Something stirs within, be it a lingering taste of loss or regret (Wink, so capable and steadfast, ever so loyal, tricked into too early a demise, and by what? A self-serving, ego-centric oaf to whom the word 'respect' might as well never have been uttered since the dawn of time). The black lips curl into a sneer, the brow lowers. A hiss is his only answer, though his hand comes to rest atop the offered arm. He is not so proud to decline help - especially not when a deal can be struck.

"Your lenience is touching, if misdirected. Counting your blessings in the face of constant trespasses against our kind. Our kind, Remus, we magical peoples who now lead a marginalized existence, holed up underground and under bridges, in derelict buildings like squatters."

He shakes his head; and his hair moves too easily with it, as if weightless and weighed down at the same time. Everything about him speaks of authority, as innate to him as the waxing and waning to the moon.

"I'll let you come to my aid on one condition."