He almost isn't ready for it when it comes; the first thing to hit him is a hoarse Relashio! from behind the nearest mask, and a sudden, searing heat that knocks him back a step before he shrugs it off.

Crowley's knuckles turn white around his tyre iron.




After that, the Death Eaters skirt him if they can. The melée is not yet so thick so as to force them into Crowley's reach, not when they can snipe with spells from twenty paces - and they have problems of their own to deal with.

The werewolves, however.

(Weight on his heel as he leans back and then forward again, like a bow, one smooth movement, and doesn't the crunch of bone sound familiar?)

The werewolves have to come right up close.

(He's faster than when they go for his wings, and his heartbeat in his ears is louder than the sudden cut-off yelps.)

And that suits Crowley just fine.