Kurby was fuming.

This was, he knew, retaliation for the Mixer.  In actuality, it could be retaliation for quite a few additional things, which included intentionally giving Mainwaring a headache, causing one of their newest recruits to break down in tears, and purposely tossing Grimm's office, though he doubted that the self-conceited necromancer would deign to retaliate by getting him in trouble with Gertrudis.  If Grimm was out for revenge, it was far more likely that Kurby would mysteriously trip sometime in the next week, which of course could never be traced back to his cousin save for the fact that everyone in the Ministry knew that he illegally practiced voodoo against relatives in his spare time.

But this was not fair.  Nothing that he had done deserved this.  That morning, when he'd come into work unsuspecting, he had been informed that the Werewolf Capture Unit would be heading out into the field that day to run down some leads.  They weren't any closer to finding their rogue werewolf than they had been before Mainwaring had come apparating in to save the day, but that didn't mean they couldn't go stomping all over magical Britain like a cockatrice with its head cut off.  After all, that was all they'd bleeding done, day in and day out, for more than a month.

But not today.  Today, the rest of the Unit would be doing the stomping.

He was staying behind.

To talk to a journalist.

Kurby sat at his desk, boots up on the desktop.  He'd spent the hour since the rest of the team had left crumbling bits of parchment into balls and trying to flick them into Mainwaring's office.  It had proved a difficult feat at first, but ever since he'd stopped trying to do it by hand and started using his wand, his aim had improved quite a bit.  He'd managed to knock over all of Bruce's old photos that still lined the mantle, and was now trying to tip over the pile of papers that sat on his new-old boss's desk.

With a sigh and a flick of his wand, Kurby sent his last paper ball flying.  It impacted against the side of the pile, which he'd managed to inch over, projectile by projectile, until it teetered on the edge of the desk.  The last hit proved to be too much for it: as the ball shot into it, the pile tipped and sent papers fluttering across the floor.

Kurby made a face and twitched his wand, recalling the fleet of paper balls back to his desk with a silent Accio.  An hour gone, and still no sign of this journalist.  No one had said what time the blighter was supposed to arrive.  To make matters worse, unless he wanted to start trying to knock over furniture, he'd run out of targets in Mainwaring's office.

Raising his eyebrows, he turned his attention to the open door that led outside the WCU headquarters.  Getting the paper projectiles down the hall and into Grimm's office would be a feat, and he couldn't exactly see around corners so that he could aim them precisely, but at least it would give him something to do. 

Picking up a ball of paper, he took careful aim, trying to picture the walls it would need to bank off of in order to make it into the necromancer's domain, and then used his wand to send it flying through the doorway at high speed.

Upon arriving on the Beast Division, on fourth floor of the Ministry of Magic, Torquil Foley was informed of following a few simple steps: Don’t knock, don’t touch, don’t yell, don’t whisper, don’t run, don’t walk too slowly, don’t make your wand very conspicuous, don’t make your wand too inconspicuous, don’t wear black, don’t wear neon bright colors, don’t look too complicated, don’t look too simple, don’t wear too much fur, and, of course, don’t bring food or feed anything, until he reached the werewolf wing where the WCU offices were located.

Torquil wasn’t sure if these rules were meant to be followed, or if a gnome might sneak up behind him and take a good bite out of him, despite the long and thorough list of rules he may follow. The Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures floor of the Ministry seemed particularly strange, in that it seemed to habituate the creatures dealt with on the premises, rather than the authorities dealing with them, (except in the office areas.) Because of these rules Torquil needed to trudge (or walk as brusquely yet slowly as possible) through the halls, following as many regulations as he could in his discolored jeans, worn khaki boots, and his woolen grey medium—length trenchcoat with his dark, smooth feathered falcon perched on the coat’s stiff shoulders.

Despite what the strict rules may make someone believe, the floor seemed fairly empty except for some noises: a low growl crawling under a door, a loud yelp, and a few strange woody scratches that made Kaz ruffle his wings. Torquil ran the strap of his scout rucksack bag through his uneasy grip, raised his eyebrows into the wrinkles of his forehead, and checked around him cautiously, only to see a few magizoologists skipping around.

It was tempting to open one of the doors and take a peek inside, but every time Torquil began to slow down and retrace back towards a door, he was flapped in the face by a soft wing full of feathers, “Oof!” causing him to give up on his endeavor and to grumble his way to the WCU offices.

As he arrived at the open office, he began to turn the corner into the room, until a white ball hurled towards his face. His became alert and wide as his mind flashed to a moment with his children flinging curses in their living room, and he made a hasty duck towards the floor. The weight of Kaz fluttered off his shoulder, as he looked back at the… paper ball? Torquil turned towards the room, baffled by a young scruffy man sitting at a desk infested with paper balls, as if preoccupied with some new form of crumpled paperwork.

 Kaz landed on Torq’s head as he cleared his throat, “I’m Torquil Foley,” he stood up and drummed his fingers on the strap of his leather bag and Kaz hopped onto his shoulder again, “a researcher for the Daily Prophet,” he eyed the paper balls curiously and addressed the young man with uncertainty, “ah… Mr. Bagnold?”

The first paper projectile had been sent flying out the door and down the hallway.  It occurred to Kurby afterwards that, since the chances of actually making it into the necromancer's office were slim, he might as well apply a Sticking Charm to the remaining balls to see if he could get them to stick to the wall outside Grimm's den.  If worse came to worst and the goddamned reporter still hadn't shown up, he could always take a quick jaunt down the hallway and rearrange them to spell something rude on his cousin's office door.

He had just cast the Sticking Charm and was preparing to launch the second wave of attack when a cleared throat made him jump.  Kurby started, sending the paper ball shooting off prematurely.  It missed the man standing in the doorway by an inch and impacted against the door right behind his head with a satisfying squelch.

The man standing in the doorway wasn't anyone he recognized, though that didn't mean much.  He was older, with graying reddish hair, and some stupid bird sitting on his shoulder that immediately identified him as a likely sympathizer to Gertrudis, who seemed to fervently believe that familiars should be carted around everywhere and never mind who the hell had to clean up after them.  Kurby eyed him cautiously, attempting to look for all the world that he had not just been launching an airborne assault against the rest of the Ministry as he lazily straightened in his chair.

"Glad to see the Prophet's up on knockin'," he said snidely, setting his wand down in front of him on the desk.  The question about his identity was left unanswered; if the bleeding featherbrain couldn't guess who he was, he didn't deserve an answer.  "You plannin' to make your way in, or did you just want to do this from the hallway, now?  If your flying rat there does anything to the floor, you're cleanin' up after him," he added, eyeing the falcon with dark suspicion.

“Well actually,” Torquil began hooting in his Irish accent as he jauntily went to grab a chair, “a bat is a flying rodent. Birds—” Torquil dragged the chair across the floor towards Bagnold’s desk, “are believed to be the ancestors of reptiles and flying dinosaurs.” The Irishman dropped his bag down on the floor next to him grunting in a breath as he spun the chair around and flopped into it, and then dropped his hands on his knees. He exhaled and then looked towards the ceiling, “at least the non-magical kind,” and then he smiled at Bagnold, and then quickly frowned.

When Torquil actually looked at Bagnold’s face—stern—solemn—sarcastic—un-amused—Torquil knew he didn’t quite catch something, but he always enjoyed a good conversation, and didn't regret attempting to start one--just the weird feeling he missed something. He drummed on his knees, and mumbled the rest of his conversation away, “He already did his business outside anyway...”

The short Irishman contemplated starting another conversation for about three seconds of silence before he dove down into his bag and pulled out a notebook and one of his glossy black fountain pens; He might as well start working. He sat poised and ready to write and then looked on at the paper balls invading the desk. His mouth dug into the corner of his cheek and raised a short eyebrow as he looked up at Bagnold, “I would like to start with werewolves, if you don’t mind?”

However intolerable that he had thought the morning would be, it was quickly becoming evident that a conversation with Foley would be ten times worse.  Kurby stared at the reporter, dead-panned, as the man prattled on about bats and birds and Merlin only knew what else, complete nonsense, et cetera, and what the bleeding hell was a die-no-sore?  Kurby's head was certainly sore, and if the yatter continued on for much longer, death might be an acceptable alternative to continuing the conversation, but for now, the man was spewing nonsense like a Dolly St. James novel.

Unfortunately, he could already tell why Gertrudis would like the researcher.  Kurby eyed the man as Foley weakly excused his pet's bathroom habits.  Anyone who carried around an animal like it was a second head seemed to rank high in the RCMC Head's personal book by default, as if being featherbrained redeemed any other unfortunate qualities.

Maybe that was what had been holding him back, he thought sourly.  All he had to do was buy some idiotic puffball as a pet and bam, he'd be promoted.

The diminutive researcher didn't seem to be aware of the physical pain that his endless chatter was inducing.  He selected a pen, and then looked up to meet Kurby's gaze.  “I would like to start with werewolves, if you don’t mind?”

Kurby's eyebrows shot up incredulously.  What was this supposed to be, a meet and greet session?

"You can start with 'em all you'd like, Feathers," he replied, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.  If it weren't for the fact that he'd have to deal with the aftermath if this fellow got chewed on, he'd love to just dump him on a wolf and be done with it.  "Did you want me to arrange an introduction for you, then?  Most of them will howl your ear off if you buy 'em a steak dinner."

Bagnold didn’t seem too interested in his littered desk so Torquil  brushed away a space for his notebook, clicked the pen-cap on the pen’s rear, and let the enchanted pen start scribbling notes for him. He pulled out his wand and absent mindedly listened to the WCU employee give him permission to begin as he conducted all the wasted wads of paper into a bin, and then tried to comprehend the end of that sentence… Feathers?

Okay true, Torquil was not paying enough attention to quite understand the context of that comment, but he looked back at the only person in the room with feathers—well animal, picking at a quill on a desk, and then back at Bagnold, “Oh no, his name his Kaz.”

Torquil wasn’t sure what was wrong with Bagnold, but it seemed as though he was rather cross about something. The Irishman felt a bit downtrodden at the prospect that the interview may become a rather sore one, but then the Ministry employee seemed to find some good will.

"Did you want me to arrange an introduction for you, then?  Most of them will howl your ear off if you buy 'em a steak dinner."

A flicker of a smile pecked at Torquil’s face, “Oh really?” meeting a werewolf and talking to one may be very informational, although he was sure some of them were just victims of lycanthropy and couldn’t tell him much of anything besides symptoms, behavior, and their social life--but every bit of information was helpful, every little hint could get him somewhere. Torquil also didn’t think they were so easily coerced into talking, but then again sometimes having a meal on the table was better than being handed a bag of galleons, “But I don’t really cook… hm, I suppose I could buy a dinner for them. Who did you have in mind to meet with?”

There were likely at least a few things that Kurby cared about less than the name of the featherduster that was currently perched on his unfortunate visitor's shoulder.  At the moment, though, he couldn't think of any of them, and despite the death glare that he was giving Foley, the researcher still felt inclined to share.  The bird had a name, his arse.  Kurby promptly dismissed this as information that he never needed nor wanted to know.  Owls were bad enough, but wizards had to deal with them.  Who the hell thought that carrying around what essentially looked like a possessed chicken on their shoulder was anything but a bad idea?

Unfortunately, it was quickly becoming obvious that whatever qualities the Daily Prophet might hire for, a sense of sarcasm wasn't one of them.  Kurby eyed the older man warily, not sure whether or not he was trying to set him up for a punchline for some werewolf-at-the-dinner-table joke.

"Well, I'd imagine that depends on who's hungriest," he replied nicely.  Gertrudis was going to murder him.  Hell, Mainwaring was probably going to murder him.  But they'd left him to talk to the reporter, hadn't they?  "We like to spread the meals around a bit.  It saves on costs that way, now, although you're probably not big enough for two," he added, eyeing the reporter as if he were trying to mentally estimate his weight in steak dinners.  "Did you need some time to get your personal matters together, or do you want me to see if one of them would be on for supper tonight, then?"

Torquil started to rub down his mouth as he peered over his notes—a shorthand summary of the current conversation which made it appear much more lax than the Ministry was known for. Surely the Ministry wouldn’t personally handle the dinner menu for all the registered werewolves? AND keep tabs on which ones were hungry all the time? Was there some complicated method behind this, or was Torquil just missing something?

The Irishman caught the tilted gaze of his falcon, and then saw it cock it’s head towards Bagnold as he made a comment about how many steaks Torquil could eat—wait, a jab at his height? Torquil cocked his beard to the side and puffed up a little, “I can eat a hefty meal with the best of them.”

Spread the meals around? Would the ministry really bother for financing such an endeavor? Torquil’s doubt began to creep over him, he’s done plenty of interviews through his time, and he’s butt heads with Ministry officials a time or two—it comes with working for the Prophet, “Odd…” he creaked on.

Then his brows raised as his eyes widened in surprise, “Tonight? Merlin, do you loop every registered werewolf through a knot of portkeys?”

The werewolf hunter smirked as he leaned easily back in his chair, eyeing the reporter lazily as he crossed his arms against his chest.  "Well, it's as close as we can come to a canine buffet, isn't it?" he asked, flashing his teeth in a smile.  "We just can't let word of it leak out to the press.  It's hard enough forcin' through all of the fuzz-and-fluff werewolf policies without anyone gettin' any bright ideas about why so many visitors to Level Four are up and disappearin' around dinner time."

There was something that was damned wrong about allowing familiars at the Ministry.  The damned falcon was still staring at him, its beady-eyed gaze as disconcerting as any wolf's.  Kurby eyed it in return, snorting as he reached down to pick up another piece of parchment from his desk and began to fold it into a paper airplane.

"So what the hell do you want, then?" he asked, taking the care to form each crease firmly and crisply.  "I've got better things to do with my time than sit around and discuss your career change to a menu option.  As much as I'd love to help with that," he added, glancing up as he flashed the other man another quick, pointed smirk.  "It might not be the exact angle on the story that you're lookin' for, Feathers.  Dinner's kind of a dead end beat."

As Bagnolds blatant snark became apparent Torquil massaged his forehead. One for not seeing it and two for having to deal with it in the first place. This was something he expected of his children, not a full-grown man. Kaz fluttered over to the desk and ruffled his wings in reponse, pecking Kurby’s airplane into its mouth and then hopping up on the Researcher’s shoulders.

“I am quite happy with my career choice,” Torquil started with dry discouragement, and stuffed away the nonsense of their current conversation into his bag. He would make this as respectable and professional as possible, despite the younger man’s sarcastic tendencies. “I am not after any ‘angles’ Mr. Bagnold,” he emphasized, “just facts.”

He slipped a new parchment under his levitating quill and it made a new heading, “Now, I would like to know how the WCU monitors werewolves who are registered and the process in which they are administered wolfsbane.” Then he cleared his throat, trying not to sound too apprehensive, “And the average treatment you use to apprehend an unregistered or…” he looked up at his eyelids, searching for a good word for them, “feral one.” The word didn’t sit right, but it would do for now, especially considering to whom he was talking.

Kurby jerked back from the bird as it stole his airplane away, making a swipe at it as it flew back to Torquil's shoulder.  "Well, if you ever change your mind, I'm sure I'll have a couple of hungry canines waitin' in line for supper," he growled, glowering at it.  "I can't imagine they'd say no to a chicken dinner, either.

Yanking out another piece of parchment, he began the process again, this time keeping a wary eye on the bird.

 "The WCU doesn't have anything to do with the Registry," he said matter-of-factly, glancing up to meet the older man's eyes as if daring him to say anything as he continued to fold.  "If you want to know anything about that, you'd be better off talkin' with Madam Wick-Flick down the hall, then.  We don't administer wolfsbane, either," he added, mimicking the other wizard's more pronounced brogue.  "The only time we have to deal with the damned wolves are when they're too stupid to take it on their own."

Smirking, he finished the airplane, and then pulled out his wand, tapping it as he cast a silent levitation charm.  "As far as apprehendin' goes?" he asked nicely, as the airplane began to hover over the desk.  "If the call comes in and the moon's still out, we apparate over and do what we can to detain them.  Groups stand a better chance against lycanthropes than just one wizard would, so we work as a team.  If it goes well, we just cast a spell or two to wrap 'em in a net, and then wait it out until the moon sets and they lose their fleas again."

Torquil brushed his forefinger across his mustache, keeping himself un-phased by Kurby’s continued sass, he kept his interest on the WCU process, “So you take no time to understand the werewolves your apprehending?”

He wove his hands together in a fist and plopped them onto the table, “Wouldn’t that be more effective, in terms of finding and apprehending?” He turned his palms out from his fists and raised his eyebrows at Kurby,  “Wouldn’t that make the process easier?”

 “And wouldn’t administering them wolfsbane, after you have captured them, and gotten them out of the moonlight, assist in the process?,” A long rip came from the falcon perched on his shoulder, who held a strip of the paper between its beak, from the paper airplane it had snatched up, “Or do you just throw them in a dungeon somewhere?” Kaz dropped the strip of paper and kicked away the rest of the crumpled plane with his talons, he then turned back and eyed Bagnold’s new airplane with an ominous drop of his head.