Moira gave the hunter a nod of acknowledgement. He had less time than she did in finding someone and while her question had been sincere, she was relieved by his response. Having someone the witch didn’t know staying over for safety’s sake would certainly lead to a sleepless night regardless of how much Bagnold trusted them.

As for her own people, she supposed she could give it a little more thought. There was no harm in sending a letter, and if she made it sound more like a chore maybe they’d say no. Then again, knowing them, probably not. Abby would use it as an excuse to simply hang out.

The clock on the mantle ticked away the seconds of silence while Moira reached for one of her sandwiches and took a bite.

Discussions on werewolves, things that went bump in the night, and her isolation at the farm were not what Kurby had come looking for. Yet finding something safer to distract his thoughts would prove to be a bit of a challenge. After all, Moira didn’t have any history with him like Duncan did. No shared near death experiences. One night of drinks and a near verbal fight in a conference room certainly didn’t count. Besides all that, she knew she wasn’t a great conversationalist.

Moira was still casting about mentally for a topic when her guest asked a question that made her pause. She didn’t work at the pet shop specifically unless the animals needed a checkup but that was an insignificant detail and there really wasn’t much of a need to correct him.

She shook her head a couple of times and replied, “I really wouldn’t sleep if I had to do that. My boss was kind enough to let me have the week off.” In some ways, her boss’ understanding and generosity baffled her. Yes, he understood how farm life could be but a job was a job.

“If I were him I’d fire me, to be honest. As much work as I’ve missed the past few months.” Moira had made up the hours missed and even when she first started the job she worked quite a bit of overtime. Still, missing work and causing schedule changes did not make for a reliable employee.

She took another bite, barely chewing before she swallowed it as her body demanded the sustenance, still trying to think up other things they could talk about when this line of thought died out.

The wolf girl gamely went along with his change in subject. Her response was the most he'd ever heard her say in one go, aside from possibly some of her answers when he'd coerced her into playing the questions game. Kurby listened thoughtfully as he began to eat the sandwich, his gaze drifting back to the mantle over the fireplace.

The clock that had caught his attention earlier was notable only because it was one of the few adornments in the plain room. But the real adornment -- the true eye-catching centerpiece -- was the painting of a young woman that hung above it. Like the clock, the most notable thing about it was its simplicity. Though the woman's brown gaze was vibrant and full of life, she stayed absolutely still: a portrait created by a Muggle artist, rather than a magical one.

Even without knowing the story that Duncan had shared with him, it would have been easy to guess that the witch in the painting and Moira were related. The woman had brown eyes instead of the teenager's blue-gray, but there was a similar lift to her chin, a resemblance to the fall of her brown hair.

Kurby couldn't possibly imagine coming in to sit by the fire every night, to unwind at the end of his day when his tragically-dead parent was gazing down at him. He'd happily live out the rest of his days without ever encountering another portrait of his father. But that was the McBoid clan: somber, melancholy, and reminiscent for the past. They suffered tragedy, and then they spent every day henceforth remembering it.

There might be something noble in that approach to life, but to hell if he'd ever give it a try. Kurby quickly took a swallow of beer, glancing at the the teenaged girl. As much as he might internally disparage Duncan's decision to live a boring, everyday life, even he had to admit that there was something almost appealing in hearing about workplace concerns that didn't involve a monster or terrorist trying to murder you.

"Well, there must be a reason he hasn't, then," he pointed out sensibly, raising an eyebrow at her.  He could guess what it was: Moira McBoid seemed thoughtful, diligent, and hardworking, especially for someone so young. If she'd been a recruit to the Werewolf Capture Unit, he would have been thrilled. "You have to enjoy the work there, aye? I would've thought you'd just plan to take over the farm someday."

The few living room decorations didn’t catch Moira’s attention, even as Bagnold observed them. The painting she tended to ignore unless she were feeling particularly guilt-ridden, as she had in December. Then the laughing eyes of her mother seemed to say, ‘Look at what you took away’. Which was ridiculous. She hadn’t taken anything away.

Not directly.

Not intentionally.

The painting tended to bring about mixed feelings that she doubted would ever settle at this point. Living in her cabin, away from those constantly watching eyes, had turned out to be a bit of a relief.

                                                         "Well, there must be a reason he hasn't, then,"

Moira offered the hunter a quick grin, “Good thing I’m not my own boss.” Had their roles been reversed, she admitted to herself she probably would have been understanding of his situation too. Many things tended to happen out of a person’s control and all they could do was deal with the aftermath.

At Bagnold’s last comment, the witch chewed another bite of her sandwich thoughtfully for a moment. Talking about herself, or her plans, were not part of Moira’s usual habit. Normally, she was the one listening to others talk, learning about them if she was interested enough in doing so. Moira mentally shrugged, if this helped distract his mind from the next few days then so be it.

“I had planned on that, originally. That’s not to say I won’t still, but it won’t be all I do.” Unlike her dad, she would absolutely hire someone to help take care of everything. Moira did like all the aspects of her job, except perhaps the majority of her coworkers.

“I enjoy handling a variety of creatures and learning about new ones. How they think. What they need. How they survive.” And everything else in between including their anatomy.

That had been the main reason why she began drawing, to better her understanding. Somewhere along the line it had also turned into a hobby, and a way to get dreams out of her head.

There was that wolf-like nature again. Not vicious, like the werewolves he usually encountered, but curious, alert and sniffing about to see what she could uncover. Moira McBoid was much more quiet and reserved with her curiosity than most, but she wanted to understand more about the world, especially as it involved magical creatures.

He shrugged as he took another bite of the sandwich, and then a drink from the beer.

"Reckon a pet shop's not a bad place for that," he said, after he swallowed. If it was one of the more exotic ones in Diagon, it probably offered her the chance to interact with all kinds of magical creatures. Many wixen tended to be whimsical about their familiars, especially the ones around his age and younger. "I'm surprised you didn't join Level Four, though. The Beast Wing's got more'n its share of magizoologists."

He could guess at the reason. Duncan McBoid had not been at all enamored of the Ministry by the time the second war had ended. That had been part of what had triggered the falling out between Duncan and Shay; a large part of why Kurby had assumed that the gregarious Scotsman would rather let their wartime friendship fall to the wayside. When they'd first reconnected back in early December, Duncan had admitted that he sometimes missed the work[1], but it was clear that the other wizard had no intention of ever returning. Kurby couldn't imagine that he'd be particularly thrilled if his niece decided to seek employment there.

1.	December 8, 2011 - By Coal and Candlelight

This time, Moira had to say something. “I’m usually at one of the ranches, I only drop in at the shops when the animals need a thorough examination.” The staff they had on hand were more than capable of sorting out when something was wrong with one or more of them. It was just good practice, even the managers had to agree.

The witch took a bite of her second sandwich, the first one having vanished quickly down her throat, barely chewing before swallowing. She continued, “As for the Ministry there are a few reasons. The first you can probably guess. Duncan’s lack of trust in it might have rubbed off.” Moira shrugged, her uncle was far more paranoid about the whole thing than she was but it remained a factor.

“Otherwise, I hated the crowds at Hogwarts, I doubt the Ministry would be any different. And as you said they have more than their share of magizoologists. They don’t need another.” Moira paused mid-bite as she remembered another fact, “A couple of years ago, actually, my dad set me up with a two week internship over the winter holidays. I can’t say I was too thrilled about it all.”

Another reason not mentioned was because the Ministry was such an obvious choice career wise. Both of her friends worked at the Ministry, sort of, amongst a number of people she had gone to school with. Moira didn’t want to pick the obvious choice. Perhaps this was her own way of rebelling against relative ‘safety’.

Moira opened her mouth but stopped herself from asking after his own job, if he enjoyed it or if it was a necessary duty. Taking a drink of beer to try to cover the movement, she also shifted position to one slightly more comfortable.

Bagnold was here to be distracted from work, not reminded about it.

“I don’t normally drink beer, but this isn’t too bad.”

There were times when he forgot how young the kids were: Moira McBoid, Fig, Blake, and all the like. Kurby flashed the teenager a lopsided grin, clearly bemused.

"It's from that new place over in Bermondsey," he replied. "Next time you're feelin' up for a drinking game, you lot should go check it out."

He'd mostly finished the sandwich now, so Kurby picked up the beer glass, holding it in both hands. Talk of the Ministry made it too easy to remember the magical sword hanging over their head, the danger that awaited them in the morning. He'd gone into the last full moon expecting the worst after the December ambush, and although the full moon itself had passed without much ruckus, the last morning had brought plenty of pain. Whatever awaited his team and their allies this month, he wasn't eager to greet it.

That was why he'd come here tonight. Duncan McBoid was always good for a distracting conversation, and he was gregarious enough to keep the conversation moving. His niece was obviously doing her best to do the same, but it still felt flat. What else was there to talk about? He wasn't about to ask her about Fig. The painting hanging over the mantle, too, seemed obviously off-limits. Duncan wouldn't want her involved in the pentral mess, and Moira didn't seem the sort for idle chit-chat about card games or Quidditch. He wasn't really either, but at least it was something better than sitting here in awkward silence.

The small clock on the mantle was still ticking quietly. Kurby paused for a moment as his gaze settled back on it. The grandfather clock in Alec Carter's study had been much more grand, clearly some sort of family heirloom intended to be passed on. When its owner had died, it had fallen suddenly silent.

The werewolf hunter went very still for a moment, brows knitting as he regarded it.

"Where's the clock from?" he asked after a beat, glancing at Moira. "Is that magical too, or is it Muggle like the painting?"

Moira furrowed her brow a bit at the mention of a drinking game. Present company excluded, her last proper drinking game had been the slumber party where she had met Abby, and unknowingly her long dead cousin. The game had not gone so well, in her opinion but everyone else at the party might not have agreed. The witch had much preferred the one played with Bagnold. It had been more informative.

“Little chance of that, I think, but I’ll keep it in mind.” In fact, it was far more preferable for all future parties and events to be avoided, not that such a possibility existed.

The silence stretched for a few seconds and Moira took advantage of it, focusing on her sandwiches again. Except, she found that only one bite remained. She barely remembered eating the rest of it all, having wolfed it down in her hunger between sentences. She would have to get up earlier in the morning to ensure she had a proper breakfast.

Setting the now empty plate aside, her attention was drawn to the clock on the mantle at Bagnold’s question, ticking away the seconds of their lives. At a glance it certainly appeared to be nothing but a plain clock. However, the face of it waxed and waned with the moon while the color changed slowly throughout the year.

“No, the clock’s magical.” Moira unconsciously tilted her head slightly to the side as she looked at it, trying to remember what she had been told. “I believe it belonged to my great grandfather,” one of the many family members she had no clue about.

“He,” she hesitated, the story coming back to her in pieces. “He had it custom made by a clock specialist, a way to mark the moon, and seasonal festivals.” During Samhain it had become a ghostly grey, and now it was a shade of blue.

“Dad said it connects to whoever inherits it, like their heartbeat is what keeps it ticking. If the owner dies before it’s passed on it will stop, but it can be started again with a spell.” Not the most cheery of thoughts.

A magical clock whose ticking died with its owner. There was a macabre feel to that sort of magic: a sort of ghoulish, melancholy expectation that the spell stopped when the wizard did.

Kurby cracked a grin, banishing his thoughtful expression from a moment ago.

"Not morbid at all, is that?" he asked dryly. "Hullo, granddaughter, here's my clock; you'll have to find someone to restart it for you once I'm gone, though."

Not all enchantments faded when their caster died. Places like Hogwarts and the Ministry were testament to that: institutions with magical foundations that ran deep, anchoring them to ages long past. Both Grimshaw Tailoring and the crypt under the Godric's Hollow church were other examples, infused with grisly magic from warlocks who must have died long ago. But many spells -- probably most spells -- were not laid so permanently. They were ephemeral, tied to life whether intentionally like the McBoid family's timepiece or not.

Indeed, it was a probable explanation for what had happened with Carter's grandfather clock. Kurby made a mental note to check in on it, once the full moon was passed.

"Reckon it's a bit convenient, though," he quipped, unable to help himself despite the ghastly subject matter. "At least if it stops, you know you ought to start lookin' about for the body. We ought to set somethin' like that up in the Ministry; it'd save us time durin' the worst months."

Moira snorted a laugh at Bagnold’s dark, dry humor. There had to be something funny about the grimmer side of life, or else the weight of it all would crush a person, snap their hold on sanity, or worse.

It felt as though they finally had come across a topic that didn’t feel forced and was far enough from personal matters to be comfortable, even if the subject matter was more than a little dark and grim. Perhaps now that it had started, it would continue to flow forward in the way it did for other people she had observed. Wracking her brain for a topic certainly hadn’t helped that effort.

Taking another drink she looked back over to Bagnold as he mentioned setting up something similar at the Ministry. Moira offered, “You could pass out complimentary pocket watches. The kind that wix leave in their desk drawers and promptly forget about. Give you an excuse to go through it if they’ve been missing and if they show up,” she shrugged, “‘Sorry, I was making sure you weren’t dead.’”

The idea of those pocket watches hiding in desks was inefficient, true. More along the ideas of a prank. An example being the debatable amount of time that had to pass before someone was considered missing.It certainly wouldn’t be helpful to departments having to rummage through all those desk drawers trying to find those elusive watches.

M warning for reference to sensitive themes.

Dark humor about a death that had already happened was one thing; it was quite another to joke about the possible deaths of his team when their full moon watch loomed in the coming morning. Kurby couldn't hold back a grimace, even though he knew the wolf girl didn't mean for her comment to come across as so bleak.

"They don't even let me ask who'd prefer other options over goin' furry," he retorted dryly.[1] "Somehow I doubt anyone's goin' to let me pass out death watches."

He fell quiet, taking a long sip of his beer to cover up any sign of discomfort in his expression. Leaning his head against his right hand, he glanced back up at the clock on the mantle, the painting of the woman that hung on the wall behind it.

"Thanks for lettin' me interrupt tonight," he said after a beat. "I know you lot have all had plenty to deal with the past couple of months without someone crashin' in when you were ready to enjoy a night alone."

1.	“I’m not asking people that, Kurby. We all knew the risks when we signed up. I’m not asking if someone wants to be put down.”  -- Bruce Ballentyne, May 2008

M warning for continuation of sensitive theme

Moira nodded in acknowledgement of his point while contemplating the first half of his comment. Guessing what he meant regarding 'other options' to becoming a werewolf wasn't difficult. However, if Bagnold were able to ask and one of his team members who did not want to be 'furry' got bit, what would he do?

Of course, the Ministry would never allow it and the public - if they learned of the fact - would be outraged. But this was a hypothetical question. If the unthinkable happened, would Kurby kill the teammate he had worked with, bled with, and suffered with at their request? Could he?

While Moira didn't know much about the wizard beyond what he had offered and what she had observed, she didn't think so. Perhaps he might, if it were in the heat of battle. Except as the Head of the Capture Unit he would be expected to maintain a clear mind in such stressful situations. Bagnold did what had to be done yet she doubted him to be a cold blooded killer, no matter his feelings regarding werewolves.

The question remained unanswered in her mind and likely would remain so.

When the witch realized she was staring she glanced up at her mother's portrait for a few seconds, unchanged as always though the gaze again felt somewhat accusatory. Moira looked away again almost guiltily. She was taking a drink when the Hunter thanked her.

"It's no trouble. The only thing I've had to deal with is learning I have living relatives other than dad and Duncan." Moira shrugged a shoulder. "You are referring to the whole Iona thing, right?"

That sound incredibly callous, even to her ears, and she grimaced slightly in recognition. The situation wasn't easy on her family or Abby. There was nothing light hearted about it and it certainly wasn't something to just shrug off. "Sorry."

Moira gave a soft sigh and added, "Iona McBoid lived and died before I was even born. I never had a chance to know her." Or of her, except for the few times when Iona had spoken through Abby. Such a bizarre situation.

"Anyway, enjoying the night alone is a bit of a stretch. Had you not shown up I likely would have found other work to do." And who knew what time she would have stopped.

He'd meant more than just Iona, the McBoid cousin who had been murdered by Lorelei Hunt a generation before. It hadn't been all that long since Moira had gone scouting for Runespoors, encountered a wild werewolf, and suffered a major falling out with her friend Figaro. But Kurby wasn't about to bring that up if the girl didn't. He still remembered the drawings in her notebook[1], the dark, nightmarish sketches of Savvina Katopodis in her terrifying wolfish form.

He could entirely believe that if he hadn't come along tonight, the kid would have just gone on working. Moira McBoid was more focused on her work than anyone her age that he had ever met, himself included. If she hadn't already discovered things like Pepper-Up Potions to increase her waking hours, she was likely well on her way.

"I'm surprised your uncle doesn't try to police your social calendar the way he does the rest of us," Kurby quipped, arching a pointed eyebrow at her. "Reckon you ought to know by now that there're other ways to avoid crowds besides workin' yourself to death, wolf girl."

1.	December 13, 2011 - Wolves and Regulations

Moira tilted her head slightly at the mention of her uncle and her social calendar, and gave a small shake of her head, “You think he doesn’t try?”

The young witch cleared her throat and after a brief pause began a somewhat decent impression of her uncle, “Have you looked outside, yet? It’s a beautiful day. You should consider going to get a coffee with one, or both, of your friends. Since you don’t have work today. Make a day of it. I can take care of your chores if you decide you want to go. I don’t mind.” Duncan had said something very similar not too long ago making it easy enough to recall.

Shrugging a shoulder Moira gave a half smile, “Sometimes I think he’s finally given up on the attempts, and then he’ll say something like that. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried inviting them over on my behalf. I hope he never gets the idea.” Such an event would be rather disastrous, initially.

“Most of the time I just like to stay busy. And if I manage to finish everything at an early hour then there’s more time to study.” That sounded odd for a non Ravenclaw alumni. She’d have to be careful or else risk sounding like Sasha. “I mean, I can’t learn my chosen profession by staring at a wall.”

The werewolf hunter cracked an unabashed grin at Moira's impression of her uncle. For all of his gregarious nature, Duncan McBoid had a way of being especially pushy when someone wasn't looking after themself the way that he clearly thought they should. Judging by the accuracy of the girl's imitation, Moira had likely been on the receiving side of Duncan's prying more than once.

Kurby could understand why his friend might meddle in this particular instance, though. The girl's insistence on throwing herself into her work couldn't be healthy. Spending every waking hour working or studying led down only one path, and there was nothing but burnout at the end of it. If it wasn't for the fact that he suspected this was just Moira's character, he might have wondered if her insistence on keeping busy was the result of the trauma she'd suffered alongside Figaro back during the December full moon.

"Well, if you've got two mates, that might be one or two up on Duncan," he quipped, flashing Moira a lopsided smile. It was hard to believe that her uncle hadn't gotten the idea, but maybe that was an apparition too far for the Scottish wizard.

There didn't seem to be much point in pushing the girl on working too much; she'd likely already heard it from everyone, and she wasn't going to listen to him if she'd already ignored all the rest of the world. Kurby raised his glass to take a sip, his gaze sliding back to the clock on the mantle.

There were pieces of it that always stuck with you. The silent clock in Carter's home. The enormous werewolf illuminated in the doorway, snarling as it stood over shattered wood. Before that, it had been the flecks of silver mixed with blood and fur in the hallway; the pinched, pained look on Figaro's gray face; the metallic smell that hit his nose as the fuzzy full moon hung bright overhead at the zoo.

But he was practiced enough at this that he could push it all aside, Kurby thought, as he took another long swallow from his beer. The wolf girl, for all her maturity, hadn't been at this for nearly as long. Unlike many of the teenagers that he'd come into contact with recently, it was easy to forget that Moira was only eighteen. It had taken a pass through the nightmarish drawings in her sketchbook before he'd remembered, not that long ago.

He let the comforting ticking of the clock drag on for a moment longer, and then slanted a nonchalant, offhanded glance in her direction.

"How've you been sleeping?" he asked casually. "You still doin' sketches of that werewolf?"

The hunter’s questions had a conversational tone, but Moira met his gaze as he asked them. She thought she detected a hint of concern hidden away in his questions which piqued her curiosity. What were his reasons to be concerned? Was it just because of her relations or something else? Questions that needn’t be asked; things she might find out another time. Unless there happened to be some sort of disastrous event - possible - there was no need to rush.

“I sleep alright,” Moira half-lied. Very likely she had less than an adequate amount, but otherwise everything else had settled nicely. “The nightmares stopped just before Christmas. So no more werewolf sketches.”

The close-encounter she’d had with the werewolf had certainly been nerve wracking and plagued her attempts at sleep for a few nights, but the final driving nails had been her meeting with Bagnold at the Ministry and then the article in the Daily Prophet. The learning and knowing quicker action on her part, not worrying solely about Sellaphix and his concerns, might have saved lives. The deaths of those muggles weighed as heavily on Moira as her own mother’s death. ‘What ifs’ were pointless for mere conjecture. The past was done and now she had to live with the consequences.

The younger wix avoided looking anywhere near her mother’s portrait as she finished off the beer in her glass.

“Plenty of other sketches, but nothing quite so horrific depending where you place the digestive tract of a griffin on the scale.” A griffin would soon be a temporary guest at the menagerie ranch which led to her more specific research and studies. Moira wouldn’t let anyone say their guests were not well-treated.

Speaking of guests, her empty glass, and Bagnold’s nearly empty one she grabbed the second bottle off the table and popped it open. She held it out towards him and waited a moment for his agreement before filling his glass then her own. He had supplied the beer, the least she could do was pour it.