Ever since the ambush in early December, the Head of the Werewolf Capture had become a much more frequent visitor to Level Two, but that had all stopped after the disastrous January full moon.  Most of the Ministry had been given cause to realize that Kurby Bagnold had been in a horrible temper ever since, ready to snap at a moment’s provocation or growl at anyone who didn’t get out of his way quickly enough.

Even if he avoided making eye contact with any of the red-robed Aurors, the werewolf hunter’s manner seemed relatively subdued as he wove his way between the cubicles. Despite being only halfway through the lunar cycle, he looked more haggard than usual for this time of the month. His face was scruffy and unshaven, and although he’d abandoned the fine-linked silver mail that was his normal uniform for patrols, the silver chain looped through his belt jangled as he walked, leaving no doubt that he’d come here on business.

It didn’t take him long to find the cubicle that he’d come to visit.  Although it had been nearly three years since she’d joined the Ministry, Fauna Blake had yet to earn the traditional crimson robes of a full-fledged Auror.  Instead, the young witch was still condemned to wear her trainee blacks, even though she’d proven herself several times over in the field.

The ridiculously long training period for Auror trainees usually made him roll his eyes, but Kurby hadn’t come today to pick a fight with the ridiculous system.  He stopped outside Blake’s cubicle and rapped twice on the wall, waiting for her to turn.

The Floo Flu, or whatever the hell the Daily Prophet was calling it now, had forced Blake to stick to desk duty during the last full moon.  Kurby hadn’t regretted it; after their encounter with Tawse the month before, he counted knowing that the trainee was far away from any possible action as a relief.

“I hear you’re back up with your magic,” he said matter-of-factly, cocking an eyebrow at her.  “Need a reason to spend the afternoon in the field?”

At her desk, Fauna yawned over three stacks of files, and sipped at her third cup of coffee. She had mostly recovered from the weekend. She'd spent Saturday in a haze of gillyweed at Virgil's flat, sharing soppy stories about dreams and about romantic interests. Merlin knew what else she'd said, but she'd left feeling better for it, after seeing the one person who understood about the vision, because he'd seen it first. The vision was his.

On Sunday, she'd stayed up far too late drinking with friends at Calaveras, where Loch had made her laugh, and Fig had seemed like himself again, and Tia seemed recovered too, and Fauna acted soppy like she always did around her, only made worse by the wine. Merlin knew what else she'd done, but she'd left feeling better for it, after seeing that Tia and Fig would be ok, and that they all had time yet, one week and nine days, before the next full moon.

Then came Monday. Monday of the pounding headache and copious amounts of coffee. Monday, when she'd expected another singing memo to arrive, foretelling her funeral.

By Tuesday, the dirge had faded to a distant beat, reminding her that she had honestly enjoyed her weekend. She felt glad that she'd touched base with everyone. Well... almost everyone.

Tension still flared between Two and Four, if only in her imagination, though she certainly hadn't imagined Bagnold sniping and glowering last week. She'd been trying to stay out of it, though she felt all the guilt of knowing. She'd been one of the first to know about the vision of Carter, and knew that Bruce and Bagnold had been among the last, and knew that through some cruel twist of fate, they'd found what was left of Carter's body.

She sorted the stacks in front of her. The first stack concerned the two werewolf brothers left in the Ministry phone booth. She'd been one of the first to know that too - to see one werewolf mutilated by wolfsbane, the other skinned. They hadn't found the other's body, if there were anything left to find.

The other stack was for tracking down the Hunt siblings. It included files for missing squibs, any incidents at menageries where there were unicorns, one incident of stolen blood, and follow-up with the Wold family and the McBoids.

The third stack concerned Grimshaw surveillance, and was tenuously related to the second. It felt like another dead end, like there were too many terrible things at Grimshaw's that made it impossible to pinpoint one, but the file foremost in Fauna's mind was Rosemary Hampton's. Her name, her face. The way she'd been left in the back room like an afterthought.

At the rap on her cubicle wall, Fauna startled and turned.

Bagnold. Fauna blinked at him.

Bagnold looking scruffier than usual. Bagnold wanting her help?

She smiled, quick but genuine. It wasn't a reaction she completely understood. Years ago the mere sight of him had made her grit her teeth and roll her eyes. Years ago, she might have wondered what he had against sending a memo first.

Fauna wasn't even going to utter the word 'memo'. He'd come by because something needed to be done now, she imagined. Because that's what he did.

"Uh, I never need a reason to get away from my desk."

She stood, pushing away the sense of lingering guilt as she waved her wand and shelved the stacks of files. Magic back, magic back, her every movement seemed to say.

Fauna turned, grabbing her jacket off her chair. "I'll be right back. I'm just checking with the boss first."

The air, disturbed not by a hair toss but most likely by the chair left spinning, nudged one of the files out and onto the floor.

Off Blake went, her hair flouncing behind her, and the werewolf hunter made a valiant effort not to sigh.  Merlin forbid the Auror trainee so much as use the loo without checking to make sure Head Auror Pratt gave his approval.

Parchment went fluttering to the floor in the young witch's wake.  Without any risk of being seen, Kurby flicked his gaze upwards as he bent down to pick up the scattered papers.  Blake was months away from promotion to full Auror, and she was still constantly asking for permission like a green trainee. 

That didn't bode well for the errand he was about to invite her along on.  Kurby pressed his mouth grimly shut as he shuffled the pages back together, half-idly letting his gaze glance over them.  But it wasn't as if there were any better options.  Dragging along any of the Werewolf Capture Unit members would have resulted in news of his suspicions spreading amongst their ranks like fiendfyre, and Gervais Bellingham had made it clear where his loyalty still lay.  The only wix that he might have trusted to keep their mouth shut was Duncan McBoid, but there was no way the enormous Scottish wizard would have been taken as anything but threatening.  Even if Blake's intense desire to follow the rules posed a risk, she was still the best choice.

Besides, he thought sourly as he rose with the scattered papers in hand, maybe he wanted someone to twist his arm into telling Ballentyne that --

He went suddenly still, gaze locked on the name emblazoned on the top sheet of parchment.

Rosemary Hampton.

Kurby stood frozen, staring at what was clearly part of the official case file.  Rosemary Hampton.  Twenty-one years old. 
Found dead in Grimshaw Tailoring and Alterations in 2009.  Cause of death unknown. Boyfriend still missing.  Next of kin, her parents in Leeds, and a grandmother living in...

Hunching his shoulders, with his back turned to the rest of the office, he flipped quickly through the first few pages.  This was it.  This was the case file that Nemo had nearly ruined her friendship with Abigail Reid over.  The case file with details on a mystery that had so far eluded him, even when he'd wanted to dig up more information on the deaths at Grimshaw's and all of the girls that had mysteriously gone missing there.

It would be too easy.  He could vanish the file, shrink it and tuck it away somewhere, and Blake would never notice it was missing before they departed. Maybe he could even smuggle it up to his office and make a copy of it, return it early tomorrow before its owner realized it had been misplaced.  And even if Blake did catch that it was missing, it wasn't as if she'd have any reason to suspect him --

Footsteps came up behind him, and Kurby tossed the file carelessly back on the desk as he turned to face her again.  "Pratt keeps you lot on a tighter leash than the first years at Hogwarts," he remarked nicely, arching an eyebrow.  "You good to go adventurin', or do you need me to sign your Hogsmeade form first?"

Fauna hadn't been able to find Pratt, but she let a few of the senior Aurors know that she was tagging along with Bagnold this afternoon. No, she wasn't looking for any missing dogs in parks again. No, she didn't think that was funny, Bailey.

But Level Two was full of jokes today, and Bagnold wanted in on it. Fauna wrinkled her nose at the werewolf hunter. She was going to be a fully-fledged Auror soon!

"I mean, if you're that concerned with paperwork, you can help me tidy my desk anytime," she nodded at the file askance on her desk, waving her wand to shelve it. She must have missed it earlier.

"Alright, let's go. Er, wherever we're going."

Adventuring, he'd said. He looked like he needed a nap, but knowing him, this was something only he could take care of, or something he didn't want others pestering him about from his own department.

After the chaotic past few months, Fauna hoped it wouldn't be too intense. Bagnold had picked her last year in July with the Grant family, and again in December on the full moon (though she'd been the only Auror around), and it seemed he still trusted her, even after she'd dropped the ball with the Carter vision.

Maybe he didn't know. She glanced at him, gauging his grave expression with a flicker of guilt. It felt like no time at all had passed since they'd run into each other outside of Fig's house the night after Carter's murder.

"So, what's going on?" Fauna asked as they entered the empty lift.

Blake wasn't nearly as disorganized as some of her red-robed colleagues, who all seemed to treat paperwork with the same distaste they reserved for dark wizards and sharing credit, but she'd apparently still picked up on the office habit of complaining about it.  The werewolf hunter, whose new desk somehow had managed to stay close to a pristine state despite the chaos and long, stressful hours of the last few weeks, flashed her a wolfish grin as he turned to head back to the lift.

The knowledge that Blake was still poking around the Grimshaw murders felt a bit unsettling as they stepped onto the lift.  Kurby very nearly wanted to ask about it as he hit the button for Level Eight and the golden grate creaked shut, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.  What could he say, anyhow?  Warn her to stay away because something sinister connected to the shop had been slaughtering Muggleborn and halfblood witches about her age, and that based on the historic pattern, the current new year was due for another murder?

Luckily, Blake's earnest question gave him a reason to forget about one problem and focus on the other thing that he didn't really want to talk about.

Kurby slanted her a sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised.  The lift had started its descent now, proceeding slowly past Level Three, Level Four on its journey to the Atrium.

"My team got tasked with checkin' in on all of the Ministry-registered safe houses," he said matter-of-factly, returning his gaze to the dial over the door that was counting off the floors.  It was a perfectly reasonable explanation; he'd tested it out in his head, and it would probably withstand scrutiny from anyone who didn't know him well.  "Drop in, chat with the proprietor, grab their log book to cross-check, make sure the enchantments are all intact and they're followin' procedures.  We'd divided up the list and the teams were on their way out when I realized there was one left over, so I figured I'd take it myself."

They were descending past Level Six now, then Seven, thankfully without any intermediate stops.  Kurby glanced at Blake again, flashing her a lopsided grin.

"Reckoned I should probably bring someone along who could watch my back and cover for my lack of small-town chatter skills, so here we are," he concluded cheerfully, as the lift finally slowed to a jerking stop on Level Eight.  "Assuming you don't mind lendin' a hand, Auror Blake."

Bagnold jabbed at the button, and the lift descended with no mechanical failures, hiccups, or even interruptions from other floors. The werewolf hunter readily explained their task in a cheerful tone, throwing her another smile as the doors of the lift opened.

Fauna glanced around the lift. She reached over and poked her own elbow.

Right, still here! Not dreaming.

"Sounds good, Bagnold," Fauna smiled more widely than she'd intended. Auror Blake! She hoped she'd actually earn the title in a few months. More than anything, she was relieved that he didn't seem upset with her like he was with the rest of Level Two.

They left the lift and started moving through the atrium, watching a few stragglers hurry to the lifts after the lunch-hour rush. Fauna followed his lead, assuming he knew whether he wanted to apparate or floo. Bagnold always had a plan, even if he didn't communicate it in its entirety, and he never left anything undone or unchecked, even when completing assignments that others would consider routine.

Fauna glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"This isn't just routine, right? We're following up to make sure that the safehouses are as secure as they can be for the next full moon."

They didn't want a repeat of the Dumfriesshire horrors. Fauna was okay with stating the obvious if it meant understanding exactly what was expected of her.

"Are there additional questions you're looking to ask the proprietor, or anything else I should know about that maybe hasn't gotten an official policy update?"

She smiled wryly, aware of how much time it took for new measures to be approved and implemented, and how difficult it might be since Carter's death. Her smile quickly faded.

"And has there been any trouble at this safehouse in the past?"

Bagnold would have reviewed complaints and reports before he'd dropped by her desk. He'd likely have heard a few rumors about the place, too. Fauna would be surprised to hear otherwise. Despite her small-town chatter skills, few invited Level Two to the party unless they expected to lay down the law.

She quirked an eyebrow at Bagnold, curious to hear more of the story.

Blake was always a font of questions.  Normally, he didn't mind; the werewolf hunter much preferred to handle inquiries up front than to deal with uncertainty when they were in the field, and interrogating a plan always made it stronger.  But, as the doors of the lift slid open and they stepped into the moderately busy atrium, Kurby cast a glance across the room, his expression carefully nonchalant.

"Naw," he said, ignoring the rest of her questions as he gave a quick shake of his head.  "There hasn't been any trouble at this one."

He slipped a hand into the pocket of his cloak, pulling out a folded piece of slightly crinkled parchment.  As he unfolded it, it revealed a magical photograph of a rocky, desolate beach, framed by crumbling granite cliffs and a cloudy, overcast sky.  Animated waves broke rhythmically against the shore, as the whitewash ran up onto the sand before subsiding and rolling back out to sea.  Up above, tucked into the cliff at the end of a steep, winding road and a small car park, was a small, worn-looking inn.  It had clearly seen better days once, with tattered shingle roof, painted white walls, and a bright red door that might have once been charming, but now looked as if it were due to be re-finished.

And up above the inn, on the very edge of the craggy cliff, stood a lonely gray lighthouse.  As Kurby looked, the light from its tower flashed across the photograph, completing one more pass on its endless journey.

He studied the photograph carefully for a moment, and then passed it on to Blake.  Underneath, in the white space at the very bottom of the animated picture, was a label written in antique-looking cursive:  Niarbyl Bay, Isle of Man.

"The beach looks like our best apparition point," he told her, returning his hand to his pocket to find his wand. 

The best apparition point, and far enough away from their destination that they'd have a chance to talk before they reached it.  Now, he just had to figure out what the hell he was going to say.

With a loud crack, Kurby vanished, leaving the warmth of the atrium behind.

---

A harsh ocean breeze and the sharp smell of salt air hit his face as Kurby reappeared on the rocky beach.  Behind him, a flock of sea birds let out a cacophony of startled cries as they launched into the gray sky, spooked by his sudden appearance.

The beach was more pebbles than sand under his feet, and it took him a second to find steady footing, even as Blake popped into existence next to him.  Out over the ocean, dark clouds were gathering. In front of them, the waves looked much rougher than they had in the photograph. One crashed against the shore, surging up the steep beach nearly to their feet before it subsided and went rushing back out again, only to be replaced by the breaking crest behind it.

Building storm or not, there was still something relieving about being out here in the world instead of trapped inside the Ministry's confining walls.  Kurby paused long enough to make sure that his companion had found her own footing on the uneven shore, and then caught her eye, jerking his head back towards the granite cliffs behind them.

"C'mon," he told her, keeping his voice as low as he could over the rushing wind.  Turning up the hood of his cloak, he began to carefully pick his way over the rocky beach, scanning the cliff for a break that would signal the start of a road up to the old inn. 

"Sorry for the lack of straight answers," he said, slanting a look at the Auror trainee.  Blake wasn't that much shorter than he was; he didn't need to slow his pace much for her to easily keep up. "Considerin' how many leaks we seem to be after lately, I reckoned it'd be better to talk out here than back at the Ministry."

Fauna took a startled gasp of cold, salty air, putting her hands on her knees as her stomach lurched. The next crashing wave reached the very tips of her boots, and Fauna moved back from the water, finding her footing on the rocky shore. Gulls screeched, replacing the gentle echo of voices that she had left behind in the atrium.

Damn it, Bagnold!

A beach, he'd said. A beach on The Isle of Man, he might have said, before testing the limits of her apparition abilities.

Fauna looked up, one of her eyes giving a twitch.

Had he never heard of using Muffliato for private conversations? The photograph had been more forthcoming than her colleague. Bagnold faced the wind in his dark, heavy, and warm cloak, giving her just a brief moment to settle her stomach before moving on.

"Bagnold!" Fauna snapped.

The damp breeze whipped her hair into her face, and Fauna stumble-stomped after him, managing to tie her hair back with a spare ribbon, and pop the collar of her trainee jacket, and finally, cast a warming charm around herself, all before he apologized.

At any other time, Fauna would have accepted it, but she had a sour taste in her mouth that could only partially be blamed on the lunch she'd almost thrown up. He'd gone from friendly and smiling to quiet and shifty since they'd stepped off the lift. He'd supplied answers for questions she hadn't asked, and had answered only one of her earlier questions. If the safehouse hadn't had any trouble before, then what kind of trouble was Bagnold expecting? Was there even a safehouse on this island? It felt like they were a world away.

"Really?" Fauna raised her voice above the wind, her eyes widening in mocking incredulity. "You want to talk out here?"

Maybe it was because she didn't, maybe it was because he clearly wanted to continue moving towards the cliffs, that Fauna stopped on the beach, shoving her hands into her pockets.

"What's really going on," she furrowed her brow at him.

There, at the base of the cliffs not far from where they'd apparated, he spotted the start of a narrow stone staircase.  It hugged the gray granite as it wound its way up to the car park above them, with uneven steps and a rusty handrail that looked as if it might give way if anyone actually tried to use it.

Kurby was about to glance over his shoulder and make a crack about rethinking the apparition point after all when Blake's voice cut through the whipping wind.

"Really?"

The werewolf hunter looked back at her, his eyebrows raised.  Blake, for the most part, had outgrown the temperamental outbursts of her teenaged years; it had been a long time since he'd seen her toss her hair over anything besides him teasing her over her taste in werewolf girlfriends.  But now, with her heels dug stubbornly into the rocky beach and her hands shoved deep into her pockets, his young colleague stood halfway between the overdramatic Hogwarts student who had once given him headaches and the budding, dogged Auror that she was on the verge of becoming.

With someone else, he might have made a smart-arsed remark and kept walking; she wouldn't have had any other choice but to keep up with him or stay all alone on the rocky sand without answers.  But he'd dragged her here, and apparently Blake wanted to do this in the middle of the wet, windy beach instead of on the move to their destination. 

And so the werewolf hunter stopped, sighed, and turned to fully face her.

"I saw your mate's vision," he said, dark eyes trained carefully on her expression.  "About Carter's death."

He'd spent the past two weeks chewing over his experience on Level Nine, letting the thoughts of what could have been churn round and round in his head.  It hadn't been the Carstairs kid's fault.  He wouldn't blame Blake for it, either.  She'd been worked over by the zoo ambush in December, which had been another situation that he'd dragged her into.  Even if Level Two's leadership hadn't mucked things up, if they had taken it seriously and passed on word of the warning to the Werewolf Wing before the ominous full moon, he had no idea if anyone would have placed it as Carter's house in time.

It still gnawed at him: the bitter, astringent feeling that he should have been able to do something to stop it, to prevent Carter's death and head off this tragic turn of events, if he only had known.

But that wasn't why he'd dragged her here, all the way to a bedraggled beach in the middle of nowhere.  Kurby paused, pressing his mouth tightly shut as he tried to decide exactly how to phrase this.  Another wave crashed and went racing up the rocky shore, nearly licking at the back of Blake's heels before it subsided and went rushing back to rejoin the sea.

Finally, he shrugged, brows knitting as he met her gaze.

"I think I recognized the werewolf."

Vision. Carter's death.

Bagnold had seen Virgil's vision. Bagnold knew that she'd seen it too.

Fauna's gaze flicked down to a point just below his eyes, to the shadows underneath his eyes, and then she glanced away, seeing but not seeing the stone stairs. The corner of her mouth gave a rueful twitch. Her face paled despite the strong, stinging wind.

For a moment there was no wind at her back and no sea crashing behind her and no rocks sliding out from the heels of her boots, but only the crash of furniture behind her and a soft rug beneath her feet and a thunderous growl in the air - the thunder in the air, in the sky above them. She glanced up. It was going to rain.

Bagnold had seen the vision and felt its horrible helplessness. He'd seen not just the vision, but the reality of it in Carter's own house, finding what was left of Carter's body, finding the aftermath of murder. He'd seen the vision after finding Carter's body. He'd felt the horrible helplessness twice - first knowing that there was nothing he could do to save Alec, and then learning that there was something that someone might have been able to do to save Alec. If only she - someone - anyone - had told the right people in time.

The waves crept closer, the rocks and sand slipping back as the water retreated. Fauna's hands slipped further into her jacket pockets, finding the little gifts that Trouble the raven had brought her. Her fingers curled tightly over the cold metal.

She forced herself to meet his gaze.

So, what, Bagnold had dragged her out here to yell at her by the sea? He wanted to know why she hadn't said anything then or now? She knew, she already knew, that if she'd been willing to stray from procedure just a little, then maybe she would have followed up with Carter himself about that bloody memo, or mentioned it to Bruce, or to Bagnold, and maybe then Carter wouldn't have died.

He was going to be disappointed.

Fauna squared her shoulders, bracing herself as her thoughts raced.

Why wasn't Bagnold yelling yet? He could speak carefully anywhere, like he just had, studying her, like he was. This didn't make sense.

Fauna took an involuntary step forward, away from the water. Her eyes widened when he spoke again.

"What?"

He'd recognized the werewolf! He'd popped round the werewolf's lair for a spot of tea and a growling contest. No, no, no - but he'd seen the werewolf from the vision. He must know the werewolf that had killed Carter.

Something tight loosened slightly in her chest, giving way to surprise.

"You think you recognize the werewolf, based on Virgil's vision?"

Fauna confirmed slowly. Holy shit, Bagnold, how could he tell?[1]

"And the werewolf is," Fauna scanned the cliffs above them. "Here? Or they stayed at the safehouse, and Bruce thought you should check it out?"

Never ask leading questions, Blake, the reminder pounded in her head, but hey, this was a colleague, and he didn't seem keen on giving her details. She would like to understand what he meant before the tide came in.

1.	Fauna doesn't remember or didn't see in the vision that the werewolf only had one eye

He could see the waves of realization make their way across Blake's face.  Of course she figured that Bruce had thought that he ought to check this out.  The werewolf hunter couldn't quite stop himself from grimacing.  The assumption left a bitter taste in his mouth.  That was always how it was -- that Bruce Ballentyne had sent him off on an errand, or Theobald Mainwaring had ordered him to bark up a particular tree, or whoever the hell everyone else assumed was constantly tugging on his leash.  Never that he might be capable of drawing conclusions or deciding on action himself.

But that wasn't really what Blake meant.  Besides, the Auror Trainee's assumption that he was only here at someone else's direction left the perfect opening for Kurby to simply not correct her, to let her naivety carry this through without outright lying about the fact that he hadn't said a word about this to Iona Ballentyne.  All he had to do was let the comment go, and they could get on with the errand that he'd come here to do with Fauna Blake none the wiser.

A year ago, he might have done just that: plowed on without correcting her assumption and to hell with any consequences that arose as a result.  But he had already stubbornly dragged Blake into one ambush in the past six weeks.  She deserved to know what she was walking into.

He paused for a moment, mouth pressed tightly shut, and then shook his head.

"Ballentyne doesn't know," he said tightly.  The bitterness was evident in his words as he met her gaze directly.  "Nobody at the Ministry is takin' that vision seriously -- not anyone on Two or Four.  And considering how much from the Ministry seems to be leakin' out lately, I'm not about to go runnin' my mouth off to anyone until I know for sure." 

She had seen it too, according to Carstairs.  Even if she hadn't experienced the vision first-hand like he had in the strange pool deep within Level Nine, Blake was empathetic enough to understand. 

"So I want to scout things out first," he informed her, eyebrows raised in almost a challenge.  "The rest of it's like I said.  That's his regular safe house," he said, jerking his chin upwards towards the inn and the lighthouse up on the cliffs, "and as far as anyone'll see, this is just routine.  We duck in, you chat up the proprietor, we'll both take a look about, and I'll grab the logbook to cross-check later.  If we find anything that's off, then I've got somethin' more solid to take to Ballentyne." 

It felt simple enough, at least in theory.  The likelihood that something was majorly wrong felt slim.  Level Four had already done a sweep of all of the werewolf safe houses in the aftermath from the full moon, and this one hadn't given anyone cause to fire off red sparks.  But that didn't mean that Blake was going to like this: what he was asking of her clearly strayed outside her comfort zone of following orders and doing as she was told.

Kurby looked back at her, studying her expression scrupulously.  "If you're not comfortable with it, Blake, you can opt out of this one," he said, matter-of-factly.  "Reckon I'd rather have you along because you're better at small-town folks than I am, but it's not like I'm about to get hexed for pokin' around a safe house."

His department wasn't listening. His department wasn't taking him seriously.

Fauna kept her eyes on his face, reading his expressions without consciously trying to. Determination. Defensiveness. A flicker of honesty over his usual guarded mask.

The slope of her shoulders softened. She knew how he felt, and not just as a trainee Auror. She'd felt it recently, like she and Trevelyan were the only ones in the entire Ministry who still gave a bludger's bat about Rosemary Hampton's death, as well as the Grimshaw's creepshow.

Though she empathized, the corners of her mouth tightened as it all sank in.

No one knew where he was, what he was doing, or why. Not even his own department. Were tensions that bad between Bagnold and Bruce? Did he really think that Bruce would tell him not to follow up? Or had Level Four devolved into political mayhem, beyond the usual distrust and short tempers and other normal reactions to one of their own - their Head - getting killed off.

She was beginning to realize that Bagnold had a habit of acting on his own before anyone in authority could refuse him the opportunity. He'd done it years ago with the Ides of March, a year ago when he'd suggested protecting Greer's family, months ago when he'd tried to help Gen, and weeks ago, when he and Bruce had barged into Carter's house and found his mauled body and stood over it for minutes too long, minutes in which anyone watching could have killed them too.

But he didn't want Bruce along this time. He'd picked the trainee from another department, dragged her out here on half-truths, and was only now giving her a choice to leave while making it clear that he would stay no matter what. Still, that wasn't quite fair. Fauna already knew about the vision. She'd been involved ever since the vision, when she'd neglected to tell Bagnold about it. Bagnold was still trusting her, even though she hadn't done enough and her department hadn't listened. Whether he wanted to admit it, he understood the danger of poking around alone.

Fauna shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh.
 
"I mean, I could return to the Ministry, to the nice warm Ministry, but why would I? It's such a nice day."

Several strands of Fauna's hair escaped her ponytail at that moment, smacking her in the nose along with a few droplets of freezing rain.

"But honestly Bagnold," she looked at him seriously, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"If we weren't on a blasted island, I'd be popping to the Ministry to tell someone we're on a blasted island, and then popping back here to watch your back whether or not it pisses you off. You're lucky my stomach can't take that."

She hunched her shoulders and moved past Bagnold to the crumbling stairs.

She should do that. She could still do that. But maybe there was a more subtle way.

As she climbed, she willed her stomach to settle, considering what he'd told her about the werewolf. With each step, she got further away from the raging sea that cut into the rocky shore. She breathed easier even as the wind lashed at her face. Fauna loved the beach - the milder, welcoming beaches on the southwest coast, where she'd take walks in any season, but especially in winter, when she was more likely to be visiting home.

Here, the storm had only just started, and they were a stone's throw away from tumbling into the sea.

"Ok, I still have questions," she said as soon as they had both made it to the top of the cliffs.

"Who do you think the direwolf is? What identified him?"

For a moment, he almost thought that maybe Blake would go along with it, that she'd accept his reasoning without an argument.  But then doubt tightened her features, and the young Auror seemed to engage in a silent internal debate.  Finally, she tossed her head and let out an exasperated sigh.

"But honestly Bagnold..."

Kurby cocked an eyebrow at her, keeping his expression impassive as the rule-abiding trainee cut back at him, and then turned and marched away without so much of a flounce of her hair.

Biting back a sigh, he directed his gaze to the heavens and followed in her wake.  Merlin save him from Blake's dedication to the Ministry.  Merlin save her from it, too, he thought sourly as he turned up the hood of his cloak to ward off the wind.  He knew all too well how blind trust in authority was usually repaid, and she was Muggleborn.  As much as they all liked to prance about and pretend that the old prejudices were all dead now, he had no doubt that with many old families, they'd barely been allowed to fall out of style.

He caught up with Blake at the base of the cliff, and they started to climb.  The uneven, crumbling steps would have required a bit of attention even in the best of weather.  With the wind whipping around them and raindrops starting to fall, the uncertain footing gave him something to focus on.

It apparently gave Blake enough to think about too, because she didn't speak up again until they reached the top of the cliff.

Kurby glanced at her, chewing over possible responses silently for a moment.  Part of him wanted to interrogate her instead, to make sure that she understood that this wasn't something she should go mouthing off to Pratt or anyone else on Level Two, but he was the one who'd decided to drag her along on this despite knowing how committed she was to following rules.  He'd chosen his own broomstick on this one.

He made a squelching noise and drew his finger down sharply across his left eye.

"His name's Thorulf Quirk."  There was a slight set to the his jaw as he kept moving, his gaze fixed on the road ahead of them.  "He and a couple of packmates ambushed one of our teams on a full moon a few years back.  Tore out the throat of one of ours, and then after they woke up whinin' in one of our holdin' cells, they yipped to RCMC about how we'd been too bleedin' rough with 'em and the whole damned thing had been an accident."

The werewolf hunter flashed a fierce, grim smile in Blake's direction.  Lately, he'd come to temper his language around the Auror trainee, but on this point, he didn't care.

"Gertrudis was just gettin' started on her werewolf rights kick, so she told 'em to be good dogs and let 'em go home without more'n a paw slap."  Kurby shrugged, tilting his head to the side.  Up at the end of the road, the car park outside the inn was just coming into view.  There was some sort of enormous rectangular Muggle vehicle in the parking lot, a bit like the Knight Bus but even larger. 

"I checked their files," he admitted, with a sidelong glance at Blake.  "As far as the Werewolf Registry's concerned, all three of 'em have barely missed a check-in since then.  But they were also on Level Two's list of werewolves who got kidnapped and put into that fightin' ring, just like the Dunnigan brothers."

She blinked, reaching up to swipe her hair out of her eye. Oh. Oh. A missing eye. The direwolf was missing an eye. She hadn't noticed that when she'd witnessed Virgil's vision. What else hadn't she noticed, that could have saved Carter?

Before she could go spiraling on a whole new guilt trip, Bagnold started to answer her questions.

Fauna walked beside him, ignoring the squelching of her boots on the gravel, and dimly aware of the tourist bus parked up ahead. She gave him a startled look, too alarmed by the meaning of his words to be offended by his word choice, though it rankled in the back of her mind in a way that she'd agonize over later.

Shit. This was personal. It should have sunk in the second that Bagnold had told her he'd recognized Alec's killer. Accident or no, Bagnold was actively searching out evidence about a suspect who had killed one of Level Four's own once before. At least once before.

A fighting ring? Her steps faltered. Fauna didn't care that Bagnold had checked the records, but she did care that he'd found a connection between the Quirk crew and the Dunnigan brothers and hadn't let anyone else know immediately. Her mouth thinned as she picked up her pace again.

The Dunnigan brothers were dead. She'd seen what was left of them when the phone booth had spat out her friend Penny among their gory remains. If this Thorulf Quirk had murdered Carter, then he could have been kidnapped and forced into it, and he could be dead right now or in danger. Extenuating circumstances aside, they'd both seen what Tawse had done to Savvina. If Quirk weren't a victim, then he was a criminal involved with the worst of them. It was bad no matter how they looked at it.

"Shit, Bagnold."

She puffed up her cheeks and let out a breath.

"So what you're saying is you found a connection between a potential suspect and the two brothers who were just kidnapped and murdered," she stated the obvious, frustrated. She racked her brain trying to remember if the direwolf that had died the night of the Cold Moon had also been a part of the old fighting ring. She would have looked into it before, if she'd had the chance.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

She kept her voice low, passing by several cars in the car park. The old inn was bustling with light and movement in the windows. A few abandoned umbrellas skipped across the porch in the rain and wind.

He was more than used to pushing through normal exhaustion, but there was something about today -- the wind whipping about them as raindrops started to fall, the disgruntled look on the young Auror's face after he'd dragged her along as an ally, the fact that he'd barely gotten a bleeding break from any of this since November -- that made Kurby feel exceptionally tired as they entered the car park.  He rubbed his hands over his face, and then hiked up his hood to shield himself against the rain, which had started to beat a steady pattern.

Blake was exasperated with him -- rightfully so, if he were being honest about it -- but at least for the moment, she was still here.  That might change if he told her about Ballentyne.  But if he didn't tell her now, if he put it off and she found out after this was all over and she went digging into Quirk on her own, then she'd probably murder him.

Swallowing, Kurby glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He'd dragged Blake deeper into this mess twice now, and trudging down a muddy road through the rain had a way of stripping away any pretense that he was doing anything other than acting like an idiot.  Steeling himself, he prepared to just say it.

"Oi!  You there!"

Lightning struck somewhere in the ocean to their right, sending a jolt of light to illuminate the inn ahead of them.  A Muggle in a funny-looking uniform was waving to them from the building's entrance, his other arm full of umbrellas.

"The bus is locked!" he called to them.  "I told you lot you should let me know if you needed --"

A roll of thunder, loud and rumbling despite the delay after the lightning, masked the rest of whatever he had to say.

Gritting his teeth, Kurby avoided glancing directly at Blake.  So it was murder, then.

"The innkeeper's a Squib," he told her in a low voice, as he lengthened his stride to speed up their pace.  "He's the one we'll want to talk to."

The overhang at the front of the inn offered a little shelter from the growing storm.  The Muggle who had shouted at them was swearing up his own storm as they reached it, trying to gather up the escaping umbrellas to prevent them from being scattered by the growing gale.  He was tall, dressed in a bright blue cap over tightly-curled black hair and a matching blue anorak.  The little emblem on the anorak's right breast was identical to the decoration on the large bus behind them in the car park. 

"Hold on, hold on," he told them, as he tried to stand on one foot and hook the handle of the last umbrella with his other sneaker to lift it up.  His arms were already full with the other escapees, and he looked nearly ready to topple.  "Let me just get these inside, and then I can -- ahhh --"

Kurby, one eyebrow cocked, bent to pick up the last umbrella.

The Muggle paused, still balanced precariously for another few seconds as he appeared to process this unexpected kindness. 

"Thanks, mate," he said after a beat, flashing them a smile as he turned back to the door.  "Here, half a mo', and we'll grab the key for the -- wait," he said suddenly, peering at them more closely.  "You're not with the tour group, are you?"

Kurby shot him a lopsided grin in return.  "Naw, just passin' through," he said easily, stepping around him to get the door.  "We, uh --"   

It occurred to him, very suddenly and with a jolt of abrupt lucidity, that he had no clear idea of the vocabulary that Muggles used to describe what it was they did with their automobiles.

"Parked?" he ventured, with a helpless look to Blake.  This was her realm, wasn't it?  She was Muggleborn; she had to know.  "In the, uh, car park.  And then got out?"