Fauna had filled out the paperwork. She'd put her belongings in a locker. She'd taken the wolfsbane. Now, she was waiting in a crowded room for one of the Ministry officials to lead her to a cell. The process was familiar, because she'd been through it just last month.

She wanted to be anywhere but here. Fauna showed the signs of a typical werewolf before the night of a full moon: pale face, weary expression, jittery mannerisms. However, her appearance stemmed from the stress of the day, and had nothing to do with lycanthropy. Fauna knew she wasn't a werewolf. The Healers knew she'd only been scratched. Yet she was still here, and though she understood the procedure and why it was in place, that didn't stop her from hating it.

Fauna avoided looking at the others around her. No one talked much anyway. Last time, she'd felt uncomfortable, uneasy, and extremely embarrassed. This time, she was terrified. Whenever someone accidentally brushed against her or stared at her for too long, her muscles tensed. She felt trapped in this small room, and she didn't know who would transform tonight, and who was like her and would be waiting out the testing period until they could escape again.

Fauna crossed her arms, the sleeves of her baggy sweater stretching over her hands. She didn't care that it was April. She wore jeans, sneakers, and let her hair hang loose around her face. Her outfit wasn't an invisibility cloak, but it acted like one, and it would have to do.

"-- and who the hell told you that you could bleedin' well stand there?" Kurby barked, shooting the nastiest look he could muster at the unfortunate young man who had been unlucky enough to get in his way as he stomped through the crowded corridor.  "Go get in the queue!"

The halls of Level Four were even busier than they had been the previous month.   The last full moon had left the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures even more short-staffed than usual, as well as increasing the number of potential lycanthropes by what seemed like tenfold. The crowds of werewolves and potential werewolves seemed to be ever-growing, as more and more who had previously used their own fortified precautions in the past had chosen to take the Ministry up on its offer of holding cells.

The official procedure was, in a nutshell, relatively simple.  Anyone who had suffered a potential werewolf bite was required to report to Level Four during the start of the next full moon.  Not even members of the Werewolf Capture Unit were immune; if they came close to getting bit during the previous month's hunt, then they were expected to lock themselves up until the full moon had fully risen, just to be on the safe side.

Kurby had gone through the drill plenty of times in the past, and his opinion of it hadn't changed.  Official procedure or not, safety of the public or not, there was no goddamned way he was letting himself be locked up in a holding cell where werewolves could see him.  He could have been chewed on by an entire pack and his opinion still wouldn't change; stooping to their level, letting them see him as one of them even for a few brief moments, was a risk he couldn't take when he was expected to be one of the people keeping the public safe.

He stalked through the hallway, glaring at anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.  The werewolves and potential werewolves were all being shuffled one way or another; the more dangerous of their number had already been put in the cells on Level Ten.  Kurby barely paid them any attention as he stomped through to the WCU office, taking out his increasing frustration on anyone unlucky enough to cross his path, when he caught sight of a tall, pale figure who looked to be trying to hide behind her own fringe.

Blake.  For the briefest of moments, the werewolf hunter paused, a dark note flickering over his face.  He hadn't seen the girl since he'd left her at St. Mungo's the month before.  He hadn't bothered to check up on her case.  As far as he was concerned, his business with anyone began and ended with the full moon; if she'd been bit, he didn't need to know about it until he got a call to round her up.

And with the next full moon approaching, here she was, just as she should be.  Werewolf or potential werewolf, it didn't matter; the flouncy kid would get stuck in a cell with all the others, and if she didn't transform, she'd be out in a few hours.    Still, Kurby couldn't help pausing, giving the girl a cool, surveying look.  She looked pale.  Terrified.  At least she wouldn't be tossing her hair around tonight.

He very nearly continued on his way, elbowing a tottering matron out of the way in the process, but stopped with a sigh.  Obviously, he was getting soft.  He ought to blame it on Amherst.  Rolling his eyes at what he couldn't quite believe he was about to do, Kurby adjusted his course, trodding on someone's foot in the process as he made his way over to the girl.

"Blake," he said brusquely, barely pausing next to her.  Even doing this was humiliating enough; there was no way in hell he was going to make eye contact with her.  "You're with me.  You knock into me again, and I'll put a bleedin' collar on you, Rover," he growled at an unfortunate older man who had just stumbled against him.  Without waiting for either to respond, the werewolf hunter had turned and stalked off again down the hallway.

Someone was looking at her again. She tried to ignore it, staring straight ahead and ducking her head a bit. But then that person strode over to her, and she finally glanced up to see Bagnold.

"Blake."

Fauna stared at him in surprise. Familiar anger and annoyance sprang up, now mixed in with the unwelcome emotions of respect, a touch of gratefulness that he'd saved her life multiple times, and something close to shame that he'd seen her at her worst, passed out and losing blood on the floor.

She assumed that he was working, like usual, and that he refused to look at her because he'd lumped her in with everybody else stuck in here. They were back where they'd started, it seemed. Her face flushed and she glanced down. She followed him, sending the briefest of glances at 'Rover' as she passed, trying not to think about the cell that was waiting for her, and that the person leading her to it was treating her like he always did; some kind of nuisance. She suddenly wished anyone else had been with her during the attack. She wished she were with anyone else right now.

"Where are we going?" Fauna asked warily, noticing that they were heading past the cells on this floor. He wouldn't take her to Level Ten, where she'd heard the more dangerous werewolves were staying. That would just be cruel. She studied his face. He looked irritated and angry, but he always looked irritated and angry.

Most of the full moon regulars knew enough to get out of his way as Kurby strode purposely down the corridor.  It was the newcomers, the first time werewolves or the poor individuals who had been unlucky enough to get in the way of a werewolf during the last full moon, that clogged the hallway, only scattering when he gave them a pointed glare or barked a harsh "Move!"  Getting to the WCU office meant going against the natural flow of the crowd, all of whom were queuing up for their assigned holding area to check in before moonrise.

Kurby barely faltered at the girl's question; he acknowledged it with a snort, staring down a young twenty-something wizard who suddenly thought twice about using the center of the hallway as a thoroughfare. 

"Time for your flea bath," he said nicely over his shoulder, not sparing her a glance.  "I'd be gutted to see you get any in that flouncy hair."

The WCU office was only a few strides farther.  Kurby stopped short in front of the door, twisting the knob as he pushed it open.  "Get in," he instructed her, finally looking back directly at Fauna.  His expression was cool and unsympathetic, eyebrows raised as if daring the Hufflepuff to protest.  "Once the moon rises, we'll both be on our bleedin' way, and I'd sure as hell better be done with this entire damned headache."

Fauna trailed after the irritable Bagnold, her expression growing increasingly alarmed. It didn't pass her notice that they were going against the tide of everyone, that the people staring at her were likely wondering how she'd pissed off Bagnold enough to make him change course right before a transformation. Her heart beat faster, and she barely glanced at him as he commented about flea baths.

"What?" Fauna said, absolutely confused. All she could really focus on was that he was ordering her into the WCU office minutes before the moon would rise, and that she didn't seem to have a choice in the matter. Without the visual reminder of his arm in a sling, it didn't even occur to her that Bagnold might be in the same boat she was, or that he'd ever offer her the chance to avoid the cells in the first place.

She stayed rooted where she was, staring at him with a wary, worried expression. "What the hell did I do? I got here early, I stayed in line, I didn't talk to anyone. I'm not flipping my hair around." Well, not until now.   

"There's a first," Kurby muttered, shooting an almost-nervous look down the hallway. 

All of his teammates -- at least the ones who weren't suspected of having been bitten or scratched the month before -- were already out on patrol, and the other RCMC employees were likely bustling about, dealing with the historically epic crowd.  The chances that anyone would see him being a decent human being were slim to none, but he still wanted to get into the cover of the office as quickly as possible.

"You didn't do anything," he retorted, frustration evident in his voice.  How long was she going to stand here in the hallway and complain?  If past experience was any indication, they'd be debating this for hours.  "Why the hell can't you just do what someone tells you for once, Blake?  You got scratched," he said sourly, tightening his grip on the doorknob.  "Which means you've got to be locked up until the moon rises, even though you and I both know you didn't get bit. "

The look he gave Fauna made it clear that he knew that the entirety of her scratching had been part of her master plan to irritate him.  Of course she'd complain about this.  Dealing with the girl for any length of time was guaranteed to set his teeth on edge.  This whole thing was starting to feel like a phenomenally bad idea, but he'd already started to make the gesture, and he couldn't renegade on it without looking like he was backing down.

"So you can bleedin' well decide.  Your options are gettin' locked up with them again," he growled, gesturing irritably down the hallway, "and gettin' let out whenever someone damned well gets around to it -- which won't be quick, not with the crowd tonight," he added sarcastically, "or you can stop arguin' with me and come sit in the goddamned office, and I'll check you out as soon as the moon's up."

Fauna followed his glance down the hallway, growing more confused.

She looked back at him as he started to explain, going on about how she'd gotten scratched but not bit, and staring at her as if it were her fault. Heat rising to her face, she opened her mouth, wanting to argue with him, but unable to find the words. This whole situation freaked her out. He said she hadn't done anything, but then why had he ordered her here?

When he told her what her options were, she blinked at him for a few long moments. There must be some kind of catch. This broke so many Ministry rules and went against every assumption Fauna had ever made about Bagnold, that instead of feeling relieved, she just felt shocked and suspicious.

Slowly, she moved into the office, and perched on the edge of one of the seats by the desk, crossing her arms. Whatever his reasons, she knew she didn't want to be stuck in a cell again. She knew what was out there and it scared her more than Bagnold suddenly acting nice. Fauna wondered if this was some kind of test, or a way to get her into trouble, or if she'd just seemed so pathetic that even Bagnold had taken one look at her and decided she couldn't handle it.

"You don't have to... work?" She wondered out loud, watching him with a guarded expression.

Even after Blake had obviously made up her mind to enter, it seemed like it took her hours to make her way inside the office.  Kurby rolled his eyes, jerking the door shut behind her so that it slammed loudly.  Even when someone was doing her a favor, apparently Blake couldn't drop the dramatic exaggerations.

The inside of the WCU office was as empty as he'd expected, though it was obvious that a flurry of activity had taken place just before its inhabitants had vanished.  Papers were scattered across the desks, chairs pushed out hastily, things fallen here and there to the floor.  A clock hung ominously on the back wall, its hands counting not the minutes but marking the phases of the moon and the time to moonrise with each tick.  Kurby ignored Blake as she crept like a kicked puppy to one of the desks, keeping his back to her so he wouldn't have to see the pathetically hurt expression that he was certain was on her face.

"Yeah," he said matter-of-factly, checking the lock on the door one last time to make certain that it was firmly shut.  However unlikely it was that either of them were going to transform, it was still better to take precautions.  "Once the moon's up."

The door secured, Kurby turned on his heel and headed for his own work area.  He'd already laid out most of the equipment he'd need tonight: the enchanted chain mail, the silver chain.  That was one reason that even these precautions seemed ridiculous.  They knew for a fact that new werewolves still showed the allergy to silver; if he'd been cursed, he would have known it the moment he tried to handle his own equipment.  But the goddamned Ministry was too interested in reforming the barbaric laws that they never saw a reason to fix the ones that didn't make any sense.

"You should learn to apparate," he informed Blake gruffly over his shoulder as he picked up the mail.  After almost fifteen years, putting it on was automatic; he managed to get it over his head and in place with minimal effort, and then began lacing the sides together.  "It would've made everything a hell of a lot easier last month.  You won't always have someone else there."

Bagnold choosing to stomp around the office and go about his business as if she weren't sitting there was a strangely reassuring sight. The slam, and the click of the lock on the door earlier had made her jump, but now that he was just grumpy as usual, she could handle that. Fauna relaxed slightly in her chair, surreptitiously glancing over the papers on a WCU employee's desk.

She didn't get very far in deciphering the person's handwriting, when Bagnold told her she needed to learn how to apparate.

Fauna looked at him sharply, outrage flickering over her woebegone expression. She couldn't believe him! She glanced away, glad for a second that he was too busy putting on his chain mail to see how much that comment hurt right now. It was as if she'd been completely useless, just in Bagnold's way, and that everything would have been solved if he could have shunted her off to a floor without a rampaging werewolf on it. She felt embarrassed, ashamed even, that he'd had to protect her at least twice, that the werewolf had gotten its claws in her. Fauna felt certain she'd be dead if it weren't for Bagnold.

Not a happy thought.

"I'm getting my license in a week," she bit out. And she'd pass this time, Merlin help her!

"I don't know why you're blaming me," hurt crept in, making her voice thick. She swallowed and her expression hardened. "Things would have been a lot easier if you'd checked the locks, too. We're both alive and that's... something."

Fauna glanced down, unable to keep glaring at him. Ramona Flickwick had died that night. She didn't know how, but it had happened, maybe even while they'd been chasing Greyfriar in werewolf form.

There was something to be said about the normal task of getting ready before the full moon.  It wasn't a ritual that he enjoyed, exactly, but there was a sort of reassuring, liminal repetition to it.  It grounded him in the moment, helped him focus solely on the upcoming hunt -- but with Blake here, whining and complaining about how mean he was being, how it wasn't her fault, the normal routine was having the absolute opposite effect on his temperament.

"How the hell am I blamin' you?" he snapped, shooting the girl a nasty look over his shoulder as he pulled a leather gauntlet, made from dragon hide and reinforced with silver tacks, onto his left hand.  "Believe it or not, Blake, but you weren't perfect.  You want to avoid the same thing from happenin' twice over, then maybe you should listen to someone else's advice for a change."

He knew it was pointless, knew there was no reason to blame the girl for any of this, but her snapping at him had opened the floodgates.  It hadn't been an easy month.  People had died.  The Registry had increased by nearly a quarter, and chances were that it would swell still further after tonight.  The Ministry and the public alike were demanding answers, and until the Unspeakables decided to stop napping in the corridors and actually turned out how there could be lycanthropes cursed to change in the daylight, there weren't going to be any.

And still, still, they were blaming someone else.  The Prophet was howling for blood, and no one knew yet from whence the eventual offering would come.  Kurby had stayed well out of the way of Greyfriar tonight; the thought of coming face to face with the Wizengamot Elder who wouldn't even cooperate enough to gargle after he'd nearly killed several people would have tried his limits even further.  And now Blake, firing back at him as if he'd had nothing better to do than wander the corridors that evening and check every bleeding lock.  Kurby laced up the first gauntlet, his expression darkening with barely concealed frustration.  How was any of this on him?

"And I know you'd hate to think that any disaster with werewolves couldn't be my fault," he growled, jerking the second gauntlet on with redirected anger.  "But maybe your fuzzy friend should've locked his own damned door.  But Merlin help us if we ask some flea-bitten canine to raise one paw and take responsibility for himself," he added nastily, yanking on the lacing to the gauntlet to pull it tight.  "It's not their fault if they bite anybody.  Ramona Flickwick died last month, and everyone's blamin' the bleedin' potion makers!"

"I never said-" she started, then cut herself off. It was useless to argue with him about how he viewed her. She didn't know why it was so important that he respect her, that he see her as somewhat competent, but it was. Maybe she was trying to make up for years of feeling invisible and useless, or maybe he was just such a jerkarse that his opinion seemed to matter more. Deja vu crept up on her, like she was back at St. Mungo's fighting with Sasha, another person she had constant issues with.

Bagnold continued grumbling, saying Greyfriar could have locked his own door. The mention of Ramona caused the lump to grow in her throat, but she wasn't the only one agitated. He was going to snap those gauntlet laces if he wasn't careful.

"The potion makers were a part of it, Bagnold!" Fauna remembered the wolfsbane making her sick then, and she wasn't sick now. Something had gone wrong. So many things had gone wrong. "So was the WCU! And yeah, so were the werewolves!" She raised her voice and crossed her arms, glowering at him from her seat. "Everyone's got something they could have done, or could have done better. But you don't need to tell me about my damn apparation license, or about..." she faltered, swallowed.

"Greyfriar would never want to hurt me. Anybody," she amended, still looking at him like he'd been put on this earth to make her feel bad.

It was easy to say this when she was sitting safe and sound in the WCU office. It was easy to forget the fear she'd felt surrounded by werewolves a few minutes ago. Someone who really cared about werewolf rights would wait in a cell and follow procedure like everybody else, Fauna thought, but pushed it away.

Even the rhythm of getting ready for the hunt couldn't withstand the overdramatic whirlwind that was Fauna Blake.  Kurby gritted his teeth as he yanked the lacing on the gauntlet so tightly that it nearly cut off the circulation to his hand.  Even when he tried to do the self-righteous girl a favor, she turned it back around on him, exploding and accusing him of being responsible, as if there were anything that the WCU could have done to prevent last month's tragedy.

He'd known all along that it was too much to hope for, but after the events of March, Kurby had hoped that maybe, maybe Blake would understand.  That she would finally have an inkling of what it meant to be hunted by a werewolf.  That she'd understand how quickly things could go wrong.  That she'd see that it was life and death -- not their lives, but hers if the wrong circumstances came into play.  Werewolf rights were a joke.  The fuzzballs could howl and whimper all they wanted about how they wanted hugs and cuddles and nice things to be said about them, but when it came down to it, they still wanted to eat people once a month.

But it was clear that even surviving another werewolf attack had been lost on Fauna (hair toss) Blake.  Blaming the potion makers, blaming the WCU -- not taking any responsibility herself, he noticed -- and then shouting at him about how they could have all did something better.  Kurby gritted his teeth, fumbling to loosen the gauntlet enough so that he could feel his fingers again, when Blake finished her tirade with a pointed sentiment.

"Greyfriar would never want to hurt me. Anybody.

Kurby stared at her for a full five seconds before he could even process the statement.  Without even stopping to think about it, he burst out laughing.

"He'd never want to hurt you, would he?" he asked nastily, giving the girl an enormous smirk as he struggled to get his laughter under control.  "What the hell do you call the scratches down your back, then?  Did you think he was playin' with you?  Gettin' ready to wag his tail and roll over so that you could scratch his belly?"

Bagnold's laughter bothered her more than anything he could have done or said, and he knew it. Nothing about this was funny. Someone she cared about had attacked them, and she couldn't stop being afraid.  Bagnold had saved her life, was letting her avoid the cells now, and instead of reaching any kind of understanding, they were fighting again.

Fauna shook her head, tossing him another glare.

"The werewolves who showed up at the Ministry were looking to you, to the RCMC, to protect them from what was happening outside, to keep them from hurting anyone. Things went wrong. And you're still making stupid comments about wagging tails and dogs."

Saying Greyfriar should have checked his own door was about as helpful as Fauna telling Bagnold he should have double-checked every lock. Maybe painting them all with the same brush made his job easier, but it made everything more difficult for her.

The muscles in the werewolf hunter's jaw tightened as he glared back at her, his smirk fading into a tense, controlled expression.

"Yeah, and do you know why, Blake?" he snapped, setting his hand down hard on the desk.  "Because that's our life every month.  Every time the full moon rises, we've got those stupid mutts tryin' to eat us, and most of the time when we screw up, I'm not the one who pays the price.  Someone dies, or someone turns, and suddenly we've got another ten scruffy-faced fleabags at the next full moon, only this time I know half of them!"

If the table had been made out of anything but wood, he would have been digging his fingers into it.  Kurby had to force himself to unclench his hand, to step away, gritting his teeth as he glared at the Hufflepuff.

"You went through it once," he said shortly, eyes still locked on her with unshakeable intent.  "Every month, the same thing happens somewhere, and someone gets bit." 

His throat worked, tensing as if he were going to swallow, but he finally just shook his head.

"If you want me to stop makin' comments about dogs and tails, then stop prattlin' on about how they don't change once they get bit," he informed her in a low voice, turning away.  "They all change, in the end.  The only bleedin' thing that you idiots are doin' with your stupid movement is makin' it more likely that some kid'll get himself killed because he doesn't think he needs to be afraid."

There were two extremes with Bagnold. He either laughed at her, or looked like he was about to kill the furniture. But at least he was taking her seriously at the moment, explaining what he went through. She just didn't think it was any excuse. If he knew half of the people who turned into werewolves, treating them like shite seemed even worse.

Despite the uncertainty she'd expressed to Dion a day ago, all the doubt she had about whether they were doing the right thing, hearing Bagnold say that SAWS was stupid and useless only upset her more.

"What good is being afraid?" Her voice shook slightly. The werewolves out there scared her and she didn't feel any safer or more prepared because of it.

"Or being nasty about it? Do you think it makes anything better? You can be as careful as you can, and things still happen. Treating them like dogs isn't going to make anyone want to come forward, or ask for help, or trust you."

Fauna's expression darkened and she glanced away. Arguing with him was pointless, but she kept doing it.