Dawn. Transformation cells, Werewolf Wing.


       "The fuck happened there?" Robin Louvelle was among the first out of the cells, as he always was. "Cut yourself shaving?"

The tall wizard must have made an impressive werewolf. Fionn had dragged a stool up behind the reception desk in the foyer, where it was now routine for him to linger and watch as the night's inmates trickle out of their cells to greet a new day. At Louvelle's gesture, he touched his own chin to acknowledge a streak of blood.

"Slipped and fell," he drawled around the lemon sherbert in his mouth, and leaned forward against crossed legs.
       "Two left feet, Kerrigan."

The WCU Head smiled faintly, though his attention quickly moved on to other figures making their way in from the direction of the cells. He found it fascinating to observe how differently the transformation affected wixes.

Many exhibited overt signs of exhaustion. Some, like Louvelle, were little more than tired and waspish. He glanced at the man in question - lingering at the desk to read this morning's Prophet[1] and liberate Fionn's coffee.

Of course, he was waiting for Ballentyne. The two werewolves were friendly from what he gathered.

1.	3rd Jan - Head of Werewolf Wing Attacked

The first thing to strike Bruce when she woke up on the floor was the lack of agony. She felt rough, of course, as if she’d just surfaced from a dreadful hangover. The hangover feeling was normal, but the lack of intense pain coursing through her left leg was alien. Every full moon morning, Iona’s first act was to chug a sizable amount of pain potion. But perhaps not today. As she started to sit up, Iona was quickly reminded why the pain wasn’t there. Missing, where the mangled excuse for a left leg had been, was nothing but a pale naked stump. They’d cut about half way down her thigh, and thanks to magic, the wound had mostly healed over. The magical bandages that had wrapped it were now gone, but it was still striking to see. Memories of the day before flooded back to Bruce, and she clapped a hand over her mouth as she sat, naked, on the cold cell floor, just staring at it.

Considerable time seemed to pass because Bruce couldn’t will herself to try and make a move to get up and dressed.

Someone dared knock on the cell door.
“Alrigh’ in there, Ma’am? Need any help?” Yelled a witch’s voice.

“I’m fine!” The witch yelled back, not wanting anyone coming in to ‘help’. Her clothes and a set of crutches had been charmed into the cell before she’d woken. Robin had strongly suggested a wheelchair, but Iona had insisted on no wheelchair. She’d look weak enough this morning in front of her own staff without needing to be wheeled out like an invalid.

The time it took to get any clothes on was significant, but she was determined to manage. Even Zora had been strongly told not to come and help. She’d really wanted trousers, to marginally cover the absence of a leg, but they’d be too tricky to get on alone. So she relented with the beige cargo shorts. Her green jumper was oversized, as if she wanted to hide from the world underneath it. All was barely manageable as she looked back to where the clothes had been. One sock and her right boot. That was it. One sock. One boot.

Feeling physically sickened by her new reality, Iona went about getting her single sock and boot on her only remaining foot. Still, she managed not to cry.

What came next, Iona found was impossible. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t get up onto her foot, even with the use of the crutches. Moans of frustration came, along with throwing the crutches against the cell wall before she finally relented and called out for help.

Finally, after aid from a colleague, Bruce was up, crutches under her armpits. Her hair looked wild as she’d not even considered scraping it back in all of the frustration over the simple act of getting dressed and standing up. By the time she was very slowly struggling down the corridor towards the welcome desk, the witch’s mood was foul and she was on the edge of losing her temper or just bursting out crying.

She saw Robin first, his bulk stood by the desk, clearly waiting for her. They were due to return to St Mungos. Iona’s mood further darkened, however, as her gaze shot past her to find Fionn Kerrigan, her head of the WCU seated rather comfortably at the desk as if he’d come to watch a show. No werewolf wanted to see the wizard who’d hunt them down if they chose to avoid this humiliation at the Ministry, and she could only surmise he’d come to see her.

“Unless something dire happened last night, Kerrigan, I don’t want to hear it, today.” The Welsh witch said, clearly trying to contain her anger.

He had a migraine building like he did every morning after, though coffee helped. Robin anticipated his friend would need time just to leave her cell. Better to sit on the desk, reading about news that didn't make him want to claw someone's face off.

Anyway, he would need to go home to change out of his sweats and feel a little more human after leaving her at St.Mungo's for prep. Now that the full moon was past they didn't have to rush once Bruce was back in hospital.

Robin had reached Letters to the Editor by the time she was out. Only a few folk were still hanging back to chat or make plans for recovery. He folded the paper and got up, smiling tiredly at her.

But it seemed she only had eyes for Kerrigan.

       "No," replied the Irishman simply, pausing to bite down on his sweet. "Nothing remarkable, Bruce. It's good to see you on your feet this morning."

Oh come on. Robin shot him an incredulous look, though there was nothing smug or mean-spirited in his expression. "Jesus," he muttered. "Time and place, Kerrigan."

Iona blinked. Did she just hear the Irishman correctly? She knew that generally he was slightly off, but mostly harmless with what he said. This, however, left her a little stunned. On her feet. Feet. News would have spread quickly through level 4 of her condition, especially in the Werewolf Wing. So the wizard was either deeply insensitive, rude or clueless. Possibly all three.

Robin jumped in before Bruce could thoroughly process what Kerrigan had said beyond his insensitive remark about her feet. Why was he here if he had nothing to say but that? It hadn’t even occurred to her that this was his regular practice.

“On my feet?!” Iona breathed, gripping the handles of her crutches tightly. She was feeling pretty off balance, and glanced toward her friend, non believing. No one in their right mind mentioned feet to a person the day after they’d had a leg amputated.

“Nothing remarkable? Why then, are you standing outside my werewolf cells like a sadistic omen and a reminder of who is going to hunt them down if they choose not to lock themselves up for the night?”

His brow wrinkled in puzzlement at first - time and place? But Ballentyne's initial exclamation clarified things and he glanced a moment at the floor as he remembered one of the cell officers discussing her leg. Ah, of course.

Before he could begin to explain the poor choice of words, however, the red-haired witch posed an extremely convoluted question. Well, no. The question was rather simple; her phrasing was convoluted. He savoured and swallowed the rest of his crushed sweet, waiting for the sentence to reach its conclusion.

Upon which Fionn looked down at himself, as if to verify something. "I'm sitting," he pointed out and heard Louvelle choke on air, followed by oh my god.

       "Bruce, we got to get you back to hospital..." Robin quickly interjected. "Let's not waste our time, he's always knocking about here."

"I do not knock about." Fionn corrected dryly, resenting the implication of activity. "But yes," he procured the rest of the sweets from his pocket. "It seemed a waste not to avail myself of an opportunity to observe post-transformation behaviour."

The wizard held out the striped paper bag to Bruce, mild-mannered. "Sherbet lemon?"

Robin’s words sunk in slowly, it felt like everything in Bruce’s mind was processing slowly this morning. Always knocking about. Always.Oh no.
Nope.
Just no.

Iona felt her expression turning to something slightly more thunderous, especially as Kerrigan went on to suggest he was merely observing.

No.
Not going to happen again.
Definitely not.

A less sleep deprived, overwhelmed and generally emotional and angry Bruce would have reminded herself how blunt, direct and just strange the Head of the WCU happened to be. She’d kept him on because he was, surprisingly, good at the job. The team appeared to respect him, and he had control of them. They’d not had any serious incidents since his hiring. But she didn’t like him. He was too difficult to like. Especially this morning. Any other day he’d have calmly warned him. Not today.

The magic happened without her wand, a rare thing, really. Not many witches or wizards could do wandless magic. Heightened emotions often had something to do with it. The sweets in Kerrigan’s hand suddenly exploded, tiny crumbs of sherbert lemon flying into the air as the bag ripped into shreds. Iona’s bright blue eyes were focused, however, on the werewolf hunter who needed to know that he’d never find work in the UK again if he repeated this particular observation.

“I will meet you there, Rob.” she informed her friend without looking at him. “My office now.” This was clearly directed at Kerrigan, and her expression likely told him he’d be a fool to disobey.

Without another word, Iona very slowly began to make her way down the corridor. It was effortful and difficult, navigating without the ability to even put tiny amounts of weight on a second leg. There was nothing there, and her balance was pretty dreadful. But, worn out, she finally made it, and she bashed the door open with the foot of one of the wooden crutches. Once they were both inside, Iona let the door shut, but didn’t move around to sit at the desk for fear she’d not be able to stand again without the help of the wizard she would have just lambasted.

“Your job, Kerrigan, is in the field and your fucking office.” The witch began, her voice getting louder as she found herself getting angrier. This wasn’t just about Kerrigan, he just happened to be there to take it. “Your job is catching the werewolves posing a danger to the public and themselves. Not those willingly coming to our ministry cells. Not to intimidate and remind them who is coming for them if they don’t. Coming out of those cells, they are humiliated and exhausted and they do not need to see you looming outside like the fucking grim reaper eating eating sweets as if you are watching a fucking muggle romcom! And Louvelle says you’re always doing it! Are you deranged, Kerrigan!? Did a stray spell hit you in the head and make you think this is alright?!”

Robin had seen his fair share of magical outbursts in his time but this was admittedly the first one that involved exploding candy. He flinched when it happened, like most anyone else nearby and hardly had time to register his friend's words before she made to leave.

Great. Just... fucking great.

The Healer shot a glare at Kerrigan, who looked up from his now-empty hand with a put out expression. As if he'd just stepped in something wet and brown instead of pissing off the boss.

"I really don't like you," Robin told him, frank in word and countenance.

Fionn got up, shedding sugar dust and candy flakes, unperturbed. "I don't have to be liked to be respected," he reached up to brush sherbert off Robin's shoulder. "That's what you lot are about, isn't it?"

The other wizard gave him a light pat. "Don't have to like you to respect you, Louvelle."

And then he left, following Bruce's slow pace at his own leisurely one. Robin watched them go before he allowed himself a moment to breathe in deeply, breathe out slowly. He didn't often feel small but Kerrigan had that effect on him.

Today was going to be terrible. Calmer, he checked the wall clock and decided there was time to send Zora a memo before heading home for a shower.

It was a good thing he hadn't brought Morrigan, who was curled up somewhere in his own office after the night's hunt. The serpent liked Ballentyne and would have reproached him for angering her.

Fionn sighed lightly, hands behind his back, as the door shut behind him and the witch began her tirade. It was expected - moreso for the tedious walk here - and he bore it with the same patience as her earlier convolution. This, too, ended with a question. He hadn't intended to frustrate Bruce nor anyone else in the cells.

From extensive experience, Fionn knew that this was not directly to do with him. People often lost their tempers over perceived slights and insecurities. It was not useful to take it personally.

"There was no objection," he answered, straightforward. "I will not continue, of course."

It was Bruce who was humiliated, exhausted, he realised. Bruce who was reminded when she saw him that she was as subject to pursuit as any other werewolf, despite her position.

“You think no objection means acquiescence?” Bruce barely registered his acceptance that he would repeat the behaviour. She’d started, she’d riled herself up and this was how it was now going to play out. She had to get her anger out and, unfortunately for Fionn Kerrigan, he’d been seated like an audience member for her most recent humiliation. Regardless of her anger, the wizard never should have been there, for any full moon. This, however, wasn’t the way Iona would have usually gone about reprimanding him for his insensitivity.

“No one would have said anything to you, Kerrigan! Neither would they object to me about you! They are intimidated by you because you are the fucking omen that breathes down their neck if they fuck up.” It wasn’t a regular occurrence to hear Ballentyne swear, for she was more often than not far better spoken and far calmer. Normally, however, she wasn’t facing such circumstances that were throwing her entire life so out of alignment.

“You will not continue because you will be searching for another job in another country. Those cells are a safe space for people who regularly face the worst night of their lives, not a fucking zoo you bought a ticket to.” The threat wasn’t empty, especially today. Iona’s grip on the crutch handles was so tight that her knuckles had turned white.

He tried to maintain eye contact throughout the reiteration of her objections, remembering from experience that not doing so might result in a renewal of belligerency. Am I boring you, Kerrigan? and whatnot.

Fionn was well aware of his demeanor but he listened with more interest at Ballentyne's portrayal of him as some manner of omen. There was a lot of judgement in her words and not all of it, he believed, necessarily to do with him as a person. What was it like to have once been your present self's worst nightmare?

"As you say," he dipped his chin into a nod once he felt she had reached a full stop. "Thank you for... the clarification."

It was a flat thanks. He was growing restless, though Fionn appreciated any insight into the mind of cursed wixes. Bruce's words held more weight in his eyes because she was herself one of them.

"It's very good of you to take this time," he glanced again at her missing leg, "to enlighten me."

St. Mungo's
Rob Louvelle's memo found Zora in the waiting room at the hospital. She folded it back up and shoved it in her pocket. She was in crisis mode and the easiest person to be angry at right now was her stubborn wife who would not keep to the plan and if you tried to say anything or help, she bit your head off. Zora had to correct herself - it was all allowed. It was all harder for Iona than anyone else. Regardless, Zora wasn't going to wait around. If Iona could go rogue, so could Zora.

Level Four
It took her about ten minutes to get herself floo'd to the Atrium and through the magical lifts to arrive at the Werewolf Wing. It was the morning after the full moon and there were all the familiar faces.

"Auror Roh, we're all so sorry about what happened," came the voice of Wilhemena Gunn. Zora sighed and almost stammered in her response.

"I - we're supposed to be at the hospital. Who's she in with?"

"I saw Kerrigan." What Wilhemena didn't say is that there'd been shouting.

Zora opened the door and stood in the threshold knowing her presence and impatient stance would be enough to herald what she was here for.

It was like raging at a brick wall because the wizard didn’t flinch or fight back. In any other circumstance, that would have been deeply unsatisfying, but as it was, Iona could have raged at a wall, it didn’t matter in this moment if she had nothing in return because she had to let it out.

“Enlighten you!?” Bruce seethed. With absolutely no subtlety, the wizard had glanced down at where her leg should have been. It didn’t occur to Iona at this moment that this was something she’d need to get used to. Even whatever leg Robin had created would attract attention because it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t real flesh and blood. Kerrigan’s gaze may have been the first to be so obvious, but it wouldn’t be the last.

When the office door opened without even a knock, Iona’s gaze snapped to the doorway, ready to angrily demand what on earth they thought they were doing. Words died before they came, but her expression didn’t soften at the sight of her wife. Zora had been told not to come, and yet here she was, looking impatient and as if she was put out.

“Get out, Kerrigan. And go home.”

Despite his best efforts, it seemed as though he was indeed due a renewal of Ballentyne's outburst. Until the door opened.

Fionn turned slightly, on instinct, clocking the witch at the doorway. One of his hunters told him about Zora Roh. Tansi. He was deeply grateful for the dismissal when it came - Merlin forbid he get in the way of a domestic situation.

"Of course," the wizard managed a curt nod. "I wish you a smooth recovery, Bruce."

He turned to leave, glancing at the Auror on his way out. Home was waiting, yes, after the long night and even longer ten minutes of being yelled at.

exeunt Fionn

The air was thick with conflict, wrath was all over Iona's expression, and the unwanted figure of Fionn Kerrigan was the obvious cause.

"Robin sent me a note that you'd gone to your office. I was at Mungo's waiting," Zora explained after the creepy werewolf hunter had gone. "Just so you know I'm not coddling you."

Zora had, of course, wanted to be here with Iona in the morning, but Iona had said Rob would be enough and that they'd all just meet up at the hospital.

Kerrigan was gone, and Iona may have breathed a sigh of relief if it wasn’t for Zora standing there. They’d agreed to meet at St Mungo’s, and truthfully Iona had no idea when she’d have made it. There was little point in reminding her wife that she’d asked her not to come, Zora knew well enough. She also knew Iona well enough to know when she needed to come. Zora always knew, and for that, Iona couldn’t be mad. She could rage at everything else, but not her wife. Not properly.

“I was on my way! But he was just sitting there at the welcome desk, eating sweets and watching. Watching us all leave. Like it was a fucking theatre production! The cursed fucking odditities after their furry nighttime party. He does it every month! And today? The star of the bloody show was the broken, one legged bitch who can’t even stand up.” Despite herself and the still raised voice, tears started to come down her cheeks and she couldn’t even raise a hand to wipe them away because she barely felt stable gripping the crutches as it was. “I couldn’t even stand up, Zo. Couldn’t drag my arse off the fucking floor and there was a damned audience to witness the humiliation.”