Tarron sat back, gaze sweeping along the line of Elders. The stoic silence with which the group often met cases was a wonderful intimidation tactic, often times; there was nothing like being alone in the Chamber, surrounded by a half-circle of staring, often glaring, faces.

Cesswick spoke to him again, and he looked at the two in their stand, considering. This was a case that needed to be taken care of quickly, he decided. It would be far too easy to deadlock the Wizengamot over this issue, and he had no intention of spending his Christmas break arguing over some bloody werewolves.

“We will discuss your plea and come to our verdict with all available haste,” he said, and that was a wonderful way to say whenever our important cases are cleared up. “You make expect a verdict within the next 5 days, Mister Cesswick. You will be contacted when we wish to reconvene.”

Behind him, the scribes scratched away, the rhythmic shuffle of paper a reminder of the closing of a session and, to his mind, always a reassuring sound.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Master Greyfriar, Miss Bombay, Elders,” as he stood in his stall, he nodded to the room at large. “This session of the Wizengamot is dismissed.”