Kurby had always thought that the dim workspace was like something out of a medieval wizard's worst nightmare.

No -- a medieval Muggle's worst nightmare, which he was certain was worse.  Jars descending down the wall, things hanging from the ceiling.  As much as he avoided the Department of Mysteries, this was one room that he avoided over all others, even the creepily glistening spheres of the Hall of Prophecies and the strange, deathly shroud where hooded Unspeakables studied things that they probably shouldn't.  Something about the bloody, sometimes gory body parts -- cut from their owner, Kurby always thought with a shiver -- was just wrong.  Unearthly.  Unnatural. 

Even during the best of times, it took considerable motivation to get him down to Downer's workshop.  The man was a werewolf, but a relatively mild one despite his sarcastic temperament.  There was no doubt that he could be left to the WCU trainees.  Never missed a potion, and save for the incident the month before, never missed a check-in.  As much as he hated wild werewolves, there was something about domesticated ones that needled Kurby just as badly.  It was as if they were asking to be put on a leash; asking to turn over all control of their lives to the people who had no choice but to take responsibility for the monsters that they'd become.

He hadn't bothered to announce his presence to Downer, though he was certain the other man smelled that he was there the moment he stepped inside.  Kurby stepped silently into the room, moving more stiffly than he usually did, his left arm still in a sling.  He stopped alongside the first shelf and picked up one of the closer jars, eyeing the floating gray mass inside it with considerable distaste.

"What the hell is this supposed to be, a midnight snack?" he demanded, lip curling as he finally turned a glare to on the room's solitary occupant.  Registered werewolf or not, Downer was disgusting.  "Lettin' your tastes stray beyond your wolfsbane potion, are you, Rover?  I think I know a cure for that one," he added with a vicious smirk.  "It starts and ends with silver."

It hadn't been a bad day, so far at least. The most recent corpse he'd gotten sent was a very good one - young, fresh, and apparently in good health. The young Death Eater was one of many to go unclaimed. The only reason Colin was at all unhappy with this one was the unsure cause of death; he'd been ruled suicide, but no one knew exactly how it'd happened. It wasn't the Killing Curse, didn't seem to be poison...

Oh. And there was one other thing bothering him: the fact he had a feeling he recognized the young man from school.

Standing at one of his working slabs with his leather apron on, he was in the process of examining the blood for signs of poison or disease when a voice interrupted his thoughts.  Putting the vial down, he turned, eyebrow raised. He'd smelled someone, yes - but Colin's enhanced senses were unfortunately tied to Colin's brain, which found blood much more fascinating than any sod who wandered into his lab and squealed about the -

Hmph. It certainly cared more about blood than it cared about Bagnold.

Wordlessly, his eyes darted in the direction of Bagnold's whining, and then to the hunter's bound arm. He didn't say anything, but part of him wondered...

"I wasn't aware silver cured scientific curiosity," he said, simply. "They're as much a snack as that chain of yours is a house decoration." He would never eat his precious brains. He needed them, and, well -  they made such nice decor (unlike Kurby's chain). It kept most people who came to complain out. But not Bagnold, apparently. "Brains aren't exactly tasty, anyway," he added, mostly to himself.

He half-turned, picking up his vials again and carefully dropping a portion of a green potion to the blood. It bubbled, but didn't seem to do much else. He scowled at it. He picked up a different potion and a different vial of blood. This time the blood started to turn blue. That was apparently unexpected, and he raised his eyebrows and turned back to his bench.

"What do you want, Bagnold?" He asked after a moment, having almost dismissed Kurby from his mind.

The only thing more infuriating than a domesticated werewolf was a domesticated werewolf with Downer's full-of-himself superiority complex.  The lycanthrope was always so smug, so certain, and Kurby was convinced that the Unspeakable spent half of his time laughing at him behind his back.  He repudiated by going at the werewolf as hard as he could, making it clear that he wasn't going to back down or be intimidated.  But somehow, no matter what he said or did, it was hard not to feel like his opponent was always getting the last laugh.

Kurby hated him with a venomous fury.  But he couldn't deny that he needed Downer.  After his run-in with Macduff, Kurby had spent four days in St. Mungo's, and a stretch after that at his flat on forced work leave.  The entire time, he hadn't stopped thinking about it -- what he'd done, what Macduff had done, what he should have done differently, what he should do the next time.

First, he needed to find him.  As far as the Ministry knew, Macduff had completely vanished.  Kurby had pumped his cousin Nathan for information, but the most he'd gotten was that Level Two had no clue where the pureblooded direwolf was hiding.  Nothing that the Aurors had done had turned up useful information.  The murderer had completely vanished off of every map.  To find Dugan Macduff, someone would have to get creative.

It just so happened that 'creative' was standing fifteen feet away from him, making smart remarks about scientific nonsense and silver chains that were probably meant to be insulting.

The werewolf hunter gave a snort, his eyes never leaving the other man's back as he settled uneasily against the wall.  Since the attack, he'd been more edgy, easier to startle.  It was hard not to jump at shadows once you knew what might be inside them.

"I heard that you and Macduff spent some quality time together a few weeks back," he said nicely.  He crossed his arms as best he could, ignoring the empty jars with neatly printed labels on the shelves behind him.  "Are you still keepin' in touch with your new packmate, Fuzzball?  Makin' playdates so you can scratch each other's bellies, goin' for walks, that type of thing?"

All that and no snide comment about butt-sniffing? Colin could have given him a bloody metal, but that would have made the self-important little snot worse.

"Aurors decided to tell you lot that at last, did they?" He asked, still apparently more interested in his vial of blood than Kurby. "Yeah, he kidnapped me. I wouldn't call it quality time." If he'd paid, he would have a wanted a refund. "He's got a good taste in beer, though. Can't say the same for anything else."

He shot Kurby a look, neutral and calculating, as he capped the vial. Then he turned and jotted down some notes, ignoring Kurby and falling silent as he did so. Finally, he answered, after a stretch of silence punctuated only by his tapping a finger on a vial.

"I haven't seen him since they tossed me into the street," he said matter-of-factly. "Just ask what you want to know, Bagnold. You're a busy man." He walked to the large slab, pulling back the white sheet to reveal his current cadaver. "And so am I," he added pointedly, as he pried open a dead eye and considered it thoughtfully.

Kurby's expression suddenly grew more tense.  His jaw tightened, but he met the werewolf's look challengingly, lifting his chin.  He wasn't going to back down, and he could go on determinedly ignoring any comments that anyone might choose to make.  Whatever other tastes Macduff had had, they weren't going to happen now.

He almost fired off another sharp retort in response, but that wasn't why he was here.  He didn't need to start arguing with Downer; he had no illusions about how the Unspeakable would feel about cooperating with him.  If this was going to work, it would be because Downer was as angry with Macduff as he was, not because he'd been drawn into yet another irritating debate.

Kurby kept his mouth shut as he watched the other man pull back the sheet, his expression unaffected.  Sometimes, he half got the feeling that Downer had returned to his work just to try and scare visitors off, but even the most Muggle of incisions wasn't enough to start him.  He'd seen plenty of corpses.

"You're a werewolf too," he informed the other man in a low voice, unable to stop it from sounding like an accusation.  "Your nose has to be as good as his is.  And we know he's been lurkin' around Diagon and Knockturn."

Kurby straightened against the walls, his expression cool as he watched the other man for any sort of reaction, any sort of response.  "You've already smelled him once," he said matter-of-factly.  "If we got you on the trail, there's no reason why you couldn't track 'im."

That certainly got Colin's attention. He let the eye close, looking at Kurby as if he was trying to figure out if Kurby was serious. There was one thing he could hand to Bagnold - he wouldn't have played poker with the guy.

So he gave him the benefit of the doubt and answered seriously.

"My nose is as good as his, yes," he said. "The difference is, he's used to his. Mine is new." He sniffed, mostly by coincidence. "Whatever Tawse has created, it's different. Having these senses all the time - I'm not used to it. But MacDuff is. And MacDuff loves it." And I don't went unsaid. No point in saying it, really; he'd be wasting his breath.

"You want me to act like a bloodhound, then," he said, pulling the sheet back up and apparently deciding to give Kurby his full atention. "Sniff him out for you?"

He frowned. "Aside from the fact the man's about as bright as a sick firefly, what makes you think he's in London still? Tawse has hidey-holes all over the country. MacDuff could be holed up in one of those."

"What makes you think he isn't in London?" Kurby retorted, though the words didn't come off sounding nearly as sharp as they usually did.

The muscles in his jaw tightened as he considered how much to say, how exactly to phrase it.  Downer wasn't an idiot; that was one of the things that irritated him most about the other man.  'Just because' probably wasn't going to get him very far.  The idea wasn't more than a hunch, but it was something he'd spent the past week mulling over while he'd been out of commission.  Even if he couldn't be certain, his instincts made him feel like he was right.

"Like you said, he's got...tastes," he said steadily, meeting the werewolf's gaze.  That was admitting almost more than he wanted to.  Amherst hadn't been at his flat since the attack.  As far as he knew, she was staying at a hotel somewhere in the city.  Even though Kurby clearly didn't care, sometimes it was hard not to think about that.  "He wants to slate 'em, he'll have to be here in London.  I don't think he'd stray that far."

"Besides," he added gruffly, looking away as he crossed his arms defensively against his chest.  "You said it too, Downer.  He loves this.  He's embracin' it."  A note of disgust crept into his voice that he didn't bother trying to hide.  "Dogs are territorial, and that's what he's tryin' to become.  He's not about to go use someone else's den if he can wait it out in  his own."

Colin, his expression having been carefully neutral, smirked.

"I was giving him credit, or entertaining the possibility he'd have gotten some sense knocked into him." The words were simple, matter-of-fact - but betrayed a slight hint of humor. "Yeah. MacDuff is driven entire by base needs and emotions. Especially..."

He watched as Kurby looked away, and sighed quietly. "They have a guard on Amherst?" He asked, leaning against the slab, arms crossed on the stone. "I'd be shocked if they don't. He's been stalking her almost non-stop." He looked at the ceiling, aware of how sensitive that subject likely was. "I just got chained up and chomped on. I wouldn't want to speculate what he'd do to her." Thank Merlin he wasn't a woman.

"Fine, then," he said, looking back down. "Say I help you, Bagnold. You're likely expecting 'what's in in for me', and that's part of what I'm asking. I help you take down MacDuff and I'm even more on Tawse's shit list than I already am." He was relaxed in his posture, but his words and tone betrayed his worry. "If you can think of a way to keep me from getting sprayed all over the wall, then I'll help you. MacDuff needs to be stopped."

It was the topic he wanted nothing more than to avoid, even if he couldn't stay away from it.  Kurby shot a nasty look back at the werewolf, his stance tensing.

"I've got no idea," he said shortly, rolling his shoulder blades back.  The motion made pain shoot through his arm, and Kurby tensed, gritting his teeth as he weathered it.  He didn't want to think about Margo Amherst, not about what he'd gone through because of her or how he'd ignored her worries and fears when she'd first come to his flat.  She was the Aurors' problem now.  At least he could trust that Nathan or Adon was probably taking responsibility for her.

He'd been expecting exactly what Downer suggested: some sort of challenge, a request of what was in it for him.  Outside of family, no one ever did anyone else favors, and Kurby knew the magnitude that he was asking for.  He couldn't stand Downer; if he hadn't been this desperate, he would never have even considered asking the werewolf for help. 

There was nothing he could offer him.  No magical protection.  If the Unspeakable helped him find Macduff and he couldn't get things done this time around, the likelihood was that they would both be dead.

"Just help me find him," he said at last.  "That's it.  Once we do, you can apparate away, or whatever the hell you want to do," he added grimly.  "I'll kill Macduff, and Tawse'll never know you were there."

Colin's eyes narrowed. You're hunting a rapist, murderer and stalker, He thought. You know one of his primary targets - you know he's dumb enough to go after her, just to prove he can. And you're not even bothering to find out if she's being guarded.

How professional. That certainly inspired confidence.

The silence didn't help, either. When Kurby did answer, Colin shook his head slightly. "Fine. I'll help," he said, finally. Bagnold would owe him. Not that Bagnold would ever allow him to hold it over his head - but he'd owe him, all the same. "But." His tone was taking the matter-of-fact stance again.

"What're your clues? Where and when was he last officially seen? He's not likely to be in that armpit of an apartment anymore, the Aurors have all but camped out in it. You know he'll likely target Amherst - where is she? If the Aurors have a guard on her, do they know they could have MacDuff on them?" He spoke quickly, his questions rapid-fire and serious. 

"I can't just walk out into the street and point you to him. Following the scents from his apartment would just waste time - they go everywhere. I smelled that when I turned. He's all over that area. It's not a trail, it's a cloud. We'd have to start somewhere else that he's been recently."

He had started pacing, his rapid speech now clearly him thinking out loud. "Amherst - her home, he attacked you. Did he bleed? Obviously you did, but was he injured? Slowed down at all?"

"Yeah, he was injured!" Kurby snapped.  He glared back at the Unspeakable, his expression dark.  "I stabbed 'im in the back with a bleedin' knife and I would've slit his throat in another half second.  Just because you rolled over and played dead," he added in a near growl, "doesn't mean that I did.  I knew what I was gettin' into, werewolf."

He took a short, stabbing breath, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder.  This wasn't about werewolves.  He needed Downer, irritating barrage of questions and all. 

"If the Aurors don't know they could have Macduff on 'em, they're bleedin' idiots," he said gruffly, crossing his arms in as much of an apology as the other wizard was going to get.  "Protectin' Amherst isn't my job.  Huntin' lycanthropes is.  Present company excluded," he added, eyeing the other man darkly.  At least for now, Downer had an Apparate-from-Azkaban-For-Free parchment. 

The revealed limits of the other man's werewolf-given abilities were frustrating in themselves, though.  Kurby gritted his teeth, unhappily allowing himself to think over these facts. 

"He -- doesn't he mark his territory or somethin'?" he asked, shooting Downer a frustrated look.  "Why can't you sniff for a cloud where there shouldn't be one, then?  He sent letters to half of the bastards on Level Two last week," he added sullenly.  "You need a fresher scent, we can go lift one of those.  I've got two cousins in the Auror Office."

Colin ignored Kurby's outburst, mostly. He'd learned, quickly, to just ignore or try to diffuse Kurby's rage and jabs. If you couldn't, you wouldn't get anywhere with the man. He still felt the twinge - well, the massive twinge - of annoyance. The man really needed to calm down.

Not for the first time, Colin reflected that the world was lucky no one had turned Bagnold yet. If they'd thought MacDuff was bad, no one had yet faced Bagnold when pure rage overcame him.

So he kept his calm tone, his thoughts still being vocalized. "Not that I saw. We might get plenty of habits and behaviors from dogs while transformed, but territorial behavior isn't one of them." He was speaking to deaf ears when it came to that, of course, but that didn't stop him. Werewolves didn't piss on anything to mark their territory. If they pissed on your house, they were sending a very different message.

"As for looking for a cloud where there shouldn't be one - yes, I could do that, but only if you want to take a month to even get started." He cupped his chin thoughtfully. "London is big place, and he goes after muggles, too, so he could be holed up outside wizard territory. If we don't narrow the search it'll take too long, and there's a good chance he might find out you're trying to sniff him out."

He rubbed his temple, thinking - since, apparently, he was going to have to do the thinking for them. Who'd have guessed - Bagnold, not versed in crime. Sigh.

"The blood would be best, if the place hasn't been cleaned. Blood has a strong scent - much stronger than anything on letters. The fight would help - blood, sweat, adrenalin. Scent wise it's the difference between a scented candle and huffing ammonia. Did he Appiriate away, or walk out?"

The werewolf hunter was silent for a long moment.  He put a hand to his shoulder, staring at a distant point across the room.

"I don't know," he said at last, shifting his gaze to meet Downer's.  "He broke into it.  She didn't --"  He paused, looking uncharacteristically uncertain for a moment before setting his jaw.  "I helped her check her wards," he said grimly at last.  "He wasn't apparatin' in.  He was disarmin' the wards and pickin' the locks.  But I don't know how he left.  If we get you in, then you can tell me."

All of a sudden, he felt exhausted.  He'd been expecting grudging, resentful cooperation at best -- if worse came to worst, he could have flung all kinds of threats at Downer, starting with the list of ways that he could make life difficult for a werewolf and running all the way through the creative nightmares that Tawse and Macduff could bring down on the Unspeakable if Kurby let slip that he was 'helping' when he wasn't.  But Downer had barely taken any convincing.  Even more than that, he was clearly putting thought into this, making suggestions that would help.

"I can tell Whitman that I need to look inside Amherst's flat," he said sullenly, crossing his arms once more.  The Aurors wouldn't be happy, but he could use the weight of the WCU if he had to.  When werewolves were involved, at least it gave him pull.  "If you pick up somethin' there, then we can use it.  If not, then we try to hunt him on our own until the next time he sticks his head up."

He couldn't fault that, and the lack of complete animosity in Kurby's tone was somewhat surprising. He quirked an eyebrow slightly, but stayed silent as the man spoke.

"Alright," he said, when Kurby had finished. He lowered his hand, his arms crossed in a casual rather than angry or guarded manner. "I'll just need one thing from you, then, and it shouldn't difficult. Paperwork."

He smirked slightly, some part of him apparently finding the mundane-ness of the need amusing. "They're strict, here. If I skip work without the Aurors or WCU's papers saying they need or want me to help, they'd probably fire me." He glanced at the corpse on the slab - his job skills helped him no where else except at the morgue in St. Mungos, and Bombay would have flipped at the very idea. 

"Let me know when you need me, Bagnold," he said, walking back to the slab.

There was any number of sardonic werewolf remarks he could make -- observing that Downer's masters kept him on too short a leash, asking if he'd run out of newspaper, offering to whistle instead of call.  But Kurby kept his mouth shut, staying sullenly silent for a moment before turning himself to go.

He'd noticed the jars on the shelves already, but he hadn't really looked at them on his way in.  Most of the ones directly behind him were empty, marked very clearly in black ink.  Kurby recognized a few as Ministry colleagues, prominent personalities -- and there, in the middle of the shelf, each letter looking sharply black as if it had been only recently written, were a pair that were labeled MACDUFF and TAWSE.

Kurby paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Downer again.  The Unspeakable had already returned to work.  The werewolf hunter regarded him silently, and then turned away once more, leaving the jars behind him as he started out of Level Nine.

End.