Margo had been under the impression that friends with benefits was working out for Bagnold and Amherst.  No one really knew much of anything, well that’s what she thought, and it was fun.  The best part was neither of them expected anything!  No mid-week owls, no anger at last minute things, really, they were pub buddies who occasionally took the party home.  So, thinking that it was a brilliant idea to suggest a pub outing – they hadn’t really gone out since around Valentine’s Day – and that was not because they were going out, of course not.  It was because of the exact opposite reason, romance was dumb and being young and stupid had its perks. 

Of course, maybe making out in the middle of the pub hadn’t been the most… intelligent decision made all evening, but hey, stuff happened and it wasn’t because it was a tender or sweet moment.  Margo was exacting some misplaced feelings of vengeance for very little reason at all and Kurby just happened to be there.

And today, she just happened to be walking by the WCU and thought she might pop in… extend an invite to go drinking, maybe accidentally light him on fire again or something, you know, the usual, and Margo leaned against the cubicle wall, craning her neck over (not really having to try all that hard – thank Merlin for the gift of height) and grinned easily, “Bagnold! You owe me a beer.”

The full moon was still a week away, and already March was not proving to be a very good month for the werewolf hunter.  Kurby was already irate that he had been - well, saddled was too kind of a term.  Bleeding well dumped with was probably a bit more accurate, but it still failed to capture the full range of negative emotions raised by the fact that he was going to have to travel to Hogwarts the next day to investigate whether one particular Miss Fauna (hair toss) Blake had been infected with lycanthropy.

His already dark mood hadn't been improved any by the poker game the night before.  Unlike most things involving his relatives, the extended Whitman/Bagnold family's Wizard's Poker nights were something that Kurby genuinely looked forward to.  He occasionally won, he got to do his share of complaining, and if he didn't make eye contact with Alberic Grimm, on very rare occasions he could sometimes even take the necromancer for all that he was worth.  But this week's game had been deeply off-putting, first because his cousin Nathan wouldn't stop moping about the fact that his fiancee had broken off the engagement, and secondly because Kurby's own older brother wouldn't stop nagging.

At him.

About Margo.

That had been enough.  Kurby had nothing against the dark-haired witch, but if there was talk of anything between them, then he didn't want to have anything to do with her.  It was probably Amherst's own damned fault, he thought sourly as he bent over the paperwork for Blake's ridiculous (hair toss) case.  She'd convinced him to go out on Valentine's Day, after all.  She'd been the one constantly bothering him to go get drinks.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the woman's voice.  Damn it.  His strategy of complete avoidance hadn't even lasted a full day.  He didn't want anything to do with Margo Amherst.  Didn't want to deal with her.  Didn't want to talk to her.  Even making eye contact would imply that he gave a damn, which he most certainly did not. 

If he just ignored her, she had to eventually catch the hint and go away.  Kurby hunched lower over the paperwork he'd been working on, refusing to look up or acknowledge the witch peering over his cubicle, with only the tensing of his shoulders showing that he had even heard the woman's words.

Now, she wasn’t really surprised that Kurby was ignoring her.  Chances were the scruffy WCU member was prickly about something, but she couldn’t possibly have been the cause!  After all, for the most part, outside of dragging him out for drinks, she didn’t really come over here that often… and it had been at least two months since she set him on fire. 

So, when he didn’t acknowledge her existence, well, Margo wasn’t really sure what to make of it.  It didn’t look as though he had done anything to alter the environment, and she knew he heard her – the animal like reflex to tighten up and be as quiet and still as possible to avoid being seen kicked in.  Of course, that was not missed on Margo – and it didn’t help him that he was the only living, breathing creature in that little space. 

He resumed working though – like she wasn’t even there!  She had no conception that anything she could have done was causing this cold shoulder, and she couldn’t imagine anything else having soured his mood – at least nothing to do with her.  Maybe there was an ornery werewolf or something that was forcing him to be as grumpy as humanly possible, but it could not possibly have something to do with her. 

Sighing heavily, Margo rested her head on her hands, frowning over the side of the cubicle.  “Even grumpier than usual today?” she chirped easily, giggling to herself.  “I didn’t know that was possible!” 

Amherst clearly wasn't getting it.  Normally - though he would never admit it, not even under the influence of several fire whiskeys - Kurby almost appreciated her unwaveringly cheerful attitude.  She never balked when he snapped at her.  She never even seemed to notice, or if she did, she called him on it and they moved on.  That was part of the reason that their unspoken arrangement worked so well.  No feelings were involved, so there was no commitment and no expectations.

Except for today, when he expected her to get the owl and leave him alone.  It was one thing to tolerate Margo's unending cheery moods when they were just going out for drinks.  It was quite another when his entire bleeding family now knew that they were going out for drinks.  His older brother had been incessant; Amherst was a pureblood, she was from a reputable family, she was single, and she was therefore acceptable.  And when was Kurby planning to settle down again?

Never, the werewolf hunter thought nastily, as he shot Amherst the darkest look he could muster and pushed himself to his feet.  Or about the time that he started invited werewolves over for tea service, or asked Blake for hair care tips.  Never, ever, ever.  It was not ever happening.  He was sending up the Red Sparks! of cease and desist, and the entire goddamned world could take notice.

Turning his back on the woman now draped over the wall of his cubicle, he stomped across the room to a filing cabinet.  If the younger members of the WCU were beginning to peak out from their desks in curiosity at all the sudden noise, Kurby didn't give a damn.  He began opening and slamming shut drawers, glancing through them with obviously increasing frustration as he began a hunt for a copy of the Lycanthropy Risk Evaluation.

None of this made sense.  Why was he glaring at her?  Was she supposed to know what was wrong with him?  Margo thought that was part of their deal – they didn’t deal in the world of emotions, at least not where it concerned one another. Once someone was able to start… reading… another person, that meant they were basically involved and Margo was not getting involved. 

Her grandmother had said something about it, but she figured it was just one of those pureblood gossip things, and she had rolled her eyes, moving on.  After all, the woman, at one point, thought she would land herself in Azkaban.  The daffy thoughts of a nasty old bint did not rule her life, and for that reason, she assumed it was the same for every other pureblood black sheep. After being subjected to speculation and nagging for so long, Margo was completely immune to it.

What she was not immune to, however, was the way Bagnold glared at her, only acknowledging her presence with a look that probably could have rightly been accompanied by a snarl, and then stomped across the way without saying anything to her!

Gasping slightly, Margo twirled on her heel (almost falling over- flailing a little to keep herself up), and then put her hands on her hips as she stomped behind him – two could play at that loud game.  Margo was not above being immature, but it seemed the rest of that room wasn’t going to intervene.  In fact, since she had appeared, most of them had disappeared – not even a single head viewable over the tops of the cubicles – and these Brits weren’t that short.

“Oi!” she called to him, trying to get his attention again; her fingers were itching to reach for her wand and sear his bum.  “Bagnold.  What the bloody hell is your problem? “ 

Each successive slammed drawer was increasing in both force and power.  Kurby almost lost a finger in the last before realizing that it contained the paperwork he'd been looking for after all; gritting his teeth, he yanked it open again, almost pulling it clear out of the filing cabinet with sheer frustrated effort.

No one in the Capture Unit office hated their life so much that they would call 'Oi!' to him on a good day, let alone use the words bloody and hell together in a question that had been directed at him.  Amherst apparently hadn't learned either lesson yet.  Gritting his teeth, Kurby yanked a scroll carefully labeled 'Lycanthropic Risk Evaluation' free from the drawer, slamming it shut one last time as he straightened and turned to face the younger woman.

"What the hell is my problem?" he demanded, his voice incensed.  "What the hell is your bleedin' problem?!  Can't you take a hint, Amherst?!"  At a normal volume level, this may have been a perfectly reasonable question, albeit a little rude, but Kurby was already shouting.  He didn't give a damn. 

"I'm working!" he shouted, throwing up his arms with the paperwork in hand, as if this fact were supposed to be obvious.  "Stop bothering me!  Go antagonize a dragon or something and leave me the bleedin' hell alone!"

That was the last straw.  Kurby Bagnold had gone too far.  She hadn’t done anything to him and here he was screaming at her like a madman.  Who did he think he was anyway?!  She was just trying to be friendly!  It wasn’t like she was a werewolf or anything.

She felt a growl growing deep in her throat and she shoved her hand in her pocket, wrapping her hand around the shaft of her wand.  She was not taking this – and whipping the wand out, Margo pointed it at his feet, hoping to Merlin that she had stuck him to the ground.  If anything, she hoped that at least she could melt the soles of his shoes so he would be unable to move without falling over.  That would really make her day - seeing him fall on his face after he was being a complete arse. 

“You know, you don’t have to get your lacy knickers in a twist, Bagnold!” she hissed at him, tapping her wand against her hip.  She could have smacked him if she wanted to – she did want to – but she was sure that he might bite her hand off.  Should never put one’s hand near the mouth of an angry dragon, or an angry Bagnold for that matter.  She was going to make it a point to owl his sister about this. 

And maybe his mum.  And his entire family.  Someone had clearly royally mussed up when he was being raised!

Usually, Margo didn’t much matter, she liked the scruffy angry sort of thing – but right now, oh she was livid.  She could actually feel the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. 

“Now look here, you angry bloody ape,” she stalked up to him – within an arm’s reach, again, not wanting to get too close, but staring him directly in the eyes, considering she had no problem facing off with a dangerous, angry creature, “You giving an honest damn about work is just about as laughable as anything,” she pointed out, “now what is your real dysfunction?” 

That was the last straw!  First he was yelling at Amherst in a perfectly reasonable - albeit very loud - tone of voice, and then all of a sudden she was drawing her wand on him!  It was all Kurby could do not to fling the Lycanthropic Risk Evaluation at her forehead.  Did she really want to get into a hexing match with him?  He faced down werewolves on a monthly basis!  All Amherst had ever done was get her leg chewed on by a dragon, and it wasn't like she'd ever shown much of an affinity for wandwork!

"I give plenty of damns about work," he snarled back at her.  Something - possibly a very smothered laugh, but much more likely the cough of some coward choking on their own lack of courage - sounded from one of the cubicles, but no heads surfaced.  The rest of the WCU had apparently learned that at times like these, they also gave plenty of damns about work.  "How the hell can you even think that?!  If I didn't give a damn about work, this entire country would be overrun by bleedin' werewolves!  And now I'm dysfunctional on top of it all, is that i--!" Kurby started to shout, before he realized that both of his boots were on fire.

Swearing furiously, he dropped the scroll and danced back, grabbing for his wand.  It took another moment to cast the appropriate counterspell; a long jet of water put out first one boot, and then the other, as the flames wilted away from his poor scorched feet.

That was it.  He was through.  His expression livid, his face nearly white with rage, Kurby took another step toward Margo, drawing himself up to his full height as he glared at her, aiming his wand directly at her chest.

"Don't you even try me," he informed her in a low voice, forcing each word out through tightly clenched teeth.  "Was that supposed to be funny, Amherst?  You'll be lucky if I don't hex off your other leg."

Who did he think he was kidding?  Honestly, whoever had just snorted from their cubicle was right – stupid, but right.  She didn’t think there was anyone around here that was as dumb as she was at the moment, but hey, she was too far gone to stop now and why ruin such a… wonderful moment.  She scowled angrily at him, raising her eyebrows. 

“Just you,” she rolled her eyes with a bark of laughter, “You are the sole Werewolf Capturer that has single-handedly saved England from being overrun by an infestation.  Why, the bloody queen should knight you – or maybe you should just take the throne, seems to be worth of such a task!”  She might not have been the smartest, but when she was pissed, she could cut someone up – and the added thickness of her accent was just one more tell-tale sign that he had pushed her buttons.

Generally, she would try to be the sane one in this situation, but well – she already lit his feet on fire – having to take a moment to howl in laughter again… or maybe sound more like a hyena… “Guess we can’t say you have cold feet,” she added with a biting sort of sarcasm, standing tall as he whipped out his wand and came at her.  Let him, she thought, he’d have to stand on his tip toes to even look into her eyes anyway. 

When did he fool himself into thinking that he was tall enough to do that to her?  Margo drew herself up, pretty much six feet tall in her boots and glared down at him, looking at the wand pointing at her chest.  “Oh yeh?” before she even knew what she was doing, Margo instinctively pushed him.  She put her hands on his shoulders and just shoved as hard as she could. “Go ahead, I dare you,” she sneered, pulling her wand and throwing both of her arms out to the side, leaving herself a wide, open target, “Bring it, boyo.”  Not the smartest moment in her life. 

Kurby's face was quickly transitioning through the color spectrum; though his complexion had started at white, he was getting redder and redder as the woman spoke.  And then Amherst put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him, like he was supposed to stumble back and acquiesce.  Did she really think he wasn't going to hex her?  Or that she got some special treatment because she was his sister's friend? 

Whatever control over his temper that he might have once had had quickly fled.  Kurby had tried to ignore her.  He had been furious about what his brother had said, certainly, but he'd tried to let it go as best he could.  Now Amherst wouldn't leave him the hell alone!  What was with women recently?  First Stevenson, now Amherst; he'd probably have to put up with Myrni Levartian the next day at Hogwarts, if he decided to say anything about the despicable way that she had treated his cousin recently.

Whatever the reason, he was through putting up with it.  And if he got in trouble for casting hexes in the office again, so be it, Kurby thought angrily.  He'd be turned into a hippogriff before he'd let Amherst push him around.

"Like hell!" he snapped, flicking his wand at her as he summoned up a spell.[1]

1.	Levicorpus, which is usually cast non-verbally

If there was one thing that Margo was thankful for in this situation was the fact that she did not expect special treatment because she was a woman.  In fact, she very much expected Kurby to treat her like he would treat anyone else, and readied herself to cast off a spell if she needed to.  She wasn’t afraid to set him or anything else on fire, since that seemed to really be the only thing she could do when she was around him – obviously, that meant something.

Not that she invested any meaning into anything that came up in accordance with Bagnold.  That would be the stupidest things she could do.  They werenot involved. 

She was starting to lift off the ground though and Margo squealed as she was going up and up toward the ceiling.  This was not good; she put her hands up, but suddenly realized that she was turning over.  “You fecking bastard!” she howled, suddenly dangling by what felt like her foot – her other leg hanging awkwardly behind her – the metal rod clearly too heavy to be hanging upside down.  Her thigh muscles were straining and she grunted angrily as she tried to flail her arms and figure something out. 

She could already feel her cheeks, red from fighting, turning a brilliant fuchsia and her hair was hanging madly – touching the ground and whipping around as she tried to move.  Not only her hair, but her arms and legs were tossed around like the limbs of a rag doll.  Oh, she was furious. 

“I hate you!” she screeched – sometimes, though Margo Amherst was not the most feminine of women, she could sure as hell sound like one – she figured she learned it from her cousin.  “Let me down!” she tried to wave her wand, not really knowing the actual counter-curse for this, though she would never let him know that – she wished she had done better in charms right about now, but then figured she could do something at least, and pointed her wand very directly toward the space in between his legs. 

“Confringo!” she snarled, hoping it would show him who really was boss. 

It was only sheer reflex that kept him out of the way of the Blasting Curse. Kurby jumped back, nearly losing his balance as Margo's spell left a small crater in the floor where he'd been standing just a moment before.

"What the hell?" he demanded disbelievingly, jaw dropping as he looked up at her in shock.  She'd been trying to kill him!  Despite their current differences, he'd been under the impression that Amherst was one of the more sane women that he knew.  She didn't cling; she never bothered him.  And yet here she was, trying to leave a crater right in a very uncomfortable location!

That was, once again, it.  Dueling wand-to-wand had never been his specialty; Kurby was much more of a rough-and-tumble fighter, and since magic did not work well against werewolves, he lacked the finesse of a Hitwizard or an Auror.  But that didn't mean he couldn't improvise on the fly.

"Expelliarmus!" he snapped, sending the burst of red light shooting in her direction.

Margo wasn’t traditionally woman crazy.  She wasn’t clingy, she wasn’t needy, and she certainly wasn’t desperate,  but what she was… well, some men might prefer the first type.  Glowering, she could practically feel the head radiating out of her eyes – when they would turn into heat rays that would destroy the miniscule piece of his soul that might be left, she didn’t know, but she could pretty much feel the stunning spell welling up in her head. 

Of course, she had very little time to actually do anything about it as he screamed at her and then immediately flung a spell, which, Margo could not think of a shield for.  Screeching as the sting of the red sparks hit her hand and her wand flew in the complete opposite direction, Margo also found herself in the precarious position of falling, head first on the ground at the same time – making that screech a combination force of falling and hurting.  Oh, he was going to get it. 

With a loud thud and something that sounded vaguely like a crunch, Margo landed on a heap on the floor – legs sprawled out, arms out and wide, a shooting pain jumping up her back.  She laid still in complete silence and turned her head slightly (more pain! Ow!) and saw her wand several yards away – at least in the direction toward HER portion of the department, considering she would not be coming here any time soon.  “You’re a dirty bastard, you know that?” she growled, from her place on the floor, slowly pushing herself up.

She was glad to see she could move – it would be one hell of a shite two years if she lost a leg AND became paralyzed.  But now, it was just horrible pain that would probably be some intense bruising.   Grunting, she pushed herself up, wiped down her sleeves and walked toward her wand.  She picked it up and continued toward the door, only glancing over her shoulder to add, “By the way, you're lucky I'm a shite shot, or you'd be left with precious little left of an already unimpressive package.”

 Any sympathy that Kurby might have felt for Margo when she hit the ground was seared into nonexistence when she opened her mouth again.  The werewolf hunter snarled after her, waiting until he was sure that she was leaving (and wasn't about to take another cheap shot at him) before lowering his wand.

She'd left.  Good.  He'd made his point.  This was exactly what he had been aiming for from the beginning: not having to deal with Amherst and completely obliterating any rumors that might have been circling about the two of them.  He had gotten what he had wanted.

Kurby shoved his wand deep into the pocket of his robes, nearly tearing it.  "What the hell are you lookin' at, then?" he snapped at the lone Capture Unit member who had been foolhardy enough to stick her head up, and then stomped back over to the file cabinet. 

Blake had better hope that he could find another copy of the Lycanthropy Risk Evaluation, or he was taking it out of her flouncing hair tomorrow.