It had been a week since she had been back, well maybe a little bit more honestly, she had been able to relax for the last few weeks. Although the previous had been rough with the full moon coming up, but that had been easier then she thought it would of been before, likely it had just been due to being in an actual environment for transformation instead of her first and...no she shouldn't think of that at all, it wasn't a good memory and she would rather have the situation she is in now.

Getting hammered by herself on Valentines. That was a dignified day. One anyone can get behind! Admittedly she wasn't into Valentines, she had grown out of it a good few years ago now, a few years into living in Australia she had given up with Valentines, and it was only a couple ago she had started to believe there wasn't a point in dating, although partly was due to her being too busy each time, or due to the risk of the job, she didn't want to get attached, if she did there was a chance they could get in the way. Either by worrying about herself in the middle of a fight or if they were held against her. Although it was only in the earlier years that those were much of a risk, it died down quickly after the first five years.

So here she was, Tara had been sipping her drink for the previous few minutes, okay it was like her fifth drink, but it was still a good night so far and wasn't that bad all considering. Idly twirling a necklace around as she finished the remains of her Sea Breeze, it was a gift given to her by a former member of the Australian WCU who had been turned years earlier and had helped her. It was a beautiful thing, gold back with a gemstone at the front that changes colour to display the stage of the moon. It wasn't that needed, it was easy enough to remember the full moon and with the legal ramifications of not being locked up for it. But it was a nice gift regardless.

Sadly it seemed that someone in the bar wasn't that fond of Werewolves. She knew this due to how they were shouting, loudly stating that hunting laws are too strict and it should extend to true game. That if you loved a werewolf you should be arrested and other things she would rather try to avoid.

Technically, she should arrest them, although she was yet to be on duty here, being a week off before she starts work. So all she could do was confront...

She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, or just general annoyance, but that sounded good. She loved the idea of it! What could be better on Valentines right?

"Hey! Shut your f*****g mouth you jumped up knob stealer!" She stood up and faced them. "Not everyone needs to know how unhappy your wife is with your one inch wonder. I bet you can't even look at a werewolf in a third years picture book without wetting your knickers. I bet they're tighter on you then a Vatican nun."

It had been an exceptionally long day, and Kurby had spent most of it examining the ceiling in the Werewolf Capture Unit's office. Someone -- he suspected Fenneken -- had beaten him in early that morning, striking with the cunning of a glittery Cupid. The walls of their shared workspace were adorned with dancing pink and purple hearts, which held hands and sang as confetti rained down from the ceiling upon his entrance.

Luckily, the culprit had stayed away from his small office. Kurby had accepted the proffered truce and retreated into his private space, intent on keeping to himself as much as he could that day. But no matter how firmly his door was shut or how tightly his teeth were gritted, the sounds of Valentine still trickled in: appreciative exclamations as his team arrived in the decorated office, chatter as they shared their plans for the day, laughter as a pair of the hearts performed a dramatic reading of Yavin Morgenthau's interview in Witch Weekly, and amused tittering over some ridiculous rhyming poem that Harris had written for someone.

By the end of the day, he was ready to crack something open, be it someone else's skull or a bottle of something fierce to drink. 

The Demon's Head, tucked in the middle of Knockturn Alley, was the sort of place to go when he wanted to blow off steam but wasn't necessarily in the mood to risk a knife in the back. It was an aging sort of grandiose, and Kurby knew from past misadventures that the pub tended to be more quiet during the week. With any luck, it would give him a reprieve from the madness that had likely engulfed every other single Muggle or magical dining establishment in London.

Tonight, though, the Demon's Head was bustling with the anti-Valentine's Day crowd. A tarnished fire lamp hung from a rotten post near the bar, its light just dim enough to mostly hide the missing varnish from the dark hardwood floors. The chairs and booths were covered in a once-rich leather that had long since cracked and weathered, stretched tight and held in place with tarnished brass fasteners. Kurby had ordered a Firewhiskey and then found a table that was well out of the way, positioning himself so that he could keep an eye on the rest of the establishment as he drank.

It wasn't the first outburst of the night -- likely the third or the fourth; he hadn't bothered keeping track -- but the shouting by the bar was enough to catch his attention.  Kurby lifted his head, left hand looped loosely around his glass, as his dark eyes settled on the trio of wizards who were talking loudly about werewolves.

The rhetoric wasn't surprising, especially here in Knockturn Alley. But after January, it was worth paying attention to. The werewolf hunter doubted that he was going to randomly stumble upon the perpetrator of the safehouse attack in a random magical pub, but he'd been surprised by the idiocy of opponents before.

The wizard making the biggest commotion now didn't look like the sort to successfully infiltrate the Prophet or brew Polyjuice Potion, but he was certainly noisy enough. He had the neat, slick appearance of a wizard who spent most of his days at Gringotts, with a neatly trimmed goatee and greased-back blond hair. If his volume were anything to judge by, he'd clearly had too much to drink. His two mates, less greasy but equally privileged-looking, were laughing at him, egging him on as he ranted.

And the wizard's outburst had caught more than Kurby's attention. A black-haired witch shot suddenly to her feet, turning to face the trio as she barked back loudly at them.

Kurby raised his eyebrows, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he considered what he wanted to do. Any connection to the events of January aside, he didn't really have a dog in this fight. Wixes were entitled to their own damned opinions about werewolves, whatever the more liberal members of the Ministry might think. If they wanted to prattle on about regulating fraternization or expanding werewolf hunting, then so be it, even if they were idiotic. Merlin help them the first time they came up against an unrestrained 'wolf on a full moon.

But then again, he thought as he shifted with growing unease, it was one thing to not have a dog in this fight. It was quite another to imagine Bruce Ballentyne's face as he relayed to her why he didn't really give a damn if someone was shouting about --

Heaving a sigh, the werewolf hunter lifted his gaze to the ceiling. Without a word, he picked up his drink and finished it in one go.  The alcohol felt searing hot as he swallowed, burning his throat on the way down. Grimacing, he rose to his feet and began making his way to the bar, empty glass in hand.

The Demon's Head bartender was a wiry old man who had worked there for as long as Kurby could remember.  He was mostly bald, with a large gray mustache that was twice the size of the black bowtie that he regularly wore. He'd been keeping a wary eye on the commotion, but as he caught sight of Kurby's approach, he shifted just enough to give the werewolf hunter a hard, warning look.

Kurby ignored him, stepping up to the bar a few feet behind the furious witch.  He set his empty glass down on the wood, and then folded his arms on top of the dark mahogany, carefully expressionless as he listened to the growing furor.

The man didn't seem happy with her reply to them spouting off how little braincells they have in their head. They were the one being idiots and talking about things they didn't get, acting as if they were hot and could take on someone in a fight. They looked like they haven't even participated in DADA, let alone in a dueling club. Perhaps they were hoping on their weasel looking self to be impossible to hit.

"Let me bet, your wife left you after several unsatisfied years. Now you're trying to act like you could take on a werewolf to overcompensate for how little anyone likes you." She smirked. "Let me guess, your wife ran off with a werewolf? Or perhaps you saw one in a book and felt emasculated." She mocked him as she took a drink that was poured out for the person but as of yet untouched, then downed it quickly.

It didn't go unnoticed that another person was moving to behind her, likely another friend of the guy, she wouldn't doubt it. She glared back at them as if to say she was aware of their presence. She made sure to shift her right arm slightly to make sure her wand was still there as she looked back at the one acting hard and tough. She knew what she wanted to do, it would lead to a conflict, that was fine by her, even if she got kicked out.

Admittedly, this was most likely partly caused by her drunken state, despite being one herself now, she wasn't immediately inlove with other werewolves. She wouldn't act on any campaigns or any activities, but she wouldn't let them be slandered or attacked in public, that was true beforehand, she figured it was best to protect those who are already persecuted, but she wouldn't get involved with matters she didn't understand. It still held true now, she wasn't sure on other matters involving them, she didn't think she'd be able to get into them properly, so she'd rather stay out even if it affected her. Was it a bad way to go about things? Most likely, but it felt safer to her when she already had a dangerous job.

But some asshat in a pub, that was something she could do. She understood that, it was easy. And they looked like they struggled to raise a bowl of cereal.

Her decision for her course of action came quicker then she thought it would, as soon as the word dog left the persons mouth, her fist miraculously found itself slamming itself into the persons gut.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that." She snarled as she glared at the mates of the person immediately infront of her. This was starting to be somewhat fun for her, not that she liked doing dangerous jobs, but it was more entertaining then sitting around doing nothing. And she hadn't had that thrill in awhile, so having this situation now, was likewise entertaining. Especially when the person deserved it.

The bartender looked less than thrilled to be fetching him another glass of firewhiskey when there was a fight over werewolves erupting just to the right of him.  Eyebrows raised, Kurby spread his hands innocently -- was he the one causing the commotion? -- and waited until the other man finally reluctantly turned to fetch him a new glass, his mustache twitching. 

Satisfied, the werewolf hunter shifted just enough to watch the exchange unfold, leaning one elbow lazily on the bar.  The words being exchanged weren't any of his business, but he and everyone else in the pub who was watching this fight erupt knew that there was only one likely reason why this hot-tempered witch would take commentary about werewolves so personally. If she were unregistered, then that did make it his business. And if he was going to have to accuse-and-detain on a night when he wasn't particularly interested in making a late-night trip back to the Ministry, then he wasn't about to be nice about it.

The witch was still running her mouth off like Seeker after a runaway snitch. As she snatched the greasy wizard's drink off the bar and finished it, she shot a nasty look back over her shoulder at Kurby.  The werewolf hunter paused as he caught sight of her, brows quirking together.  Not a lycanthrope that he recognized having to deal with before, but there was something --

The situation was escalating quickly.  The witch's fingers were hovering near her wand, ready to draw, and her victim was starting to snarl back at her. The Demon's Head wasn't quite as rough-and-tumble as some of the other run-down pubs about, but if this erupted into an actual fight, the other patrons weren't about to stay a passive audience.

"Don't make me regret this, Bagnold," the bartender muttered under his breath at him as he deposited another glass of firewhiskey with a thunk on the wood next to him.

In front of him, the greasy wizard spat out something about a dog, which was apparently the last hex. The witch's fist immediately connected with his stomach, doubling him over.

Eyebrows raised, Kurby picked up the firewhiskey in his left hand, weighing it thoughtfully. Across the pub, he could hear the screech of chairs being abruptly pushed back as patrons began to rise to their feet, one by one. The witch was still snarling at her victim, but now one of his greasy friends was trying to grab her and the other was already yanking his wand free.

"No wands! No wands!" the bartender cried as he ducked down behind the heavy wooden bar, but it was clearly too late.

Bleeding hell. There was probably a more elegant way to de-escalate the situation, but he was already several drinks in and he didn't have time to think about it. Jaw set resignedly, the werewolf hunter quickly stepped up behind the witch. He tossed his drink into the face of the wizard who had been trying to grab her, wrapped his arms around her to try and pin her arms, and then apparated with a loud crack.

---

The cold air hit like a sharp punch as they reappeared on the cobblestone road outside the Demon's Head.  The shock of it was only exceeded by the force of the actual punch which collided with his stomach, as the flailing witch he'd been trying to restrain managed to twist free and slug him in the gut.

Gasping, Kurby immediately doubled over.  Any hope he might have had of making a smart-arse remark about successfully ending the fight was lost as the wind was knocked out of him.

They were drawing, she was ready. One was about to draw, one was reeling, the other looked ready to grab at her. This would be easy, she knows hand to hand, she insisted on it, or even if not any special moves, she knew how to throw punches. It was incredibly useful to be able to do so, everyone expected you to use a spell and be able to deflect it, no one ever anticipated a solid punch anymore. Why should they?

It took a moment to recognize that one of them was recoiling as a liquid was splashed at them, she snarled and was primed to leap on the advantage, then she was being restrained, who's side was this guy on? Hers or his? Or was he his own independent form of Pub Vigilante, going about and knocking away both sides? It flashed out of her mind as soon as it flashed in, followed by that loud crack.


She was outside! They were outside! But where outside? Did they apparate? Her body reacted on its own, twisting to get free of the hold and slamming the fist into her fourth assailant, with a growl she flicked out her wand and held it at the downed figure before she could even take in any of the surroundings other then they were outside, this was not the bar, it took a moment to stop herself from casting something along the lines of petrificus totalis. The actions drilled into her body, but she managed to resist it and just held her wand.

"By Artemis who are you." She spat as she lowered her wand, they were recoiling on the floor, and as her senses came to, they were only outside. It seemed more then likely they weren't going to try to kill her, or beat her up, better places to take someone for that then just outside the pub, so for now she appeared safe, not that she let her guard down too much, the sudden cold was not good for relaxing.

Somewhat scruffy look, the hair, eyes. Something tried to click, like a gaslit oven as you hold down the ignition switch, it was clicking but nothing was lighting. Someone she met from England years ago, more recently then school, the war?

"Kristan...Chris....Curstan...Kurby?" She wandered names off her tongue. "Kurby right?" She asked as she offered her left arm, her wand still held in her right as a precaution, but she figured it might be safe, unless he's fallen into bad crowds, could of become some weird who hangs around pubs to kidnap those who start fights, could be some merc now, at worst could even be an Auror now. But as of yet she was unaware.

Even with the threat of him potentially being someone wanting to kill her, this was still turning out to be one of her better Valentines.

"If you are, then what the hell are you doing bear hugging women in pubs. Sounds a little dodgy to me."

The hot-tempered witch hit like a bleeding ogre. He'd been on the receiving end of plenty of strikes in the past, but it still took him a long, wheezing moment to recapture any semblance of his breath.

At least his assailant had apparently decided that she was done sucker-punching wixes for the moment.  Kurby ignored her offer of assistance as he half-straightened, jaw rigid, one arm still guardedly clutching his stomach.

"What the hell are you doin', then?" he growled through tightly clenched teeth.  "You tryin' to start a fight with an entire bleedin' pub?"

The witch had her wand in her hand, but she didn't look as if she were on the verge of firing off hexes at him.  Grimacing, Kurby shot a look across the street at the Demon's Head.  Faint peals of laughter drifted out from the pub, as if someone had managed to crack the tension with an off-color joke.  Still, no one was barging out of the doors to search for them, so at least the chaos had disguised the sound of his reapparition.

The air in the street was much colder than it had been indoors -- made worse, he realized sourly, by the fact that he'd left his cloak draped over the back of a chair at his table.  Now he was stuck shivering outdoors with a problem that he hadn't wanted to acquire in the first place.

Scowling, he directed an exceptionally resentful look back at the witch.  Although the alleyway was mostly dark, the waning half-moon overhead and the light reflecting out from the pub windows behind gave him a better glimpse of her features than he had gotten inside.

She was his height, lean, with pitch black hair.  It was hard to see in the darkness, but he could make out hints of faded scratches across her face. Something sparked a half-flickering memory. A teenaged girl clad in green and silver, a year ahead of him but more interested in chatting about Quidditch than in picking fights like others in her house had been. Then, later, the same girl with tears and whip-like fury, lashing out at the close of a war that had taken everything and more from her.

She hadn't been a werewolf then, but between the temper, the lashing-out, and the scarring, he could draw his own conclusions now.  Every movement still tight, Kurby straightened a little more, dark gaze meeting hers directly.

"Are you registered?" he asked flatly.

"I've had worse odds." The cave, dark, damp, weakened by starvation, around ten people, her without a wand, but it was her first full moon, she-....no. She pushed it down, she didn't want that, she didn't want to relive it, especially now, but it was worse odds all around, drunken idiots were easy to deal with honestly. Especially when she's first with her wand out.

"Besides its not as if they'd kill me, doubt half of them know how to use their wand for anything but to file paperwork." Probably not true, especially in Knockturn, but even then it didn't mean most criminals were good, she had one person hex themselves once and end up frozen solid as soon as she entered their premises, made it easier to take them in although did seem like a waste of a team in the end didn't it?

She looked him over and noticed him shivering somewhat, was he really that cold? Really? She gave off a sigh as she removed her jacket and toss it at him. "If you're so bloody cold then wear that." She crossed her arms over herself, she didn't think she'd need to remove her jacket tonight, atleast not outside. She hadn't planned for it being cold, she only had a tanktop underneath cause her jacket was so warm.

However she thought it would be hilarious if she still stayed warmer in just jeans, boots and a tanktop then him in his clothing and her jacket.

Then he bluntly ruined the mood by asking if she was registered, she knew what he meant, it was a dumb question, the process to register, was even dumber. Especially when she had to do it again. Why did they need to ask about half the stuff they did, isn't simply how you turned, patronus if applicable, any inherent abilities like Animagus and identification stuff good enough? That reminded her that she likely cannot ever become an Animagus now due to the full moon to full moon aspect of it.

"I'm registered with St Mungos, Alohomocha loyalty card, Woolworths, Waterstones, Alcoholics Anonymous, the NHS, my local Dentists and as a registered bad ass. Does that count?" Over half of these weren't true, she just didn't like the tone he took with asking her. "Can you be more specific? Did you mean if I'm a Werewolf? Would that have been so hard to ask? Yes I am."

There were two types of werewolves, Kurby had learned long ago. There were the tame ones, including many of those who registered with the Ministry: werewolves like Adrestia Gamp or Knox Greyfriar, who might sharpen their temper or bare their teeth a bit, but generally followed the rules and didn't have the stomach for cruelty.  Then there were the wild ones: monsters like Dugan MacDuff or Fenrir Greyback, who let their savage temper rule them as they descended into darkness.

This werewolf, Kurby thought as he studied her dispassionately, appeared to already be well on that second path.

He bared his teeth at her in a fierce smile, ignoring the offer of the coat. Worse odds. Yes, because picking on some idiotic wix in a bar was about whether or not you thought you could hex your way out of it.

He'd been on the other side of such decisions before, but he'd also been in his twenties and stupid. These days, he kept most of his picked fights to the full moon.  (Well, sort of.) Walking into trouble in the middle of Knockturn Alley by yourself was foolhardy, but it was especially so if you happened to be outing yourself as a member of a group that was already likely to get targeted.

"Nobody in that bleedin' pub needs to ask if you're a werewolf," he said pointedly, cocking an eyebrow at the witch.  "I asked if you were registered."

He was back on the registered part, no wonder he was drinking alone, he was boring and lacked people skills. Or perhaps he was trying to act professional, was he suddenly on duty? What even was his job, she'd yet to ask. Maybe it was as a werewolf hunter, wanting to know if anyone would miss her if she wasn't registered, but his logical fall point was that anyone being asked like this, would answer yes. Of course they would, its illegal to not be registered, so why would anyone answer no unless it was because they needed someone or very specific circumstances.

She crossed her arms, keeping a hold of the jacket all the while, he didn't want it apparently, she'd offer again in a bit maybe, she could stand the cold. Alright a lie, this place is so much colder then she is now used to but that means basically nothing for her, she can bear it regardless in the end. She's had worse then it being a little bit nippy.

"Yes, I am registered. Tara Sallow. Listed under recently moved to, I own property in London and have recently returned from Australia. My favourite colour is black, my hobbies include fencing, physical training and tending to plants. I've had three sexual partners in the past year and think you're a bit of a bellend." She rolled her eyes and leaned herself back to watch him.

"You want any more information? Those are all information I've had to fill in, oh except the last bit. That's just for you." She gave a half mocking, half jesting smirk at him. If this is the person she thinks, he might still be nice, she just wasn't up for being interrogated tonight, or most nights. She'd had enough of them for a good long while.

"Now some information from you perhaps? How many sticks at this moment are stuck up your arse?"

Forcing the question had clearly left him to suffer through the werewolf's entire recent history. Kurby scrutinized her silently as she spoke, taciturn yet wary. It wasn't exactly uncommon for lycanthropes to lie about their registration status to the Werewolf Capture Unit, but even through the haze of a few drinks, there didn't seem to be any signs of prevaricating here. The female werewolf wasn't being aggressive or attempting to evade; she was simply being an arse, which was certainly a vocation that he had plenty of practice in.

Besides, the name she gave struck at the buzzing half-memories from school. Tara Sallow. Whether she was registered or not, he could always follow up and check when he was back in the office the next morning.

Sallow was still mouthing off at him, but she didn't exactly look ready to throw another punch at his gut. Relaxing his shoulders slightly, Kurby flicked a glance past her at the Demon's Head. Still no sign of anyone barging out into the street looking to resume the fight, so it was probably safe to assume that the rest of the pub's denizens were back to their regular business of carousing.

Silently, the werewolf hunter freed his wand and flicked it in the direction of the pub.  An instant later, a black, shadowy object slipped out through the open door. It quickly picked up speed, zooming straight towards him in response to the wordless summoning. 

Kurby caught his cloak in his free hand, returning his wand from his pocket so he could shrug it on.

"Just one for now," he said nicely, shooting a smirk back in Sallow's direction.  "Reckon it's probably the result of the drink you owe me."

Debt or not, drinking with wild, saucy-mouthed werewolves wasn't exactly his idea of a relaxing night out. Kurby half-considered saying something else to Sallow -- bantering back at her, or warning her about the reason why it wasn't safe for werewolves to draw attention to themselves right now, especially in Knockturn -- but he suspected she wouldn't be interested in hearing it, and besides, he wasn't feeling particularly social.

Pulling up the hood of his cloak, he cast a glance down the alley. What with the irritating holiday, it wasn't as if he could just go knock around one of his usual haunts, he realized sourly. The Demon's Head had been his only real opportunity to drink out tonight, unless he wanted to risk one of the less-friendly pubs where Ministry weren't usually welcomed. His options were either returning to his flat to sulk or finding some other way to blow off steam.

As antsy as he'd been feeling lately, it wasn't a difficult decision to make.

"Well, Sallow," Kurby said nicely, flashing his teeth at the werewolf in a sharp smile, "I wish I could say it's been grand."

He flicked a two-fingered salute in her direction, and then turned to start into the deeper, darker part of Knockturn Alley, where the real monsters liked to lurk.

She thought that was an understatement, firstly she didn't think she owed him a drink really, she didn't ask for him to try to rescue her, didn't need the rescuing in the first place. That's like seeing someone relaxing in a bath then pulling them out shouting how they could of drowned. Then shouting at them that it was their fault their clothing is now wet. Its not her fault that Bagnolds clothes are wet is it?

But she was certain there were many sticks lodged up there,  he was just too ashamed to admit it really. She understood, most were too shy to mention, especially men.

She didn't get his concern, at this point anyway, she can handle herself and its not as if she was really scared of much at this point, its not as if she had a huge amount to live for either at this point but that was a different topic entirely. She'd heard that there was a thing last full moon with two showing dead, she had confidence in her fighting skill once turned...unfortunately she knew what she could do.

More importantly he was walking off! Well, she can't have that currently. She apparently owed him a drink after all.

Quickly she moved to walk next to him. Unwilling to let him go so easily right now, despite his annoying grating personality and demanding to know about her werewolf status, she wanted some company, he likely did aswell, and she wanted to reunite with people.

"Well, I owe you a drink correct? Either I can take you to another bar, or I have a metric tonne of drinks at my place." She slightly exaggerated, she had acquired a collection by now.

"If you want to know you can trust me, well, we went to school together." She smirked and went to put an arm around him, happy that they were about the same height. "I'm also a Hit-Witch if that helps further." She knew it likely didn't, if he didn't trust she was registered, why would he trust her on that? "Can catch up on what we did after the war."

Of course it was never that easy. Kurby directed his gaze upwards as Sallow matched his pace, still talking his ear off. The last thing he wanted to do right now was get into a conversation about why he had absolutely no interest in going drinking at a werewolf's flat.

Then Sallow, still chattering on about how they could trust each other, flung a friendly arm around his shoulders.

Kurby stopped short.

Silently, he turned his head and gave her a glacial look.

"I thought we'd already done that, haven't we?" he asked icily. "In the past five minutes, we've covered your registration status, your favorite color, your hobbies, your property ownership, your number of sexual partners, your occupation, and the fact that I've got a stick up my arse.  Was there more that you wanted to catch up on, Sallow?"

"Well for a start what you've done since everything." She shrugged, he was being cold and anti social, and honestly kind of a pr***, she would tell him so but she's trying to win him over right now, she didn't want to go home and just lay about doing nothing all night. She didn't think he wanted to do the same either. Even if he was being an ass about it he wanted company or else he would of drank at home.

"I have beer and much stronger. I owe you a drink? Least I can do. And besides no other places will not be swarmed with eighteen year old's fawning over how they have less freckles or are totally the in thing right now."

She wasn't sure how best else to try to get it across but she supposed she may of done an job.

"Can tell me what you've done since the war, ask about how I..." She frowned and shook her head, that wasn't a good idea. "Stopped a Basilisk." An exaggeration, but she loved the story.

He did not want to talk about what he'd done since the war. He also did not want to go flitting off to drink at some werewolf's flat, whether or not he'd known them previously. The idea of associating with former friends and acquaintances who had since been bitten still made him feel wildly uncomfortable, even if he'd been forced to make an exception for Iona Ballentyne.

Lycanthropy changed people. Kurby had had that fact engrained into his very soul from the time that he was a child, and he still wasn't sure if he was willing to overlook it or not. It wasn't made any easier by the all-too-possible fact that he might someday be called in to put an end to a former friend's full-moon rampage. Knowing that he might be responsible for making a decision about whether or not he needed to end their lives made him hesitate at allowing any known werewolves to get too close.

In a perfect world, Sallow would have taken one of the myriad of hints he'd given her and gone away. But this was far from a perfect world, and he was feeling too irritable to snap at her again to drive her off. He didn't want to take his frustration out on a hot-tempered werewolf, which felt too much like work and smacked of plenty of things that he really hadn't planned to deal with tonight. What he really wanted was either to go back to sulking by himself in the dark corner of a bar or to find a way to take a swing at one of the arseholes who was really responsible for the misery of the last two months.

And so, rather than attempting to bite Sallow's head off, Kurby merely flicked his gaze upwards.

"I know at least one place that won't be swimmin' with eighteen-year-olds," he informed her matter-of-factly, as he started on his way again deeper into Knockturn Alley.

Diagon Alley's darker cousin was always far more active at night. They passed a pair of cackling hags and a tall, slender figure swaddled from head to toe in black drapery, who was walking quickly in the opposite direction. Although some of the storefronts seemed open despite the late hour, the lanterns here were all muted, as if none of the usual residents wanted to disturb the shadows. Under his boots, Kurby could feel the sharpness of the cobblestones, so much more angular and unfinished that the worn walkway that he was used to.

There, at the end of the alley next to a brick wall that he now knew to be opportunistically deceptive, sat the empty building that he'd come this way to see.

The Black Chimaera looked mostly unchanged from the last time that he'd wandered this way a month ago.[1] The bright yellow tape that hung across the doorway had been snapped, and it now hung loosely in two pieces, drifting awkwardly in the light breee. Upstairs, one of the windows looked like it had been boarded up. Kurby peered at it for a moment, unsure of whether that was a new repair or not, but then mentally shrugged it off. Did it really matter?

He glanced back at Sallow, who unfortunately had stuck with him instead of deciding that she had something better to do tonight than tag along while he sulked and looked for trouble.

"Well, Hit-Witch?" he asked, one eyebrow cocked in challenge. "Reckon you're up for a little trespassin'?"

1.	January 14, 2012 - Dark Side of the Moon

"I could arrest you, you know that right?" She jokingly said, she couldn't yet really, she wasn't on duty for a start, or could be bothered, nor had she started working here yet. She looked over the tape, as long as there wasn't anything stolen she couldn't care about urban explorers going into buildings, let kids have their fun in supposedly haunted mansions, she knew she'd snuck into the Shrieking Shack when she was younger, partly as a dare and partly because she could get a snog without anyone seeing her and her boyfriend of the time.

The place seemed properly abandoned, she walked on inside as she took in the sights of it. She hadn't the faintest idea of what the place was or its history. But it seemed like it had been abandoned for a good while so she wasn't sure why he wanted to come here to drink, was there really going to be any alcohol at all even? She doubted it, Kurby must of suffered a blow to the head at some point.

"Look at how busy it is, and so much booze to drink. Truly amazing place. Or you got a stash here?" She glanced towards Kurby, half making sure he wasn't getting ready to just ambush her here in an attempt to tell her to bugger off. After all he wasn't being the most cheerful, she wondered what type of pole was up there, must be terribly abrasive for him that's why he has such a mood.

She glanced over the bar as she moved herself behind it to look over for anything that was remotely drinkable and wasn't poisoned at all. Given the age of the place and people had obviously come in, anything liquid here was likely not something you wanted to drink...unless you were into that sort of thing.

"Any history you can tell me of this place? I don't remember it at all."