Harry Potter and the Dovahkiin

Wolfish Troubles

Ben was creeping down Knockturn Alley, as one usually does. In his Arthur Brown persona, of course.Why wasn't he in school? Well, it was the weekend, so technically, he didn't have any classes.

You're thinking, , aren't you? Yes. I'm getting there. Have patience.

Ben had been scheduled to at the duelling club. Emphasis on assist, because in practice, he was doing most of the instructing. Not that he minded. There were few things in life more enjoyable than subjecting Gilderoy Lockhart to a creative assortment of spells under the dignified excuse of "demonstration."

He had been particularly looking forward to hoisting Lockhart upside down with the and then following it with the terrifying . All strictly educational, of course.

Some people claimed that such uncouth magic had no place in a refined sport such as duelling.

Ben considered that loser talk and simply chose not to engage. Ignoring such simpletons was a skill he'd acquired long before any of his magical skills. 

What he couldn't ignore, however, was the way certain girls started looking at him when he entered the Great Hall that morning. The stares had followed him all the way from the entrance to the breakfast table, accompanied by whispers and the distinct feeling that he was being evaluated like a particularly charming pastry.

He sat down and raised his goblet to take a sip of pumpkin juice to ease his mind, but just as his lips were about to touch the goblet, a cold shiver ran down his spine. It took him a moment to place the feeling, but when he did, he quickly set the goblet back down at once.

he muttered, in a panic. After all, it was the most dangerous day of the year.

At least that was the case in the wizarding world, where singing dwarfs ensured confessions were suitably humiliating and chocolates gave you a lot more to worry about than cholesterol and cavities.

"It's all because of Nargles messing with people's heads," Luna explained, and Ben saw no immediate flaw in the theory.

He couldn't think of another explanation for why the Imperius Curse earned you a cell in Azkaban while love potions were sold openly in joke shops.

Or perhaps in the wizarding world, all was fair in love, but not in war.

Facing what must have been like the seventh attempt to have him ingest something of questionable properties, from witches who were far too concerned about his lack of appetite, Ben decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

Skipping breakfast seemed wise. Skipping school altogether seemed wiser.

And so, in the best interest of his own personal safety, he relocated to the one place in Britain that could reasonably be described as entirely devoid of Nargles.

Knockturn Alley.

And he'd chosen correctly because the place was depressing enough to extinguish even the most persistent romantic impulse.

The alley was crowded with the usual assortment of shifty figures in long cloaks. But mixed among them were a few new weary faces as well.

Given recent developments in the wizarding world, they were most likely werewolves.

The rougher sort, the ones who ran with Fenrir Greyback's pack, had always drifted through Knockturn Alley. Ben had once had the pleasure of introducing a few of them to his Flaming Wolf Familiar, and it had certainly been an educational experience for everyone involved.

But lately, others had begun to appear as well, decent by the look of them, yet desperate enough to seek work in Knockturn Alley.

Ben had no idea how, but his wolf summon could pick out werewolves from a crowd. Maybe being a nature spirit that took the form of a wolf gave it that instinct.

For everyone else, however, telling a werewolf apart from the usual assortment of eccentric wizarding folk was nearly impossible, save for the night of the full moon, of course.

It was that obscurity which allowed some of them to live something resembling normal lives despite the curse. They might have to change jobs or move on entirely if they slipped up, or if an employer grew suspicious of their regular absences around the full moon, but it was still possible to exist without constant persecution.

But even that had become far more difficult now that Umbridge's latest legislation had effectively barred them from finding work anywhere in Magical Britain without registering their werewolf status with the Ministry. 

No werewolf would willingly register themselves, not with discrimination in wizarding society running as deep as it did, and certainly not for something they had never chosen. Fear followed them everywhere. And perhaps that fear wasn't entirely irrational either.

Werewolves were dangerous. One bite on the wrong night was enough to condemn someone to a lifetime of pain and forced transformations.

The recent discovery of the Wolfsbane Potion should have changed things. It allowed a werewolf to retain their mind during the full moon, becoming merely ill rather than murderous.

But the potion wasn't cheap, and most werewolves, already scraping by from one temporary job to the next, couldn't afford it. Worse still, it required a full goblet every day for the week leading up to the full moon. Miss a single dose, and the entire effort is wasted.

It might have helped if the Ministry had made the potion affordable, or at least subsidised it for registered werewolves. That would have been a solution. Instead, the legislation offered nothing of the sort. It drew restrictions that only pushed decent, hardworking werewolves, like Remus Lupin, further into poverty. Not to mention giving monsters like Fenrir Greyback fresh recruits.

But then again, one couldn't exactly expect anything good out of legislation drafted by Dolores Umbridge. Her hatred of werewolves had little to do with the spread of lycanthropy and everything to do with the fact that she saw them as .

Which was odd, considering she herself looked like a bad mix of a human and a toad. 

Anyways, I digress. But the fact remained that most desperate newcomers weren't suited for a place like this. The regulars of Knockturn Alley could spot a soft target just from the way someone walked. And once you were marked as easy prey, it didn't take long for someone to test it.

Like the young lad currently being shoved into a narrow side alley right in front of Ben.

"Look, mister, I don't want any trouble. I'm just here looking for a job."

The poor bloke couldn't have been more than twenty, though he looked weaker than he should have at that age.

The man blocking him grinned, yellow teeth flashing in the dim light. "So am I, boy. Seems we've got something in common already."

"Oh. That's… good," the lad said, attempting a smile. "I hope you find something suitable."

The man stepped closer, backing him into the brick wall. "I already have. You look like steady work."

Ben sighed. "Nargles. They've followed me all the way to Knockturn."

With a flick of his wand, he cast a spell that had originally been reserved for Lockhart.

The man's grin didn't even have time to fade before he was yanked upside down, his coat falling over his face as he dangled helplessly by one ankle.

"What the— who did that?" he snarled, twisting. "Show yourself!"

"It's me," Ben said calmly, stepping into view, donning a Miraak-inspired mask. "Your granddad."

The man squinted. "I ain't got no—"

"Careful, boy," Ben cut him off. "I'm already quite disappointed." Then he flicked his wand twice.

Ropes burst into existence, binding the man tightly until he resembled a cocoon.

And with the second spell, the alley echoed with strangled laughter as he began writhing helplessly suspended.

"Sto— haha— stop! I didn't— haha— do nothing!"

"You did," Ben replied. "You forgot your manners."

"Haha— Grand haha— Grandpa, I'm—sorry!"

"That's better," Ben nodded. "Now repeat it a hundred times. And stop sounding so enthusiastically gay about it."

"Pleas—Ha—"

The laughter cut off mid-gasp. The alley fell quiet once more, save for the faint creak of rope.

Ben turned his head slightly toward the trembling boy. "You still looking for work?"

The boy nodded cautiously.

"Good. Because if you start harassing people like that one, I'll hang you next."

The boy swallowed hard. "Y-yes, sir."

"Relax," Ben said lightly. "You're not my type."

He tilted his head for the boy to follow and turned away from the nargle-infested cocoon.

The boy hesitated for a moment, looking at Ben's back.

Which, to be fair, anyone might do before following a stranger in a squid mask, who had just suspended a man upside down and weaponised a

But after one last glance at his still-squirming assailant, he gathered his courage and hurried after Ben.