The plan had gone to shit, all because he didn't wait for a urinal.
Three beers in and he'd had to piss, and there was a line to the bathroom. As a highly respected werewolf in a bar exclusively filled with werewolves, Tony could have cut in to the front of the line. He could have, but that wasn't him. And he'd never minded pissing in the woods. Kinda liked it, actually.
So, there he was, caught almost literally with his pants down, when Fenrir Greyback came strolling to The Howler. That was the problem with werewolves, they could smell who it was. Greyback immediately caught the scent of Tony, and it was game over.
"It's high time you paid," Fenrir growled, gesturing to his wrist.
Tony told himself he could beat Greyback, had repeated it to himself many times over the last several weeks. He'd even studied the limited supply of knowledge on fighting werewolves, given that he'd had a little more time to devote to it.
Eden had pushed back the plan by a few weeks when the Ministry raid had turned out the way it did. He didn't know specifically what had happened, but he knew that Eden was running the show now and needed some time to get the muggles off of his back, which apparently he'd done, because here they were.
Greyback pounced, rushing straight for Tony. He'd never been particularly strong, relying instead on speed to win his fights. That or not getting into fights...
He ducked and rolled away, coming to his feet facing The Howler. He could see Sasha, standing there with her hand over her mouth. The sight fueled him.
He bared his teeth at the Alpha and growled, openly challenging him. This time, when Greyback charged, Tony pretended he would roll. By the time Fenrir realized it had been a feint, it was too late.
Tony crashed into his side, teeth sinking between his ribs. The Alpha howled in pain, clawing at Tony's head. Tony had forgotten about the fact that Fenrir kept his fingers clipped sharp and felt the nails shredding his scalp.
He yelped into Fenrir's flesh and tore from side-to-side, ripping the tissue. When Fenrir loosened his grip, Tony pushed himself away. He could feel blood trickling down the side of his head, but his opponent was holding the ragged hole in his chest, scowling...obviously the more damaged of the two. The top of Tony's head was cosmetic, if not vascular.
Fenrir took his hand off the wound to look at it, just for a second. A second that Tony capitalized on. He launched himself forward, tackling Fenrir to the ground.
The werewolf responded quickly, wrapping his sharp fingers around Tony's throat and clamping down. Nails dug into his flesh as his windpipe started to collapse.
The move left Fenrir ripe for counterattack, however. Tony jammed his fingers into the ragged hole in Fenrir's ribs, eliciting a pained howl from the Alpha. Reflexively, he released Tony's neck to try and get the fingers out, and that was the opening he needed.
Tony bit down on Fenrir's throat and was rewarded by an explosion of blood in his mouth. Foul blood, tainted...werewolf blood never tasted as fresh as that of a human, but there was no mistaking it. The bite was fatal.
Fenrir thrashed ineffectually as Tony pushed himself back and away. The Alpha tried in vain to staunch the flow again, each attempt weaker than the last, until finally, he died, leaving Tony the undisputed Alpha.
Daniel Burke tried not to scowl at the single, large cloud in the sky, blotting out the sun. Not that it was particularly cold today, but still. After getting to spend some time back home with Sandra, a perk of taking that prisoner back to the States, this damned British weather was irritating him.
He was sitting outside at a cafe in London, trying not to offend the service staff as he sipped at the tea. He hated tea. But that's what people drank here and blending was a matter of survival for him for so many years that he took it for granted.
He adjusted the heavy pouch tied to his belt. It contained thirty gold galleons, a few hundred dollars in normal currency. Money, since its inception, had always been a useful way to obtain information, and obtaining information was the reason he was here.
The Order of the Phoenix had put Burke's team in contact with people that might have information on the Death Eaters, something which had proven extremely helpful.
One such individual, which his case officer had been referring to as Skidmark, had provided information which had led to the arrest of both Corban Yaxley and Walden MacNair. Both were wanted, known Death Eaters and getting them off of the streets had been a win in the fight.
Yesterday, Skidmark had contacted them with the promise of extremely important information. The kind that must be passed in person, the kind that was probably expensive. Hence the pouch.
Burke wasn't sure what to think. Their profile on Skidmark revealed a pretty poor reputation among others, namely looking after his own interest. Burke would give him the benefit of the doubt. His information would either pan out or it wouldn't, and if Skidmark crossed him, he'd be dealt with.
And anyway, if he was lucky, it might be a location on Voldemort. The sooner that asshole was dead, the sooner he'd be back in the States.
He caught a snap from a nearby alley. It was a sound that he only recognized because he was listening for it, no one else was paying enough attention.
A few seconds later, a short, grubby little man walked from the alley toward the cafe. His face was unkempt and his hair ratty. Burke frowned, looking around at the other patrons. Nicely dressed, regular folk. He wasn't about to make any friends here.
Burke nodded as he neared, his frown running deeper as the man sat across from him at the table. His fingers were crusty with...God only knows what...and he stank of cigarettes, alcohol, and body odor.
He stuck out his hand for Burke to shake. "Mundungus Fletcher," he said, flashing an oily smile, "but, me friends call me Dung."
Dung...he saw now why the case officer had dubbed him Skidmark. Burke pointedly did not shake the offered hand and tried to ignore the scowls from nearby tables.
"I hear you have some information for me," Burke said, opting to get straight to business and hopefully end this encounter quickly.
"Suit yaself," he said, taking his hand back and examining it. "Yes, I've some intelligence for you, the kind you'll kiss me for." He smiled that oily smile again. "If you've got a few sickles to run my way, that is."
"Sell me," Burke replied simply, his face not betraying a hint of emotion.
It was clearly not the response Skidmark had expected, which is what Burke was going for. This wasn't his first negotiation. He dealt in information, but that didn't mean he'd choose to pay top dollar just because the source wanted it. He'd do the dance.
"I-uh," Skidmark stammered, "well," he cleared his throat. "Well, I've got information about a prisoner." He paused, clearly waiting for Burke to speak. When Burke opened his mouth, he continued. Cheeky Fucker. "A muggle prisoner."
Not what he was hoping for. "Is this even worth my time?" he grunted, sliding his chair back as though getting ready to stand up.
"Wait, wait!" Skidmark quickly raised both hands, gesturing for him to stay put. Burke reluctantly sat.
It wasn't that he didn't care about British civilians being tortured by Death Eaters, but they weren't his primary target. He was trying to dismantle the whole organization, preventing them from taking people in the first place. If he spent all of his time chasing every kidnapped person down, he'd never get around to ending the threat.
"Well, see, I was minding me business, trying to sell a...well, that doesn't matter, now, does it? I was over at a frie-" he cut himself off again, thinking the better of his phrasing. "-an acquaintances, working on a sale, see? Out pops none other than Lucius Malfoy."
Burke sat up straighter. That was interesting. Last they'd heard, the Malfoy's were somewhere in South America. Ansible had a team deployed to Peru looking for them.
"I'm thinking that he's got a bit of nerve showing his face, you know? That's neither here nor there, though. He goes on, talking to my...acquaintance...and do you know what he starts going on about?"
The little bastard actually waited for Burke to reply, evidently preferring an engaged audience. "No, do tell." If he was bothered by the dry response, he didn't show it.
"He starts complaining about this prisoner his cousin has, this muggle. Says she's been keeping 'em as a pet for months...irritating the hell out of the rest of his family, mind you. Says none of them want him around, but she won't listen. Bunch of other stuff too, 'bout not being home, not getting his due...the big baby. If I had all that money-"
Burke sighed, ignoring the rambling. He didn't give a shit about that part, but he did want Lucius Malfoy put in a dark hole somewhere. "Where was this?"
"Well, it's not like he told me, is it? That's your bleedin' job. 'Less you got some coins for me, that is, on top of what you owe me for talkin' already." Burke tossed over a handful from the pouch, earning a wide smile from Skidmark.
"There's a good chap. I happened to hear the place was outside of a village by the name of Dewlish, near a vineyard. I've got nothin' more than that." He shook his head with finality. "And, no, before you ask. I've gotta keep me sources private, less the well dries up." Skidmark leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head with a satisfied look.
"Thanks," Burke replied. He left without looking back, savoring those first breaths of fresh air. Sumner was going to want to hear this.
Howard Eden drummed his fingers against the table, staring at the old man. He'd been bound tightly to a chair, Eden wasn't a monster, after all. You couldn't just leave an old man on the floor, especially not a master wandmaker.
The idea had come from Bellatrix, one so obvious that he couldn't believe he hadn't thought to try it by himself. Another bit of evidence that he should keep her around, he supposed.
As he searched for the Deathly Hallows, the most important of which was obviously the Elder Wand, it made sense to go and ask the most reputable wandmaker in England what he knew. It was inconceivable that the Hallows could be real and this master wandmaker would know nothing about it.
"The Deathly Hallows aren't real," Ollivander pleaded again. The ropes were obviously constricting, uncomfortable. A necessary precaution, however.
"Well," Eden drawled with a smile, deciding it was time to try a different tactic. He pulled the invisibility cloak from its box. Invisibility cloaks were exceedingly rare to begin with, as it was a difficult enchantment to get right. One of this size and quality was unheard of. "Actually…"
"A fine cloak, to be sure," Ollivander said, staring admiringly, "but a Deathly Hallow?"
Eden turned it over, showing the wandmaker the emblem emblazoned in the lower corner. The mark of the Deathly Hallows, obviously part of the design. It wasn't some chintzy add-on. Ollivander gasped.
"I've heard rumors, of course," Ollivander muttered, staring at the marking. "Rumors in which I never placed much faith."
"I've got faith aplenty," Eden replied, smiling, knowing the man had been hooked.
"For a time, there was a wandmaker in Germany, a fine wandmaker, who claimed to possess the Elder Wand. I never paid much attention to those rumors, mind you. Mykew Gregorovitch was his name. He retired some time ago, from what I understand."
Eden sighed, pleased with himself. Ollivander finally took his eyes off of the cloak as Eden began packing it up. A look of worry crossed his face as he realized he was no longer of use.
He placed a hand on Ollivander's shoulder and released the binds. "Now, now, I'd demolish the Taj Mahal before robbing the world of such a fine wandmaker as yourself. You do understand, though, that I can't have you talking about this, right?"
He allowed Ollivander to stand up, flexing the feeling back into his fingers. The wandmaker nodded.
"Excellent. I would truly hate to have to come back here to destroy you and everything you love," Eden remarked, giving Ollivander a pat on the cheek. "Thank you for the tip." He held a finger over his mouth, one last reminder to stay quiet, and then stepped out to the dark of Diagon Alley.