12 March 2012
7pm on a Monday
Sellaphix Apothecary

A windy evening was falling on Knockturn Alley, swinging the hanging wooden sign emblazoned only with a large beetle. In the door hung a simple 'closed' sign. Sellaphix Apothecary had started closing on Mondays, a reluctant compromise by the shop's owner to work less. Nevertheless, a light was on inside.

It was Figaro Sellaphix obeying his father's not-so-subtle suggestion to package the dragon balm before his mother had a chance to when she arrived the next morning. It was a messy job, scooping the odorous oily paste from the cauldron into squat jars. The operation required long dragonhide gloves, a full apron, and Figaro had opted to add a handkerchief wrapped over his nose and mouth. One misplaced smattering on your skin and the potent potion would be all burning and numbness where you didn't want it. It was enough to make your eyes water. Despite the labor and a long day at the Prophet, Figaro seemed in good spirits.

From upstairs, a gramophone loudly played Hawkshead Attacking Formation. The lyrics of this particular song focused on burning down the wand-wanking social shackles that served only to turn so-and-so's against each other and something about nepotism in the Wizengamot. A fish and chips wrapper sat off to the side, incongruous with the earthy, well-kept shop.

It was hard to believe they were this far into 2012. It was if months had lasted a year, but at the same time, the weeks had flown by in monotony.

With a quiet pop, a hooded figured blinked into existence in the narrow alleyway behind Sellaphix Apothecary.

Apparating to the back entrance served a dual purpose tonight. The werewolf hunter normally timed his visits to the Knockturn Alley shop for later in the evening, well after the normal customers would have made their rounds. The Sellaphix family had dealt with enough drama involving the Ministry of Magic, and the last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to them. Even though his flat was not far around the corner in Diagon, any precaution that Kurby could take to avoid making it known that a Ministry employee frequented their wares was worth trying.

Recently, he'd had a second, more personal reason to apparate straight to the back door: avoiding the main thoroughfare through Knockturn Alley entirely meant that he didn't have to pass by the tailor shop across the street.

Luckily, it looked like one of the Sellaphixes was still at work: the lights were on in the lower part of the shop, and he could hear music playing faintly. Kurby tried the back doorknob; after giving it a jiggle using the trick that Rate had taught him over a decade ago, it turned easily, allowing him to let himself in.

The werewolf hunter made his way carefully into the front room, lowering his hood and tugging off his gloves. Judging by the music playing, there was only one of the three Sellaphix adults that could possibly be manning the store tonight.

The smell, which had been barely noticeable outside, hit in full force as he stepped into the main part of the shop. He didn't mean to sneak up on Figaro, so Kurby knocked on the wall near the till, using his other hand to cover his nose to try and ward against whatever the hell was assaulting his senses.

"Oi," he said, sounding slightly nasal and looking as if his eyes were about to start tearing up. "You settin' off stink pellets in here or something?"

Figaro hadn't heard Kurby come in and didn't realize he was there until the older wizard was knocking on the wall. Figaro jumped a bit and let the ladle drop to his side with a sigh. He'd been jumpy since January and he never had been before. It irritated him.

"Shit, Kurby. Hi." He pulled his mask down and spoke over the music. "Mum's dragon balm."

Figaro hadn't seen Kurby since that night in the back garden after Fig was released from St. Mungo's.[1] It wasn't unusual for them to go so long - they both had rich full adult lives full of excitement and purpose - but it seemed that lately they only interacted regarding the latest catastrophe.

"Hang on." Fig dropped a heavy lid over the cauldron then stepped back so he had better line of sight for the open office door upstairs to silence the music. The quiet moved in and Figaro peeled off the gloves. He took another breath.

"What's wrong?" What's wrong this time? What did I do this time?

1.	10 Jan 2012 - Moonlight, Firelight

The music turned off and the smell, while not completely dissipated, became considerably lessened as Figaro threw a lid on the cauldron. Potion-brewing was never something that he had been any good at. These days, if he thought he might need something, he usually just bought it from Zelda Sellaphix. Seeing the process in action did nothing to convince him that he ever wanted to try any different.

Figaro took a moment to gather himself, lowering his mask and pulling off his gloves. He seemed a little jumpy, a little uncomfortable, but maybe he was just unhappy at being interrupted. Zelda was usually the one here working late, preparing potions and stocking supplies for the next day.

Then Figaro took a deep breath and spoke. "What's wrong?"

The werewolf hunter blinked, long and hard.

"Uh," he said after a beat, brows knitting as he regarded Figaro warily. "Nothing, as far as I know.  I just needed to restock on some healin' supplies."

"Oh, yeah, that's fine. Just trying to get this done."

Zelda getting sick and both Kurby and his dad knocking into him had actually jogged loose some sense in the eldest Sellaphix. Even if he wasn't going to take over, there were things he ought to be doing to help. Zelda would never ask, but, he'd been informed, she shouldn't have to. Kept him busy, as well, and that was to society's benefit.

Kurby seemed a bit off, but he didn't seem cross so Figaro leaned against the workbench and relaxed. Kurby wouldn't need help finding anything - no, wait. He might.

"Oh, Frank rearranged over Christmas," Figaro offered. Frank never needed to be asked, but he loved that kind of thing. "When's the last time you were here?"

The teenager's body language seemed to relax, but it didn't help to alleviate the awkward sense that he'd intruded. It was still strange to think of Figaro as a fully-functioning member of adult magical society and not the gawky pre-teen that he'd known years ago. Kurby had always been closer to Zelda and Rafe than he had to either of the two Sellaphix boys, and seeing them grow up felt...odd. Between that and Fig brushing up against so much werewolf-related drama the past few months, it felt like he was navigating a tenuous new relationship.

The question that Figaro posed was perfectly innocuous, but he couldn't help but bristle a bit at it anyhow. When's the last time you were here?

Not since September or October. He'd dropped in a handful of times when Zelda had been in the hospital and the shop had been closed to check on things, but Rafe had gotten out not long after she'd gone home, and Kurby had taken that as a cue to give the couple a wide berth. He'd meant to restock after Duncan McBoid had drained his healing kit back at the start of the new year, but then then January's Wolf Moon had happened, and it had felt smarter not to risk drawing Tawse's attention back to the Sellaphix family.

"I dunno," he said, a little uncomfortably. "Sometime in the fall?"

The Sellaphix family was always quick to give him run of the stores when he needed something, but the truth was that he'd always been shite at things like herbology and potions, and he didn't always feel confident in his ability to recognize everything that he needed.  Zelda, Kurby suspected, understood that: she was usually quick to offer her thoughts on what he ought to be acquiring. Figaro probably just assumed he knew what he was doing.  If Frank had reorganized everything in December so that he had an excuse not to be able to find anything, he'd consider that a lucky turn.

"No, it's fine," Figaro reassured Kurby with a new smile. "They saw you enough at Christmas. That's enough credit to last you ... until Mother's day, at least.[1] If you really want them to like you, speaking as the favorite, bring your washing around on Sundays. That's how I manage keeping the top spot."

Figaro popped his p's and sat up from the counter to lend Kurby a hand with the shopping. He wasn't consciously aware he was doing it, earnestly and automatically attempting to fill an awkward or dismal gap with something lighthearted, but it was his way.

"Healing stuff is upstairs, now," Fig said as he moved past Kurby to the wrought iron stairs. Just as he did, he cried out, grabbed at his thigh, and sank down to a knee on the first step.

1.	Coming up! 18 March 2012

Kurby cocked an uncomfortable eyebrow at the teenager, who was passing on his best advice for succeeding as a Sellaphix. It seemed a bit discourteous to try and explain that he wasn't particularly interested in being a paragon of the family. Rafe and Zelda were friends, which had always been a rare enough thing that he didn't take it for granted. He'd known them both for decades, and he did his best to keep an eye on them, with the understanding that that meant he had to tolerate Rafe's gregariousness and Zelda's watchfulness.

But he wasn't about to bring his washing around or drop in for Mother's Day. After everything that had happened the past few months -- Zelda's recovery, Rafe's return, the cool welcome that he'd received after the full moon in January -- he'd mostly been trying to give them space.

For all he knew, Figaro was just ribbing him, though. Maybe it was just the fact that he himself often felt socially awkward as hell, but as the elder Sellaphix boy had aged, Kurby felt like he had less and less of a sense of when the kid was serious and when he was joking.

The offer to move upstairs was a welcome one. Kurby had shifted to follow Fig when the kid let out a cry, grabbed his leg, and sank down on the first step.

The werewolf hunter's eyes practically bugged out of his head.

"Fig!" In half a second, Kurby had closed the space between them. What the hell? Memories of Zelda crying out, her face twisting in pain as she grabbed her head and sank down[1], flashed through his head. Was there some damned pentral curse on this place? Did it have something to do with Figaro's injury from the full moon?

Brows knitting with concern, he reached for the kid's shoulder to try and steady him. "You alright?" he asked him, trying to assess the cause of the cry, the status of his injury, and the possible possession of his soul all at the same time.

1.	August 5, 2011 - Before the Storm

Figaro held the ruse another moment, sucking in a sharp breath through grit teeth, before laying back on the stairs. The pained hiss turned into a snicker and he crowed in juvenile pride, cracking a big grin. "Hoooo, man, why are you wound so tight?"

Figaro shouldn't have done it, and now that he had this thought did occur to him as he pulled himself to his feet and proceeded up the stairs. There was just something about where Figaro and Kurby stood this past several months that just begged some sort of break. Exploiting his protectiveness and pulling a nasty trick was probably not the way to do it, but it was more readily available to someone like Figaro than a heart-to-heart. Not that he'd put any thought into it; the impulse had come and been realized too quickly.

"Healing bones takes like four seconds," he called down. "You need to relax. You have a list or something?"

Flashbacks from the past few months were already shooting through his head: Zelda unconscious in St. Mungo's, Figaro's face twisting with pain from his broken leg. He did not want to deal with this, not now, not when he'd only barely hit the two month mark since he'd last had to be first on the scene for a dead body. If something was seriously wrong with Figaro's leg, Kurby was done playing by the Sellaphix family's rules of non-intervention: he was dragging the kid to St. Mungo's, and to hell with anyone yelling at him for it afterwards.

Then Figaro burst out into a fit of snickers and Kurby was left to stare at him, his concerned expression fading into flustered bewilderment, and then into a sullen, glowering stare that was very possibly a harbinger to an Unforgivable Curse.

He couldn't murder Figaro. He couldn't murder Figaro. Silently, Kurby started counting down from ten, although he lost track somewhere between eight and seven. If he killed the kid, he was probably going to regret it in less than twelve hours, even if it didn't feel that way right now. The teenager had been through a lot recently. He was just acting out. Even if all Kurby did was bite the kid's head off, as soon as he calmed down, he'd likely feel like an arsehole about it --

"That's not bleedin' funny." The words came out sounding dangerously flat. The werewolf hunter bore into the teenager with a ferocious glare, his shoulders tense and the line of his jaw tight. "Do you really want to ask me why the hell I'm wound up so tight, Fig?"

Kurby's glare alone was enough to stop Figaro from walking further away; Fig stood and leaned on the bannister at the top of the stairs. Now Fig remembered why it was a bad idea to 'poke the bear' as his dad called it: he has no sense of humor and you never got the reaction you wanted. Figaro willed himself to act his age.

"No, I do not," Figaro answered pointedly with an attempt at contrition. "I get it."

The latter statement was less about true sympathy and more about dropping the topic as soon as possible. It was very recently the last time Kurby listed his full-moon troubles for him and Kurby looked very nearly as angry.[1]

"Sorry. Poor impulse control. Needs improvement."

With that, he waited where he was. It was probably best to let Kurby say his piece. At some point, Fig would just have to realize that things would never be 'back to normal' with Kurby now that Fig was older - now that events had occurred and all the things that had kept from him because he was young were now out in the open. You really can't go back.

1.	13 Dec 2011 - Of Wolves and Men

There was a part of him that didn't give a damn about the apology; that still wanted to snap at Fig about the dangers of crying wolf and how it felt to be unexpectedly thrown back into the horrors of the last few months for a laugh. But he hadn't come here to get into another eruption with the elder of the Sellaphix boys. Kurby let out a slow breath, and then tried to force his shoulders to relax.

"I never would've noticed," he sniped back, although the retort came out sounding a bit half-hearted.

Jaw still tight, the werewolf hunter looked up the stairs past Figaro to the upper floor. The entire exchange left him feeling drained. He very much wanted to leave, to find somewhere else to get the damned murtlap root and dittany or to come back on another night when Zelda or Rafe might be tending the shop instead. But if he turned and stormed out now, the precarious relationship that felt like it had been balancing between him and Figaro since December was going to tip decidedly in one direction.

Willing himself to act like an adult, Kurby slipped a hand into his pocket and found his list.

"It's mostly basic healing supplies," he said, trying not to sound completely sour as he passed the slip of paper to the kid. All of the things he'd used back in January with Duncan: dittany leaves, Wiggenweld potion, essence of murtlap, and a few other healing supplies that he'd allowed to fall too far out of their fresh state. "If you want to playact a werewolf attack at the top of the stairs, give me a warning this time first, aye?"

Kurby was merciful and saved his lecture. He chose to ignore the last jab; it was deserved. Figaro took the list and drummed his fingers on the railing before walking off to gather up Kirby's shopping. Indeed, Figaro knew where to find it all. This would be number two in the last month of leather-clad hardarses stocking up on first aid no doubt to aid their self-imposed dangerous lifestyle.[1] If Figaro wasn't careful he was going to find himself a capable adult.

"How's Rosheen? Horrible, as usual? " Figaro asked, resorting to small talk to clear the air, like a chump. Everybody seemed to like Rosheen Bagnold, Kurby's cheery little sister. Fig had long gotten over the contradiction in temperaments that she and Kurby were related (And his boyhood crush, as well)

"You want the whole-leaf or powdered," he asked, holding up two dittany options for Kurby to see. Whole leaf was more potent and could be prepared to the user's satisfaction, but dried kept longer and was quicker to use.

1.	Tara Sallow had come to call. 25 Feb 2012 - Weekend Supply Run

Whether he wanted whole-leaf or powdered was probably a topic that had been covered in a Potions class back in the day, but he'd be damned if he'd paid enough attention to remember which was better suited for his purposes.

"Uh, whole leaf's fine," Kurby replied, giving an awkward shrug. It was usually more expensive, which probably meant it was more effective.

The status of his younger sister -- the only member of his immediate family that he willingly maintained ties with outside of the usual pureblood familial obligations -- wasn't exactly a welcome topic of conversation at the moment. Kurby had been steadily avoiding Rosheen since the disastrous full moon in January. Although he'd managed to push things off for one more weekend after the March lunar apex, his sister was becoming more and more insistent; if he didn't see her soon, she was liable to break into his flat and hex him.

"I reckon Rosh is alright," he remarked, doing his best not to shift uncomfortably.  "We're supposed to meet up this weekend. How's the safe house stint goin'?" he asked casually, changing the subject as he leaned back against the rail. "Were you at that big debrief meeting they held today at the Ministry?"

Figaro reshelved the powdered dittany and continued on to the other items on Kurby's list, Figaro already beginning to move past his and Kurby's uncomfortable exchange from moments ago. Fig noted Kurby's changing the subject from Rosheen as notable and should have expected the next topic to come up.

Figaro had been "moonlighting" as a werewolf safe house attendant for a few months. It was an easy job and paid fairly well because not many people wanted to do it. And fewer now. Several attendants had quit after the attack on the Dumfries safe house  in January.[1] Figaro had not, to the surprise of many. Figaro didn't like to think of himself as brave, and stubborn wasn't among his lesser qualities. Unlike being a spot unreliable at showing up for meetings.

"Oh, shit, no. I missed it."

He didn't seem too choked up about it. What were they going to do? Sack him?

"What'd they say?"

1.	11 Jan 2012 - Ministry Safe House Infiltrated