wickedchouette | (no subject)

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[If one goes deep into the heart of London's wizarding community, and then goes deeper still down into the bowels of it, they might just find Alfie Solomons and his people. They're not the lowest of the low - most people, especially in this day and age, reserve that for Voldemort's followers - but they're pretty far down there. They're black market dealers, illegal bookmakers, racketeers, and occasional murderers.

But when something unknown and unfindable starts wreaking havoc in their warehouse, they have no idea how to deal with it.

At first they think it's simple sabotage: when Alfie, the gang's leader, comes in to find several shelves of expensive rum smashed to bits, it seems like the most obvious answer. The night watchman gets reamed out despite his being positive that no one could have snuck past him and into the building, and three more able-bodied men are posted alongside him for the next night. But it happens again - and again, and again, until it's been going on for over a week. Sometimes it's valuable and expensive product that's destroyed; sometimes record books are thrown across the room, their pages scattered; sometimes it's nothing but a tin of fountain pens that gets upended. Men are sent to patrol the halls at all hours of the night, scouring the building from top to bottom for any evidence of the person or persons responsible. Not so much as a footprint is ever found.

No one is ever hurt, but the waste of time, resources, and manpower are draining at a time when things are already strained; when they really can't afford to lose what they're losing. And even beyond that, the fact that somebody or something is so clearly running rings around them is making them the laughingstocks of the neighborhood. The gang is by nature closed-off and tight-knit, used to dealing with their problems themselves. But even though no calls for outside help are made, information still trickles out - a guy tells a friend who tells a friend who tells his pub buddies, maybe speaking a little too loudly at a crowded bar counter. Word spreads. Maybe word will eventually spread to someone who can actually do something about it.]

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[It's something of a happy accident that word of the troubled warehouse winds up reaching the ears of someone who can help. This is partly because it's unusual to find someone brave enough to explore the large, clearly haunted structure and clever enough to figure out what's actually doing the haunting. But it's also because this particular someone is rather difficult to find. He's not difficult to find in the way that many of the unsavory people of Alfie's world are difficult to find - you don't have to talk to a man who knows a man who might just know someone of the right description who will then certainly not know someone named Johnny "Pliers" Smith, who will meet you at the corner table in Rusty's Pub next Tuesday. No, this particular someone is difficult to find because - well, he's simply not around very much. Oh, he's known within the wizarding community, in a small way. If you were to go looking for people who knew him once, you'd probably find a fair few - he only graduated from Hogwarts recently, after all, and he'd been well-liked while he was there. But if you were to try and find out exactly who he is? Talk to his friends, his family, people who know him now? You wouldn't find anyone. He is, in an understated way, a complete unknown.

And so when there's a knock on the door of Alfie Solomon's current place of daily business, the door will be opened to reveal the pale but friendly face of a total stranger. He's of about average height and rather thin of build, brown-haired, brown-eyed, and wearing slightly worn but professional Muggle clothing under his black wizard's robes. His voice, when he speaks, has a bit of natural hoarseness to it, and the faint traces of a Welsh accent under the veneer of Received Pronunciation.]

Hello, sir. Are you Mr. Solomon? I've come to see if I can help you with your warehouse problem.

[The man who answers the door is on the younger side, though not as young as Remus - he's in his thirties, maybe, wearing both a yarmulke and wizard's robes and looking equally comfortable in them both. At first, a quizzical expression flits across his face, but it hardens almost immediately. They do have a warehouse problem, and they do need help with it, but strangers don't just come knocking on the front door - at least, most strangers don't.]

No, I'm not.

[Says the man gruffly.]

You wanna see him, you'll have to submit to searching. Put out your arms.

[The man at the door doesn't seem at all surprised by what he finds on the other side. He doesn't know very many Jews, but there were a few at Hogwarts while he attended the school and one of them even wore a yarmulke like this man. He knows little about the religion or the people and he would be lost if asked to celebrate the sabbath with them, but that's not what he's here for. He's here on business, and he knows his business well enough to be confident.

The command to hold out his arms does seem to faze him, though: he hasn't been searched by hand in quite some time. But there's only a momentary flicker of confusion in his eyes - then the bland, calm expression returns to his face. This is England, after all, he reminds himself. During the war many people resorted to searching strangers by hand, lest they set off a curse attached to the body of a zealous supporter of Voldemort. Perhaps the war is as fresh in everyone else's memory as it is in his own.]

Very well.

[He willingly holds out both arms.]

[The guy pats him down in a quick but practiced sort of way - he's clearly done this before. Evidently, he's satisfied, because when he's done he steps back, nodding to Remus to enter the warehouse, though he'll block him if he tries to take more than a step or two in.]

Oi!

[He calls out.]

Someone get Alfie.

[It's darker inside than out, and it might take a couple of seconds for Remus's eyes to adjust, but once they do he'll see that it's a pretty busy place: there are men bustling around, carrying jugs and vats and empty cauldrons in and out of the main room, putting some on shelves and taking others off. A couple have nothing in their hands, and one of them nods in acknowledgement at the doorman's words, ducking out through a small door in the back. Door guy turns back to Remus.]

What did you say your name was?

[He's well aware that he didn't.]

[For the few moments during which the pat-down takes place, the stranger's calm, professional expression might seem the slightest bit forced. Remus is unused to physical contact; his contacts on the Continent have put his awkwardness down to his British sensibilities, but his fellow countrymen might recognize his aversion to touch as unusual even by their standards. Still, the awkwardness lasts only for a few seconds; by the time he is deemed clean of concealed weaponry or curses, the calm, professional expression is back in place.

He takes a step into the relative dimness of the warehouse and looks around as his eyes adjust. It's a huge, open place, like most warehouses; the wooden ceiling vaults high above their heads, held up by a network of steel struts securely riveted into the walls on all four sides; underneath the ceiling climbs an army of towering, free-standing shelves, neatly arrayed about four feet apart from one another like soldiers standing in ranks, marching regularly into the distance all the way to the wall on either side. Each shelf is made of dark steel and crammed with stock - none of it remotely identifiable as anything more than shadowed boxes, crates, jars or cauldrons: for all Remus knows, he might be standing in a warehouse full of contraband potions or banned grimoires. And around the ranks of shelving swarm a multitude of men, all similarly dressed in dark robes and hats or yarmulkes, moving in all directions with single-minded efficiency at their unknown purposes, carrying anonymous packages or hurrying to walled-off corners. It's all rather impressive to Remus, just in the scope of it if nothing else; he's certainly never worked in so large an establishment before.

His gaze snaps back to the man in front of him when he speaks, attentive and as composed as if he has seen nothing new. He answers smoothly and confidently.]

Lupin.

[He doesn't give a first name; those are generally not called for in his professional life. If the man looks amenable to formal introduction, he will hold out a hand to shake.]

Edited 2018-06-20 13:06 (UTC)

[The man gives him a nod, readily shaking his hand - though he does it a bit stiffly, and he offers no name in return. He doesn't seem to be one for conversation either, as he makes no attempt at smalltalk as they wait.

Luckily, they won't be waiting long. Not two minutes after Remus first steps through the door, Alfie will make his way over, lumbering down one of the long hallways between the overstacked shelves. He's wearing a black hat and a yarmulke with his robes, the yarmulke fitted underneath and really only visible from the back. He is, by most people's standards, an imposing guy: not especially tall, but bulky, and he carries himself with clear confidence and self-assurance.]

Thanks, Ollie--

[He says to the man who'd let Remus in.]

I'll take it from here, mate; you go on.

[And then he turns his gaze to Remus, He doesn't look angry, or even completely unfriendly, but it's a hard, penetrating, calculating look. It lasts a few seconds longer than is probably comfortable before he takes a step back, shoulders loosening as he claps his hands together.]

Right, then. I hear, mate, that you are the answer to our prayers.

[Alfie does turn out to be imposing when he approaches from out of the depths of the warehouse; it is clear that he is the man in charge of this place even before he opens his mouth. He's not taller than Remus, as far as he can tell, but his black hat does add a few centimeters to his height - and more than that, he is broad. Wide shoulders, thick hands, and a hint of gravity to his stride, as if he has gotten into the habit of moving with care so as not to break anything delicate. He looks like a man who you would very much not want to face in a fight, with or without magic. Luckily, Remus thinks, he's not about to do anything to earn Alfie Solomon's ire. He gives a small nod.]

Yes, I hope to be.

[Remus keeps his expression just on the friendly side of neutral as he answers; he does not give his inner feelings away to anyone easily, least of all to strangers with clever gazes. He maintains eye-contact and does not fidget under the too-long stare, hands held loosely at his sides and very clearly empty.]

Before I start, may I ask you a few questions about the incidents?

[When Remus holds up under the stare rather than getting uncomfortable or looking away, a flicker of an expression passes over Alfie's face - one of recognition ("I know exactly what I'm doing, and I see you know it too"), and of respect. It's very subtle and easily overlooked, but if Remus is looking, it's there.

If Alfie's imposing stare had been a test, he'd passed.]

Come to my office.

[He says, with a nod towards the door in the back.]

We'll talk there.

[Remus catches the subtle look of acknowledgement that Alfie gives him: yes, they are both aware of the images that they are projecting. Alfie is the king of his domain, this enormous warehouse and all of the anonymous products inside of it, and he is not to be crossed. Remus is the professional, entering Alfie's kingdom to do his job and leave, disturbing nothing while he is here and speaking of nothing he has seen after he is done. These are familiar circumstances to Remus, and they feel fairly comfortable - even if he's reasonably sure that he's in a warehouse full of illicit goods.

He nods again and follows Alfie further into the warehouse, towards a door in the far wall. He's not truly afraid of Alfie, criminal or not - purveyors of illegal goods are not necessarily the same as murderers, and even gangs of murderers don't tend to kill random pest exterminators who come to help them out. But he does make note of his surroundings, casually letting his attention fall on the path they take through the shelves, keeping a subtle eye on the different men who bustle around them, and watching the way Alfie opens the door to his office. Still, though, he does not allow himself to look overly nervous or wary - that's not good for anyone's business.]

[Luckily, it's a pretty straight forward path - just down a single line of shelves - and the most they get from the other men are quick glances of curiosity. Everyone is busy with their own work, after all, and Alfie bringing people into his office isn't exactly an unusual thing. He opens the double lock on his office door with two separate keys, then ushers Remus in before him, gesturing him to take a seat.]

Come, sit.

[The room, while not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, is still quite a bit nicer than the warehouse: it's all done up in dark wood paneling, with matching old-fashioned wooden furniture, and dim but still functional lighting. The chair that Remus is directed towards is upholstered in comfortable, well-worn leather, and the desk that it's facing is covered with piles of paperwork - though if he leans forward to try to read anything, he'll notice that it's all under cover sheets to protect it from prying eyes.

Alfie sits at the desk, folding his hands and leaning forward expectantly.]

You said you've got questions. Ask away.

[Remus notes the double lock arrangement on Alfie's office door with interest. It tells him several things about his current client: he's clever enough to use locks with keys rather than some kind of magical arrangement, which can be broken if you know what you're doing. That's the kind of thinking that only comes from someone rational, someone with the kind of common sense that you just don't see much in wizards. Perhaps Alfie was raised by Muggles, or grew up among them. Of course, the next logical assumption is that if Alfie uses locks, he must be trying to stay one step ahead of any employees who try and break in - he's employing people whom he does not necessarily trust, and who he thinks might be almost as clever as he is.

Remus lets his gaze do a casual once-over of the office as he takes a seat. Dim and close, intimate enough for a big man like Alfie to dominate. Old furniture, solid and well-worn - the kind of furniture that you buy for a high price and then use for the next two hundred years. It might have been acquired by an ancestor or earlier owner of Alfie's company. And, like the office door, the papers on the big old desk are protected from casual view.

He gives another small, professional smile as Alfie sits. He's pleased that Alfie is letting them get right down to business; he hates when clients try to start off with small-talk. ]

Yes, sir. First, I'd like you to tell me about the incidents that have occurred. When they started, how often they have happened, what time the aftermath is discovered, and what the incidents looked like. Was there anything taken? What manner of items were damaged? Any detail you can give me.

Well, they started a few weeks ago. We've had smashed product, we've had scattered papers, we've had things as simple as spilled ink.

[Alfie gives the floor next to the desk a significant look. Sure enough, there's a dark stain on the wood.]

No rhyme or fucking reason to it; one day it'll be something that'll cost us nearly a thousand pounds in damage, and the next it'll be nothing more than a nuisance. We thought sabotage, at first. It doesn't only happen at night when things are closed down, but it always happens when nobody's looking. No signs of forced entry. No opportunity for forced entry; I've had many men spending sleepless nights patrolling the place. I've patrolled it myself. Whoever it is, whatever it is, it's hiding in here and it can't be found.

[He unclasps his hands and drums his fingers on the desktop, eyes still locked on Remus.]

I take it you've gathered why we haven't called the authorities, and why you'll be taking me or one of my men along if you do anything here. I'm not setting a stranger loose in my warehouse.

[Remus listens attentively as Alfie speaks, his face betraying neither surprise nor disinterest. He doesn't write anything down the way an Auror or police detective might, but he's taking note of all the little details in and around Alfie's statement just the same. He doesn't specify what has been smashed, exactly; he just calls it "product". As Remus has already suspected, it's clearly something he'd rather not name aloud to a stranger. And he reckons the value of his unnamed product in pounds, not sickles or galleons: he buys and sells using Muggle money. That's not illegal by definition - plenty of wizards use Muggle money alongside the magical currencies - but it does mean that the Ministry of Magic will have a harder time tracking where his product originated. And when his product was harmed, Alfie suspected sabotage first - as in, there are those out there who would much rather he not sell whatever he's selling.

Yes, all in all, Remus isn't at all surprised when Alfie subtly but firmly warns him that he has his eye on him. He nods; discretion is an important part of his job, and he's quite good at it.]

I understand, sir.

[He pauses for a moment before continuing, quickly weighing his options. The unknown pest has been in the warehouse for a few weeks but has never been glimpsed; it has targeted various objects seemingly at random; it strikes opportunistically and seemingly has insight into when it might be watched; it's neither strictly nocturnal nor diurnal; and it has left no traces of forced entry or exit. Well, that narrows down the possible culprits considerably. But it doesn't eliminate all other options completely - and Alfie is clearly a man who likes to see quick results.]

Three more questions for you, then. Has it injured any of your workers, even indirectly? Have you recently imported any items from outside of Great Britain? And, lastly, have you recently been sent any crates or packages that you did not specifically order - even if you didn't open them?

[He counts off the questions on three fingers as he asks them, still with the same neutral, attentive expression.]

I have got answers to all those questions for you, but first I wanna know a bit about you. I've got your name, and I've got that you think you can help - but that's it, mate. And I'd like to know more.

[He leaves this vague on purpose: rather than asking pointed questions, he finds that he can always learn something from what people choose to choose to share when asked something open-ended like Who are you?. If he doesn't get the answers he's looking for, he can always ask for specifics after.

... At least that's how things would go in an ideal world. Reality, however, is not so fortuitous. Alfie barely gets his words out before a resounding crash comes from the direction of the warehouse, followed by pounding footsteps and men shouting. Alfie jumps up out of his chair and charges for his office door, grabbing a cane that's leaning against his desk as he goes.]

Come on.

[He says roughly, motioning for Remus to follow.]

[For a moment Remus has to concentrate hard on keeping his expression neutral. He really hates being asked about himself. He knows it has to be done, of course; someone in Alfie's line of business probably has to be careful who he associates with. But it's never easy, not least because he doesn't have an answer to most searching questions -

And then comes the crash. Remus jumps up and runs a step behind Alfie, his mind suddenly quite free of any questions about yourself anxieties. This is business, the job he's here to do and the job he's good at. He doesn't need to concentrate on anything else now, just whatever magical pest he has to get rid of this time. And he's pretty sure he knows what it is. As they run toward the crash, Remus pulls out his wand.]

[The warehouse is in a state of confusion and disarray, and for good reason: an entire shelf has been tipped over, and all the bottled potions that had been on it are now smashed on the floor, their contents spilled everywhere. If they want to get close, it'll be hard to avoid stepping in the clear, water-like liquid - something that, depending on how good he is at identifying potions by sight, Remus might recognize as Draught of Living Death.]

Fucking hell.

[Alfie pulls out his wand and starting to cast a few quick cleaning spells.]

This is the sort of thing that's been happening, this here. No mysterious packages, no imports that haven't been vetted--

[He's too busy focusing on the clean-up to notice, but other than the mysteriously overturned shelf, there is one other thing that's amiss: one lone, unbroken bottle, innocently lying halfway under one of the other shelves. It has that same clear potion in it, it looks to be made of the same glass that had so easily smashed with the other bottles, and there's nothing cushiony on the floor that it could have landed on, so how is it unbroken? Hmmmmmm.]

[Remus skids to a stop several feet before Alfie does - potions are not his forte, but he knows enough about potions safety to understand that you don't go near unidentified potions when they've spilled out of their containers. He's got his wand out and ready to put up a shield spell between the potions and the men around him should the potions react together and explode - but it doesn't happen. In fact, Alfie seems to have stalked right up to the spilled potions quite fearlessly. Remus takes a few steps forward, scanning the scene as Alfie begins Vanishing large swathes of the shallow sea of potion - but then he stops dead. He holds out a hand as if to block his client from getting any closer to the row of shelves still standing around the mess. Not a yard in front of them is the suspiciously unsmashed bottle, surrounded by shards of bottles that clearly broke on impact with the ground.]

Hold on a moment, look, it's -

[But too late. One of Alfie's men, intent on cleaning up the mess, trots right up to the bottle and reaches for it.]

Wait, stop - !

[There's a pop like a cork coming out of a bottle, and a small flash of sickly yellowish light. For a fraction of a second there's an image of a very small humanoid shape, lumpy as a potato and snarling with uneven teeth. Then there's another flash, bright enough to leave spots on their corneas, and a sense of very fast movement. Shards of glass fountain up into the air and potion splashes halfway up the shelves - but the creature has disappeared down the row of shelves.]

Chameleon ghoul. We ought to chase it down now - it might try to destroy something else before going to ground again.

[With that, he begins walking swiftly and purposefully down the row of shelves after the intruder.]

[Well, shit.

Alfie's knowledge of ghouls is both thirty years old, and entirely theoretical. He'd learned a bit about them at Hogwarts, but has never had to deal with one in real life, and he'd liked it that way, dammit. He blinks hard a few times, clearing his vision - and by the time he looks around again, Remus is already gone, chasing after the thing. Quickly, he turns to his men.]

Clean up this mess-- Jacob, mate, you're all right?

[The man who'd reached for the bottle nods; he's fine, if a little flustered. Everyone else gets to work on the spilled potions, leaving Alfie free to hurry after Remus, wand still out, catching up to him quickly on long legs.]

What's the plan of attack here?

[He plans to leave no room for this guy to tell him to stay back and out of the way. It's his warehouse, after all, and there are all kinds of sensitive things here that he doesn't want a stranger bumbling into unawares. Nobody from outside of the gang is going anywhere here without him by their side.]

[Though he doesn't show it, Remus is quite pleased that Alfie doesn't try to stop him from chasing after the ghoul. It shows how desperate he is to put an end to this trouble, he thinks: if push comes to shove and they end up in a tight corner, there's a good chance that he'll at least listen to Remus's advice before taking action. That's more than could be said for some of his clients in the past - and it's always best to face a dark creature when you are not working at cross-purposes with your partner.

He finds that he doesn't need to slow down at all to let Alfie catch up with him a few steps down the aisle. In fact, once the bigger man has caught up to him, he needs to move faster to keep pace.]

It will try to create another mess in order to divert our attention. Then it will hide somewhere else.

[He runs quickly through what he knows about their quarry in his mind: chameleon ghouls are ambush predators, lying quietly in wait for prey - insects or spiders, usually - to walk by before transforming into their natural shape and attacking. Sometimes they destroy woodpiles or old stacks of discarded items in order to scare out potential prey, but only when they are so hungry that they can't afford to wait. That's clearly not what's happening here, not to a single ghoul with an entire warehouse full of small pests to feed on, and not on a daily basis. No: what's happening here is more like play, much like a kitten practices hunting by chasing string, or a puppy chews on its siblings as if killing prey. This ghoul is a juvenile, and it is causing all of this trouble out of an instinct to hone the skills that it needs to survive.

Luckily, that gives them an advantage. A juvenile ghoul, while more or less the same size as an adult even from an early age, is still not very strong. Even if it uses its natural magic to push down shelves, it can't move anything really heavy. That might allow them to guess where it is headed next.

He stops as they come to the first intersection between aisles, the path opening up to allow them three different directions to choose from.]

Tell me, where are there more glass containers, like the ones that broke back there?

[Alfie's long legs are coming through for him today. He might regret moving this fast later - if he has a sciatica flare-up and powers through it, the result is often soreness for days, and right now adrenaline is allowing him to not notice or think about any pain. That's a concern for later, though, when a magical creature isn't rampaging through his warehouse destroying things left and right.

Alfie stops when Remus stops. There's no way to see which way the thing has gone, and no obvious cues: he can't see or hear anything unusual down any of the shelf rows. He alights immediately on the meaning behind Remus's question, though, and starts down the leftmost aisle, saying shortly:]

This way.

[He speeds up to a jog, face tightening as he thinks about the implications here. There's the money to be lost if the ghoul continues wreaking havoc, but there's also...]

Hurry. What we've got in bottles down there-- we don't want large concentrations of it released into the air.

[He's not outright saying this is the place where they keep the worst of the poisons that they brew, and yet.]

[Remus follows Alfie down the aisle he's chosen, having to run almost flat-out to keep up. But his heart sinks at Alfie's warning, and at the concern evident on his face. There are "large concentrations" of something dangerous up ahead, something that shouldn't be breathed in. Whatever it was in those glass containers that they've just left behind, this stuff sounds like it will be worse. Remus is a creatures specialist, not a potions expert: he does not think he will be able to catch their ghoul if they wind up surrounded by noxious poison.

They're within about three meters of the next shelf full of glass jars when the whole row starts to wobble. Remus skids to slow down and uses his remaining momentum to hurl himself toward the back of the shelf, the space in the opposite direction of where the shelves are threatening to crash to the ground.]

Come, this way!

[At the same time he strikes out with his wand in an upward direction; the nearest shelf suddenly comes to a stop, frozen midway through its dangerous wobble at a seventy degree angle to the ground. The big glass jars are still following the usual laws of physics, though, and with the abrupt loss of the shelving beneath them they are left to plummet toward the ground. Remus makes the same movement with his wand as before, lightning-fast, and the glass jars freeze in the air. Immediately they begin to float upwards like helium balloons. The other shelves in the row are still wobbling worryingly, though. He darts down the row to try and stabilize them.]

[Luckily, most poisons are only fully deadly when they're ingested - but that's when one is talking about a single dose of the stuff, or at worst a bottle of it. When it comes to hundreds of bottles of poison, smashed and spilled and wafting into the air... it's not something that Alfie has firsthand experience with, and he isn't keen to change that. When he realizes what Remus is doing, Alfie whips his own wand out and starts to help, damage control temporarily taking precedence over hunting down the ghoul. Taking the opposite end of the row from Remus (they can both work inwards, meeting in the middle), he shouts over his shoulder, hoping to be heard by his men from several aisles over:]

Oi! Ronnie, Max! Get some cushions! A mattress!

[Off the top of his head, he doesn't know any spells to conjure up anything like that - and maybe it's thanks to being used to working with Muggles, but he's always found that a good mix of magical and non-magical fixes is the best solution to any big problem. At any rate, the bottles should be safe from harm - for the next couple of minutes, at least.]

Fucking hell.

[He swears, breathing heavily.]

This thing - we are gonna destroy it, yeah?

[He's not at all sure he's in the mood for any soft-hearted arguments in favor of trying to capture and contain it unharmed.]

[When the two men meet in the middle of the row of shelves, both trailing temporarily frozen units and floating bottles of potion in their wake, they will find their immediate situation much improved. No bottles of potion are about to smash around them, dousing them with powerful poisons or stabbing them with toxin-laden glass shards, and no shelves are about to topple over and flatten them. As Alfie's many harried workers run over, dragging or conjuring mattresses as ordered, Remus takes a step away from the action. He waves his wand one more time to send his portion of dreamily floating bottles back down to the ground, as slowly and lightly as pieces of paper. He watches until the first of them land gently on the mattresses, some tipping onto their sides and rolling into one another, but all of them still corked, sealed, and quite harmless.

He gives a small sigh and brushes his fringe out of his eyes, his gaze moving back up to eye-level to seek out Alfie. He speaks in a level voice, just loudly enough to be heard over the men working to retrieve the potions in the background.]

Well. We can see about destroying it once we catch it. I don't expect it's gone far. Are we close to any dark corners or overhangs?

[As he speaks he looks around for those same features. Privately he does not think it will be a good idea to kill the ghoul, at least not until they find out if it's reproduced in the warehouse - but he's not about to tell Alfie that just yet. Alfie does not seem like a man who goes out of his way to be merciful to those who wrong him.]

[Alfie nods approvingly at the idea of preemptively bringing the bottles down - better to have to put them all back up later than to risk the ghoul coming back and wreaking havoc in this area again. He'll follow suit with the rest of the bottles - though unlike Remus, he doesn't try to do them all at once, instead taking twenty or thirty at a time and floating them down in groups. He's no squib, but he's also not particularly talented at magic; even in his best subjects at Hogwarts, he'd always come in somewhere solidly in the middle of the pack, and he doesn't want to hinge all this on his ability to neatly levitate and set down a couple hundred bottles all in one go.]

This whole building is dark corners, mate.

[He says when he's done, signaling to the other men to get their attention.]

Max, take the north side of the storage room; we'll take the south. If you see anything, anything at all, you give a shout. Ronnie, I want you gathering up all the men that are in the building and bringing them in here. We're gonna corner this thing.

[Max and Ronnie don't hesitate or question before running off to do the duties they've been given. Gesturing for Remus to follow, Alfie stalks off to the area he'd staked off for them, eyes casting around for anything amiss or unusual. He doesn't see anything...]

How do you go about trapping these normally? We've got to do something other than chasing it around in circles.

[Remus watches as Alfie's two employees hurry to do their boss's bidding. Personally he'd rather not have all of the men here watching them, but he supposes it's better than allowing them to keep moving around the warehouse independently. They might well startle their ghoul out of hiding again. He turns toward where Alfie is headed and moves quickly to fall into step with him.]

I don't think we need chase it any longer. It'll have gone to ground not far from here.

[And sure enough, before they've passed three more rows of shelving Remus holds out a hand to signal to Alfie that he should stop. He presses a finger to his mouth to indicate that they must both be quiet.

The row of shelves closest to where they now stand looks no different from any of the other big, free-standing shelving units. It's very tall and made of steel, and stuffed with boxes and crates. There seems no reason why Remus should have pegged this shelf in particular as the ghoul's hiding place - until he points to a spot close to the bottom of the shelf. In it are several neatly arranged boxes, all with serial numbers stamped on their sides in a blocky font: #00325, #00326, #00327 -

And then, #00327 again. A duplicate box. It'd be easy to miss if you weren't looking for it; the ghoul has even mimicked the thin coating of dust on the box's lid. This box is very slightly smaller than the rest, though: clearly the ghoul has had to wedge itself into a space that was deemed too small for Alfie's employees to place a real box.

In a moment Remus's wand is out again. He gives a businesslike little swish - and a glowing red lattice like a fish trap appears around the fake box.

It happens so quickly that the ghoul can't react in time: there's another eye-watering flash, and then a split-second glimpse of the ugly chameleon ghoul again before there's simply a ball of light bouncing angrily and at high speed around the inside of the trap like a bright pinball. The magical latticework jingles like a chain-link fence as the ball hits it over and over.

Remus lowers his wand and regards the struggling thing without going closer to it.]

We should wait for him to tire himself out before we move the cage.

[Good eye, Remus. Alfie, once again, gives him a look of approval. It's really too bad that this guy isn't a Jewish wizard; isn't one of his own pack. If he were, Alfie would already be trying to wheedle him into staying on and working for him. If only more of my men had half of this young man's brains, he thinks to himself.]

Tire himself out, yeah. And how long does that take?

[He kneels, squinting in the brightness as he peers into the cage. He's never seen one of these in person before, much less up close (though, admittedly, it was more interesting-looking in its true form). Agitated by his close attention, the ghoul redoubles its efforts, pinging against the sides of the trap with a tinny, out-of-control sound. It's punctuated by the sound of running feet, as Alfie's men - summoned by Ronnie - start to pour into the basement. They all stop at the end of the aisle, craning to see over each others' heads and shoulders, as murmured messages start to filter through the crowd: Some sort of magical creature... That's the behavior of a chameleon ghoul, that is; I've read about them... Mystery solved, then, eh? They seem to know what they're doing; let's leave them to it. Some stay and watch, but more move away, back to their work or to clean-up duties. Alfie, for his part, stays where he is.]

Odd little thing, innit.

[He looks over his shoulder, back to Remus.]

You see stuff like this a lot?

[Remus would probably be darkly amused if he knew that that Alfie had labeled him as one who is not part of his own pack; in the past he has had to work hard not to join anyone's pack. And of course, Alfie can hardly know just how apt the term is for Remus. When you're a werewolf, it's not a good idea to advertise the fact.

He watches as Alfie examines the captured chameleon ghoul, or at least what can be seen of it as it rockets around its cage. Now that the creature has been captured Alfie doesn't seem to be showing any ill will towards it; in fact, he's looking at it with a level of interest that Remus had not at all expected. Behind them he can hear Alfie's employees murmuring about the ghoul, but since they don't sound like they're moving any closer Remus ignores them.]

He should tire himself out quickly. I'll remove him as soon as he's fully corporeal.

[He takes a step closer to Alfie and the cage as Alfie frowns curiously in at the perpetrator of so many little crimes within his warehouse. Remus expected Alfie to tell him to exterminate the creature right away, but that no longer seems to be his top priority. His gaze flicks to Alfie's face as the big man looks back at him. He gives a small smile.]

I do, I'm afraid. There are a great many magical creatures that can cause trouble around humans.

Yeah.

[Alfie murmurs, still staring fixedly at the cage. It's not that he hadn't known that, of course, it's just that this is his first time being bothered by one up close and personal. He can't remember the last time he thought much about ghouls - it's possible they haven't crossed his mind in any significant way since his school days, when learning about them had been part of the curriculum. That makes him lucky, he supposes; in some places, magical pests are a blight. Hell, he's heard of people who have ghouls living in their attics for years on end. And apparently, creatures like this can be enough of a problem that guys like this one, this Lupin, are able to make a living hunting around for them and getting them out of people's hair. He's clearly not rich, if the worn state of his clothes are any indication, but still - he's alive, he's here, and he's well-known. It's sort of impressive.]

Fucking hell, the stories you must have.

[Alfie says, finally looking up at the other man.]

This is what you do, then, as your job? Traveling around London, solving mysteries and hunting ghosties?

[The fact that Lupin might work beyond London - beyond England, even - hasn't quite occurred to him yet.]

I should be pouring you a drink, mate, and asking for some tales.

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Welp, this tag is ungodly late, I realize. But if you're still interested...

I LIIIIIIVE

HOORAY me too! Let me know if you need me to change anything in this tag.

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