“There’s been another one,” the Head of Supernatural Occurrences says, and Fenrir lets out a long sigh, drawing a hand over his face, before loading the file data on his screen. His brow furrows as he takes in the photo. “Ain’t this that hotshot sports guy? Fuck, I saw ‘is face in the paper this mornin’ for some Nike ad shit.”
“Adidas,” his boss corrects him, as if it really matters. “That’s why we’re giving him to you, Greyback. He’s high profile and in the public eye – the last thing we need is this one getting out of hand. Do what you have to. Show him the ropes, get him initiated. If anything goes pear-shaped, it’s on you.”
“Fuckin’ great,” Fenrir drawls under his breath, and an hour later he’s stood outside an expensive-looking building complex and saying the exact same thing. He knows how out of place he looks as he passes through the doors and flashes a top-secret government-issued card in the face of the lobby security guard. The man squints at the I.D., sees what he wants to see (pest control, air conditioning maintenance, whatever it is his mind conjures up) and gives a resounding nod. Fenrir passes three people on his ascent through the storeys and each of them offer him a head-to-toe-to-head-again look that suggests his high street khaki parka coat and worn shoes combo isn’t quite up to standard.
When he reaches Ludo Bagman’s door, he ignores the doorbell and drums a loud and demanding knock into the wood. “Mr. Bagman,” he calls out, in no mood for uppity sports stars who manage to get themselves bitten to be making him wait around all day. “Bagman, I’m a gov’ment officer ‘n’ I ‘ave a warrant ‘ere to enter your property without invitation. So you can let me in easy or I can kick my way through.”
Not being the kind of man with the highest level of logic, Ludo Bagman happened to wake himself up after a night of partying by a campfire with a rather large gash on his forearm. Of course he had been rip roaring drunk for the entirety of the night that he didn’t remember at all how anything could have gotten that close to him. It appeared as if he had been in the middle of a mild animal attack, without actually having the horrifying story to tell women while he looked at his bandaged arm. Returning from the emergence room he was granted with little to no advice other than ‘keep it covered, it’s not infected you should be fine’ --which frankly even he a complete moron would have been able to come to the conclusion of. He fell asleep instantly on the sofa after returning home to his comically large home (despite him being the only one living there).
There’s a slamming on the wooden door startling him awake. “What the--” His voice is at a volume absolutely high enough for someone to hear while standing in the doorway, projecting his outrage for the papers to hopefully print the next morning. Brows squiggle on his forehead as he lifts his hand to press onto his head, feeling a thick bead of sweat and the strange notion that his skin was going to burst at the next moment of movement. And that wasn’t in the good muscle toning way that he achieved at the gym. Feet drag over to the taunting door, ready to push over who ever was there and attempting to see him after an almost brush with death. He hoped it was a reporter at least. A face falls into annoyance and disappointment as he sees a scruffy looking official. “Who the hell are you?”