  "I'm heading out for a smoke before they kennel us."  Finally, he scraped the small mound of currency chits into his hand and started towards the door. 

Half a stride from the rickety, screen-lined, he heard the magically-amplified voice call over the room.  "Rec room is closed.  Rec room is closed.  Returned to your rooms until further notice." 

Under the cover of scraping chairs and shuffling bodies, Bran reached the door and pushed back out onto the porch.  The hitwizards' repeating announcement followed him outside as he trotted down the steps and out into the street, sparing the man a bored glance as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. 

"Looking for someone you recognize, bud?" he asked, fishing a match free from his pocket as he passed by the bloke.  "Father?  Lover?  'Fraid whoever your gawking for has been sent to his room by the Ministry nannies.  Might need to come back later," he added as he passed the man, turning slight to walk backwards as he finished talking with a coy grin.