Sweet Disaster

If you squint, all Aurors begin to look the same. All of them unnecessarily grumpy, ugly and rude. Now, Ariel Greyback was not a man – or monster – to whom you administer any acts of kindness yet even he, arguably an animal, knew the difference between how to treat a person worthy of kindness and how to not and, crucially, almost painfully, the Aurors seemed to see it too for Ariel Greyback was not a man worthy of the same kindness. He was almost used to it but each time he bore a wince, the side of his lips curled down, his brows furrowing low, then once the charges were read out he would be all-too-painfully reminded of the life he had chosen for himself in the midst of the pain of a yearning heart. He’d forged his path, committed his crimes. Any and every government seemed hell bent on making him pay for them, too.

It was a dim afternoon, one in which no home seemed to stem. Pathetic fallacy seemed to reign, the stormy skies reflecting the dismal mood that hung about their flat. No coaxing words could soothe the fright in the small blonde’s frame though salve had wiped away the bruises heavy-handedness had brought out in her ashen skin. Blanket after blanket had been wrapped around her and in his despair, Ariel had filled the house with the smells of cooking. Soups had been made. Ridiculous desserts had been constructed and yet nothing could raise a smile to her mouth. It was as though there was something else, something neither he nor Oliver dared to attempt to touch upon. Not a word was uttered though tears flowed freely. If it had not been for the strange bond he had committed himself to forging with her he would have been glad to abandon his post. But he wasn’t and when the Aurors came, the rules of the game were adjusted.

“Prisoner number Anuz-Jera-Eight-Six-Four…”

Ariel was sat down in an interview room, the familiar feeling of cool metal burning absently against his wrists. One of their little monkeys came in, a simpering man who did not look as though he knew how to work the wand he’d been gifted with. Nonetheless, one of the rougher Aurors pulled at his hair, the scalp cawing in dismay as his neck had no choice but to bend, revealing the little numbers etched there. They were faded, the work of time, but with careful magic they were soon dark and blazing against his pale skin once more, as though fresh. He flexed his fingers, pulling absently at his jeans, his eyes casting their stare upwards at the Auror who released him, though not before giving him a good, fine shove first. Ariel sighed.

“Greyback, d’you know why you’re here?”

Ariel opened an eye. “I have some idea,” he drawled, looking up at the Auror. “Why are you here?”

The Auror blanched and shook himself, blinking curiously, trying to get to grips with what he’d been asked. Ariel lifted a smirk to his face, looking up, flicking a few silky blonde locks of hair out of his eyes. The Auror raised his hand, as though thinking about clubbing the werewolf across the face but he thought better of it, lowered his hand, twisted his legs and marched out. Ariel wasn’t sorry to see him go either and once the door was slammed shut he lifted his feet up onto the table and his hands into the air, shaking the chains as he inspected the lock. There would be no getting out, it seemed.

He was content to wait, he decided as he set his hands in his lap. He’d have a while to rest, too. Perhaps he could plan dinner while he waited.

The brush caressed the cheekbone, particles of shimmery colour clinging to bristles scattering over peach skin with every long, arching stroke. The wrist, already laden at the pulse point with the muted tang of cologne, flicked back and forth in efficient, economic movement; with the air of a woman whose effort, or precision was rarely compromised.

The brush was dropped into cleaning solution, the rounded pad of the ring finger rose to press against the flakes of colour, drawing out in a smooth, upward curve, bleeding glaze and hue into wheatish cheeks. The paper-thin eyelids got the same treatment, bronzed colour light and yet deepest at the point where skin met blonde eyelashes. The hand dipped, and lifted again: this time tapering fingers clasped around a tube of glossy, metallic black. The cover came off, and gauzy peach peeped out from its fringes, slowly emerging as a monolith of solid, nude colour, cosseted in shimmer. The pointed, blunted edge pressed against one pale, pink, lower lip- leaking transparent rich shade into the skin- and the lips gathered up and compressed, spreading the shade and pressing it into all corners and crevices. And then they filled, pouted and parted- to reveal a uniform, unblemished tinge of matte and muted shine, art on living canvas.

The cream wrap dress was slithered on the body, hands lingering awhile on rounded shoulders and the outward jut of too-bony hips. Peach Christian Loubotin gladiators found their way over pale feet, straps slid on the long arch of a heel and buckled in. A black robe, formally old-fashioned in it s cutting, modern in its length, was shrugged over the shoulders, buttons hanging uselessly. Long fingers crawled up from the nape and into the mane, dividing it into thick strands and twining into knots of blonde that clustered off to the left and rumpled down, stretching into serpentine trails of blonde ringlets that settled luxuriantly by her right collarbone. Practically trimmed nails skated over the dress cloth stretching over the abdomen, looking for all that they might be savouring the softness of the silk, but fingertips tracing an old, haunting ache- the path of the scar that marred the perfection, that turned angry red and burned in agony on nightmare nights, whose origins were as much of a mystery as the incident that had taken this marred, made-up body out of commission for eighteen months.

A pretty paint job can do little to hide the ugliness within....

Her throat hitched, and Avariella blinked at herself in the floor length mirror. The air went out much easier than it had gone in, rushing out of her like a breeze barely stirring the sand. The woman in the glass looked unassailable. Confident. Ready.

She felt the left end of her mouth quirk. The wizarding world had better be so, too.


~


“Dressed to kill, eh?”

Avariella’s gaze shifted left to see the man, with shorter shoes and almost as long legs, half-running to keep up, and resisted the urge to walk even faster. Her shoes were doing what common propriety disallowed her to do, announcing her presence to all and sundry, with short clicks that echoed most satisfyingly against the cold stone. The corridors were as draughty as ever, women and men in frumpy lumps of what passed as robes gathered outside office doors as if they had nothing better to do, bright violet paper memos whizzing past and lodging into the hats and buns of unsuspecting workers. It felt good to be home.

“Dressed for the kill. There’s a difference.” The lift was out of commission, thank God, a happy circumstance that enabled her to stretch her calf muscles on the stairs. Denver plodded right along, pausing now and then to wipe sweat from a greasy brow, with a handkerchief that looked like it had seen three generations. “Besides, Auroring allowed for a certain laxness in...professional maintenance. While a lawyer must be ever ready.”

“Indeed.” Denver clasped his hands together, just as they turned into the corridor. His left dropped, and withdrew a battered, suspiciously thick file from the black sling-bag dangling from his shoulder that looked even more degenerate than the handkerchief, sliding it into Avariella’s already waiting palm. “Your first case file.”

She flicked it open without fanfare, creased the front page, palm smoothening down the parchment. Sage-hued eyes skimmed past the first line, then paused.

“Your man is waiting for you in Room 70A, behind you.” Denver smiled, and the slimy curl of his lip had never been less missed. “Ready, Miss Hudson?”

It could have been several reasons. It could have been because she was a woman. Or a Muggleborn. Or it could have been engineered by Malfoy who’d wormed his way up to this Level some time back. There were many possible causes which could have led to this file being placed in her hands her first day back in the Ministry. There could be only one hoped effect. They wanted her conscience that rebelled against defending a guilty man to war with her urge never to turn down an open challenge. They wanted her career gone before it started. They wanted her to lose.

She glanced down at her knuckles whitening against the parchment, then raised them to coal-black eyes. She could feel lipstick tauten and crack a bit, as her lips widened in a smile.

“Of course.”

There were only two possible paths to be taken really, contemplated her mind in a rather curious mix of self-imposed, detached calm and furious rage, even as her hand pushed open the door of the interrogation room and she walked in. If Greyback pled guilty to his crimes, then she’d fight for all the leniency that she could get. If he didn’t......well. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

The metal chair screeched against the stone floor as it was pulled out, and Avariella settled herself, not caring to lift her eyes from the file and see the man for herself. Apart from the reputation that preceded itself, she knew nothing about him except his last name. Only if it could remain that way.

“Good morning Mr. Greyback, I am your Ministry-assigned lawyer who is to defend you on your case.” The words flung themselves out, swift and economic of breath. Her thumb and index finger pinched the end of a stray parchment at the back of the file, pulled it free and slid it across the table, followed by a ballpoint pen out of her own robe pocket. The Self-Inking quill poking out from behind a sheaf of statements of witnesses, remained untouched.

“Your crimes if you please, listed in chronological order. Followed by whether you plead guilty to them or not.”

In the moments between the door closing and then reopening, Ariel buried his head into his hands and scrubbed at his eyes. Weary hurt spread through his body and he sighed heavily, trying to reconcile the day with what he had done. He’d done a good thing, for once. He’d succeeded in keeping his wayward friends together, to give them an opportunity to sit and actually say what they felt. However, in doing that good thing he’d let himself be caught and while Alice’s parents buzzed about her, shooting worried glances between themselves as she resisted their affections, he’d slipped off at the behest of the Aurors. He hoped that Ollie hadn’t noticed he’d gone. He hoped for their sake that her parents had gone, that they could sit and just be for a while because they deserved it. Just as he knew he deserved to sit in the interrogation room and wait for them to decide what to do with him. He imagined he’d be put on a tag again, quite like he had been before he’d left the country for Germany. But that was only if they let him go, of course, which, as he sat there looking at the sparsely decorated room and at the two way mirror through the slits between his fingers, he doubted very much.

When the door reopened, Ariel dropped his hands to the table, noting the slightly chipped fingernail on his left index finger. He glared at it, as though doing so would make the nail grow back and resume its neat, manicured ways, but alas it did not and reluctantly Ariel brought his hand to his mouth, his teeth catching onto the nail, beginning to nibble down on it. He watched with wide, bright blue eyes as she set herself down, wincing a little both from the fact that his teeth caught his skin and from the sound of metal scraping across tiles. Absently, Ariel wriggled his toes in his shoes and brought his hands down into his lap, watching, waiting, for her to look at him. His lawyer. He couldn’t remember hearing anything more ridiculous. It seemed as though they were intent on prosecuting. He would have retorted that he had his own lawyer but, like with so many things, it would’ve been a lie and short of giving Alice a galleon and getting her to fight his corner he wasn’t likely to then go and get a lawyer, either. So this was it. And she didn’t look at him.

“Why bother?” Ariel responded dryly, his fingers absently rubbing at his wrist where the cuffs had chafed. “The way it works is they try and put me in prison and I run away. That’s the game that the Ministry and I play and I doubt the rules have changed much by introducing you, no offense, so I shouldn’t worry yourself with the paperwork.”

Only, this time Ariel wasn’t entirely sure if he could get by on bravado alone. He’d felt himself beginning to revert back to the calm, centred human being that he’d been during Hogwarts. Turning every month was beginning to hurt again, it wasn’t such an easy transition. He wanted to be human. He wanted his little family. Ollie was as close to flesh and blood that he was ever going to get and he cared about Alice, if his actions weren’t indicative enough of that. He wanted to keep them safe. He’d stood before his father to do as much. He’d had to talk to his sister because he wanted to keep them safe. He wanted to do this, live this life. He didn’t want to be in chains again. He’d liked the way the ink had faded in his skin. He’d liked the ability to start to forget. But now, he’d wiped that away. The slate was as broken, cracked and graffiti-ed upon as they had always been. And he wasn’t human.

She was vaguely beautiful, Ariel decided as his eyes surveyed the woman before him. She had this smooth plain of forehead that was obstructed by arched eyebrows that half made her look shocked while at the same it made her look vaguely irritated – though he had a feeling that was a professional hazard. Her little nose made way for what he assumed would be cheeks a make-up artist would love to embellish upon. Then that even littler mouth, pouted and pursed because he was such an annoyance, such an inconvenience in her day. At that thought, his own larger one swept into a smirk and he figured what he liked the most: it was the way her chin, dimpled, stuck out defiantly, as though the whole process was a difficult one, one she didn’t really want to get involved with but had to. He liked that best. He imagined it would fit nicely in the slope between his thumb and index finger but this one didn’t look as much fun as the women in the past that had tried to cope with him in a scenario that revolved around his involvement with the law.

“Green,” he leaned forward, looking at her steadily. “Pale green. The colour of mint. Am I warm?” He leaned up, his mouth opening a little as his lips quirked into a risqué smile as his eyes endeavoured to steal a glance down the front of her dress where the material sagged as she bent over. There was nothing to see though and Ariel brought his lips together thoughtfully as he sat back down, deciding that she wasn’t the kind of girl to go green. A little bit more feminine, he figured. Pink. Purple. White, if he could stomach the thought of as much. He knew Alice enjoyed the likes of what Agent Provocateur could provide – especially on date night – a few weeks spent doing her washing and the odd rifle through her knicker drawer to wind her up had informed him of much. He couldn’t, however, see this woman even considering stockings – let alone some of the things his flatmate wore. No, he knew that under that pretty dress there were some various serious panties.

“Right, darlin’,” Ariel leaned back, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Let’s put our heads together and think a bit, shall we?”

Resisting arrest – that was a big one, one that had been an initial obsession that the Ministry had harboured. Escaping arrest was the sensible next step. Evading capture was another one – but perhaps simply only because they were embarrassed. Being horrendously, roguishly handsome was a big one. Taking to his werewolf form having not taken Wolfsbane was probably another example of his criminal ways. Then it came to the involvement with the selling of black market goods. Breaking and entering. Trespassing. He was an accessory to more than his fair share of murders. His surname, sometimes, was reason enough for them to arrest him. It wasn’t something he could rattle off ticking them off on one hand. In fact, he didn’t want anything to do with it. He was desperate not to think about it. It wasn’t him anymore. Why he was being brought to heel for it now, he had no clue.

“I,” Ariel pressed his lips into a thin line. “You’ve probably got a litany of examples of my crimes. I’m not going to give you the chronology, love, because it’s not your business. So just go on what you know. This isn’t a cast you’re going to win, pretty though you are. If you bat your eyes at them, I might get a reduced sentence – a little bit more leg and I might just be under house arrest but you can’t get me off. I’m also not going to plead guilty to any of it. Well, some of it. Maybe all of it. But at the end of the day it’s all hearsay and that’s what the Ministry intend to work off of because they have never gotten me in chains in Britain before. So, let’s just… breathe in the atmosphere and you can ask me a better question like … ‘Ariel, where do you want to go to dinner tonight?’”

He looked civilised.

Her gaze was hovering somewhere about the little jut of bone between his eyebrows, from where his nose sloped down. No eye contact- that was only reserved for the courtroom. Meeting someone’s eyes only served to provoke a challenge, or make people labour under the delusion that they had gotten closer to you somehow; neither of which Avariella was in habit of encouraging, or entirely comfortable with. But he was clean-shaven, sparse bits of stubble smattering that clean jawline, a darkened, dirty blonde strand curling under one earlobe, stuck with perspiration, probably owing to the humidity of this concrete, iron-barred room. She wasn’t naive enough to think that crime could be gleaned from the face, the most diabolic wizards she knew had the sincerest features imaginable- a sixteen-year old boy smiled at her, green eyes just visible over ‘Quidditch Through The Ages’ - but......well. Her gaze dropped to the file again, and then darted up once, quickly, to the rough, callused hands covering that face: she wasn’t expecting the....humanity.

Shows how much you know, bloody idiot.

Because then the man started talking.

He spoke, and her lip twitched. Informed her of his and the Ministry’s ‘game’ and it twitched further, a little annoyed jerk, pad of fingers digging into the leather of the file. Wound up with telling her on what exactly she should, or should not worry herself about and she could taste lipstick beneath her tongue, tartly sweet and faintly medicinal, pressed hard as it was between her lips withdrawn into the thinnest of lines.

Aggravation didn’t quite cover it. This was a sore point, one that frankly numerous people in this country hit at on a regular basis, and Avariella refused to budge. She believed in the law. If not in this exact government, then she believed in a system- because it was pointless following one otherwise. She worked in the Ministry, ipso facto meaning that in a twisted, convoluted way she believed in it too, or at least in justice. It had begun from her refusing to cheat for an end-of-the-year test in first year that she hadn’t studied for and culminated in her being here, a Ministry lawyer part of the counsel for the defense of people who didn’t deserved to be punished. Rules were not what any random criminal willed them to be, they were what they always were, would always remain to be, and they dictated that innocent men would walk liberated through the gates of the Atrium, intact with their freedom, and guilty men would suffer in a 12x12 room, making slashes against the walls. Of course there were exceptions for the greater good, but swaggering men with too much ego to understand the magnitude of the situation they found themselves in hardly qualified.

Except she’d underestimated him.

”Green?” He asked, lips curling up into a leer, and her chin dropped, because f*ck, she didn’t have the self-composure to spare for it. His eyes dropped, lower and lower, and this time her eyes were right there, waiting as he looked back up, shock and pure, undiluted outrage flashing past grey-green, nostrils flared. Disgust crawled black in her throat, growing thicker and thicker with every implication spewed, every lascivious curl of the lip. Her mind was blank- and then working furiously, furiously- there was nothing flirtatious about the endearments, only...only demeaning mockery. After that little betrayal of her jaw seconds back, her face was as much a portrait of white stillness, as her mind churned- you crude, disgusting- “a little bit more leg and I might just be under house arrest”- sexist, disrespectful, worthless little excuse of a-

“Ariel, where do you want to go to dinner tonight?”

Her toes curled inwards, pressing painfully against her heel and the scene flashed before her eyes as clear as water- her pushing the chair back with a screech, stalking over to his side of the table, heels snapping against the floor- knotting her fingers into that murky blond hair, nails digging into the scalp and pulling-

Her lips released themselves, numbed and white from the lack of bloodflow, indistinguishable under the lipstick. It was still perfect. “If the chit-chat’s over, the list, if you please. If there’s any space left, feel free to add harassment of a Ministry employee to the end; I’d only sue you half your fortune for it.” Her right hand, which till now had dug an imprint onto the file, unclasped; and her fingers poised themselves vertically over the table, pads just touching metal. They slowly spread out, inch by inch, and her palm came into complete contact with the smooth, cold, flat surface. Her tone held no discernable change, gaze rectilinear. “Lets rid you of the delusion that what you think matters at all, Mr Greyback. If I will it, you will spill your deepest, most closely-held secrets to me because the worst gifts pass muster covered with shiny paper, and I do the packaging. That’s what the defense counsel is all about.” She had not felt this....this instigated, in ages. The eye contact continued because, hell. “If you deserve it, I will make sure you walk free. If not, well. And until then.....”

Then the professionalism cracked, and her lips parted to reveal a thin gap, rimmed by white, shiny teeth. “Until then, as British law decrees, I will see to it that you relish every spoon of the slop that passes for dinner behind bars.”  

Her fingers crossed over one another, pads pressed into knuckles, in the universal gesture of indomitable patience. “Write.”

It was a matter of principle, or perhaps an obsession, that Ariel took in a woman in perhaps the most crude and carnal manner possible. He had never, however, considered himself a selfish party. He had always far more eagerly enjoyed giving than he had ever done receiving. In truth, he enjoyed the flirtation - the initial courtship. It was human, he knew, but still purely primal; driven by a heightened sense of what he needed. It wasn't human. Of course, at the very least, the desire to enjoy dinner and the bottle of wine did absolve him - albeit possibly not the dog - from wanting to drag her out for a romp in the woods. Only slightly, though.

Clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Ariel sat back and studied his witch, running a hand along his jaw, spiky under touch. Truly it seemed as though she intended business. Which naturally meant she would be a firecracker. A pain. Nevertheless, he sat and he waited, watching the twitch of her irate lips, conceding that she might well hold some rightness within her. Ariel knew his most favourite game was near its end. They'd got him this time. Got him willing with a little bit more to lose. It wasn't like Egypt or Istanbul beforehand. No, this was home. Where his family - where Ollie and Alice - were. They'd be implicate if he ran. The British also weren't as eager to play, happier to arrest, beat around a bit and throw in Azkaban.

Ariel bit his lip. Not again.

"It's banter, love," he managed to get out, sobering himself. "Untwist your knickers and relax. This isn't the end of the world."

Ariel picked up the quill. One. Two drops fell on the parchment. He swallowed and slowly began to take his long, curly script with all of its loops and arcs and curves, not the writing of a monster, across the page. Slowly, a list began to form and Ariel felt his mouth settle into a grim line, a trickle of blood wetting on his tongue. He inhaled heavily through his nose, his body rising like a balloon before deflating once more as he looped a 'g' round to the 'r', minutely wincing as grievous bodily harm appeared on the parchment.

"There's no fortune to sue me for, beautiful. Sorry to disappoint. Dinner would have to be of my own making."

No one hires a werewolf, after all. And he didn't want the pomp and ceremony of trying to lead the pack for the sake of an income. He had a few cards left to play, yes, but he wasn't sure about it - whether he could even contest the Ministry's hand.

Behind bars. Ariel dropped the quill. The sound echoed around the room and he was sure that if he squinted he could see someone behind the glass. His throat was dry. Swallowing only aggravated. Picking up the quill again he scored through the parchment with the sharpest point of the pen nib, desisting only when the piece lay in two with ugly ink splotches marring both it and the table.

"Try again," he bit out. "I'm not sleeping one night in a Ministry cell. No way. I want house arrest."

At least then I can pretend this isn't real, he thought grimly to himself. At least then he was in his home with a silver bell at his ankle making him feel ill, ready to shriek at command if he strayed too far. He'd done it before. He'd put up with it before. His reckless animal preferred to escape when it was a challenge - not a matter of a bit of wriggling and running.

"I'm not going in there." He spat again, folding his arms together. "I like hygiene. I like good food. I like my home and for whatever irony it is, I like my dog, too. And I'm.. I'm needed so I can't.. I can't stay here."

Weak. Weak Ariel. Too much to lose. Weak because of it. Too much yet to gain. Weak for hope. Weak. Weak Ariel.

Her nails clicked against each other, cool and sober, waiting.

"It's banter, love. Untwist your knickers and relax. This isn't the end of the world."

It was a little gesture, a longer than usual, a little too sharpened canine peeking out and embedding itself into his lower lip. Fairly innocuous, but she hadn’t gone through half of Auror training and pared witnesses down in the witness box without having a fair idea of human body language. Anxiety showed, lying showed, fear showed....in as little of things as the witness having a nervous tic in his throat or the suspect fiddling with his cuffs too much. They all blared out truths which the people wished to hide, and cold understanding coloured her gaze as she watched Ariel Greyback try to smirk his way out of his ‘lack of fortune’ and the quill slip out of his stilled, insensate fingers.

Of course. She should have seen it coming. She was judgmental, not blind.

How many times had she seen males around her employ the same tactic? They puffed out their chests the more their legs quaked in their boots, they tried to arrogantly muscle their way through situations that worked their way under their skin, they strutted and sneered and leaned back in their chairs and pretended the world existed to serve them while the universe shattered around their oyster. Surely leering at a woman to demean her would give temporary relief from the odious thought that their continued survival and well-being lay in her hands; putting someone else down giving them more illusory power over circumstances that span out of their control. She couldn’t pretend to empathise with the crude methods that Greyback had chosen, but as a criminal lawyer.....in the most vaguest of senses, she could understand. The psyche, at the very least.

She propelled herself forward on her palms, leaning to the fore, an index nail creeping forward and pinning the edge of the torn parchment, drawing it to herself. She turned it around, and with barely an inflection, “You should have thought of hygiene, food and your dog before three cases of assisted murder...” Her nail scraped down the list, dragging against the metal, incessant. “..black-marketing, fleeing arrest, transforming without precaution, violence, criminal conduct...” Her teeth pressed against each other at the ‘t’, a clean, enunciated sound. “Shouldn’t you, Mr Greyback.”

Then she lifted her right hand to the air, the black sleeve of the robe falling down to reveal a pale, unblemished wrist; the door of the interrogation room swinging open seconds after, the arresting Auror earlier overseeing through the glass hurrying in, Denver at his heels. The latter still had the remnants of glee lingering in his bead-like eyes, and that, if nothing else, sealed it.

“Should I restrain him if he’s bothering you, Miss Hud-” The Auror began, fingertips twitching towards the steel cuffs hanging by his belt hoop, even though all occupants of the room could see the wand strapped uselessly to his holster and magical restraints were ten times more effective.

“There will be no need for that.” The words whipped out, perhaps a little too sharply; but there was nothing more galling than unnecessary cruelty. Avariella’s lips still reflexively forked out a smile, words a bit more amenable. “Thank you, but I can take care of myself. Now, we’ll be appealing for house arrest- so please drop the documents over as soon as you can and inform me of the details of our first hearing.” Her eyes flitted over to the man next to him. “Denver, file for bail immediately.”

The man’s eyeballs bugged out, and Avariella tamped down the surge of satisfaction from broadcasting across her face with remarkable ease.

The twist to Denver’s mouth was almost ugly, “The last legislation ordained that the fee be raised by fifteen percent-”

“Take it out of my pocket.” She interrupted, and the startle in the Auror’s expression was almost comical.

Denver grimaced in the most non-appealing manner, making no pretense of even leaning forward or lowering his voice in lieu of the man sitting across from the interrogation table. “Miss Hu-....Avariella, you cannot possibly be serious...”

“I.....I know, but its my first case after so long, surely you understand.” The words flowed out of her throat as easy as honey.

“Your career. Of course. It would be disgraceful to refuse your first Ministry-assigned case.” Denver gave something like a short, aborted bow- looking remarkably frog-like during the entire process and swept out from the room, the Auror following; shooting wistful looks at his cuffs.

Avariella swung her chair back, the beginnings of a broad smile touching her face- but then all of a sudden, for someone who had worked her up in the preceding moments so thoroughly, she had completely forgotten about the presence of Greyback in the room. And for some absurd, ridiculous reason; her gaze drifted up the slope of his nose again and stayed there, not meeting his eyes. The thought that drifted past her mind a second later- the wish that Denver had not spoken so loudly those last words- was even more ridiculous.

I’m fighting his case. I’m paying for his bail. The motive doesn't matter. I don’t owe it to him to do it out of.....compassion. I don’t.

She cleared the itch in her throat, it was getting rather aggravating. Her eyes remained resolutely fixed on the bridge of his nose.

“I need details, Mr Greyback. How you started. Any accounts of good deeds. I need to know how to spin it.”

Greyback. The name felt like ash in his mouth. He wanted to be a Mariatos like his mother or, heaven forbid, a Brenner like that bastard step-father he’d drained the money from and framed for murder – albeit no murder was ever committed and it was a wonder at all that they convicted him. Ariel supposed that perverting the course of justice probably belonged on the list, too, so he added that. No, he’d always wanted to be his mother’s son – not his father’s. He’d wanted to be a Mariatos. He’d wanted his uncle to be his father. He wanted to love and care for Orion and Penelope like a brother, be a proper, sensible, constant human being in their lives. Human being. That all went awry, didn’t it? Disease. Disease, not curse. Disease. Disease, not a reason for everything he’d done. A handicap, yes, but not a reason, not an excuse. The litany of crimes his mother would have sobbed upon seeing were his own doing, his own choice, his own folly. He was his father’s son. Greyback through and through.

“Should’ve,” Ariel commented dryly, turning his head away, fixing his watery gaze on one of the side walls, reaching up absently to scrub at it with the cuff of his shirt.

It had been a long time since he’d wanted so badly to die. It was par for the course for him. Wolfsbane did nothing. He ran on empty. He ran with the fear that maybe he wouldn’t be able to control the dog. He ran in fear knowing that while it was probably more docile, more in control than he was, its temper was worse, more out of control. When changing, fighting against it was futile. Endlessly painful. Every bone crunching, changing, muscles elongating. In the hours before and the hours after his body always felt on fire. It aches like nothing in the world, aches like nothing he’d ever wish upon another person. He always used to want to die. Even when he was small and barely understood his own affliction, let alone the ramifications of what he begged for. He’d imposed that will upon his friend, upon Ollie, more times than he dared count. “Kill me… Oll please… just, do it. I can’t…” and he’d scream and cry and nothing would soothe him, not a slight word nor a sodden flannel he’d set to boiling with the temperature of his skin. He’d grown out of it, in part. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to die. Yet, the idea of being without his friends, those he loved, to deal with every change in chains, in captivity, without the ability to run, he found himself considering it as he sat in that metal chair, listening to his lawyer’s nails tap on the table top. Was the Dementor’s Kiss such a bad thing?

When the door opened, Ariel turned his head, stealing his hands off of his table immediately as he saw the Auror’s own stray to the shackles at his belt. Ariel hid his hands in his lap, deeming it sufficient enough to prevent the Auror from imprisoning him anymore than they already had. He lowered his gaze, eyeing the parchment with a dark stare, and listened only slightly to the conversation between his lawyer and the Aurors who seemed to take the former’s disdain for Ariel’s mistreatment as a personal slight. And here Ariel was hoping he could at least have a handful of cracked ribs before the evening panned out. It seemed as though the Aurors were hoping the same too. There was nothing better than a werewolf in chains. It seemed as though anyone could dream up a slight ‘his kind’ had inflicted upon them. Anyone and everyone could find vengeance for a werewolf mister meaner in attacking another defenceless one. Except, Ariel wasn’t defenceless. Apparently his lawyer – Miss Avariella Hudson – was that last card to play.

“Fifteen percent?” Ariel spluttered before he could stop himself. It was too much. His eyes bugged out of his head and twisted, disbelief clouding his gaze as they fell upon Avariella – upon a woman who, it seemed, was intent on fighting his corner. Fifteen percent was alright. Fifteen percent – a werewolf tax – was something she’d cover. Ariel realised then that he couldn’t really let this woman down. It wasn’t as though he could go to Ollie for money. Ollie’s small wealth was snuffed out by the impossible bail price that the Ministry had levied upon Alice – apparently intent on causing an international incident. There was no one in Ariel’s corner anymore. He was sure even his father would eagerly let him rot, content to have Naomi in his ranks instead of his flaky, human-loving son. But no, he had Avariella – ridiculous though it sounded even to him.

“House arrest,” Ariel couldn’t help but smile, his lips curling up over excessively pointed canines, revealing the animal in the human. His teeth, even the ones no designed for killing, were like razors, their straight edges bearing hidden sharpness. It was one thing he could never quite shirk off, along with the bite which, now, as though sensing the stress both man and wolf were under and the impending Full Moon, was niggling, sweating under the binding he kept it under. “Thank you,” he enthused, bringing his hands back up onto the desk, the cuff of one sleeve falling away, shedding light on the faded elephant tattoo at his wrist.

Good deeds. Ariel lowered his gaze. Saving Alice wasn’t a good deed. It wasn’t his money. Fixing Mrs Truman’s porch swing hardly counted as a good deed, either. Painting the Lewison’s fence also really didn’t count even though Mrs Lewison did appreciate the few hours where her hyperactive sons were outside occupied by Ariel giving them something to do while firmly retaining order in a way only Mr Lewison could – though unfortunately he was never home. The subsequent affair while Mr Lewison was on business on particular month probably actually got rid of all of the ‘good’ out of that deed and making sure Mrs Lewison – Peggy – felt more satisfied than she ever had done while sex was still a regular occurrence with her husband did not in any capacity count as good.

“I don’t know,” Ariel murmured, picking idly at a bit of chipped wood on the table. He reached into the pocket of his trousers, glad that the Ministry hadn’t robbed him of the beads which he had possessed since he had been a babe in arms. His blue amber worry beads were an extension of his fingers, one which had gotten him out of the habit of smoking but it had also been a reassurance to him. His grandmother had been very firm, in her ridiculous Greek-cum-English mix of language, in that he should keep the beads with him regardless of the situation – and he had done, round his neck, often, when he was on the continent. He’d not forgotten.

Rubbing one of the beads between his thumb and forefinger, Ariel let himself thing for a few moments. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. Desperation flooded through him. He had no spin. There was nothing good that he’d done. Nothing noteworthy. There was nothing. Defending Jack from werewolves intruding on Hogwarts grounds was a poor attempt at mustering something. He didn’t bother saying it. Ariel dropped the beads onto the table top and reached up, rubbing his hand over the prisoner number etched into his neck.

“I had better get myself fitted for the uniform, hadn’t I?” He inquired glibly, sighing a little as he lowered his hands back to the table. “I’d just started to get it right, too. I had routine. I had purpose. I was, uh, the odd jobs kind of guy in town. If you ever want a wobbly table fixed, essentially I’m your man. I cooked the dinners in our flat – hence the offer which I now am tempted to insist upon if this house arrest appeal stands. And I suppose I was beginning to forget what had happened because I was with friends again and they give me the luxury of seeing me, not the dog. So, I suppose in getting caught or picked up or whatever it was… the Aurors took their chance, I suppose. Because I was stupid. You know, if you start to be treated like a normal human being, you do begin to become one. Merlin forbid it, y’know? How dare I forget who I am?”

A prisoner. A criminal. A werewolf. A monster. A Greyback. His father’s son.

How could he ever forget?