2230 hours


The place was alive. Salvador had gambled on that ad[1] in Witch Weekly when he first re-opened Calaveras and it hadn't paid off right away. But people got brave, got less sheepish, and it wasn't like anybody's werewolf friends were going to catch them here on a full moon. Not if security personnel had anything to say about it anyway.

"Who ordered the wine?" Salvador balanced the serving tray expertly as he navigated round murmuring tables on the mezzanine floor, which overlooked the noisier diners downstairs. "It's the, ah, the Malbec?"

He was in top form tonight, an extra pair of hands in all black - from his jeans to his shirtsleeves, distinct from other servers. A bearded guy in glasses glanced up, hand raising slightly. "Santa Julia, yes?"

Sal set down a glass and drew his wand to uncork the Argentinian vintage. "Yeah, good choice. Prefer a Viu Manent m'self," he made small talk amiably with a cursory glance around the table.

These fellas had been coming in pretty reliably for three months. Small group at first, but they were a big table now and they didn't pay him much mind as he poured a little wine to let it breathe. Salvador had heard from the head waiter that they were ELF[2] supporters but he wasn't sure what his feelings on the matter were.

            "Mm," the bearded wizard intoned, and Sal's smile widened. "It's a fine year..."
"We only serve fine years," Sal winked and poured a full glass.
           "I'm sure. You're that Falcón man, aren't you?"

To this day, it took him back to Ilvermony to hear someone use his surname like that. "Guilty as charged," he tucked the empty tray under his arm and extended a hand. "Salvador, call me Sal if it suits you."

The man shook his hand. A firm shake, nothing to be ashamed of. There was something unsettling about him, like he was a little too in control of himself. Salvador didn't have a problem with unsettling people.

1.	31st March - Full Moon Festivities
2.	23rd July - New Movement Preaches Cure to Lycanthropy

"Joseph, Joseph Leslie."
             "But you don't go by Joe," Salvador Falcon laughed.

Layton grinned at the restauranteur, pleased to have finally met him after coming to Calaveras as often as he did. It was a convenient place for their group to meet - especially on a full moon. You weren't going to find any of the Ministry werewolf lot hanging about. The colour and splendour made it light-hearted, in a way, and more welcoming to hesitant supporters of ELF.

His persona Joseph Leslie was one of the more moderate voices at this table. Even as he spoke to Salvador, others at the table were already deep in derisive conversation about werewolves - punctuated by exclamations of condescending pity.

Far from stimulating but he did what he had to do, didn't he?

Falcón left after asking if there were more orders - he disappeared, so at ease in his surroundings that he seemed to blend into the general hubbub of the restaurant. Layton wondered, about that wizard.

In spite of the blatant advertisement, there was no talk on the streets of Falcón himself putting down werewolves. It was possible he was simply opportunistic. Incidentally he wasn't the only one.

            "Joseph!" cried a witch across the table, already drunk. "Don't just brood, bloody hell, help me out here. Now do you or do you not think it's too d-dangerous-" (she practically squealed that word) "- for children to be around those things? I mean, Merlin's sake, can't they get their own, you know, little schoolroom until we can solve them or whatever?"

"That sounds extreme," he chided softly, gesturing with his glass. "But you know, they might prefer it? I hear they even have their own night clubs. Why not give the kids their own safe space?"

Layton drank. It was a very fine year indeed.

“They’ll likely learn better on their own anyhow, won’t they?” a voice put in smoothly. “They’ll probably take it as a kindness. It can’t be easy for them, keeping up with magical children while their nature forces them to miss half the lessons.”

He had come to look forward to the full moons, when good company gathered under the soft lights at Calaveras. It was the closest that things came to feeling like the old days. After the long outfall from the second war had seen so many arrested, even the most dogmatic purebloods were a bit wary of letting an accused Death Eater linger in their midsts. Instead, old prejudices were kept behind closed doors where the new wokeness of the Ministry couldn’t penetrate, and those, like himself, who might put them at risk of increased scrutiny were kept at wand’s length.

But at least once a month, Leo could count on the full moon festivities to feel like old times again. Of course, the lyrics had changed — it was werewolves threatening magical society now, instead of Muggleborns — but the chords that they struck were still familiar, and it was easy enough to adapt to a new melody. If looking poorly on werewolves was what it took to find a sense of acceptance in pureblood society, well…he was content with humming quietly along.

Joseph Leslie was one of the monthly stalwarts, good-natured and a bit calming with an appreciation for good wine. Whenever the drink got to someone’s head and they fell back into unpleasant ways of speaking, Leslie was always there to mediate. He had an admirable way of both disagreeing and reframing at the same time, gently chiding the speaker for being too extreme while offering a milder, less offensive way of presenting their uncouth idea.

“A bit like Squibs, isn’t it, Leslie?” Leo asked, offering a sideways smile to the other wizard over his glass of wine. “No one would ever try to force them to attend Hogwarts, but we all know it’s affection that keeps them at home, not enmity.”

Ira would have been amused by him sitting here and talking about the same werewolf children[1] he had successfully terrorised in Hogsmeade earlier this year. If not for Storm at least one of those pups would be well under a gravestone right now.

Leo Gamp chimed in and he marvelled at the former Death Eater's ease for a moment. To put on the persona of Joseph Leslie was an act distinct from Layton's underlying sense of self; he behaved as someone like Joseph might behave, drawing from his softer qualities. But Leo? Leo Gamp was genuine. For a purist like him, it was old hat to make things like segregation sound palatable. Merciful, even.

             “A bit like Squibs, isn’t it, Leslie?" the other wizard roped him into the exchange again.

"More like squibs than we think, maybe..." Layton suggested as he sipped his wine.
            "I've a squib cousin," the drunken witch sniffed. "Harmless. Least squibs don't go round eatin' people."

He laughed, as if she'd told a joke, and a few others joined in lightheartedly. "You got a point there. I just mean," Layton glanced at Leo, "those werewolf kids, they have a lot on their plates. Like you said, they miss lessons. Not really fully functioning lot, eh? Even the adults miss work. Head of the Werewolf Wing!"

At this, Layton gave a more robust and singular laugh before shaking his head. Bruce Ballentyne. What a decision for the Ministry to have made, appointing a mongrel; and for Spectre not to correct the mistake, typical.

"Doesn't make sense to me," he tapped the rim of his glass. "If it's your job to look after werewolves, you think you'd have to be around on a full moon, don't you? World's topsy-turvy, I'm telling you."

1.	17th March - And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

"She would argue it takes one to know one." Said Perry. "But that also lets them turn a blind eye to each other." His fingers embraced the stem of his wine glass. Arm resting on the tablecloth. "They ought to be tagged. So we know where they are at full moon. For their safety of course. And the children. Yes the children should be taught separately. For their benefit. Timetable lessons around the lunar cycle."

Tagged!

Even Layton couldn't help raising an eyebrow, gaze flicking to the wizard who had suggested this. The Gamp. He trusted an Unspeakable about as far as he could throw one - but luckily Hyperion was slight enough to be thrown a little farther than average. And his ideas were delicious.

"Tagged makes sense, dunnit?" he remarked, as if tasting the prospect. "Ministry wouldn't have to worry about where to find them if they break out, and Merlin knows that has happened more than it should!"

            "A disgrace," the drunken witch shook her head darkly. "Don't see why they ought not spend the night in Azkaban instead."

Layton shrugged - he could go either way on that idea. He liked to hunt. It would be a shame to be unable to find one here on the mainland.

"Not enough space." Retorted Perry. "Too many prisoners. Since the dementors went they all live longer." His family had always believed the dementors at Azkaban were a very good thing. A deterrent. Cheap labor and kept them under control. If Kingsley Shacklebolt had never released them they would not have had the dementor problems for two years. "Unless you mean to let them loose in there on full moon."