It had been an interesting start of November. Business had slowed down a little, but Fiona kept him busy with any other tasks she needed. And the longer she went without any… anything, the more menial the tasks became. Frank didn’t mind too much, though—it kept him busy, with a job, and paying rent. Sometimes the museum pulled them, sometimes research for the book hunting, and sometimes just catching up on ‘the books’ kept him up late.

All in all, it was nice when things slowed down. They had a few requests from loyal customers for ‘holiday gifts,’ though they weren’t often hard to find. Nothing that required him to go searching through the wilderness for days on end, at least. Sometimes you needed a break from adventure, and sometimes you needed a break from reality.

He was looking forward to getting back to the warm comfort of his apartment, actually. Today had technically been a day off, but he had deliveries to make. Only a couple, though, so he wasn’t necessarily complaining. He’d scheduled them around his own errands. With a couple of his own books, for reading pleasure, tucked under his arm, he’d made his way to the last customer. Frank had ran  in to her when trying to get to a lunch date with Akiva and her boyfriend and thought little of the card he pawned off on her before scurrying to the table.

Then she contacted Fiona’s business a day or so later, and it had been all business since then. Frank recalled the chatterbox that she was, though, and had purposefully saved it for last. Surely she had an early bedtime at her age… then again, perhaps she was looking forward to the prized possession she’d paid them to find, and was now excited to stay up and read it. Either way, Frank didn’t think he was going to be stuck there for very long.

Was he wrong or what. She even politely forced tea on him, though he actually had a meal to cook when he got home. Regardless… she made a delicious shepherd’s pie. And he promised her he was stuffed after the umpteenth time she’d asked. Finally she let him leave, and he was rather disheartened to see it was past sundown. In Knockturn Alley. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there after dark—he just preferred not to.

Flipping the collar of his jacket up, he pulled his arms in close, the books digging in slightly as he started for his way home. He couldn’t easily apparate home, and it wasn’t that far of a walk. He reassured himself he’d be fine.

The darkened gutters of Knockturn Alley were unusually quiet and empty in the early evening.  On first glance up and down the alley, Frank Pratt might have believed the alleyway was deserted.  In the cold, damp early evening drizzle, the lack of pedestrians may not seem entirely unexpected.  Most reasonable individuals were bound to be huddled around the warmth of their stoves, grateful they had no need to be out in the gloominess. 

Despite the assumptions one might make after first glances, the alley wasn't entirely deserted.  Three figures lingered in the shadows of the alley, keeping a careful eye on the apartment, waiting for Pratt to reemerge. 

Each of the three figures were cloaked in floor length black robes, their hoods pulled forward to shade their features.  With black gloves covering hands, each man was completely shrouded in black.  Disillusionment charms cast on each of them, allowing them to all but fade into the shadows.  Only when any of the men moved could their presence be detected and, even then, they moved like nameless, faceless ghostly shadows against the alley walls.  Two stood on either side of the far end of the alley, in between the old woman's apartment and Diagon Alley beyond.  The third stood in the middle of the alley on the far side of the door to the woman's apartment. 

Frank Pratt reemerged in the Alley.  The two figures at the base of the alley, ahead of Frank, remained where they were, motionless in the shadows.  The lone cloaked, concealed figure fell in step, trailing behind the man. 

Strike hard, fast and without hesitation.  Strike before the fellow even had a chance to realize something was amiss.  Hopefully, by the time Pratt grew suspicious, it'd be too late.  After two steps, the figure trailing behind Pratt lifted his wand and gave it a slight flick, summoning their intended victim's wand towards his extended hand. 

At that moment, the two disillusioned figures ahead of Pratt stepped forward, flanking him off from his retreat towards the alley.  Without a word, they approached him, shimmering against the black walls of the building.

It had been years since he lived in Knockturn, and it still had the ability to give him the creeps. Merlin, even remembering that rat infested apartment made his skin crawl. It had been exciting, at first, to get out from the watchful eyes of his dearest mummy and sisters. Then he slept there one night, and he quickly set on saving up to move out. Sometimes the cheapest things weren’t worth the savings…

So when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck perk up, he assumed that it was the overall dark feeling of the area. Reaching up with his free hand, he rubbed the offended area, glancing quickly around him before quickening his pace. What kind of old women actually made their home down Knockturn? She seemed nice enough, at least… Then again, Frank often looked blindly to the positive side of things. It was easier for him. He was just being silly, anyway.

Letting out a soft, barely audible laugh at himself, he shook his head and stood up a little straighter. He’d get back to Diagon Alley, maybe grab a pint to drink, and head back to his comfortable little apartment. Laugh about how silly he had felt walking home. That was what he’d do. Just like every other time he did it. Which wasn’t often.

It was the wand that got his attention, trying to tug its way out of his pocket. Surprised, he lost sight of the road as he glanced down to see what was going on. His foot found a rut in the cobbled alleyway, and he tumbled forward—he was used to tripping. Losing his books as he used both hands to catch himself, he let out a grunt. Quickly back to his feet, he squatted next to the books, piling them back on top of one another.

Then he remembered his wand. Reaching for where it had been, the same pocket he always stuffed it, his eyes widened in sudden panic. Standing up, his eyes searched the ground—he couldn’t even get a light to look for it. Wasn’t that the worst thing ever anyway? Can’t conjure up a light to find your lost wand… It was like keeping your spare house key in your house, or something silly. Bending over, he started to span the area he’d been in. His voice hissed out through his clenched teeth. “Accio wand!” Hand out, he didn’t know if it would come back to him willingly.

Of all the nights for his natural clumsiness to kick in… Grumbling to himself, he left his books as he extended his search, stepping a couple towards where he had been, eyes scanning the dark, shadowy ground. “Stupid…” Cursing under his breath, he stood up and put one hand on his hip, the other in his hair. He should have started carrying it in a better pocket, clearly. Taking a slow breath, he reached out once again, a little louder this time. "Accio wand!"

After a momentary hesitation, Frank's wand wiggled its way free from the fellow's pocket and sped into the third figure's outstretched hand.  Though, in another time and place, the man's stumble and fall might have been amusing - perhaps, when this latest strike against the Ministry was over and done with, they would be laughing about it over a nice round of drinks.  But, now was not the time.  Now was business.  Especially given the precarious position the shrouded figure holding the wand found himself in, the sooner he was done and away from the scene, the better. 

When Frank Pratt stumbled, the two Shrouds on the far side wasted no time.  Seizing the advantage of their target's confusion, the moved out of the shadows and took their positions on either side of Frank.  The target's wand lurched, slightly, in the one Shroud's hand - attempting to abide by its recipient's bidding but the disillusioned hand wordlessly tightened its grip. 

Just as Frank Pratt made another attempt to call his wand to him, the pair of wandless Shrouds stepped up to the man's shoulders.  Grasping the man, firmly, by each elbow, the two Shrouds hoisted Pratt to his feet.  From an inside pocket of the black cloak, the taller of the Shrouds tugged a potion soaked rag from inside his robes and covered Pratt's mouth and nose and held it firmly until the fellow grew limp. 

---

The room was dark with the exception of a single gas lamp that burned against a far wall.  What little light it did cast around the room was seemingly useless.  There was nothing in the room to illuminate.  There was no furniture, save a single chair in which the massive, hairy form of Cinaed was slumped.  There were no doors, no windows, no obvious means of entry or escape.  Apparition was the only way in and out of the room and apparition required a wand.  Of which there were none.  Both of the two figures occupying the room had entered through side along apparition.  Side along was the only way out. 

Cinaed turned the syringe over in his hand, watching as the milky white liquid shimmered inside.  If this worked, it would do wonders to shatter Wizarding Britain's confidence in the Ministry's stance on werewolfs.  Any damage to the Ministry's credibility could only help them. 

Injecting the man would be the easiest route to go but it wasn't like they could test the sample before now.  This was their test.  Giving the dose before the man had fully slept off the fumes of the sedative would skew the results. 

All the man had to do was wake up.

Frank expected his wand. When instead he felt a heavy grasp on his arm, he glanced down towards them in surprise before glancing up in shock. “Wha-” Then he realized he was well caught. Eyes wide, he tried to dig his heels in and propel himself from the strong hold. As it was… he couldn’t pull from both captives in time. Feeling the rag cover his mouth only made him attempt to get away quicker, hands coming up and being stopped by lack of range of motion.

His legs kicked out and his head swung to get away from the potent potion. All it did was prolong the inevitable, forcing him to take in deeper breaths as fight or flight kicked in. The darkness clouded his gaze, blurring as his body felt heavier and heavier. The cloud continued to hang, and Frank rested through the rough handling, not noticing the cold ground he was deposited on.

First he rolled over, a groan escaping him, reaching up with his hands to gently nurse his head. It felt heavy and as if his brain was pounding against his skull, ready to pop out at any moment. Taking a shaky breath, he rolled back on to his stomach, his face resting against the cold ground—it was slightly refreshing. Then he realized he was in a dark area and his eyes opened unwillingly, glancing around towards the unmarked wall.

Slipping his hands underneath him, he attempted to push himself up, having to try two or three times before he successfully made it to his hands and knees. Everything felt very heavy, very… abnormal. Then he remembered the people who held on to him, the rag, and he suddenly felt that fight or flight sink back in. Staggering to his feet, landing solidly against the wall, he tried to blink the stars out of his vision, eyes darting over the little room.

Then he saw the man in the chair.

His heart contracted with slight fear, slight curiosity. Was he a captive? Was he… what was he? Glancing around a little slower, Frank noticed no door. No windows. No… anything. Feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden, he pushed off from the wall—he wanted water, he wanted fresh air, and he wanted to wake up from this nightmare. “This is all fun… and all, but you’ve got the wrong person.” No one would want Frank Pratt for anything. “If you were looking… for someone specific.”

He didn’t look to the man in the chair specifically, just more or less appealing to whoever had put him in here. Where was he? Then he fixed his gaze on the man, and his eyes flicked to the shadows of what he might be holding. "Who are you?" Frank tried to keep his voice steady.

Cinaed would really prefer this didn't take too long - he still had some work left to do on the pub and, chances were, that's where the Ministry expected him to be.  The longer and more often he he was away, the more suspicious they would become.  For all intents and purposes, the actually investigation of the Runespoor incident was bound to be done and over with.  However, Cinaed highly suspected the Ministry was delaying in closing that case for the sole purpose of having an excuse to poke around the Black Chimaera. 

But, they couldn't linger forever with this, either.  The man had already been out for almost twenty hours (Daz's potion was more potent than he'd expected) and the full moon was quickly approaching.  Again, since they didn't know what the effects of the toxin would be - or what might interfere with it - he didn't want to use any more potions.  He didn't want to try to charm him - who knew if lycanthrophy interacted with magic?  This was, after all, (as far as Cinaed was aware) uncharted territory.  He was a pioneer. 

Let the Ministry take his wand.  That didn't mean he'd sit down quietly and listen.  A slow, vicious grin spread across Cinaed's face as he stared over at the man stumbling to his feet. 

But, all that did mean time was of the essence.  If they didn't get him now, they risked him changing here or having to wait until the next full moon for his masterpiece to be revealed.  If only granting the turner some measure of control could be worked into the concoction.  But, one couldn't get too greedy, now. 

"No I don't," Cinaed said, with a shake of his head.  "You're Frank Pratt, as I understand.  The old hag you delivered to was very specific about who she was expecting.  Of course, by this morning, she won't remember any of it."  A small, sympathetic part of Cinaed almost wished he had some big, elaborate explanation for why Pratt was the one here, staggering to his feet in this dark, deserted room.  Somehow, Cinaed always assumed it was more comforting to know there was a specific bigger purpose - reason - for one's victimization.  That it meant something more than just bad luck of the draw. 

But, there wasn't.  There was no bigger, symbolic reason why they'd chosen Frank Pratt over someone else.  His connection with Akiva Katz had helped narrow down the field but that impacted his decision about as much as choosing a style of ale because of the famous witch pictured on the label. 

"You won't remember much of who I am by the end of it, so there's really no reason to go through those formalities.  In fact, if you make this easy on me, we can be done with it in a matter of minutes and you can be back to your normal life.  Mostly."

The fellow had finally made it to his feet, though it was clear he was only maintaining his footing with the assistance of the wall behind him.  Perhaps he could be optimistic - perhaps, it would all go rather smoothly.  Cinaed followed the fellow's lead and pushed himself upright.  Even if Frank Pratt was capable of standing straight and square on both feet, Cinaed would have still stood a good six inches taller.  Cinaed had four years of experience surviving Knockturn without the benefit of a wand - how often it was that wizards allowed themselves to be lulled into a sense of complacency, comforted by the misconception that they'd always have a wand to protect themselves with. 

The weapon would, some day, be perfected into a more useful delivery median but Cinaed had found the use of a muggle medical syringe as too deliciously symbolic to pass up.  If the Ministry wanted to be more muggle friendly, they could reap the benefits of it.  That had been Chris' idea, in fact - as had snatching a few syringes from the doctor's office when they'd impersonated Spencer's pediatrician to imperious her. 

"Give me your arm," Cinaed instructed.  His optimism was, likely, foolish.  But, Dazmond had warned him, once, that heightened blood pressure could alter the effects of any concoction - the faster it was pumped through the system, the more intense the effects.  It stood to reason, therefore, if he didn't have to fight the man, it would be better for all involved. 

But, he'd get physical if he had to.

“No I don’t.”

Well. That put a damper in his hope for any easy escape. Blinking and licking his lips quickly, his eyes once again darted. He did glance at the man at his name, standing up a little at the statement. Old hag… grimacing as he listened to the explanation, he felt uneasy—why had he been targeted? Really, he hadn’t done anything to anyone lately that he knew of. Iza, perhaps, but that was just water. And it was a far stretch to attach anything his family members might do to him.

Surely if they were interested in Ed or things he was doing, they’d bug his ever growing family. Not that Frank wanted that, of course, just working things out in his head. He was thirsty, craving something to do with his hands. His fingers waved slightly as he considered reaching for a wand he knew he wouldn’t have—he recalled that being lost.

His eyes narrowed at the mention of Frank not remembering. He didn’t like being told something so mind shattering—he was here, right then, seeing the man, seeing his surroundings. If anything, he was taking time to memorize everything he could right then! His life felt precariously balanced on everything; even if this was a spot of bad luck, even if they didn’t grab him for any specific reasoning, it was still going to affect him, one way or another.

He scoffed—make it easy on him? Making a face at that, he continued to glance around the room, finally accepting that it wouldn’t be quite as easy as he had hoped to get out. Especially without his wand. Frank hadn’t realized how much he relied on it until he couldn’t easily reach for it. And what was this ‘mostly’ crap spewing from the unfriendly fellow in the chair? Then he stood up and Frank’s eyes followed to glance upwards to the shadowed man’s face. Fantastic.

“Give me your arm.”

Frank had almost shrunk back from the overwhelming height of his captor. However, with the request, he felt something slide into his spine and he stood up straight. He had grown up in a muggle family and had his fair share of ‘injections.’ Glancing to the object the man held, he grimaced and shook his head. “What are you going to do?” He had a few options hanging over his head—he could fight or he could give in.

He had enough sense to consider that in the end, he might end up giving in whether he fought or not. His body ached from the uncomfortable position he’d been dumped onto the floor in and left for Merlin knew how long. “I mean, what is it going to do.” Maybe if he had some idea of what it was for, why he needed him—then he’d be more willing to offer his arm. Well. Maybe. His eyes flickered to the syringe once again, but he took an unsteady step forward. He could face this without being plastered to the wall.

Besides, some part of him had accepted the pointlessness of it all. He was here, in this room, and he wouldn't be able to fight his way out-there wasn't a way out, after all. So he was accepting the overwhelming helplessness, feeling the adrenaline pounding against his ears.

A cruel but amused smile carved its way across Cinaed's face and he slowly shook his head.  Oh no - this wasn't how this was going to play out.  Cinaed wouldn't be answering any of the man's questions.  That wasn't part of the rules.  "That wasn't an invitation to question me," he answered, simply. 

If, for no other reason than Cinaed didn't really, truly know the answer.  He didn't know what the injection would do - not completely, at least.  There was a good chance it wouldn't work and it'd do nothing in which case it was back to the drawing board.  It might do what it was intended to do - simply infect the man with lycanthropy.  Perhaps, there'd be some side effects.  Cinaed didn't know.  It was all one big, curious experiment.  It might trigger a massive allergic reaction or overdose and kill the man.

Cinaed knew, as he felt the foreign slippery plastic of the syringe in his hand, it was unlikely that explaining his uncertainty as to the outcome would make the fellow any more cooperative.  It was probably best for all involved if Cinaed simply convinced the fellow that quietly submitting was the better option.  Two strides cleared the remaining distance between Cinaed and his captive and, without hesitation, with both his natural strength and the momentum of his strides behind his movement, Cinaed thrust his fist towards the man's gut.  It seemed unlikely a few bruised kidneys or ribs would effect the sample much - not in the way potions or spells might.  It should probably only take a couple firm socks to the gut to get Cinaed's point across. 

"We don't have all night," Cinaed growled impatiently.  Quite literally.  The full moon was quickly approaching.

This, Cinaed knew, was where he would really need the fellow's cooperation.  In their brilliance, apparently, Muggles had created metal rods that would obliterate the very veins they tried deposit stuff in if the person getting "stuck" decided to move.  For whatever reason.  How they ever managed to do this to kids or wimps or any annoying people without immobilization hexes, Cinaed didn't have a clue.  But, he did know he needed this man to hold still.  Either by compliance or force. 

Readying the syringe in one hand as best he could (he was far from practiced), Cinaed made a grab from the man's arm with the other hand.

“That wasn’t an invitation to question me.”

Swallowing, trying to keep a straight face (or at least not let his concern show through), Frank frowned however slightly. So he was expected to go along with whatever this man wanted, without a fight, without an explanation? Just because he said so? That wasn’t very a bit confidence booster… A sudden nervous itch broke out over his neck and head, making him want to relieve it. Normally he would, but for now… without a wand, he wanted to keep his hands as free from distraction as possible. Even if it was an annoying bother.

If he kept this unknown man talking, maybe he could devise some plan. The wild ideas that assaulted him were all completely insane and would probably end up in the disposal of one said Frank Pratt-not that he didn't know this wouldn't end the same way, though. Slight dread filled him at that thought. He hadn't set his affairs in order...

His mouth dropped as the man advanced on him, and he did feel himself shrink against the wall that he was so near. He’d only taken a half step back when he felt the blow, doubling over in surprised agony. Groaning out his pain, he clenched his eyes closed and stayed there a moment. If he’d had some indication, perhaps he would have prepared for it better—tightened his muscles or something. As it was… that was a tender spot, and whatever was left in his gut threatened to come up. However, he fought the wave of nausea and slowly staggered back up, one hand holding on to the wall behind him. A cracked rib, maybe?

No… he was getting decent air in his lungs without too much pain. Taking in a steady breath, he finally glanced back up, meeting the man’s gaze with a darkened glare. All night? So he hadn’t been out as long as he’d felt. Didn’t help the cloudy feeling he had, nonetheless. Careful of the syringe, he finally opened his lips. “If you would just tell-” me what it’s for is what he planned on saying, though it was shocked from his lips as the man grabbed his arm.

That fight or flight kicked in. As close as they were, Frank reacted rather than thought about what he was doing. His head rocketed forward, his forehead connecting heavily into the bigger man’s face. Slightly dazed by that sudden rush of adrenaline, having smacked his head a bit harder than he’d anticipated, Frank staggered back, unaware that he was still in close proximity to the bear of a man.


[[You are welcome to give him a nice upper cut and knock him out]]

Cinaed assumed the man had had enough and had found reason.  Surely, after feeling the impact of Cinaed's fists in the man's gut he would come to realize there was no way out of the room and resisting further would only result in more pain.  At least, that would seem reasonable.  Right?

But, apparently, it wasn't.   Somehow - for better or worse - the man found some more fight from somewhere deep down inside.  A sharp, sudden pain erupted at the side of Cinaed's head as Pratt's bare knuckles connected with the side of his skull.  From the throb that was already settling in at his temple it was clear the other man's strike was going to leave him with a headache.  But, a headache (easily fixed with a potion) and some slight bruising would prove to be the extent of the damages.  Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Frank Pratt.

Anger surged in Cinaed and he thrust his fists into Frank Pratt, landing three solid punches: another in the gut, one in the chest and a third catching him in the face.  Droplets of blood spurted from the man's nose as his head was driven back against the cold, stone wall behind him.  Frank Pratt fell to the floor in a silent, immobile heap. 

---

Once unconscious, administering the injection had been much easier though getting the little metal needle in the man's vein wasn't for the nervous.  It took several sticks until Cinaed was sure he'd gotten the man's vein and only time would tell if it'd actually work. 

While the man was out the second time, Chris had returned to briefly check on their progress and bring Cinaed a couple sandwiches.  They'd discussed their options.  Cinaed firmly believed waiting until the man woke up before removing him from the room was preferable.  If the punches (or the injection) had killed him, disposing of the body off in the Northern Sea would be much better than leaving it in Diagon, hoping he'd wake up.  But, Chris had convinced him returning him to Knockturn while he was still unconscious would be easier.  Not to mention it would be safer for all involved (especially Chris) if they deposited the man, modified his memories and were away long before he woke up again. 

In the end, Chris had won the argument. 

Christian apparated Frank Pratt out of the room first and left him slumped in the shadows of the doorway of an abandoned shop at the head of Knockturn - not far from the old woman's building.  After a quick, thorough memory charm, he returned to the room and apparated Cinaed to the back courtyard of the Black Chimaera.  From there, Chris parted ways, returning to his own flat out in London.  From the safety of the courtyard, Cinaed shifted to the magpie form and took to the air.  He settled himself in the rafters of a roof overhang and sat comfortably, waiting for the man to wake.

His head hurt after slamming it into the unknown man’s, but it seemed the best course of action with a needle full of who-knew-what so close to him. At least he could be content with the idea that he fought back. Well, until he saw that unmistakable rage that made him feel as if he was the size of a punching bag. And with not enough padding to spring back for more, either.

With the first punch, he started to double over again, a groan escaping between his grit teeth. He felt as if he was going to bring up his stomach. Well, at least until it felt as if his breastbone was caving in and preventing it. Come to think of it, it was kind of stopping him from gasping in a decent amount of air as well. All ready hitting the wall, he barely had time to realize he was in a lot of pain before the crush to his face came, sending his head backwards like a snapped green bean.

Thankfully the slam of his head on the wall sent him into a tolerable blackness. He didn’t even notice the painful crumble to the floor, nor the few missed jabs of the needle (who knew if it was clean even?). As long as he didn’t drown on his own blood, some part of his brain figured he might be all right.

It was a while, and a change of environment, before Frank started to stir. He took in a pained, ragged breath, the back of his throat feeling a bit raw and full. A cough and sputter later, and he was suddenly attempting to throw himself down, emptying what was left in his stomach out. He felt weak… weak, and very sore. What had happened? Everything was a blur… Lifting his hand, he wiped his mouth off before crawling away from his mess.

The lingering sunlight made him groan and shut his eyes, a shaky hand rubbing at his throbbing chest. What had he gotten himself into? Slumping against the wall, he felt like curling up in a ball and falling back to sleep. His hand groped for his wand, searching the spot he normally kept it. Upon not finding it, his panic started to well up. His breathing came faster as he turned over, hiding in the shadows as his hands frantically checked his other pockets. Where could he have left it?

Feeling sick again, he clawed his way to a standing position. He needed something to drink. He needed something to eat.

And that’s when everything else pushed to the back of his head. He was starving! His mouth watered, his fingers gripped on to the wall, and he didn’t even notice (at first) the way his body started to morph. If anything, he counted it up to the pain he had been feeling across his stomach, chest, and nose. The broken nose was what brought him back to where he was, his sudden starvation held off as he let out a loud and unearthly groan, his face changing with the hairs that sprouted up. The snout was deformed, caved in slightly on the side.

It was about then that he realized he was quickly becoming covered in hair. Staring at his arms with widening eyes, he backed away from himself, tripping over stairs and boxes until he landed with a thud against an unmoving wall. This time when he opened his mouth, a very pitiful yelp escaped. This wasn’t happening. Closing his eyes tightly, he figured he could pinch himself and it’d all-nope. Staring back out, he looked up to the sky—it was still light out, how was this possible?

Surely it wasn’t. Logic said it wasn’t. But as he stood, hunched over in the shadows, he was quickly losing his ability to cling to logic. His brain settled on hunger again. A forlorn howl escaped him as he lifted his head to the sunny sky. Then he bounded down the alleyway, stumbling and falling into the walls as he got used to his legs and what he could do. His mouth salivated, drool starting to form in the corners of his mouth—he needed something juicy, something tender.

An unsuspecting man came out of a door, and happened to be in Frank’s way. It was as if Merlin had heard his deepest desire, and given him what he longed for. Launching himself at him, Frank tumbled before finally backtracking and setting himself on to the terrified man. It wasn’t long before he was silenced, and Frank was having his fill.

Still, there wasn’t a whole lot to the frail old man. Like a man in the desert, Frank stumbled away from his mirage and set out for the oasis. He needed to sate this hunger.

Something was going on. 

Something was going on that Eudora did not know about, and she was damned if she wasn't about to find out.  After helping Cináed set his werewolf upon some old bear of a man, she thought she had been admitted to the inner circle.  It was her place, after all, as a Pascal.  Even Franti seemed to be scheming away.  Eudora seemed to be the only one without a sinister plot, other than corrupting her sweet cousin, of course.  Nights with the Knockturn Cutthroats were fun, especially when Grumman joined the game, but it was growing droll.  Eudora was bored, and that was a dangerous thing.

London, for all its quaint charm, was quickly losing her interest.  Cináed had plans, yes, but they were slow to execution.  Even her little game with Demelza was faltering, particularly after some business with a dagger.  Of course, there were her nights with James, but the bedsheet wrangle could only occupy her for so long.  In fact, perhaps she had spent too much time in her dormitory, neglecting the present course of events. 

Covering a yawn, Eudora ventured downstairs, pleased to hear the gruff voices of Tawse and some other man.  Some other unconscious man, with a dash of good looks that were apparated away before she could join the fun.

Not. Fair.

With her hair a more vibrant shade of crimson, Eudora left the empty inn to step into the shady streets of Knockturn.  A woman shrieked in the distance, and again Eudora found herself wanting to murder the cackling hag next door.  Instead, she walked away from the noise, heading towards Diagon and the bustle of the wizarding world's main drag.  She was in the mood to be noticed.   

A witch was yelling about Gladrags' new line of fwooper-down robes via mass flyering on the streetlamp.  It was hardly what one, particularly Eudora, would call the epitome of winter fashion, but nevertheless they  might have something decent.  The witch's voice grew huskier until Eudora realized she wasn't quite hearing the witch at all but rather the low growls of a beast.  She turned a corner and found herself looking at the quickly disappearing corpse of the ole McBiggin's.  He had a penchant for attaching fish eyes' to stuffed paws, enchanting them to stare at customers who drew near.  It was disturbing, even by Knockturn's standards.  What was more alarming, however, was the reason for his death.

Eudora--stalwart, pureblooded, tough as nails--shrieked.  A cry left her lips as she identified the werewolf, a werewolf free and hungry on the prowl.  Weren't they supposed to be locked up? How was it even the full moon? Where was a bloody auror when she needed one?  Eudora drew her wand, shakingly pointing it at the wolf.  Her past dealings with the mongrel breed were simple.  It was easy to bait a wolf when you were away from danger and in control, particularly when in a group.  This tete-a-tete was something else entirely.  Something that she decidedly did not like.

"Stupefy!" she shouted, thrusting her wand-arm out at the beast.  She needed to get away before it could pounce, to get out of this blasted enclosed alley where she could breathe and escape. 

A female shriek pierced the night.  James heard the spell cast afterwards, and rushed towards the scene because he recognized the voice.  Catching sight of a red-head that James knew all too well  - and a large werewolf - caused him to freeze momentarily.  Suddenly coming to his senses, he tossed a few sickles on the ground and cast “Repulso” sending them towards the werewolf.  Though James doubted it would do any good, it would at least buy Eudora sometime.  James was not the type to sprint into a burning building, but he was hoping the witch was smart enough to apparate, take a portkey, ride a broom, or do something to escape.  Looking around, he decided to start casting, and hope that *someone* would notice a large amount of magic going off.

“Reducto! Repulso!” James cast then used his wand to send a large number of red sparks up into the air hoping that someone would get help quickly.  Or at least get enough wizards out here to man-handle the werewolf or at least corner it then kill it.  Inwardly, James started thinking of things he hated incase he needed to cast that particular spell.  While he had no idea if werewolfs were immune to Avada Kedavra, he had the sinking feeling that he would probably find out tonight.  The thought brought a sudden chill, and he decided to focus on escaping alive and with Eudora loosing the dark line of though.

“IF YOU HAVE A PLAN I AM ALL EARS!” James yelled, hoping that she had something better than a cast and pray tactic.  Short of shooting sickles at the beast, James had no idea what he should do.  ‘I knew I should have stolen more silverware from those over-the-top parties!’ James cynically thought to himself.  While it was really no time to be thinking about how much he hated parties with more than five forks (even if they did serve good food), he was desperate for silver.  Looking around to see if any vendor had left some out by a display window, James did not notice anything immediately available. 

Trying to remember all of his dark arts classes on werewolves, James was drawing a blank.  For the first time in his life, he actually cursed the fact that he did not study enough.  He had no idea how he should be handling a werewolf other than avoiding it in the first place.  James was debating how to escape and his next move.  He hoped Eudora had something in mind, because he doubted the two of them could out duel a werewolf. 

[reminder: it's day time! And in case I hadn't mentioned it, it's now November 13th, the day the full moon would be out. Also, if I overstepped, let me know and I will modify]

He had something in his teeth. A rather pointed fingernail found its way to his mouth, attempting to get out whatever it was. He thought he finally had it too, finally using a snapped off finger bone to dig at it. With the relief of not having whatever it was stuck there, Frank let out a satisfied breath. Well, until he heard the spell. The hairs on his back stood up as he pivoted on his haunches, staring and barring his teeth at the red haired stupid witch.

And then he felt the spell slam against him; the sting of it made him grit his teeth, fists clenching from the unexpected flash of pain. But it didn’t stun him. And in his growing rage, he let that knowledge excite him. She couldn’t do anything to hurt him. Standing up from the remains of the man, no longer hunching over, he put his head back and let out a haunting growl, feeling powerful and mighty. Even with the sun in his eyes.

Then another joined the fray, and if one could have seen his wolf like expression and was able to translate it to ‘human’, they would have seen he was grinning. He took a few steps forward after them, wondering if he should play with his treats first. Well, at least until he felt the sickles hit his feet, a howl escaping him as the silver burned. Jumping around like he was on hot coals, he quickly stumbled away from them, hitting the alley wall, glancing only long enough to see the coins sprint away, under the effect of the spell still.

His lips peeled away from his teeth and he whipped his head around, growling loudly. Using the wall, Frank the Werewolf pushed himself away, gaining a little momentum as he launched at the two. His initial thought was ‘get the bastard who attacked me with coin,’ though that fled the moment the woman turned on her heel and ran. Slamming against the man, a clawed hand beating him aside, Frank bounded quickly after her, attempting to get used to his new legs. To be honest, he hadn’t really gotten used to the old ones he’d had…

Still baffled by seeing a wolf during the day--weren't their transformations limited to night when the moon was really out? She had no idea, but for once she was grateful for the timely intervention of James Forrester.  Her on and off again lover had a brilliant idea, and as the wolf flinched at the strike of silver, she ran.

"Look like you're doing just fine on your own, love," she huffed, her hair quickly turning a muter shade of red.  She needed to hide, to blend in with the alley that she could take the element of surprise.  This fighting within a narrow stretch of cobblestone was not her cup of latte.  Her complexion grew darker, matching the dingy shade of the walls as her hair took on the same shade.  She needed to become invisible, she needed to...

"Mer-" the exclamation barely left her lips as she felt the weight of the werewolf upon her, pulling her backwards.  She fell to the street, hands reflexively blocking her face as she prayed he would attack anywhere but her face.  She kicked violently, attempting to clear some space that she could draw her wand.