It wasn't like Huck had never been alone in Knockturn before, but it seemed somehow darker and a little more murky than usual. With his big sea-blue eyes darting nervously from shadow to shadow, Huck took the longest strides his legs could manage.

He decided to whistle to himself. That always had helped him as a kid. After all, he'd been scared before. In his early childhood, the fact that he'd had a muggle mother and a very spotty lineage otherwise had been an issue that had been a real problem. For several weeks, his father had boarded up his pharmacy and stayed at home with his wife and kids. In those times, Huck had been old enough to be scared, unlike Ronnie and Penny. And in times like those, he whistled. It drove his mother up a wall, but it was his best line of defense.

He whistled Moon River, his mother's favorite song, and was a little off-put by the fact that it was the only sound in the alley other than the far-off chatter from the main road.

He had friends that spent a great deal of their time here, and lived here even, but it had never felt quite comfortable to the boy, and he wasn't sure why.

He had water in his ears.

Merlin freaking damnit he had water in his ears. He shook his head, lank curls that had been hacked unevenly off with a knife swinging. And then he kept shaking. Hands, shoulders. Heads shoulders kneesandtoes. Knees and needs and… he laughed, high and wild, and the sound cracked as his voice did, and his shoulders shook. It wasn't water. He hummed, off-key to himself as he crouched, arms on his knees, on the stoop where he'd been told to wait. It wasn't water in his ears, he realized—it was the moon. The shaking abruptly stopped, and his head snapped up at a distorted angle to stare at it where it hung, murky and hidden and so very close to full… but calling him, and wiping his mind clean.

The peace of that silence—silence he never had in his mind for more than a few stolen seconds, was abruptly interrupted by gratingly chipper noise. His hands clenched. He had a broken broomstick handle in those hands, balanced on his knees as his arms had been. It had been one of those beastly family brooms, thick as two fists, splintered, long, and solid.

"Cé hé sin?[1]" He snarled under his breath, an angry whisper at being disturbed.  It bothered him. It bothered him. Eyes locked on the whistling boy and he went still. Watching. Bad night. It was a bad night for Colm, always was before the moon, bad, bad... Nervous, certainly, the wandering whistler. Stupid--like a sheep. Mindless little sheep wandering away, and he was a wolf--oh! He was a wolf now! To gather little sheep for the slaughter. To steal chickens, were those foxes? Sly as a fox, quick as fox, mean as a wolf. Stupid boy. Stupid lamb. Stupid noise, foolish... "Caillte uan beag, uaineoil beag, t suas uan beag...[2]"

1.	Who is he?
2.	Lost little lamb, little lamb, shut up little lamb... I really only know Irish phrases, I don't speak it. So assume grammar errors are intentional and he's just a little off <3

Huck felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He didn't dare stop walking, or whistling, but all the same the logical part of his brain (generally the part that had no say in what was going on) reassured him placidly that he was probably just being skittish. He had hung around shady alleys at home, certainly, and the only thing making this alley different was the supernatural. Which, really, didn't really seem all that super to the boy, considering the amount of time he spent dealing with it. He supposed that he'd be safer in a magical alley than in a grotty alley back home where he was a hundred times more likely to be stabbed by a homeless mugger.

As soon as his rambling thoughts quieted, he became once again aware of his surroundings and his ears pricked up. He was sure that he heard something now. It sounded like... a hyena, or maybe a dingo. Something close to human but not quite right. It was high and uncomfortable. It was a noise that finally made not only the hair on the back of Huck's neck stand on end, but all of it. Down to the little hairs on his feet. It was hissing something in a language Huck had heard before but certainly didn't speak.

He finally stopped and spun around, looking for the source of the noise, but the bouncing echoes made it difficult for him to pinpoint their origin. He squinted, and tried to draw himself up to appear bigger and more confident. "Okay," he said, trying his best to sound annoyed and not terrified. "I get it. Wooooooo, spooky. Why don't ye knock it the shit off before I put out your lights?"

It was a ballsy gamble, and one that he regretted almost immediately.

He couldn't remember why he was here. That happened a lot.  The day before a full moon his thoughts scrambled and spun, ebbed and flowed worse than usual. He'd been hired to do something. Had he? Couldn't focus…

He could see them. Oh, the kid thought he'd be clever. Summon them up with his whistling, not his wand. Like Colm didn't know they were there. His eyes, narrow and unfocused, darted, swinging around Huck's shoulders where nothing but air and delusions hung, and a growl sounded in the back of his throat. His face contorted in fury, moonshine highlighting the awful scars that pulled on his neck and cheek. He could remember, vaguely, hazily, sickles changing hands. Orders, by someone. Tall and whispery. What were they? Couldn't focus. They amounted to beat someone up. That was it.

Who?

This kid was as good as any.

The hysterical, hyena laughter cracked from his throat again, high and wild. He'd asked for it! The kid had literally asked for it! The realization struck Colm as absurdly funny.

He didn't draw his wand, not like any decent wizard would expect. No, the curse made bad things get worse when Colm tried to use magic. So he sprung, the distorted power of someone who didn't care if they missed, didn't care if they missed and smacked right into a wall, who threw themselves in without thought to personal injury, or consequences if they didn't connect. The broom handle he swung like a baseball bat towards Huck's stomach, ready to drop it and claw with his hands if he missed.

And something sang in his blood as the whispering dark blobs separated from the boy's shoulders to slink back into the shadows.

Taras swept the hair out of his eyes. He really needed to cut it again since he was going to look for a Ministry job. It was a shame that he had to take away what defined him in this street. Yes, the look of prison. Seven long years in a damp dark cell waiting for somthing to happen, anything to happen. And nothing ever did. His clothes rotted and his skin tore. His hair and beard grew and nothing ever happened. Eventually, he resorted to living inside of his head and his head was a dangerous place indeed. Maps and roadways that interlocked and all lead to one thing. Getting out. Regaining his power.

It was power that made the dark Russian tick. There was nothing in life without it and seven damned years in prison had him craving it. That's why he was here, on the streets instead of in his comfy warm bed. He could only move up from here. But first, to do what he came for. It was time to play teacher for little urchins who began overstepping their boundaries.

He turned a corner and leaned against a wall to watch what was happening. A hand came up to massage his temples. Werewolves. They had no patience when it came to taking down their prey. It was an impossible concept, especially for ones as crazy as Quigley, for them to grasp that there was no power gained from a quick kill. They needed to suffer. Especially this one for defiling his princess.

"Quigley. Down." He chuckled, his accented voice peculiarly suave. He sounded as if he were talking to a dog... well, he was. "You can have your fun in time."

The figure of the creepy cackling alley specter was upon Huck before he had a chance to figure him out. His feet failed him almost immediately- the ground seemed suddenly a whole lot slimier- and he stumbled wildly backwards trying to find something to get his grip on. There was nothing. Just the cool, moist air of Knockturn swishing past his hands as he thrashed like a wildcat. Finally, his Chuck Taylors slipping fatally on the stone, he let out a pained breath as his knee came in hard contact with the ground.

He had expected the figure to have ripped his head clean off his shoulders at that moment, but after a few instants flickered by and he could still be annoyed by the throbbing pain in his knee he looked up. Some brief instant later he became aware of a second voice talking- Good Lord, he was beginning to be confused by all the voices- and of a pair of footsteps. Maybe the man had been talking the whole time. Maybe the scream of pain in his leg had drowned out the world.

Looking up, he saw two men- the first one startled him immediately with his hideous scarring and his doll-like dead eyes, but the second one scared him even more. The voice and the face swirled together for a moment in his memory, and eventually he was able to dredge up one word-

"Strelnikov!"

Generally the word was reserved for excited greetings, though he usually favored the short pet version of it for Mimi. In this case, however, he almost hissed it, as though he were somehow reluctant to even say it.

The first man/beast- he was fairly sure Strellie's dad had referred to him as 'Quigley'- seemed to be at bay at least for the moment, and that thought was heartening for the boy, and he spoke with bravado although his pain was very evident in his inflections.

"Jesus, Mr. Strelnikov, the shite you doin' sneakin' around the back alleys with... that?" he indicated Colm with a hand that was now slightly skinned on the palm from his brief tumble.

Colm raised an arm to swing a blow and felt the sick hum in his ears that suggested his luck was about to change.

Quigley. Down.

Damn.

The voice came through the haze of confusion as familiar, and while Colm didn't particularly like being spoken to like a dog, he was well aware of how people like Strelnikov viewed him. Well. Screw him. Colm would take his money for now. There were plenty of ways to make someone regret underestimating you. But for the moment, the fragments of his thoughts weren't capable of going further than an annoyed hiss. He  stood, swinging the broom handle back over his shoulder, slumped and brooding as he slunk to the side of Taras, debating whether it was worth it or not to swing the bat at his knees. The thought made him smile, and the quiet, hysterical laughter bubbled from his throat again as he stood and shook with it.

It occurred to him that the kid he'd been trying to pummel was, in fact, the one he'd been hired to pummel. This amused him further, until he had drop into a squat to keep from falling over with laughter. Merlin, Merlin he didn't understand rich people. Bastards, all of them. The laughter cut off mid-cackle. "An mbeidh tú tar éis dó? No, not I. For if I do, tá sé cinnte go caoin." The distorted nursery rhyme was singsongy and quiet, and Colm was looking up at the sky, rocking back and forth on his heels, and it didn't seem to be directed at either of the other two figures in the alley. His head snapped to Huxley as he was referred to as 'it', and he snickered and waved merrily. And then he was silent, smile gone and abruptly still as stone.

Taras sighed. Why did he even bother? Honestly? Bringing a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose, the Russian looked up and down the alley. It was mostly empty with just a few guttersnipes hanging around the far edges. This was hardly an uncommon sight, so he knew they wouldn't be bothered. The only problem they might have is if Quigley decided to be a loose cannon. It was all for show, choosing someone as nuts as the wolf. It was a chance he was willing to take, though, for scaring the kid out of his wits. With maybe a few some many fatal possibly fatal injuries.

One could never tell with hired hands. That was the only reason he was bothering to stick around for this disaster. This close to the full moon, Quigley might not be able to control himself or even want to control himself. And he did not want to be responsible for the death of a mere child. Only the serious maiming. He needed to keep low in England just long enough to get his job as a lawyer.

"Ward, I presume." He said smoothly. Of course he knew who it was, but that didn't stop him from being the perfect buisnessman. "Who I pay is of no importance to you. Rather, what you should be concerned with is your relationship with my daughter."

Taras turned to Colm and nodded. "Do what you will, but keep him concious." 

 

Huck felt a little skeeved out by the sudden stoniness of Colm's face, but did an admirable job of keeping it to himself. Blathering to himself in tongues. Cackling. What kind of demented demon was this? He gave him a quick up-and-down glance, trying not to allow any eye contact. He didn't look like the strongest guy in the world, but his face did look... hungry. Which was not a look Huck was entirely familiar with.

"Ward, I presume."

Maybe it was just his temper acting up. Maybe it was just his stubborn sense of pride. Either way, real or imagined, Huck could have sworn he caught a note of derision in the man's voice at the mention of his last name. The boy wrinkled his nose slightly. Were he in a more well-lit and... populated location, he might have made mention of it. As it was, he was fairly spooked and had no inclination to draw negative attention to himself.

"That's right," he replied earnestly. He listened with no further interruption, but when he mentioned Strellie, Huck raised his eyebrows. "Strellie? Aye? What about her?" He was a little confused. Had the man heard a nasty rumor about his libido? It'd be a lie to say he wouldn't have done anything with Mimi given the right circumstances but he was certain she would never lower her standards for a dope like himself. She was too good for him, in more ways than one, and he knew it.

"Do what you will, but keep him conscious."

Huck started quickly, scrambling to his feet. "Woah, what? Hold on a second!" He reached as fast as he could for the wand jammed in the back of his jeans, but his hands were shaky and unrealiable.

_{OOC: Sorry guys! I didn't see that Mads had posted. Just poke me next time.}

Colm stared at the moon, and stared, and stared, and felt the ache in his bones like a tangible thing that rode him as he might ride a broom. With a face as blank as untouched parchment paper, cracked and dry, he ignored the continued exchange, not even to acknowledge Strelnikov's demand he keep the boy conscious. He didn't care. Wouldn't care. Couldn't care.

All he could hear was the moon rising and swelling in the sky, gorging herself and puffing her round white cheeks as she stuffed herself with greed and the black. Waiting. Gorging herself while Colm starved, hunger raw in his throat, for something that wasn't food.

Always waiting.

He  gave no indication that he'd heard any of the exchange, his hands curled around the busted broom handle, solid as a baseball bat, and his eyes were unfocused and distant, but as soon as Huxley moved, it seemed to break the stony paralysis Colm was held in, and with a blank face, he swung his weapon with both hands and without restraint at Huxley's knees, and then dropped one hand from the wood to swing unerringly for the kid's face.