Setting: This story takes place in a fictious town in Scotland.

Disclaimer: This tale does occur in the universe of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, but none of the characters from the books are featured. Hogwarts, Dumbledore, The Quibbler, and the Ministry of Magic are mentioned. All new characters belong to me.

Date Written: October 01, 2004 – July 16, 2006


The Waxing Moon

Chapter 1: The Owl's Nest Inn

The sky above was slowly changing from black to grey when Colette Moon arrived in the small, quiet town of Lachlan. The street before her was deserted and the buildings on either side loomed like dark giants; she did not see any gold rays of light slipping through heavy curtains or beneath doors, and for all purposes, the town felt empty. It was still in the early hours of the morning and not even the sun had risen yet.

Breathing deeply, she shifted the traveling bag over her shoulder and moved quietly down the main street in search of the local inn. Near the edge of town, in a cluster of rundown structures, she spied the old, worn wooden sign for The Owl's Nest Inn. It swayed gently in the light breeze, attached to the rusted rod by only one chain, the other having broken years before. The front of the inn did not look any different than the sign, and Colette carefully avoided the large whole in the steps.

She pushed open the dreary door and found herself standing in an exceptionally large and warm room. It was filled with numerous tables and booths, three of which were already occupied, and was lit by candles floating just above head level. A large fire ablaze inside the boundaries of a stone fireplace provided the warmth. The walls held only a few paintings—most appeared to be landscapes—and no windows. Only the crackling of the fire and an occasional cough from a patron filled the otherwise silent room.

Immediately to her left was a small counter with an old register, a tattered quill stuck in a dirty inkwell, and a tarnished bell. Without hesitation, she pressed the bell and a loud, clear tone echoed through the quiet room. At once Colette felt every eye shift towards her, and she refused to return their penetrating gazes as she waited patiently for the innkeeper. A moment later, he appeared from one of the many doors the led away from the main room. He was a tall man, dressed in a casual grey robe, and had been handsome in his younger days, though his graying beard hid most of his lower face from view.

"Wot can I do fer ye, lass?" he asked not unpleasantly in a thick accent.

"My name is Colette Moon, and I have a reservation," answered Colette in a quiet voice so not to be overheard by the curious patrons.

"Oh, yea, the city-lass," said the innkeeper amiably. "The way Berkley spoke, I wasn't expecting ye 'til later, but…" He shrugged his broad shoulders and gave a deep chuckle. "If ye would just sign the register."

Colette took the old quill, dipped it into the almost dry inkwell, and quickly signed the faded parchment. As she wrote her name and the date of her arrival in the appropriate places, her eyes quickly scanned those registered within the passed week, which happened to be only three names. These included a Patrick Timins, who checked in on April 3 and out on April 4; a Henry Llyod, who checked in on April 2 and was still present; and an Archibald Delaney who checked in on March 31. However, the name directly above Mr. Delaney caught her attention. An E.W. had checked in on March 13 and there was no check out date written. Then she returned the quill to the inkwell and her attention back to the innkeeper.

"So how much did Berkley tell you," she inquired softly.

"Some," replied the innkeeper with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "And I will help ye wot I can, but it won't be much, mind. By the way, me wife Shelley was so happy when she heard that a lass was coming. She spruced up the auld honeymooning suite for ye to stay in while ye are here. If ye like, I can send your things on up while ye eat some breakfast."

"Thank you," Colette said with a smile.

The innkeeper grinned beneath his beard as he took an old wand from inside his robes and pointed them at her traveling bag. He muttered something low under his breath and the bag immediately vanished. He then told Colette to find a seat while he went to tell his wife that she had arrived. As she turned about, Colette noticed that one of the three occupants in the room was looking at her. The man's dark eyes were piercing and unblinking as he studied her, and Colette found it quite unnerving. She pretended not to notice the man as she weaved through empty tables to one in particular, a small round table situated between the fireplace and the painting of a stormy sea—and directly across the room from the strange man.

As she took her seat, Colette mused over what the relationship between the old innkeeper and her boss, Samson Berkley, was. Had they been childhood friends? Distant cousins? Yet they looked and sounded nothing alike. She was barely seated when a petite woman entered into the room and approached her table, a tray with a steaming bowl in her hands. The woman was much younger than the innkeeper, her face still youthful and her hair still brown. She smiled as she set the steaming bowl in front of Colette.

"Good morning to ye, dear," she greeted happily. "I am Shelley."

"I'm…"

"I know, dear, and it is so good to see such a pretty face around here. We only get a few strangers now and then because the harsh winters makes people less incline to travel, and I cannot remember the last time a young witch visited." Shelley spoke with a very light accent, and Colette found herself liking the cheerful woman immediately. Her eyebrows suddenly rose as she looked down at Colette, "Though I think the reason for ye being here is futile, I am pleased to have you around. I don't suppose ye fancy a quick chat or two sometime?"

"Not at all, Shelley," smiled Colette. She could see the woman's longing for female companionship plain enough, even if her disapproval of Colette's mission was just as obvious. Colette made a mental note to uncover more about Shelley.

"Good. I will leave ye to your soup then."

It took Colette only a few minutes to eat the delicious soup, yet when she was finished, she noticed that the booth directly across the room from her was empty. The dark man with the penetrating eyes had departed, and she wondered which of the registered guests he was. The other two patrons — a wizen old gentleman sipping slowly on a mug and gazing at her from over the rim, and a sly, greasy looking wizard whose beady black eyes danced darted back and forth — were still present, seated some distance from each other and from Colette.

When Shelley returned to retrieve Colette's dishes, she asked who the dark eyed man was.

"Oh, ye must mean Ethan," said Shelley pleasantly. "He is a drifter. American, I think, by the accent. Poor dear is such a sweet and friendly soul. When he first arrived, he was so pale that I thought for sure that he was on the brink of death. Hugh offered him a job and, believe it or not, the lad is as strong as an ox!"

"So what does he do?" asked Colette. She removed a small notebook and quill from inside her traveling cloak and began taking notes.

"Odds and ends, dear. Yesterday he fixed the hole in the roof," Shelley said amiably. "Poor Hugh's back gave out last year and now he cannot do all of the manual work. It was providence that Ethan showed up when he did. I even managed to put some meat on his bones with my cooking. What are ye doing?"

"Whenever I am on an assignment, I jot down things," replied Colette quietly. "People who are in the area, what their occupation is, and what they may know."

"Oh, well, that is smart," said Shelley with a shy smile, "but there is no story here in Lachlan."

"Why do you say so?" inquired Colette carefully.

"I have lived here in Lachlan since I married Hugh, and I haven't once seen a wolf, let alone a werewolf, in the woods around here," stated the innkeeper's wife matter-of-factly. "Besides, all of the witnesses claim to have seen this werewolf on nights when there was not a full moon, and any fool knows that werewolves only transform on full moons."

"True," murmured Colette as she transcribed what Shelley had just imparted to her. "Do you know the names of these witnesses? I would like to speak with them myself."

"Certainly, dear. There is Millicent Madsby, an old mad witch who lives on the edge of the forest, and Gerald Peterson, he used to own the general store before Maximilian Cornwallis bought it, and a wizard who had stopped overnight, but he moved on. It is probably from him that Samson caught wind of this ridiculous idea of a werewolf near here."

"Do you remember his name?"

"No, I am sorry, but his name escapes me. Why don't you freshen up, dear? The trip from London can be tiring."

"Thank you for breakfast, Shelley."

Colette stood and quickly left the main room. She followed Shelley's directions to the stairs, which was down a narrow hall, and preceeded up to the first floor. She took the north hall and passed closed doors with tarnished number plates nailed on them. She paused at the last door and placed her wand hand against the wood just above the doorknob. She heard a soft click as the door unlocked, and she opened it. The honeymooning suite was nicely decorated, though it was no elaborate stateroom in a London high rise hotel. Her traveling bag was on a chair beside the queen-size bed, and Colette decided that she would feel better if she freshened up a bit.