"I might make a good wolf, but I'd be a bloody terrible werewolf, Fenrir." MacNair told him, laughing as he got to his feet, opening up the pack he had brought from the Hog's Head and pulling out the roll of blankets, and then from deeper in the bag he brought out a metal tin, setting it almost reverently down on the leaf-mould. It was true, he would have been an obedient wolf, happy with his place in the pack, no doubt, but to be a werewolf, a beast with a human mind, he would never had made a suitable member of Fenrir's pack, and if the werewolf opposite did not know that, well, well, this was all a game, wasn't it? A friendly, all-smiles game, the pair carefully circling each other with words. "I can't imagine there are too many others within the Ministry willing to give you what you need, Fenrir."
At the mention of centaurs, however, he spat into the fire, "And you can fuck right off a cliff to!" He said in reply, settling now on the ground, leaning back on the partly-emptied back-pack. "Too old for a centaur. Besides, they don't like to risk... inflecting themselves with anything. They'd just string me up. But that little werewolf of yours, up at the school, he'd be just the sort of bait I need. If you can spare him an evening or two." MacNair said, half-teasing. He wasn't there for the werewolves, but he was not about to tell the other exactly why he was there.
"A werewolf in the school. A student. That's what I said. But I'm surprised they'd let another one in after you. Can't be trusted not to nibble a teacher, can you?" He said, "He's probably some brutish, uncontrollable little thing that would be better off in Bedlam, knowing your spawn, but I'll go check up on him." He said, eyebrow raising slightly, the grin always slightly unnerving, more animalistic than any he'd seen in any muggle club.