7 February 2012
Tuesday at 3:30pm, three hours before nightfall
Afternoon of the Snow Moon
Dumfriesshire Werewolf Safe House

Figaro Sellaphix tended the desk while the other attendant was up tidying the eight rooms upstairs. He'd debated cancelling his shift. There were a lot of good reasons to avoid what had been the scene of such a heinous and bloody crime. Everyone would have understood. Figaro wasn't known for any kind of bravery or community-minded self-sacrifice. Waiting just beyond his irreverent and cheerful personality was an explosive panic. This past year, his first out of school, had brought challenges. His mum falling ill, spending a night in a cell, that whole deal with encountering a werewolf in Regents Park, and now this? It was requiring more and more out of him. It was uncomfortable. So he'd showed up. He couldn't name why, but he just didn't want to be the kind of person who didn't show up.

Besides, rooms were at a premium and the Ministry couldn't in good conscious shut any safe houses down. He could have asked for a transfer to another location, but Ji-Won had already done. The wix upstairs had been a reluctant replacement, Fig could tell. They hadn't spoken to him other than to snip at him to stay at the front. They were expecting a security detail from the Ministry and they didn't want it looking like they were skivving off their duties.

While Figaro waited for the residents to show, he read the Daily Prophet laid out on the tall desk. He'd been at the Prophet eight months now and he'd absorbed all its workings and most of the time knew what the big stories were going to be before they broke. The biggest one lately was Barnabas Cuffe, the editor-in-chief, had been utterly missing for two weeks.

He looked up when the door opened. Figaro immediately recognized him even though he hadn't seen him in ages. It was Migs - Figaro couldn't remember his surname.

"What the hell, mate," Figaro greeted with a smile. "Migs, right? Been ages."

It had to have been muggle night at Spellpunk that Fig last saw the American. He'd come over for the Tetrawizard Tournament but had stayed. He was in Auror trainee black, so it was safe to assume he was here on duty rather than mandate.

That night had to be coming up three years ago.[1] Ah, how young they'd been and look at them now.

1.	2 Apr 2009 - Muggle Night at Spellpunk

To say things had been a bit tense around the Ministry, as of late, would be a bit of an understatement.  Werewolf attacks, criminal sightings, staff exorcisms.  Not that being an Auror trainee had ever been boring but some fate, somewhere, seemed intent on giving Migs the most intense training possible as he waded through his third and final year in black robes. 

Tonight’s assignment seemed simple enough – helping out and providing a little back up for those who were putting in a night of service at a local werewolf Safe House. 

After double-checking the address of the location, Migs brushed the soles of his black cowboy boots clean on the doormat before stepping inside. 

“Hey, brother!” Migs offered, returning the other’s greeting.  “It has been ages, but you got it – Migs.  Which, man, you’re showing me up.  I’m afraid I’ve misplaced more names.  But there were a lot more of you all than there were of Salemites.”

The tournament had given him the opportunity to come see England and visit his Great Aunt.  By the time it – and all his years at Salem – were over, he’d had a hard time seeing himself just return to the reservation and working on the cattle ranch.  He was closer to family here in the UK than he would have back in New England, so he’d opted to stay.     

“So, are you the fella I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on?  I was just told to come here and hang out with the cool kids.”

Figaro supplied his name. "Figaro."

Yes, he definitely remembered Migs now - he had a distinctly mellow thing happening.

The cool kids? Figaro couldn't help but glance around the old stone house - a cottage really. It would look like a bed and breakfast but for the official signage tacked up everywhere. There wasn't much to the lobby. The large desk with the big book on it. Hooks of keys behind him, drawers of supplies, shelves of amenities like blankets and pillows and a bunch of loaner books. There was tea and refreshments by a window. A bulletin board that hung opposite the desk had been taken down and was leaning against the bare wall. And of course, the closet behind Fig he'd been trying not to look at.

"Not me so much as - "

The door opened and an older lady brushed past Migs. She got an eyefull of the handsome trainee before proceeding to Figaro. Mrs. Hampton had lived through decades and there wasn't a lot that could flap her. If she was bothered seeing Figaro again, she didn't show it. Figaro offered her a friendly smile and spun the book around so she could sign in on a fresh page.

"Rab's upstairs to help you," Figaro told her and handed over a key. "Number four alright?"

Mrs. Hampton nodded in the affirmative, wished him a good night,  and made her way up the creaky stairs. She snagged a Witch Weekly on her way.

And that was as exciting as this job was supposed to get.

Figaro had to assume Migs was messing about, though. The Ministry didn't just pitch an intern up to Scotland on the night of a full moon without instructions, did they?

"Me and someone who looks exactly like me," he said and flipped the page in the newspaper.