January*, 1895 — Hogsmeade, High Street Area

Maelstrom Crumb, private detective, pretended to check his pocketwatch as he stood near a booth, watching his mark some yards ahead out of the corner of his eye. He had always hated this sort of engagement, following people just for the sake of observation. It lacked artistry; there was nothing to puzzle out, and often, it yielded only the most mundane of details. But it paid, and, as Tempest was fond of reminding him, one could not pay the rent in puzzles, much though he might wish to try.

The mark rounded the corner, and so did he, a few second later, making a careful inventory of the useful details around him, should they become necessary.

Laundress. Could enter.

Dog, best avoided.

Not that the dog seemed particularly mean, but animals were dreadfully unpredictable, if one was not well acquainted with them. Not like people—people were far easier to read, likely because he was one.

Crates, to duck behind.

No sooner did Mael make this observation than it became necessary, albeit too late, with his mark turning to face him.

Awkwardly, he smiled back at them.

Open to a MC or UC adult!
* Specific date to be worked out with taker <3

  

It was the faintest of feelings at first—a tickle at the back of his mind, honed through years of tracking far more dangerous marks. The man following him wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t good either. There was a hesitation to his steps, an overly casual air that gave away his intent.

Murdock rounded a corner, his gait steady as if oblivious to the shadow behind him. The Greyback patriarch had learned to use his size to his advantage—to appear lumbering and slow, only to strike with a speed that belied his build. Now, he used that same presence to keep the tail at ease, pretending not to notice the eyes boring into his back.

Ahead, the alley narrowed. Perfect. He slowed his pace slightly, feigning interest in the wares of a nearby vendor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man—a wiry fellow with a sharp profile—mirror his pause. Amateur.

Murdock allowed himself a faint grin; the man’s hesitation around the animal was palpable, even from here.
He moved on, his boots crunching against the cobblestones as he reached a stack of crates just beyond the alley’s turn. Murdock stopped abruptly, turning to inspect the crates as if considering their contents. He waited, sensing the man approach, and when he turned, it was to find himself face-to-face with his shadow.

The fellow smiled awkwardly, clearly caught. Murdock’s blue eyes narrowed, the laughter lines around them deepening in amusement rather than mirth.

"Lost, are we?" he rumbled, his Scottish burr thick and deliberate. "Or do ye always take to followin' folk through alleys?" He folded his arms across his broad chest, the action making his already large frame appear all the more imposing. "If ye’ve somethin' to say, now’s the time."

He tilted his head slightly, watching for any telltale signs—a twitch of the hand, a flicker of the eyes. Whatever this man’s game was, Murdock intended to learn it, and on his terms. For now, he’d bait the fellow a little longer, see if the fish would bite.

  

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MJ is a National Treasure