The full moon had come and gone, and much of the urgency had waned with it.  They were now two months and four days removed from the first attack, barely a blink in the lunar calendar, and they still had nothing to show for it.  Bruce was gone.  Several wizards, all purebloods, were dead.  Mainwaring had come back after a decade-long absence, and they'd still spent most of the last month chasing wraiths and shadows.

Kurby had moved beyond exhaustion and into exasperation.  Three nights was more than enough time to catch up on any sleep he had lost after the full moon, and so instead of collapsing in his flat after work, he had apparated to Hogsmeade to while away the hours.  The Hogshead was hardly his favorite place to drink, but it attracted his favorite type of crowd - sullen, silent, and unsociable, without any of the pureblooded drama that constantly occurred in a more trendy venue like the Signature.

He didn't want to think.  Didn't want to talk.  Kurby had grabbed a table against the wall and camped there, nursing a firewhiskey, for most of the evening.  Avoiding his flat until he was exhausted enough to sleep made ignoring the events of the past few months much easier.  The ongoing attacks.  Bruce coming in to register.  He'd taken a long lunch that day.  Thank Merlin that the Capture Unit didn't have anything to do with new werewolves.

Movement coming in his direction caught his attention, and Kurby looked up and froze, his eyes narrowing.  He hadn't talked to Dolly St. James since the night of the Hogwarts mixer at the DoRCMC, and had gone well out of his way to avoid her ever since.  The writer was far from the most pleasant person he knew, and their interactions tended to come in the form of constant disagreements.  There were times when Kurby even enjoyed the unending baiting; nothing helped him blow off steam like a good argument, not even what usually came after.  But some sins were unforgivable.  Attacking him in front of half the registered werewolves at the Ministry had created a grudge that he was determined to hold on to.

He had no idea what the writer was doing there that night, nor did he care.  Kurby lazily crossed his legs, propping his boots up on the only other empty chair at the table.  If Dolly couldn't take the hint, he'd make it for her.

"Seat's taken, Dolores," he said snidely, lifting his firewhiskey to take a drink as he pointedly refused to make eye contact with her.

Dolly was making a night of it. She had started out at Signature on a date. Now she was hitting the skids. That was how she liked to think of the Hogshead. It had been her old stomping ground before she’d had a legitimate ID. There was nothing like snitching drinks from men twice her age at fifteen with sideways glances and a little wiggle in her walk. In fact it was much the same reason she haunted the place some times now. At Signature she was a Queen, a sort of revered Reverend Mother to the dancing girls. She had done what they were doing and she had made it well out without getting knocked up or married. And she could still move with the best of them, actually that was what had sent her date off in a huff. You give one old friend a lap dance all in good fun and men just got testy.

Of course she’d been on her seventh or eight vodka martini by then. Now she was even further down the line to the stage of giggling while she walked. She had lost Tabitha somewhere in the crowd at Signature. The girl was proving to be a very well suited match for Miss St. James - and Dolly enjoyed her thoroughly. She didn’t know how it would all pan out when press was done and she had to start writing again but until that moment Dolly wasn’t too fussed. Throwing the door to the Hogshead open she stood in the doorway, arms in the air presenting herself to the crowd - who seemed aptly pleased, greeting with a few hoots and hollers in her direction. She blew kisses and in general made a scene. She was brilliant at that.

And of course then she spotted him, bane of her existence sometimes fire of her loins… or she was the fire of his, however that saying worked. He’d been more absent than usual - which was saying something. Other than the two years she spent with Elliott well… Kurby was what people called a sure thing. They got together, they bickered, they fell into bed - wash, rinse, repeat. There was no love lost between them, but if Kurby had ever had his wits about him he might have noticed how much their relationship formulated who she had become. It had done as much, if not more to mold her as Dominik [she remembered his parting shot at the Mixer and felt her eyes narrow slightly, the Bastard]. She had never loved him but she clung to him.

They abused one another, and it would greatly disturb her to admit Kurby Bagnold was her longest running…relationship for lack of a better word. The only man she’d committed so much time and effort to - effort in the sense of arguing, not trying to keep things healthy. With a drink firmly in hand [that someone else had placed there] her wiggling walk carried her toward him, at which point she promptly dropped herself in his lap one arm around his neck, deaf to his protests to her presence, “Oh don’t be like that Kurb. My floor is decidedly devoted of your face imprint. I believe it misses you”.

Of all the things that frustrated him about Dolly St. James, the constant state of celebrity that followed her wherever she went prickled him the most.  If anyone had told him eight years before what was in the giggling teenager's future, Kurby would have stayed well clear; he knew a Floo wreck when he saw one, and the authoress's life in the spotlight was nothing but.  Her reputation preceded her like a celestial choir.  The woman couldn't even enter a pub without it turning into a scene.  The worst part of all was that she clearly adored the attention.  Dolly played into the cult of popularity as much as her fans did, and there was no escaping the constant drama that came with the endless adoration.

There were occasional times when all of the attention was fun, but on nights like tonight, Kurby despised it.  He didn't want to be noticed, he didn't want his name to end up in the Prophet, and if he ever found out that she'd written him into one of her goddamned books, he was going to summon up Fiendfyre and burn down the enire hell-cursed publishing house.  The woman lived for attention, and Godric protect anyone who might feel differently.  She was going to haul all of them kicking and screaming into the spotlight, and personal preferences be damned.

Tonight was obviously no different.  Every eye in the place was already on her when she waggled her way over to him and dropped down in his lap despite the obvious cold shoulder.  Kurby gritted his teeth.  He hadn't had nearly enough to drink to deal with this yet.  Thanks to her bedazzling entrance, there was no escaping the attention.  All he wanted to do was sit in the corner and sulk, and just like at the Mixer, she was intent on thrusting him into the center of the room in the most embarrassing fashion possible.

The werewolf hunter dropped his feet to the ground and promptly stood up, doing his best to unceremoniously dump the woman on the floor.  "Do you think I'm kidding?" he hissed through clenched teeth.  "Don't you have someone else to go humiliate tonight, Princess?  Even if Wiedman's got his door locked, I'd've thought they would've assigned you a new bleedin' editor by now."

Oh Kurby, that old dog. He really ought to have learned some new tricks. Keeping her arms around his neck, feet lightly touching the floor as he unceremoniously tried to deposit her on the floor. Had he not tried that trick half a million times in the last eight years he might have actually managed to dump her on her delectable derričre. That was how Kurby was of course - and in fact the main reason they kept ending up together. They had a routine - and despise her as he might pretend to he couldn’t stay away in the end. No matter what he said he thought of her and her current lifestyle choices. He was an oppertunist at the core and some things he just didn’t seem able to pass up.

For her he was like cheap wine - an oversized bottle of swill that once you wrapped your arm around you had to begin to seriously question the life choices that lead you to that moment. There was never a point that he seemed like a legitimately good idea, ever - he was simply a means to an end. In both cases she woke up in the morning with a screaming headache and a desire to erase the last twenty-four hours from her memory forever. Well, if her memory happened to have stuck the night out. Sometimes both Kurby and wine had the blissful effect of making her brain so squishy she didn’t remember anything at all [until she stepped in the middle of him sleeping on her floor].

“I see someone still has their knickers in a twist about a certain little party,” she sounded genuinely amused, his irritation irrationally pleasing to her. If he did not so often throw Dominik in her face she might have been marginally phased by his mention - but she had become used to those barbs some time ago. Likewise his comment on her editor flew by without much notice. She was just that drunk. Unless he blatantly said something about Elliott it was easy enough to ignore. Her blue eyes focused intently on Kurby’s as she slid her fingers through his hair, her voice a playful coo, “You know you only get this grumpy when you start avoiding me, I’ll always been your favorite distraction”.

It was bitingly frustrating that he already knew how this exchange was going to go.  The script had been planned out for years.  First Kurby would get irritated and explode, denying any part of it; on the rare occasions that Dolly was the instigator, she just flatly refused to have anything to do with him until her temperament improved.  He'd refuse, she'd push, he'd try to persist and then give up and give in, and the rest would pass as a blur until he woke up on the floor the next morning. 

They'd gone through the motions so many times that it wasn't even a game anymore, but for once, Kurby was done with it.  The Mixer, the aftermath, was too much; being called out in front of his usual prey left such a bitter feeling that the bile overrode the usual routine.  He was through.  Dealing with the drama, getting tossed out the next morning once she had something better to occupy her time - he gritted his teeth.  To hell with this mess.  It might take every ounce of willpower to ignore Dolly St. James as she pressed herself against him, to deny the short respite that an improved night would bring even briefly, but he seized on to that idea and held fast.  He was through.

"No," he said, voice tight and sharp, as he reached up to catch her wrist, gripping it tightly to hold her hand at bay.  He met her gaze squarely with a glare of his own, body tensing as if preparing for a fight.  "I get this grumpy  when someone damned well breaks into my place of work and decides that showin' me up in front of half the bleedin' monsters who try to kill me once a hell-cursed month is anything even resemblin' a good idea."

All of the eyes were probably still on them, but he didn't care.  Kurby kept hold of her wrist, holding her close, as he glared at her.  She wanted a scene; he could goddamned well give her a scene.

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" he demanded in a hiss, dropping his voice.  Overdramatic or not, he didn't care anymore.  He was through.  "Nearly getting killed once a month?  Watching people die all around you?  Or is not gettin' some bleedin' Quidditch player to fall over at your feet when you'd spend half your nights in someone else's bed anyhow the closest you've ever gotten to a tragedy?"

The truest emotion the two shared was spite - was that even an emotion? Their relationship, for those who would dare call it such a thing, was born from it. They existed on the fumes of shared distain and broken dreams. Mutual jealousy over their other perceived underachievements bred fights and heady anger that made her feel drunk - more drunk than any form of alcohol that had ever been absorbed into her blood system. She was reckless with Kurby, hateful, and at the end of the night he would still haul her into bed. Where he was concerned she lived for the moments his features twisted with anger waiting for him to bite back, give her just one reason. He always did, usually more than one all in a single breath. He was the punching bag she took her frustrations with the world out on  - and despite the charmed existence she lead she did have frustrations, hurts that she had been nursing for most of her life. She and Kurby were meant for one another in the truest sense of the phrase, simply because they were so much the same person living in separate bodes by separate means.

His little hiss fit and display of strength didn’t even phase her. She simply inspected the nails of her hand he gripped looking rather bored with the whole thing - trying not to giggle though she let her lips twitch with the effort, grin mocking his rage. “Are you still mad about that? How silly,” she fluttered her eyelashes at him, voice coy, lips pursed slightly, “For your information, I was invited. While you refuse to accept it, the world at large does tend to think I am a very interesting and important person. They’re utterly fascinated by me,” she paused leaning closer to him, voice dripping with sugary amusement, “Actually in that respect you’re very much like the general public. They just can’t stay away either,” she was mildly amused by his little display, annoyed but amused - as though they didn’t both know exactly how it would end.

He was trying to make her angry, spitting accusations and judgment at her. Kurby had never been able to keep his temper, ever. She could bait and push him to the ends of the Earth, she didn’t even have to really try anymore. His buttons never moved and were hyper sensitive. She, only the other hand, had been forced to mellow her temper considerably in recent years. She had learned to truly have an advantage in life you had to be calm and collected most of the time. Even when her fingers itched to slap him, she stuffed the urge down, her eyes fluttering at him instead, a genuine laugh sounding in the back of her throat, “Honestly? Dominik? After all these years that and calling me a whore are the only Aces you have up your sleeve?” she reached up with her free hand and patted his cheek… hard, “Darling if you want the upper hand in a game of chess you really shouldn’t recycle moves. It shows a distinct lack of imagination”.

A low growl rose in his throat as he caught her other wrist, forcing her hands apart as he glared at her, his shoulders tensing.  It wasn't the words that always managed to penetrate so deep under his skin.  At times, Dolly St. James could be pleasant, charming - but only when she was drinking, always when there was something that she wanted.  Kurby had learned years before never to let his guard down around the writer, but she still somehow struck at his foundation every time.  No matter what he said or did, everything was always an insult; he half expected that if she ever came close to feeling sympathy, her head would explode like it had been hit by a bad hex.  It was cutting, it was caustic, and the war had been waged for so long that old wounds never had a chance to heal.  Each attack cut to the core.

"You want imagination, then?" he hissed, acrimony dripping from his voice.  "The only time you ever stop by is when the rest of your life is so bleedin' miserable that you have to slink into mine.  What's done it this time?  The cheers not rousing enough for you?"

He let her go, releasing her wrists as he turned back towards the table to pick up his drink again.  He was through.  Kurby repeated that mantra over and over again in his head.  The worst thing he could possibly do to Dolly St. James was to ignore her, to not give her the reaction that she so clearly lived and bled for, but not rising to the bait was nearly impossible.  The best he could do was swallow and grit his teeth in hopes that she would either get bored quickly and or take her usual shots at him and then move on.

"If you want to have your say, go ahead then," he instructed her sardonically, reclaiming his previous seat and kicking his boots up, one by one, on the opposite chair.  "I'm sure everyone's listenin'.  Have at it, just like you did at the Mixer."

Slunk into his life? Was that what he really thought? Well, of course it was because generally it was true. She had come to him the first time because she felt like Dominik had skinned her alive. She was caught somewhere between a woman and childhood, her heart sore and needing validation that someone, somewhere could want her someday. The alcohol had been plentiful and he had been willing. For a short time there was the idea in her head that he could replace Dominik - but Kurby+Dolly hadn’t been doodled in the margins of parchment for long when she realized that Bagnold was not capable of giving her what she wanted either. He could not return an all consuming sort of love - which was the only way Dolly knew how. There was never any half way with the middle St. James sister. There never had been. When she loved or hated she threw her whole self into it. She would burn herself up and out living that way - but she didn’t know how to stop either.  He couldn’t love her but he could fight her.

When her self loathing got to be too much, when the rejections and little voices in her head would not be still, that was when she went to him. He could affirm their accuracy - but in the face of all that was horrible about her… he still wanted her. No matter how hard he tried or how wrong he said it was - especially before she was even eighteen, no matter how spoiled or awful she hated… he wanted her. They didn’t make love. No, it was something more primal than that, something exhausting, something ugly and beautiful all at the same time. It made her bones ach and she had to sleep for two days after, wearing the bruises like badges of honor. She would never admit it but she needed Kurby… and loved him in their own sick, twisted little way.

As he sat back down she tilted her head to one side, full lips pursed. He was still angry about that? Really? Of all the grudges to hold, She was almost certain she had said far worse things to him. She hadn’t even been drunk that night…comparatively speaking of course. Without thinking she dropped back into his lap, sliding one arm around his neck as she stole his drink and took a large swallow, “Darling really you’re being unseasonable,” she held the pint just out of his reach, curves pressing against his chest as she tapped his nose, her signature fragrance - perfume, smoke, and alcohol, saturating the air between them. “You were arguing with children Kurby, girl-children. I was simply offering you a target closer to your size that night. I wasn’t aware that at some point in the last four months you suddenly lost all of your humor and ability to whip up a snappy comeback”.

She nuzzled his cheek, finally relenting and giving him back his glass, motioning for the barmaid to bring two more. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned closer to his ear, “If I had known we were heading into hyper-sensitivity check point A, I would have found something more productive to distract you with,” there was a note of laughter to her voice as she glanced around the bar - granted there were a few wayward eyes lingering on them, but for the most part everyone in the Hogshead was too consumed with their own desire to kill their livers and obliterate their minds sans magic to pay attention - especially once it stopped looking like the pair might actually start throwing punches. It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d started a fight in a pub. Dolly liked to throw glasses, “What has happened to you? We used to have fun bickering - just so we could make up. Remember that night we were stranded in Chingwell? What happened to that Kurby?”

As soon as he sat down, he knew that he'd lost the fight.  Inglorious defeat was never a question with Dolly - it was not so much of an if, but when he'd end up having to admit that she'd bested him again.  He could protest, he could fight it, he could try all that he wanted, but he couldn't win.  That constant lack of even a pyrrhic victory was what needled so badly in his dealings with her.  Nothing Kurby said ever bit quite as much; launched insults were simply laughed off.  If Dolly found something more interesting to do with her time, he might be forgotten for months on end, up until the point where she decided that she might enjoy toying with him after all.

The lack of control stung.  As the years had rolled on, it had become more and more of a sore point with him; he had to stomach enough inequality in his life between the Ministry and his extended family that choking down one more reminder of it was often too much to bear.  Even now, he could try to resist all he wanted, but once he'd sunk into the chair and she'd countered, he knew all too well that it was over.  Dolly St. James did whatever the hell she wanted, and Godric preserve anyone who tried to fight the rising tide.

As if to add insult to injury, as he was closing his eyes and trying to decide if it was even worth mustering the effort to attempt to dump her on the floor again, she took his drink.  Kurby gritted his teeth, tensing, trying to focus on the words she was saying and not on any of his other senses.  The novelist could make anything seem pretty and reasonable.  He'd learned years ago that her gift for the written word extended to the words that rolled off her tongue.  It didn't matter how well he argued, how quickly he snapped or spouted off.  His best hope was usually to keep prodding at her and hope that, in some miracle, he managed to strike a nerve, but these days, he rarely did.

"I was arguing in front of a whole pack of the half-human monsters that try to kill me once a month," he growled, unwilling to concede the point even if he was going to lose the argument.  "And part of the reason they haven't is because up until now, most of them were bleedin' terrified of us.  But Merlin forbid you think about any consequences like that," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes for effect.  "It's a hell of a lot better to just show me up in front of everyone you can, isn't it?"

He'd already lost and they both knew it - getting his almost-empty drink back was just rubbing salt in the wound.  Kurby took a deep breath and then let it out slowly again, looping his free arm around her waist.

"Was I the one who started havin' a go at you in public, then?" he muttered at her, tilting his chin to face her directly.  "Nothing's changed.  It's all grand.  I'm not the one who has to always have an audience," he added sourly.  "Bickering's not the same when half the world's been watchin' and it's odds-on chance that you're bound to end up in the Prophet the next day."

The fact she stayed seated in his lap rather than ending up on the floor was a bit like the beginning of the white flag wave. He would grumble and grouse but he would relent and mostly all would be forgiven. They’d get drunk, he’d go home with her and the dance would start all over again. It was familiar and safe, which was ironic really. The only constant in her life was a contentious relationship with a man so fueled by anger and spite he resented even wanting her. Most men were more than happy to want her and all the trappings that having her entailed. Kurby got off easy when it came to having Dolly. She didn’t expect gifts, they didn’t go on dates, he wasn’t a piece of arm candy she showed off - and not for the reasons he thought either. She didn’t need those things from him. He gave her something else. It was hard to say exactly…why, but being with him was comforting.

He’d often accused her of slumming it, or using him to get back at her Mummy and Daddy - as if she’d cared for any number of years what the devil they thought. She let him believe what he wanted because the truth was admitting how much  she needed him, how much she cared, well that just wasn’t how they were. They did not share feelings and they did not cuddle after. In reality though the sex was just an excuse, not that it wasn’t satisfying, it just wasn’t really what she wanted from him - but it made it easier if it seemed like it was. Laying her soul bare for Dominik had damaged her, she never wanted to be the person who cared more or loved harder ever again - so to avoid that problem she just didn’t tell Kurby. It kept things simple.

Like clockwork is slid his arm around her waist and her red lips twitched with a smile as she placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, which was how she was going to end this argument… actually it was house she ended most arguments. If she gave him something else to do he’d stop grousing, “I don’t have to have an audience all the time. People just like to watch,” she laughed a little against his lips as she slid her other arm around his neck, “If I say I’m very very very sorry and I won’t ever do it again, would you believe me?” she looked at him with her big blue eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she tried not to laugh but unable to completely squelch a twitch smile. So, maybe some of it was about the sex, she did like kissing him at least.