Sons & Daughters of Magic 1

The saga of some of the other denizens of the Scottish School.
== Nightmare ==
Date: 28 October 1996; Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK
A /crack of thunder and a dog's yelp—
Ken starts—aches awake, gets his eyes sorta open.
Very close, Murron says, "It's okay: just Dreamboy being a big baby. Aren't you, boy?"
Dreamboy whines.
"Oh, c'mere, you."
Scrabbling from under the bed, then forty-five kilos of deerhound pins down his legs.
Ken blinks away at grit under his lids, shifts against a pile of pillows. "Where'm I?"
"The infirmary."
"'m wha? Why?"
Murron flicks a glance at the door, bites her lower lip.
"Why'm I here?"
She looks away again.
"Murron."
"What's the last thing you remember?" she asks, voice low.
"Uh ...." Ken pushes up straighter, sets his shoulder throbbing. "I think ... yea, me and Graham were walking back from the greenhouses after ...."
/Graham's hands in his hair; a fistful of Graham's jumper—
"Ken?"
"Huh? Wha?" He shakes some wool out of his head.
"What were you doing at the greenhouses?"
"Um ...."
/—warm hands, warm lips, trying to breathe around—
Ken croaks, "Walking?"
Murron frowns. "I don't—"
"Did a stupid kelpie jump us?"
Raised voices outside the room, angry.
"N-no ...." Murron takes a deep breath.
""—lived when our son didn't!""
Something twists in Ken's gut.
/Eyes glint in the dark—
""They'd both—none of this would've happened if you'd paid Them!"" bellows Da.
""How dare—!""
Mister Fairbairn hisses.
"Murron, what're they talking about?"
She scratches Dreamboy's ears. "The-there was an accident—"
/Graham screams—
Ken clamps his hands over his ears and his eyes shut.
/—growls, snarls, gurgles, whimpers; Graham—
Soft, warm hands pull his back to his sides.
/—burning teeth teeth eyes—
Murron hugs him tight.
Ken swallows. "Graham's ...."
She sniffles.
"He's d-dead?"
"Mhmm."
Ken wraps his arms around her. "Was a w-were—?"
Murron nods against him. 
"I-I'm a ...." 
"Werewolf," she whispers.
He tucks his face against her neck. "I'm g-gonna g-get thrown out." 
"Headmaster Kinnaird told your parents you can come back when you're ready."
"B-but I'm a w-we—" His throat closes on the word.
"The Headmaster said you're not the first—" Murron holds him closer. "—and Mister Fairbairn and Missus Galloway promised to take care of you. I'm gonna help, too."
"M-my parents?"
"They're only outside 'cos Mister Fairbairn made them take a walk."
Ken rubs away tears against her shoulder.
"I'm happy you're okay," says Murron.
"'m not okay. I'm—"
"You're /okay." She squishes him.
Ken wheezes, "'m okay." 
.
== Precedent ==
Date: 11 November 1996: Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK
Outside the infirmary window, it's still grey and raining.
Ken sighs back into his pillows, shifts away from the pressure on his healing shoulder, lets his eyes drift shut.
Rain keeps pattering against the glass.
Ken takes a deep breath, sighs it out slowly.
Still it rains.
Under the bed, Dreamboy sneezes himself awake.
Ken snorts.
Claws scrape on wood and the dog heaves his massive self onto the bed, flops down squashed against Ken, rests his head on his chest.
Ken rolls his eyes behind his lids, pats about until he finds fur, then ears, and scratches.
Dreamboy /whaps his tail against the sheets.
"Wonder how much I'm gonna look like you."
"/wuff."
"Yea ... that's what I'm afraid of." Ken sighs. "'least Fairbairn'll still like me."
"/woof."
"/And you." Ken opens his eyes and studies Dreamboy. "Maybe Murron won't mind, either. She likes your shaggy mug enough."
Dreamboy pants happily.
Ken sighs, tousles the dog's ears.
A knock at the door and Headmaster Kinnaird calls, "May I bother you for a moment?"
"Of course, sir." Ken sits up straighter, shoves at—
"No need to dismiss your friend," reassures the Headmaster, settling into the chair next to the bed.
"O-okay." Ken lets his hands fall to his sides.
Dreamboy /ruffs, plants his chin on the center of Ken's chest.
"Madam McKimmie tells me you're nearly back to full strength."
"Yea, I can almost move normal again. Doing a better job at staying awake all day, too."
"That's wonderful!" Headmaster Kinnaird beams. "Be careful, though, not to push yourself too hard. Your health's the most important thing."
"Y-yes, sir."
"Since my last visit, have you given any thought to staying with us after you're fully recovered?"
"Uh ...." Ken rubs the back of his head, swallows. "Mum and Da and I sorta talked about it and I, um, /kinda want to come back, but ...." He sighs to stop.
"What's troubling you, lad?"
"Well ... won't the other kids be /scared if I'm there, since I'm a ...?"
"It's kind of you to worry, but the feelings of your fellow pupils are not your responsibility."
"But, I don't—" Ken huffs. "They'll be scared. /Hate me."
Headmaster Kinnaird leans closer. "Let me tell you a secret, Ken. You wouldn't be the first werewolf to study here. I've worked with four during my time as headmaster."
Ken's jaw drops.
"My predecessors each shepherded a handful through their schooling, as well." 
"Really?"
The Headmaster smiles, eyes twinkling. "You've heard our 'unofficial' name, aye? 'True Thomas' School for the Unwanted and Unconvenient'?"
Ken nods slowly.
"We earned it by educating more than Squibs and lost selkies. Werewolves, sirens, half-giants, part-dullahans and veela, and even a half-vampire have graduated over the years."
"/Really?"
"Indeed. You wouldn't be the first werewolf—or the last—to walk these halls. Despite all the fluttering about, we've done this before."
Ken swallows.
"Next time you chat with your parents, keep that in mind."
"Y-yes, sir."
"I also have one more thing for you to mull over—as if you're not already drowning in 'em."
"What's that, sir?"
Headmaster Kinnaird sits back. "That would be whether or not to keep your lycanthropy a secret or be open about it."
Ken blinks a few times. "Doesn't everybody already know?"
"All we've said is that you and Mister Oldershaw were attacked by wizards aligned with You-Know-Who."
"A-and that's Graham's d-dead."
"Yes, that as well." Headmaster Kinnaird refolds his hands. "As far as I'm aware—and my sources are /very good—only Miss MacDonald knows the full extent of your injuries."
"Not even Lessie? Or Royal?"
"We'll tell them what they need to know before you move back to the dorms, if you decide to rejoin us. If you decide to keep your condition a private matter, they would be sworn to secrecy."
"Is Murron sworn?"
"She is. She even offered to be put under a curse to ensure her silence." The Headmaster shakes his head. "We told her it wasn't necessary and that we trusted her to keep her word."
"Y-yea ... she always means it when she promises something."
"Indeed she does."
Ken starts scritching behind Dreamboy's ears again. "When ... when Murron came here, did she have a choice to keep being a selkie secret?"
"She did and chose to do so at first." He chuckles. "Then, on her tenth birthday, she put on her best dress, stood on a table in the Big Hall at lunchtime, and declared she was a selkie at the top of her lungs and that anyone who had a problem with that could fight her bare-handed on the Pentagon after lectures ended."
Ken snorts a laugh.
"She's a remarkable youngster."
"Yea, she really is."
"So are you, lad."
Ken's heart stutters. "Huh? S-sir?"
"You are equally remarkable, young man. Madam McKimmie and I agree: your injuries should've been fatal, but you Fought your way through. Now, you're recovering faster than we dared hope."
An 'oh' squeaks out past the lump in Ken's throat.
"Don't /ever let anyone tell you you're unworthy. No one needs to justify their existence, but you've /won your place, both in the World and at this School."
"Th-th-thank you, s-sir."
Headmaster Kinnaird waves it off. 
Ken worms a hand under Dreamboy's chin, sets to scratching that.
Dreamboy /woffles, /thumps his tail against Ken's legs.
The Headmaster's jacket pocket /chirrups.
"Oh dear! My apologies, but I have to be going. About to be late for a very important date with Missus Kinnaird." He pushes to his feet. "It was lovely chatting with you and I hope you keep what I said in mind when you talk to your parents next."
"I will, sir. Thank you."
Headmaster Kinnaird smiles, lets himself out, closes the door behind.
Ken focuses on Dreamboy, switches to scratching his neck.
The dog sighs.
"I wouldn't be the first, huh?"
Dreamboy yawns.
"I guess that it—" Ken stifles his own. "Good idea, boy. I'll sleep on it. Better plan." He yawns again, closes his eyes, and lets his mind wander until sleep takes over.
.
== Any Club ==
Date: 01 December 1996; Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK
Ken plods along the absolutely, /perfectly empty hallway toward his room.
The dorm is /way too quiet, even for midday on a Monday.
Ken drags his feet, hunches.
"It'll be alright," assures Headmaster Kinnaird from beside him.
Ken sighs, forces himself to walk normal, straight up to his door.
And just stands there, frozen.
Headmaster Kinnaird squeezes his shoulder.
Ken looks back.
"Go ahead, lad," he says, voice and eyes kind.
Ken knocks, croaks, "'ey, Royal?"
""C'min~!""
He pushes open the door, creeps inside.
"Welcome home!" greets Royal, sprawled on his bed, as usual. "The apple's from Murron. I talked her outta leaving a box of 'em."
Ken snorts a laugh a the bit of fruit on his pillow, lets his shoulders drop.
Everything seems the same as before.
Ken smiles at Headmaster Kinnaird.
He beams, retreats over the threshold. "I'll leave you to settle in. Mister Maffett?"
Royal sits up. "Yes, sir?"
"Don't forget your appointment with Miss Greenshields and the stables tomorrow morning."
"No, sir, I won't."
"Good. Have a pleasant afternoon, gentlemen." 
"You, too, sir," chorus Ken and Royal.
The headmaster closes the door.
Ken perches on the edge of his mattress, concentrates on keeping his breathing steady.
They wait a solid fifteen seconds in quiet.
"Uh, Royal?"
"Yea?"
"You're n-not scared 'a me?"
"Nah—"
Ken scratches an itch behind his ear.
"—Kinnaird, Galloway, /and Fairbairn all gave me lectures 'bout how you're the /exact Ken you've always been 'til the full moon's up—and then you're just extra furry." He gives a crooked smile. "Pretty sure I get it."
Ken laughs weakly.
Royal sighs. "Your funny paper friends, though ...."
"My wha?"
"The trading club? Your comics?"
Ken nods slowly.
"They snuck in here soon as the news got out, rifled your stuff, took everything back." Crosses his arms, growls, "Clever fuckers waited 'til I was out or I'd 'a stopped 'em."
"Oh. Th-thanks."
"At least they left the posters, aye?"
Ken checks—
Steve, Clint, Natasha, and the rest of the team beam from their places of honour, confident as always.
—swallows. "Y-yea. That's something, at least."
"If you, uh, want, I can roust MacCailín and have a 'chat' with 'em?"
"N-nah, d-don't bother. If they don't want me, I don't w-want them."
Royal grunts approval.
Ken flops. "So ... anything happen while I was out?"
"Not really. Same old shit, pretty much."
"Guess that's good."
"If you like shit."
Ken snorts. "What was that about you and the stables?"
"Have t'go clean 'em tomorrow."
"What'd you do this time?"
"I hexed Aleck Scobie." Some pride creeps into Royal's voice. "Gave 'im horns and it took Missus Crellin to get rid of 'em."
"Y-you did that?"
Royal shrugs. "He was pissing me off. Bloke's a fucking bastard on a good day and this wasn't one." A beat. "/Totally worth having to muck stalls by hand for the look on his face."
Ken laughs for real and Royal joins in.
.
== Come In Out of the Rain ==
Date: 14 Jan 1998; Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK
"—good question, Gemma! Why /is there a '/Northern Ireland'? It's an important story—"
Ken sighs against his palm, shades in the second red ring of his margin-shield.
"—but we're out of time for today—"
His pencil scratches across his notebook as he darkens the blue around the star.
"—which means you get to read chapters four through six for Friday~!" sings Mister Fairbairn.
The class—Ken included—groans and mutters.
"I don't see why we have to know this."
"It helps explain a lot of what goes on out in the World, Stuart, like why people behave as they do."
"We're /wizards! This Muggle history stuff doesn't matter to us!" whines Royal.
"The wizards' world is part of the World and only a teensy bit of it, too. Not exploring it would be nearly as boring as staying here the rest of your life." Mister Fairbairn gives them a Look, bushy eyebrows lowered. "Think of it. The rest of your life. Right here." He grins like a maniac. "With me."
Grumbling and a few nervous giggles as Ken flops closed his notebook.
"Chapters four, five, and six and I'll try to arrange a guest lecturer for Friday?"
Grumbling shifts to whispering as chairs scrape back.
"Though it hurts my feelings, there'll be a guest next time. Now, shoo! And don't forget your reading!"
Ken tucks away his pencil, piles the rest of his gear.
"I still say it doesn't matter," mutters Royal as he gathers his book and notes.
"It's probably not /totally useless for us who're gonna have to pass as Muggles most of the time."
Royal grunts a concession, stands.
A intercom owl soars through the door-top window, lands on the front table.
"Everyone stay /right where you are!" orders Mister Fairbairn.
Feet shuffle; Ken re-stacks his stuff.
Mister Fairbairn plucks a sheet of paper from the bird's beak—
The messenger takes off without waiting for a reply.
—flicks his eyes over the text, lets it fall back to the table. "Unfortunately for anyone hoping to go ashore this afternoon—"
A handful of groans.
"—the lookouts in both Aberfeldy and Crieff've seen Snatchers—"
Ken swallows.
"—lurking about, so Killin Village, land, /and loch passes are suspended until the all-clear."
Grumbling, but quieter this time.
"We'll also be decoupling—"
Snickers.
Mister Fairbairn rolls his eyes. "We're moving the School to deeper water. The kelpies have been informed, so I /strongly recommend against trying to swim for it."
Ken shudders.
"All of which means you'll need to entertain yourselves in the dorms, possibly by reading your textbooks."
Ken shoves to his feet, jams his stuff into his rucksack.
"You feeling up to the game against Danny's hall tonight?" asks Royal.
"Think I'd hurt more than help today." Ken rubs the back of his neck. "Still, uh, fuzzy."
"'s'awright. You'll make up for it next week, then."
"Yea, right, sure," mumbles Ken. He follows Royal to the cloakroom, stuffs himself into his anorak, shoulders his bag, and steps outside into a drizzle.
Royal and the rest of his class take off for the Big Hall at a run as soon as they hit the central platform.
Ken huffs, hunches his shoulders, sets out straight across the Pentagon for the boys' dorm.
At the midpoint, Missus Hughes—
Ken stops.
—nods as she bustles by from the crèche on the way to lunch, trailed by Mister Hughes and a chattering gaggle of wee ones with matching slickers over their coats and hats.
Weans grin and wave to him.
Ken smiles, waves back.
A mittened hand grabs his wrist—
Ken stumbles sideways, flailing his free arm, yelps, "Murron! What—"
She stops them a half-dozen yards closer to the girls' walk, peers out from between her hat and scarves. "The deck's all squashy right there and I'm scared it'll break and someone'll fall through and drown." She shudders, eyes the spot.
"I didn't notice anything."
Murron crosses her arms, insists, "It's /squashy."
"You should tell Mister Number about—"
Her dark eyes get big and wet.
"What's happened?" he croaks.
"He went to the village yesterday evening and hasn't come back." She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, whispers, "Like with Miss Speight."
A wind kicks up.
"He could be visiting—"
She shakes her head.
"Maybe ...." Ken swallows the lump his throat. "Maybe Miss Effie can fix it? Wood likes her, right?"
Murron brightens. "I'll ask!"
He gives her as much smile as he can manage.
She glows at him.
"So ... umm ... after, what're you up to?"
"Oh! Lessie and I're gonna braid each other's hair, then she wants to try and teach me chess again."
"That sounds like fun."
Murron nods excitedly. "Do you want to join us? We might be able to do /something with yours?"
"Uh, sorry, but I've gotta meet Missus Crellin in a bit. She's worried I'm gonna fail Spells."
Murron frowns.
"But I can stop by and say 'hi' to Lessie?"
"Perfect! Let's—"
""/Mackenzie /Gorman—""
Ken jumps.
""—and Murron MacDonald!""
She cringes.
"—/what do—are you trying to catch your /deaths?!"" shrieks Missus Galloway.
Ken spots her on the second floor bridge between the faculty and girls' dorms.
"Get inside before you're soaked through!"
"Yes, ma'am!" they chorus and sprint across the planking and skid, panting, into the girls' building foyer.
"Here. I, um, lemme help ...." Ken takes hold of Murron's coat at the shoulders.
"I need to do the buttons first!"
"Oh, uh, right. Sorry." Ken releases her, face hot, shimmies out of his anorak, hangs it on an empty hook to dry a bit, kicks off his shoes.
Murron fiddles a moment. "There!"
"O-okay." He helps her out of the coat, then hovers as she unwinds two scarves and pulls off three hats.
"C'mon! Lessie's waiting!" She tugs his arm, marches them to the lounge.
Lessie holds down the center of the sofa, sitting cross-legged and reading the latest /Daily /Prophet.
"What's wrong with your mouth?" Ken plops on the carpet in front of her, loosens his tie.
Murron hisses, settles in beside him.
Lessie frowns, folds the paper away. "Thanks, Ken." She recrosses her legs. "I'm trying a different lipstick."
"Since when do you wear lipstick?"
"Since before I was your mentor."
"Huh."
"It's pretty," says Murron.
"Would you like to try it?"
"Yes, please!"
"C'mere then."
Murron scoots closer.
Lessie pulls a gold-banded burgundy tube from her purse and carefully applies half a dozen tiny touches to Murron's mouth. "Now press your lips together like—" She demonstrates.
Murron does, then turns to Ken.
"What?"
"What d'you think?"
"Uh ... it's ... nice?"
Murron sparkles!
Ken ducks his head, rubs his neck. "So ... what's today's bad news?"
"The Ministry's put out a reward for 'reports of vampires leading to registrations'."
"And 'registered' vampires who don't leave wind up dead."
"Yea, exactly." She glares at the /Prophet a moment, then goes thoughtful. "I hope Don doesn't get caught up in all this."
Ken shrugs. "All those years living in Glasgow haven't killed him so he'll be fine."
"That's what /he always says. What does it even /mean?"
"Glasgow's friendly enough most of the time, but'll kick in your teeth if you're not careful?"
Murron buries a laugh in her hands.
"What's so funny?"
"Magnets."
"I don't—"
"It's a /secret~!" giggles Murron.
Lessie frowns at her; Ken rolls his eyes.
Murron suddenly sobers, cocks her head, and says, "There's something else, too. In the news."
"Nah, that's it."
Ken scratches behind his ear.
"You're a bad liar."
Lessie huffs. "Fine. They've also raised the payment to Snatchers for werewolves."
Ken's heart stutters and his tongue knots up.
"They can't get you here," Murron whispers, linking their arms.
"We won't let Them get you /anywhere," adds Lessie.
"W-what's the bounty?"
"Huh?"
"How much'm I worth?"
"That's not—"
"Lessie."
She gives him her best eye-roll and says, "Four hundred Galleons."
Ken's mouth goes desert-dry.
"That's a lot of money, isn't it?"
"It's a half-year's rent on my parents' flat."
Murron makes a surprised noise.
Ken swallows. "Maybe I should hand my—"
"Don't even /finish," growls Lessie.
"The money'd really help, though."
"They'll /kill you!" squeaks Murron.
"That's not how it works. They'd put me to work."
"Like They did with the one who bit you, aye?"
"Yea, like that." Ken rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, it's not like I /want to attack—"
"We know, numpty."
"I just—" Ken slumps. "I just want this stupid war over before anyone else gets hurt."
"That won't happen if You-Know-Who wins, you know."
"I know, I know, and I don't want Them to win: I just ...." He sighs to a stop. "I can't be a fighter like you, Lessie."
"I'm not a fighter. Yet."
Her eyes gleam and he shudders.
"No one'll be able to stop you after May, though," points out Murron. "You'll be grown-up!"
"It can't come fast enough. I want to get out there and help Beathan and Ailsa and all them win this for Us."
Ken—
"'ello, Lesley!" greets Manda.
Aleck, beside her, bobs his chin.
Lessie inclines her head like royalty.
"May we borrow you a moment?"
"Whatever you've got to say, you can say to me here."
Aleck side-eyes Ken and Murron. "In front of the Half—"
Lessie clears her throat.
Aleck shuts his mouth with a snap.
"Can we count on your help to set up the Saint Brigid's Day party?"
"When are you getting together?"
"Every evening after dinner in the Big Hall starting on Friday."
"I'm busy all Friday, but I'll start on Saturday."
"Great! Thank you so much!" Manda floats off toward the foyer.
Aleck looks down his nose—
Murron growls.
Ken nudges her.
—then goes, too.
Lessie tracks them, then picks up her /Daily /Prophet as Murron keeps scowling at the door.
"I'm tired of 'them' and 'us'," blurts Ken.
"I /know and it's so stupid," says Lessie, dropping the fish wrapper. "Magic's magic. If you can use it, what does it matter if you change shape? Or who your parents are?"
"'cos some people need to feel special and important and've got nothing else."
Lessie /hmpfs, rolls a strand of her hair between her fingers. "Do we even know any Pure-bloods?"
"Uh ...." Ken racks his memory. "Nobody from the Twenty-Eight Families, for sure."
"Some folks meet the Grandfather Standard, though."
"Yea," Ken agrees, "and all Kirsty's great-grandparents are wizards and Murron's entire family's magical, too."
"But I'm not," she whispers, head down.
Ken's heart impales itself on a rib and he considers worming under the sofa to die.
"You're /still magical. Isn't she, /Ken."
"Y-yea. /Definitely." Ken coughs his throat clear. "Definitely more magical than me."
"Missus Crellin!" Murron squeaks.
Ken startles. "Wha?"
"Your Spells lesson!"
Lessie blinks at him. "You got into one of the seminars?"
"Uh, no. It's, um, tutoring-sorta." Ken stands, shuffles his feet, adds, "So I don't fail."
"Will Missus Crellin have you working with a wand?"
He cringes, mumbles, "Maybe."
"There's nothing wrong with using a wand for spells. It's like wearing glasses for reading, right?"
"Which you only need when there's something wrong with your eyes."
"Lots of wizards wear glasses and use wands," says Lessie.
"You know it's not—"
"Missus Crellin gets really annoyed when you're late."
Ken sighs. "I'm going, I'm going. See you—"
"I'll walk with you." Murron hops up. "I should check in with Missus Galloway so she doesn't worry." She glances.
Lessie waves her on.
She beams at Ken.
"See you later, Lessie." Ken plods for the exit.
Murron moves with him, calls, "I'll be right back~!" over her shoulder.
Ken stuffs his feet into his shoes, tightens his laces, straightens, climbs into his coat, opens the door—
On continued icy rain.
—shivers—
A /thlump.
—turns.
Murron, well-bundled again, smiles from under an open umbrella. "Lessie won't mind if we borrow hers."
"It's bad luck to open those inside," says Ken as his heart skips.
"You're supposed to open it outside after you've started getting wet? That's /silly, isn't it?"
"Yea, you're right. It's pretty silly." He offers his arm. "Let's go."
Murron glows, tucks tight to Ken's side, holds the umbrella over both their heads, and leads them into the storm. 
.
== Perfectly ==
Date: 08 August 1998; Moonzie, Fife, Scotland, UK
Ken pads up to the farmhouse door, wagging his tail behind him.
A small sound from inside.
He hesitates, heart picking up speed. A deep breath and he puts his snout to the door, carefully lines up the Fish with the flap, then pushes it through.
/Barking—
Ken tumbles off the stoop—
—explosive, excited, at the top of terrier lungs.
—flails across the garden—
The door bangs open.
—flings himself at the wall—
""/Gerrowtahereyebloodyfeckin—""
—scrabbles over—
""—/mongrelforeAtakeyerbloodyheadoff!""
—lands in a tangle at Misterfairbairn's feet.
Misterfairbairn gestures.
""Wha're ye shoutin' 'boot?! Cumin back tae bed!"" hollers a woman's voice.
""A ... aw, feck it.""
The door slams shut.
Ken wobbles to his feet, shakes himself nearer to steadiness.
"It's awrite, lad." Misterfairbairn tousles his ears. "Farmer Skeffington'll nae remember much a' this come mornin'."
Ken whines, shifts his paws.
Misterfairbairn raises an eyebrow. "Ye cannae expect it t'go perfectly /all the time, aye?"
Ken sighs.
.
== Fight ==
Date: 12 Feb 1998; Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK
Murron smiles—so /bright-pretty!—waggles the tennis ball.
Ken bows and sways his whole back half.
She tosses!
He scrabble-scrapes across Misterfairbarin's reception, clamps his teeth on the ball before Dreamboy can get to it, patters—freezes, pricks his ears, sniffs the air.
Footsteps: metal on wood.
Scents: /cologne-leather-steel-laughter-exhaust-adrenaline.
He bumps Dreamboy out of his way, bounds past Misterfairbairn and Lessie to the opening door; Murron chases.
"Beathan!" yelps Lessie.
He slouches into the room, saying, "'sa school night, so why're ye wee yins still hangin' aboot?"
"We're dog-sittin'."
Ken agrees around the tennis ball.
Dreamboy dances and wags his tail.
"Well then, greetings, my lovely lasses of Loch Tay," says Beathan, sweeping a bow to Murron—
She smiles, curtsies.
—and Lessie—
She giggles.
—then crouches, tugs the ball away. "'ey, Ken-my-man, yuptae t'night?"
‘>Play!’ he wuffs.
"The meanies have ye Quietened, aye?"
‘>Yea.’
"Yer tearin' up the floor, McEwan," scolds Misterfairbairn.
Beathan straightens, eyebrow cocked. "Yer nae yellin' at Ken an' All bet those claws're pure murder on wood."
"Amnae scoldin' Mister Gorman 'cos he's a wolf t'night."
"Aye, he's a wolf, but his ma taught him manners."
Ken coaxes the ball from Beathan's fingers, flops on the rug, sets to gnawing.
Murron curls next to him, weaves her fingers in his fur, buries her face in his neck.
He sighs, happy.
Murron huffs back.
Dreamboy clicks off deeper into the flat.
"He's manners, but his paws dinnae come off, unlike yer boots."
Beathan sniffs, "Ye'll charm things back tae perfect once A'm gone," and drops in next to Lessie on the sofa.
Misterfairbairn asks, "Where's yer better portion?"
"She's sneakin' Don from work. Should—"
"Ailsa and Don're comin'?" squeaks Lessie.
"Oh, /A see where A rank with ye now."
"Don'che worry. Yer my favourite." She leans against him, bats her eyelashes.
"A'd best be," pouts Beathan.
Misterfairbairn clears his throat.
"Wha?"
Ken pricks his ears.
Footsteps—a quick patter and a measured, quiet stride—and smells—/silver-cologne-perfume-city-exhaustion-blood—and a dozen heartbeats later, Ailsa and Don appear.
"Why're the three 'a ye darkenin' my door?" sighs Misterfairbairn, shutting his book with fump.
"We wanna pick yer brain," says Don, hovering in the hallway.
"Mine? What could Anno ane of yer age—"
"A asked an' he's dead useless, as usual," drawls Ailsa, sitting beside Beathan.
Don rolls his eyes, grumbles, "Big laugh, that. Now would'ye /say it so A can join ye?"
"What's stoppin' ye?" giggles Ailsa.
"Yer gonna play dumb."
Beathan sprawls, drapes his arms along the back of the couch. "This nae gets old."
"Trust me, it does."
"Nae from this angle."
"Would ye /please invite me in?"
"A dinnae think A will just yet."
"Why're ye stuck?" asks Lessie. "Yer already in the building."
"Flats count separate, so ...."
"Must be a dead pain."
"Aye."
Beathan, Ailsa, and Lessie snicker.
Don taps his foot.
"Yer welcome t'enter my humble home, Mister Douglas," says Misterfairbairn through a grin.
"/Thank ye," Don huffs, folds into a stuffed chair.
"Yer welcome. Now, ye said ye wanted to 'pick my brain'?"
"Honestly, we were thinkin' ye could consult yer oracles and familiars an' tell us what ye see."
Misterfairbairn sits forward, cracks his knuckles. "Always game fer a li'l peek behind the veil a' time. What's the question?"
Beathan hunches his shoulders, scratches the back of his head. "Well, we—Ailsa, really—saved a wean from a werewolf—"
Ken lifts his head, whimpers—
Murron wraps herself more tightly around him.
—settles a tad.
"—but nae 'fore he was bit."
Ken whines.
"We wanna know if he'll survive."
"Ye just said ye'd saved him."
"It's the Changing has us worried, Diarmad," says Don, low.
"An' in yer long years ...?"
"Avnae known ane infected so young." Don shakes his head. "'s why A'm worried."
Lessie kinda eyeballs him. "Why's a vampire care 'bout a wean?"
"'cos Kris's my god-son."
"Yer /wha?"
"Me an' his da know—/knew each other from the pubs. He an' his family dinnae get on, so." Don shrugs.
Misterfairbairn swirls his tea, sending fresh steam up from the water. "How's his Fight?"
"Seemed solid enough," offers Ailsa.
"He's a Coatbridge Gray," adds Don.
Beathan turns to him. "A wha?"
Misterfairbairn clanks his cup onto the table and leans back. "Dinnae need leaves fer this. A Coatbridge Gray'll nae die by werewolf tooth."
"His Gray /ma was bled out next tae him—"
"Yer /certain there was /only a werewolf?"
Beathan and Ailsa go very still; Don shifts, uncomfortable.
Ken drags himself across the floor, towing Murron (who's breathing like she's sleeping and /still clutching his fur), rests his head on Don's feet.
Don bends, rubs his ears.
"So ...," says Ailsa, "there's a wizard watchin', makin' sure the wolf ...?"
"Dinnae leave witnesses."
"Then why let the wean live?"
"'cos nae wean 'cept a Coatbridge Gray could /maybe Fight through. Best to trust the odds an' /run 'fore the likes'a ye caught up, aye?"
Beathan grunts and the room goes quiet.
Don scratches between Ken's shoulders.
"Um, Beathan? Ailsa?"
"Aye, Lessie."
"What'd ye do tae the werewolf?"
"Disapparated her tae a rock in Shetland. She's prolly cold, but /definitely alive."
"Which's more than we can say fer that boy's parents," grumbles Ailsa.
"Aye," sighs Beathan. A moment and he brightens. "Ye said 'Coatbridge Gray' like it meant somethin'."
Don grins. "Annie's family's a tale from 'fore yer time. Monster—an' vampire—hunters, mostly."
"Anny a' them work on yer teeth?"
Don stops with the petting—
Ken sighs.
—sprawls thoroughly. "Nae, but they /did put a stake in my sire's sire an' that with nae a drop of magic amongst 'em."
Beathan gives a low whistle.
"Yea, I dinnae feck around with /any Coatbridge Grays."
Ailsa blinks, says, "So why're /ye godfather tae ane?"
Don shrugs. "The Universe likes a joke much as the next soul an' Andrew, bless 'im, had all the insight of a brick."
Ken yawns, rests his head on his paws as the adults snicker—
Murron sleeps.
—then the world goes quiet. 
.
== Reflection ==
Date: 25 September 1999; Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK
Ken trots along Dochart Road as the moon plays hide-and-seek in the clouds.
Behind him, along the river, brush rattles.
He stops, looks over his shoulder.
A clump of greenery quivers.
‘>Come here,’ he woofs.
Rustling.
‘>Come here. Now.’
No response.
Ken turns to face the noise square. ‘>Now, Kris.’
Silence beyond the usual night noises.
Ken huffs.
Silence.
Ken grumbles, heads onto the verge, sniffing and listening. He pushes through to the bank.
Kris stands next to a still patch of the river, peering at the water.
Ken pads over, nudges him.
Kris grunts, indicates Ken should look where he is.
Ken does.
Two wolf-like faces watch him.
Kris whuffles, queries.
‘>Yea. Us.’
Kris whines.
‘>Yea.’ Ken shifts his feet. ‘>Us.’ 
Sons & Daughters of Magic
Category:Ficlet