21 December 2011
5am
Isolation Room 3, Werewolf Capture Unit
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures

Sand slipped from Savvina's loose fist until there wasn't anymore. She scooped up another handful and did the same thing again. And again. And again. She was her own hourglass only she wasn't counting anymore than she was counting her heartbeats. The night was grey-dark, the starlight picked up and reflected and diffused by the miles of pale sand and the shimmering surf. It was just like a hundred beaches from home, except it wasn't real.

Savvina Katopodis sat in the false dawn wearing the loose simple grey uniform provided to her, toes dug into the false sand which wasn't quite the right temperature. There was a cot and a chair a few feet away, looking lost in the context of the illusion. It was meant to be comforting, she hoped, but it was at best disorienting. Being alone in a room or alone in a lie, what was the difference? She leaned back and rested her head against thin air. The wall of this deranged prison.

Nine days she'd been here.

A lot of it was still a fog. A healer came daily, food came thrice as often, the false sun passed over its false path like a self-assured cuckoo clock. After she was more fully lucid, she'd asked questions of her own, but the only response had been recitations of regulations she was suspected of violating, assurances there was a process, and that everything would be alright. She'd asked once for a lawyer, and the response was that one would be made available in due time. Savvina had also asked about her dog. She had a dog. Could they find her and make sure she was alright? Yes, they said, we'll have someone go look for the dog.

No word yet on that lawyer. No word yet on her dog.

And though her body felt real again - the healer had fixed her and fed her and she'd slept and slept - her mind was numbed by the boredom and the not-knowing.

A scraping noise sounded from a point in front of the horizon. Savvina looked up and waited, sand falling from her hand. It was too early to be breakfast. She didn't let herself be worried or hopeful - either feeling was in the end unproductive.

"Hello," she said before the door fully opened, and made no move to get up from the invisible wall.

The door of the holding cell opened into a serene coastal landscape, with gentle waves lapping against the shore and stars shining brightly overhead against the slowly lightening sky.  For a moment, as he stepped from the cold, sedate hallway of Level Four onto the soft sand of the werewolf's fantasy, Kurby almost imagined that he could feel a warm breeze dancing against his face, smelling sweetly of honeysuckle and cinnamon, that he could hear faint whispers plying from a distance. 

He closed the door behind him, letting its outline disappear into the peaceful scene as it clicked shut.  Here inside the isolation room, there was no way to tell where the walls were; it was like stepping into another world, but one that was bounded by invisible borders and edges, confining the inhabitant to a space that wasn't much bigger than ten by ten meters. 

Kurby raised his eyebrows at the werewolf, dark eyes studying her coolly.  She had been here now for over a week, ever since Cinaed Tawse had turned her loose that night at the London Zoo.  While in her more ferocious form, the witch had torn apart three Muggles.  She might have gotten to Blake or Lazarus too, if Fenneken and Harris hadn't arrived just in the nick of time.

Looking at her now, there was no hint that she had ever been so deadly, that she was the same raggedy werewolf that he'd seen rip and tear into the Muggle guard in the middle of the courtyard.  But that was the trick, always the trick with werewolves: no matter how they might appear while the moon waxed and waned, once a month when it was at its peak, they still transformed into the same deadly monster.

"Mornin'," he said, his gaze locked on her.  "I reckoned you and I were overdue for a chat."

Upon seeing the man who'd come onto her beach, Savvina stood up and eyed him warily. He was dressed in black and leather and wore enough silver for a prince. She looked him up and down.

"A lawyer, you're not," she said in her agile accent, fluent, educated, but flat. Not a healer or an Auror, either. He was a hunter, that much was clear. A wizard not to be trifled with, and, she surmised, a wizard who'd want a repentant stance.  She'd been treated fairly enough, in the same manner others she knew had described the experience. But she'd broken many laws. No one had told her, but it was likely people were dead. Her repentance as due.

Savvina opened her hand and let the rest of the sand fall, then paced over to the bed not taking her dark gaze from him.

"How can I help?" It would be better, she thought, not to demand anything from a man like this.

He watched as she let the sand tumble from her hand and rejoin the shore, and then as she paced over to the bed.  More active than she'd been the first few times he'd come to see her, although that had always been from the other side of the enchanted glass.  After she'd first transformed back into herself, the werewolf had seemed mostly dazed, as if she'd awoken from a disorienting dream.  Now that she'd had a week to rest and recover, it appeared as if she'd found a bit of herself again.

Werewolves were monsters.  He'd never before had a problem keeping that fact fixed in his mind.  Even when they were in their bipedal form for 29 days out of the month, the wolf was never far underneath.  That was what made them dangerous, that they could look and act so human.  When the full moon rose, their inner selves rose to the surface.  That was why, no matter what they might claim or what gestures they might make, no werewolf was ever truly tame.

Kurby swallowed, the line of his jaw tight as he regarded the foreign witch in front of him. 

"We're due to transfer you to Level Two," he informed her, sidestepping her question.  They were overdue, really; he'd dragged his heels because he hadn't been sure what to do about the information involving Greyfriar, and with all of the mess around Cinaed Tawse, no one from Level Two had been particularly interested in taking the time required to assert custody.  "They'll be decidin' how to press charges."

With the backlash surrounding Greer's case simmering, he could guess what those charges might involve.  This werewolf had been unregistered.  Innocent people had died as a result of her transformation.  She might not be fully held accountable for their murder due to Tawse's involvement, but Magical Law Enforcement was not likely to be sympathetic.  Unregistered adult werewolves who killed Muggles often ended up in Azkaban.

He gave away nothing, not even his name. He just had with him the next turn of the wheel, which Savvina knew did not need to be hand-delivered by a hunter. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. One over the other, she slowly rubbed her hands together. She'd been caught and there'd be no going back. Staying here on this Liar's Shore was purgatory, a wasting dream. She could only go forward, on her own feet or carried. But what lie ahead was as frightening as how this had all began.

If the hunter was not a messenger, why was he here? Savvina looked up at him and kept her voice level.

"Maybe you have not been told, Mr ..." She paused, unsure how to address him.

"I have not yet been allowed to speak with anyone. When will I be able to meet with a lawyer? I don't know what's going on. My memory is ..."

Savvina shook her head. "The healer said I have been Obliviated. I'm not sure."

Obliviated and turned loose.  He thought of Moira McBoid, of the sketchbook that she'd shown him, with every page filled with the stuff of her full moon-fueled nightmares.  This was the werewolf that had chased Moira and Figaro that same night in London, who had very nearly caught them, prevented only by Moira's quick thinking.  He still had the girl's drawing at his desk, a near-likeness of the monster that had almost killed her.

Left all alone in her sandy prison, this werewolf had found a hint of a backbone.  Kurby gave a quiet snort, arching an eyebrow at her presumptuousness.  Maybe he hadn't been told.  As if being left here, alone and isolated, was a mere clerical error on behalf of the Ministry.

"My name is Kurby Bagnold," he informed her quietly.  "You were captured and detained durin' the last full moon after you murdered three people and assaulted two others.  You'll have access to a lawyer once you're transferred to Level Two and they file criminal charges.  First, though, I'd like to find out more about what you do remember."

Savvina lifted her eyebrows almost imperceptibly, an external giveaway that she recognized Kurby Bagnold by name. The head of the Werewolf Capture Unit. Mention of him always came with a warning. He'll as sooner kick you than a dog, they said, a gentle euphemism. But euphemisms and warnings were quickly overran by a high-pitched static that grew in her ears and a dizzying coldness.

She kept moving her hands in rhythm, one had wiping the other. Hands nicked with healing cuts. Her eyes slipped away to even past the false horizon. Ringing numbness quelled any emotion before it could take hold. Any foothold Savvina reached for in her memory, any attempt to confirm her precautions or identify mistakes evaporated into ash because nothing was there. Just static. Or was that the sound of the deadened surf?

Savvina swayed a little then as she came back into herself. She sat up and drew her legs up onto the bed, still working her hands quietly in her lap.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her gaze on nothing. Three people. Or five. Her hands and her jaw, mutilated by a Full Moon's curse, had been the arms of suffering, all while she was quite asleep somewhere.

Questions now, lawyer later. Seemed about right. The only logical reason to answer Baghold now was because she didn't have another choice, and the only way forward to survive. On a beach like this, on a morning like this, it would have to be forward.

"It's hard to separate reality from dreams, Mr. Bagnold," she said without agitation. "I might remember the market but I might remember a small room, or I remember dreaming them."

Then wait. Her gaze clarified to the left and her hands stopped, one holding tight to the other. "I remember being in the park with my dog."

It was the clearest, most recent thing she'd remembered since she woke up behind glass. So far it was the closest answer she had to, 'what is the last thing you remember'. But any relief that came from that one parcel of firm ground was shut off by the same numbing haze.

The werewolf hunter watched her silently, observing her reaction.  The lift to her eyebrows, the constant movement of her hands, the way she seemed to stare off distantly and then come back to herself.  She might have refused to respond to his request, but this unregistered werewolf had found herself at the mercy of the Werewolf Capture Unit and the Ministry of Magic, and they both knew it.

He had no reason to feel sorry for her.  Cináed Tawse might have kidnapped her and turned her loose against her will, but she'd refused to register, had put herself into a position where she could easily be turned into a weapon against others.  She might be showing signs of being Obliviated, but for all they knew, she could have even conspired with Tawse, had her memories removed just in case she was caught so that she could plead innocence.

Regarding her as she spoke was a bit like watching someone slip in and out of a dream.  The werewolf appeared calm, unflappable, but her hands never stopped moving, until finally she settled on a memory and held them still.

Kurby's brows furrowed.  He'd heard about the dog; Li had said something noncommittal about it, and dragged Fenneken off with her to check on it a few days ago. Pets meant a rhythm: a routine of coming and going, of fetching and feeding and bringing outside.  Anything that could be predicted could be dangerous.

"Which park?" he asked her.  "You take your dog there often?"

Her dog, Skýlos.

Savvina nodded. Despite being terribly worried about her dog, there was some relief to be able to say something other than, 'I don't know.'

"Yes. Regent's Park," she answered. "A few times a week. Usually in the morning or evening when there is still light."

She watched Bagnold for any reaction, trying to gauge his mood. He just stood stiffly in the sand, brow furrowed and totally unconcerned. Just ... stood there with his silver rings and that chain, like what, she was going to bite? She knew herself - she was just over five foot and just recently not half-starved. She didn't even have a wand. A man like that afraid of her? Or disgusted.

"Are you going to stand there all day?" she asked calmly. She looked over at the chair, then back at him. Savvina had been in custody before - nothing like this - but she knew how to gently test the guards. You ask for something, you tried familiarity or flattery, or just the tiniest touch of defiance in the form of tiny jabs or noncompliance. A risk she sometimes came to forget, but it was about surviving. It was better to know the nature of a man than not.

There it was again -- that slightest spark of a backbone, needling at him.  Kurby regarded her for a long moment, arching a brow, and then gave a quiet snort.  Without a word, he started across the sand and reached for the chair, swinging it around so that he could sit on it backwards.

Up ahead, the sky was still dark, filled with uncountable stars.  There were still several hours before the sun would start to rise in London, here on the shortest day of the year.

Kurby leaned his elbows on the back of the chair, glancing down at the sand under his boots.  He dug the toe of his right boot into it, letting the grains fall off again and tumble back onto the psuedo-beach.  Eyebrows raising, he gave the werewolf a quizzical look.

"Can't imagine this is the sort of scene I'd to suffer pick for days on end," he remarked, shrugging a shoulder at the beach behind him.  A wave softly crashed onto the shore, running up onto the sand, but not so close that they'd be able to touch it within the confines of the prison.  It was almost worse, being surrounded by an open outdoor space like this but unable to explore it; he thought it would drive him more mad than if he were trapped within four obvious, visible walls.

"Where's the beach from?" he asked, regarding her coolly as he folded his arms in front of him.  "Not anywhere close to here, then."

No, not afraid. Bagnold didn't rage or snarl or withdraw or threaten - maybe just the barest of scoffs. Savvina couldn't name it, but it was some brand of ... tolerance. She wouldn't guess that he'd be humoring her other than some other motive. But sit he did and ceased in his looming.

"I did not pick it," she answered, mirroring his shrug. She didn't pick any of this. He knew that. Not this Liar's Shore, not these clothes, or that food, or the interminable series of waiting. Didn't pick being a werewolf either. She didn't know what had happened to her last full moon, but she knew in her heart she didn't pick the death of those people either. It wasn't a confidence she could boast. In her experience, people like Bagnold didn't want to hear it. She wouldn't take this moment of tameness between them for granted. You couldn't trust a prince.

"Petanoi," she answered looking at the false limestone cliffs that framed the beach. "In Greece. But I have never seen it empty."

She wondered what manner of spell could do this, and why. "And you? What warped memory would imprison you?"

Kurby gave a humorless smirk, dark eyes studying the werewolf carefully.  Perhaps she'd decided that she had nothing left to lose, and was testing limits while she could.  Or perhaps she was used to living on the run, and this was her normal way of dealing with authority.  The witch in front of him was very obviously not British, and there had been incidents two years ago[1] where unregistered werewolves had been caught sneaking into Ministry-provided safe houses.  Perhaps that was why she'd come here.

He shrugged, glancing coolly back towards the beach behind him.  The isolation cell was supposed to mimic the creature's natural habitat, helping them to feel calm and safe.  There weren't many places in his history that fit that requirement.  Maybe his flat, in which case he'd happily take a forced holiday for a few days if it meant catching up on sleep and reading.

"I'm not one for lyin' to myself," he said, turning his head to meet her gaze again.  "I reckon it'd just stay a holding cell."

She didn't look old; maybe around his age, maybe a bit older or younger.  It wasn't hard to imagine the werewolf just blending in on the streets somewhere; falling into the shadows and avoiding any attention.  If it hadn't been for Tawse, she might have never shown up before them, not unless she instigated a tragic accident of her own.

"You told Li that you were takin' wolfsbane," he said bluntly. "That's not an easy potion to make. How'd you get it?"

1.	12 Feb 2011 - Unregistered Werewolves Sneaking into Safe Houses

Savvina sat up straighter and tucked some hair back behind her hear. A scar ran through one eyebrow, an old one. Her arms had fresher scratches. She recognized them. Without proper restraint and the Wolfsbane Potion a werewolf will go after itself until it has a better quarry. She wondered if the werewolf hunters knew that one. She almost pitied this one, Kurby Bagnold, who's most comforting delusion was a bare cell. What sins haunted him where that's where he'd feel safe?

"It is easy to get. I always take it every time. The full course," she said firmly with solid eye contact. "No matter what."

She swallowed hard. Something had happened this time to the contrary, but they weren't telling her. Only enough to prompt her to answer questions. She didn't remember talking to anyone named Li, but she didn't remember very much of her first few days after she woke up.

"I have a supply. It was supposed to last me another two moons. It came from a wizard called Greyfriar."

Savvina had no wish to get Greyfriar in trouble - he seemed like a very kind man. But there was no use in lying, even as every word she said could bury her deeper in the sand. What she could remember, she'd tell them. She'd cooperate. Savvina knew that beyond this beach, Bagnold knew everything that had happened, or most of it. Maybe if she helped him, answered all his questions, he'd explain. But she couldn't ask. Not yet. She'd have to build up more good will, little by little, if she could.

She'd been frowning, she realized, so she relaxed as much as she could.

"It really is easy to get, you know."

The werewolf hunter raised his eyebrows, giving her a sideways look.  It really is easy to get.  He'd already been mulling over his own thoughts regarding the Werewolf Registry, but what the hell was even the point of trying to control distribution of Wolfsbane potion if everyone was just going to hand it out left and right?  Apparently no one had learned the goddamned lesson from three years ago, when tainted potion ingredients had caused werewolves to go feral after they transformed.

That wasn't to say that the Ministry's potion brewers were infallible, but at least they were likely to check themselves and be bleeding careful.  If Tawse could locate and kidnap an unregistered werewolf, he could damned well come up with a way to pollute a complicated potion that was being brewed illicitly.

The werewolf dropped Greyfriar's name too easily.  Kurby shifted on the chair, studying her again.  This was going to be an impossible balance to strike: to find a way to keep this issue from being raised anywhere where Level Two might get wind of it.

"So it seems," he said after a beat.  "Describe Greyfriar to me."

Savvina shrugged. "He is a big man, dark hair, dark beard. What more can I say? He does not wear many silver rings, like a prince. Just a big cigar."

Bagnold continued to inspect her, she could feel his attention on every turn of phrase, her every shift and breath. And she was doing the same to him, in her own way. She couldn't be as open about it, but he had more to hide.  She peered back at him.

"What, do you think this man had something to do with what happened to me? I would be very surprised. The Wolfsbane was good quality. I do not think it was faulty or I would have stopped using it moons ago."

She'd only met him once, but Greyfriar had been soft and refused her money. It would be shame if he were to come into trouble because of her. A kind deed punished.