[Summary] — Salazar/Helga (platonic/subtly implied one-sided/future) [Werewolf!AU] He glances round, the smell of smoke clouding his senses — still illegal, but no one really cares anymore — noting the definite category everyone inside easily falls into. All except one, he realises, as his eyes land on a woman.

A/N — The title and lyrics are from the song Kill of the Night by Gin Wigmore. Set sometime in the future.

[3411]

The street's a lair

I'm gonna lure you into the dark

My cold desire

To hear the boom, boom, boom of your heart

…oOo…

He's hot and tired and uncomfortable; his hear sticks to the back of his neck with sweat, and his tongue is dry and numb with thirst.

It's late, though, and so naturally the only place still open is a seedy bar. The pub looks like it would be more at place in an old American film — the kind that had edgy characters and edgy scenery to match — with its run down exterior and the flash of neon lights from within. He shrugs, pushing open the wooden door with it's dirty glass windows and peeling paint, and steps inside.

It's as he'd imagined. Full of youths in dark clothing, alt rock playing on an old-fashioned radio; most of the patrons have opted to forgo a glass in favour of drinking straight from the bottle. But, he supposes, he wouldn't trust the glasses in this place either.

He glances round, the smell of smoke clouding his senses — still illegal, but no one really cares anymore — noting the definite category everyone inside easily falls into. All except one, he realises, as his eyes land on a woman.

She's short and a little overweight with a kind face, but that doesn't automatically exclude her from the rest of the people here. No, she does that on her own, with the way she chooses to present herself. With the cardigan slung over the red vinyl barstool and her sensible shoes; with the slight upturn to her lips that she can't pass off as anything but the beginning of a gentle smile.

But, despite all that, she seems very comfortable here. Much more so than he is.

He walks over to the bar, standing as close to her as he can get without being overly creepy, which is still closer than he would normally deem acceptable, and waits to be served.

"Abe," the woman says, beckoning the bartender over.

"What can I get'cha, Helga?" he asks, ignoring customers who had clearly been waiting longer.

"Another G-and-T," she says, indicating towards her suspiciously clean glass, "and whatever he's having." It takes Salazar a moment to realise she means him.

He scans the fridge behind the bar, his thinking being that if it's in a sealed bottle it'll at least be clean if nothing else. It's a little difficult to see through the dusty glass, but he sees what he thinks might — hopefully — be a beer and asks for a Hobgoblin. And no, it's not just because he finds the name mildly amusing.

"That's crap, y'know," she says; he responds with a shrug, watching the bartender — Abe — carefully.

"Glass?" the man asks gruffly and Salazar shakes his head in the negative. "Suit yerself," he mutters, sullenly opening the bottle and handing it over. "You're not making the lady pay, are ya?"

"I offered, Abe," she reminds him, giving the man a warm smile. Salazar can't figure out how it is she's so comfortable here; how she clearly comes here often, to have such an easy camaraderie with the gruff bartender. Still, he doesn't let her pay.

"You know," she says, once Abe has gone to tend to other customers, "I get drinks free here."

He doesn't ask why. Instead, he takes a deep pull of his beer to avoid responding and immediately regrets it. It's warm and absolutely vile, but he stubbornly refuses to let her know she was right and so forces his face to remain blank and resolutely continues drinking. She seems smug though, in a way that leaves him reasonably certain she knows.

"You're not very talkative, are you?" she asks, tilting her head to the side and regarding him with mild concern; he imagines it's the sort of look a mother might give to a child behaving oddly. Then again, there's something almost spectator-like to it. As if the look wouldn't be out of place on the faces of people visiting a zoo, staring down at the lion imprisoned behind re-enforced glass and metal fences. But she smiles again and the feeling is gone as quickly as it came.

"I don't usually keep a lot of company," he says, and if he's only talking to delay having to take another sip of beer, well, she doesn't need to know that.

"You're Irish."

"And you're Welsh," he counters blandly.

She smiles. "You're right; not a great conversation starter." She rests her elbows on the table, leaning her chin in the cup of her palm, and regards him carefully; it's not quite the same look as before — it's coloured with amusement this time — but he still feels vaguely like that lion. "I don't know you're name," she says, and it's not quite a question, but he answers anyway:

"Salazar."

"That's unusual," she says, but he gets the feeling she's not asking to discuss further, just making a general comment. She doesn't offer her name and he doesn't bother asking — he already knows it, whether she wanted him to or not, thanks to Abe. "So what brings you to Hogsmeade?" she asks instead.

"I'm just passing through," he says, and she nods in a way that makes him thing most people are 'just passing through'. He's left with a sudden feeling that he will never leave, but he shakes it off; it's a ridiculous notion. "I have a friend who lives near." He doesn't say how near; he doesn't know.

"Where are you staying tonight? It's pretty late." From anyone else, he would think it was a come-on, but she seems genuinely curious, a little worried even.

He shrugs, unconcerned. "I'll find something."

.oOo.

The creature prowls through the forest, breathing deeply, evenly. There is nothing much of interest here — nothing new— but it knows if it can find the borders, if it can escape, there will be. For the creature knows it is trapped, despite appearing to be free, but tonight … tonight feels different.

Tonight, the magic confining the beast doesn't feel quite as strong. Something has changed — for the better, at least as far as the creature is concerned — and it is more than willing to exploit this.

A gust of wind brings the smell towards the creature again — the smell that had signalled this slight alteration — and the creature pauses. Waiting.

The smell comes from the east, and so that is where the creature heads.

The other animals of the forest shy away in fear, so its path is only hindered by the landscape. All familiar terrain to the beast.

Walking further than before, the barriers not giving off the usual sense of fear-pain-run they usually do, the creature can see the trees thinning.

It stops just behind the last tree, eyes scanning the grounds beyond the forest. This is not something it has seen before — or, at least, not something it can recall — and so it scans the grassy field carefully.

The barriers are still intact, it can tell, but there is still a mild undercurrent of their usual power that makes it hesitate. But this chance is unlikely to ever come again.

The creature steps forward, slowly. The grass here feels different under paws, fresher, but the creature does not linger for long. There is no cover.

It runs, silently crossing through the field. It can still smell the new — it's getting stronger now — and it heads towards that.

Towards the castle.

.oOo.

"How about you?" Salazar asks; she watches him with mild confusion, as if the question was unexpected. "Where are you staying?" Salazar clarifies. "Do you live near here?"

"Oh." She smiles; the gesture somehow seems both warm and self-depreciating. "I'm staying with a friend," she says vaguely, "not far from here." The way she says it, he thinks there might be a story behind the statement, but he doesn't press. After all, he doesn't want his own story known, so he can offer her the same courtesy he hopes she will give him. That she has given him, he recalls suddenly; for the most part, at least.

He takes another sip of his drink — he thinks he might be getting used to it, as the flavour is no longer as vomit-inducing — and allows the silence to stretch on.

"Another?" she asks, setting her now-empty glass on the counter and eyeing his bottle; he's only drunk a little over half. He doesn't particularly want another — he doesn't particularly want the remainder of this one — but he nods anyway. A small part of him wants to keep this conversation going any way he can, but mostly he just has a petty vendetta against the bartender. He couldn't say why.

He drinks the rest quickly — and, yes, maybe he is trying to impress her a little, but really he's hoping the faster he drinks the less he'll taste. A second beer is placed on the bar beside him before he can finish the first, though he hadn't heard any words spoken between Helga and Abe. He nods his thanks, leaving the dregs of his old beer — there's little enough left that he can pretend he hadn't noticed it, and besides, he's never been one of those people who had to finish every last drop just to get their money's worth.

She takes a delicate sip of her drink — at that pace, he has no idea how she drank it so quickly — and smiles at him over the rim of her glass. "Are you trying to get my drunk Salazar?" she asks coyly, though she doesn't seem entirely serious.

"Surely I should be the one asking that?" he counters, wondering when he became so stereotypical. "You know the bartender?" he asks, hoping to move the conversation elsewhere.

She makes a non-committal noise of agreement and he begins scrounging around for a new topic, thinking she won't answer, when she says: "Me and Abe? We go way back." The way she says it sounds almost like a joke, but he can't think why. "We met at school," she clarifies, so he supposes it hadn't been a joke, after all — not that he thinks she's old, he amends quickly, even if she had no way of knowing his thoughts. She seems slightly younger than he is, though he supposes she could just have a young face, but she's definitely younger than Abe. Perhaps he had been her teacher?

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks. He stares at her like a deer caught in the headlights, wondering what he'd missed.

"I'm fine," he says, but he must not have been convincing enough — he doesn't know quite why she needed the convincing — because she has turned the look of mild concern onto him once more.

"Tonight, I mean." He's still drawing a blank, so he gives an apologetic shrug — or what he hopes is an apologetic shrug, because really it's not that apologetic of a gesture. "You said you didn't have anywhere to stay."

"Ah." He supposes that is something she would be worried about; she seems the type — gentle and mothering and so very concerned — though he can sense there is more to her than that. "I've made do before," he says instead of letting her know all he's thinking.

"Making do," she says in a way that, coming from anyone else, would sound mocking, "is something reserved only for dire situations." He frowns. "I — my friend. She has a big house. You're welcome to stay in one of the rooms."

"I —" He stops himself moments before he can decline; yes, he could do well enough on his own, but it would be nice to sleep in a proper bed again. It had been so long. And if, maybe, something else were to … he stops the thought before it can fully form. "Thank you," he says instead, and she pushes away from the bar.

"Leaving so soon?" Abe calls, lips twisted up into an ugly smirk. He looks more like a Bond villain than anything else, Salazar thinks.

"It's late," Helga says with another of her gentle smiles, unperturbed. "You know it's not safe out."

.oOo.

The creature reaches the castle walls. The building is much bigger up close — more imposing — and threaded through with magic. Not like the barriers had been, though. This magic feels … almost nice. Comforting. But that is not what it is after.

It rounds the castle, following the wall, until it reaches a large doorway. Here, it stops.

Bolted shut.

That, by itself, wouldn't hinder the beast. It has brute force on its side, and sheer determination. But there is also a magic woven into the wooden beams, holding them together and sealing the door.

It's no matter.

The creature may be strong and determined, but it is also clever. It will put those assets to good use.

There must be another way.

The creature paces, rounds the castle — one, two, three times — and then sits.

Why would such a large building only have the one door? Admittedly, the creature had never come across any castles before, but surely …

It looks up.

An open window, curtains fluttering in the breeze. But no. There was no way to get up there, so the information is useless.

But …

Perfect.

This wall smells of the new the creature had smelt before, but the new is focussed mostly to one area. The new must have touched here, and the wind had carried the scent further. The creature presses its nose where the new smells strongest.

The wall falls.

Backing away with a whimper, heart racing, the creature sinks down into a low crouch, waiting for an attack.

Nothing.

A few moments more pass, and the creature relaxes.

A few beats more, and the creature steps forward. Into the newly opened corridor.

.oOo.

She leads him down a winding road; there are deep grooves in the ground that suggest carriages might have frequented this route once, but they are covered over in grass and weeds, so it must have been many years since the last had passed through.

The walk is long and tedious — he was already tired and the beer had done little to quench his thirst; he's mildly tipsy, though he would never admit to being so off two beers, and very hungry. He doesn't complain, though, still unwilling to show weakness around her.

"It's just around this corner," she reassures him, as though she had sensed his discomfort though he can see none of her own. In fact, she looks positively cheerful. "My friend will be asleep, though, and we mustn't wake her."

Rounding the corner, it is all he can do to stop his jaw from hitting the ground. She lives in a castle. And not in the way people sometimes say when a person lives in a very large mansion, but an actual castle. He didn't know they existed anymore, let alone served as living quarters.

Distantly, he wonders why he should be worried about waking her friend in a building so large, but that thought is overcome with castle.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, distracting him momentarily. He glances her way, but she is watching her feet as she walks. "It's been in my friends family for a very long time." How long, he doesn't ask, though he finds himself very curious. Crusades, he thinks, but in his mind crusades is synonymous with a very long time ago because he's not actually sure when they were. They have become more of an abstract idea over the years. "Let me show you to your rooms," she says, leading him away from the large front doors.

She presses a stone and the wall begins to fall away, a passage forming. "This way", she says, lifting a torch from just inside the new passageway. He doesn't know if it was already lit or if she lights it herself.

"Wouldn't it have been quieter to use the front door?" he asks once they are a good way into the corridor and underneath the castle, if the downwards incline wasn't something he had imagined.

"No," she says. "The front doors are locked this late. It's after curfew."

"Curfew?" he mouths. She either doesn't hear or chooses not to answer; he's more inclined to believe it's the latter.

The passageway ends in a simple wooden door, which is oddly disappointing. She opens it with a small key. There is a small flight of stairs — though flight may be a bit of a stretch for what is possibly ten steps — leading up, and a narrow ramp leading into what he presumes are the dungeons. She takes the stairs.

"We have spare rooms along this corridor," she says. He's a little disappointed — who spends the night in a castle and wants to stay on the ground floor? — but he doesn't say anything. "You're welcome to use any of the amenities come morning," she continues, "but you must stay in your room until sunrise." She sets the torch into one of the holders lining the walls. "You mustn't leave. Not for anything."

He thinks this is a bit of an odd request, and she's coming on perhaps a little too strong, but he agrees anyway. It's her house — or castle, as the case may be — and surely she has her reasons. She's putting a stranger up for free, at the very least, so it's no hardship to remain in the one room. And, for all her knows, the request is for her benefit — perhaps it's the only way she feels comfortable with him being here? But somehow he thinks that's unlikely.

He waits for her to tell him which room he should use, but when she doesn't he rests his hand on the closest door-handle, looking to her for approval. She gives a single nod and turns to leave. Evidently her room is not in this corridor.

"Goodnight," he says to her retreating form. He thinks he hears a soft "goodnight" in return, but he might be mistaken.

.oOo.

The new gets stronger the further it walks, though the scents of the castle still provide a vaguely familiar undercurrent. A feeling like deja vu washes over the creature, but it has little time or care for such things.

The corridor ends abruptly in a single arch. Upon further inspection, the creature sees that the door has simply been left open. It feels like an invitation.

With more confidence, the creature steps through, climbing the steps leading to the ground floor. The new overpowers all else in this corridor.

The creature growls low in its throat, hackles rising and teeth bared. There is a vague stirring and the creature growls louder.

A door opens.

.oOo.

Salazar awakens with a cry of pain, curled up on the stone corridor outside his room. Helga stands above him, staring down at him with worry in her eyes. There's something else, too, but he is in too much pain to full register what it is.

"I told you to stay in your room," she says. There's an urgency to her words, but she seems less surprised than he'd have thought. He would have been a little shocked to say the least, if he saw a stranger potentially bleeding to death on the floor in his home. "The castle can't protect you if you open the door." That's a strange thing to say, he thinks; so strange, it momentarily distracts him from his pain.

Is she angry? Does she think this is his fault? Well, yes to the latter, but the first … no, he doesn't think she's angry.

"H — Hospital," he gasps, feeling blood welling in his mouth. He coughs, the feel and sound of liquid bubbling in his throat would have been more alarming had his vision not been fading so rapidly.

"I'm sorry," she says, though she doesn't sound overly apologetic. "I'm afraid you can't leave." He draws in another ragged breath, struggling for air.

And then, he sees it, clouded as his sight has become. It's in the slight gleam of her eyes, the tilt of her lip, the way she holds herself. None of which were present the night before.

She is happy.

And, for the first time since arriving at this strange place, he is afraid.

…oOo…

The danger is I'm dangerous

And I might just tear you apart