It had been half a week since the tremendously tragic incident at Hogwarts. Everything was a blur to Kyle, but he knew things had gone terribly wrong and weren't getting any better. A mystery assailant somehow got a bit of his hair and polyjuice'd himself to look like Kyle, proceeding to kill an Auror and a Wizengamot Elder in a very, very public way. On the tenth anniversary of the end of the war, Voldemort's death. Of course something had to happen... it was naive for the rest of the world to think that evil had ceased to exist along with Voldemort. Clearly there were still dark and murderous minds about, but Kyle surely wasn't one of them.

The whole scene had been a blur. He had been knocked out and sent to some off site cellar where he had remained tied up for hours on end. When he finally got loose, his assailant came back with a wicked look on his face as they got into a fight. By pure luck, Kyle had been able to bring him down but didn't have the courage to kill the man off before he was able to sneak another shot off and got away. "Damn my fortune..." Kyle said, walking through back alleyways of London with a concealment charm over him, trying to remember where Moira Randall lived. She had been a close friend of Bailey's, and even after Kyle's sister had died she tried to reach out to the rest of the Gibsons. What a tragedy, the whole ordeal was. But it seemed tragedy followed Kyle everywhere, like an invisible rain cloud forever looming over his head.

What made things worse was after the mysterious man got away from Kyle, ministry personnel showed up and stormed the place. At the time, Kyle had no idea what was happening but shouts of "That's him!" and "Get him!" gave him enough signal to get the hell out of dodge. Later, after staring in horror at the numerous posters of his face around Knockturn and Diagon, and snatching the Daily Prophet that morning he soon gathered what sinister acts had been done.

It had been four days that Kyle was on the run, not knowing where he could seek refuge. He'd be desperate, but had no idea who to trust. He couldn't even bring himself to contact his own brothers, who were surely being watched. So he thought long and hard on who was trustworthy enough, but not too obvious. All he needed was a little food, and maybe some muggle money to get by. He needed a plan. He didn't want to live his life as an infamous criminal, like Sirius Black had done. He had to track down whoever caused this mess, and killed the innocent ministry men who had only come to the ceremony to pay their respects to the dead. What a tragic irony.

Finally finding Moira's apartment, Kyle remained cloaked as he searched for a way in. It was easy enough to get into the building, but finding the apartment was a little more complicated. It had clearly been disguised as a muggle apartment with a more modern look than most of the wizarding world, but this wasn't a major problem for Kyle. He had grown accustomed to the muggles for all of his life. After looking up names, and confunding the appropriate people, Kyle was able to find Moira's apartment and even let himself in using an unsuspecting janitor with more keys than he had bones hanging from a large circular ring on his belt. It was dark, and as he entered Kyle heard a growl and as he lit his wand, he saw a rather large dog sitting on a couch in the main room.

"Must've gotten a new puppy since I last spoke with her..." Kyle muttered to himself, realizing he hadn't seen her for over a year. But Kyle had a good record for alienating people with good intention, so it wasn't a surprise. After removing the concealment charm and approaching the dog gently, he found that it was as gentle as his approach. A big softie was a good way to describe the beast. Though Kyle still wasn't very comfortable around the thing, as he didn't want to use magic on it, but also didn't want to be suddenly attacked. He realized he was still wearing his suit from the ceremony, one that he had taken much care in selecting for the occasion. It was now covered in mud, which made Kyle frown. But his magical talents were really limited to dueling, and the combative type of charms and spells. He didn't know much about utilities, which would be nice as he could fix himself up real quick.

"That's what happens when you focus too much on a single thing..." He muttered through his teeth. "She'll be home any minute..." He added, realizing after a moment that he was talking to himself. Though he hadn't spoken to anyone for several days, and it had become quite lonely. Kyle wasn't a socialite, but he did like even minimal conversation from time to time. Blushing off his back, he plopped down on a nearby couch where the dog was, and lay his head back as he waited for Moira to come home. Hopefully she would be some help. Though she and Kyle were never close, he hoped that Bailey's friendship would carry over in this situation and pay off, as Kyle needed it very badly. Being a fugitive wasn't easy, nor fun.

Moira had been in a hurry to get home to let Wylie out.  The six month old Irish wolfhound puppy had been the newest addition to her apartment and brought a huge relief to her too quiet flat.  Of course he was more clown then beast, but she doubted many would mess with a dog his size once he was fully grown.  Still a puppy, he was already nearly ninety pounds…and thought he was actually a lap dog whenever she settled on the couch.

Her mind was everywhere but on the present moment, and when she reached her door she dropped her keys twice before finally managing to get it open.  On her walk to work the past few days she had been faced with various wanted posters featuring Kyle Gibson.  She had been close to his sister Bailey in school, and even had gone to her seeking some advice when trying to decide on whether or not to go into healing.  When Bailey died two years earlier it had been a tragic loss and she had done her best to keep in touch with the Gibson family.  However, she hadn’t heard from Kyle in nearly a year.  She had sent them all her new address when she returned to London the month before, but had not heard back from him.

She had been shocked when she heard his name linked to the remembering days events.  Of course she had been there at the Memorial Ceremony, but it had all been such a blur.  She hadn’t gotten a good look at the student involved and hadn’t realized it was him.  When she read his name in the paper she wasn’t sure what to think or feel.  She just couldn’t believe he was capable of doing this.

Entering the flat, she closed the door behind her, not turning on the lights as she reached for the leash she had hung near the door.  She knew she should take Wylie down first; it had been a long day alone for him.  Then she had to make something for her lunch with Marcus the next day.  She still was unsure what, but it was yet another thought floating through her mind with all the others.  Perhaps the action of cooking would take her mind off of everything else.

“Wylie, come,” she called, waiting for the dog to rise off of his predictable place on the couch and come over to her, unaware that he was not alone on his chosen seat.

(Outfit)

After a bit, with Kyle nearly having completely dozed off the door opened. By instinct he grabbed his wand but then remembered where he was and was was happening. He looked over at the dog beside him and stiffened a little, hoping he would not bark loudly. Kyle wasn't a huge animal person, but surely favored dogs over cats. It just happened to be that this particular dog was very large, and a little intimidating. But nothing scared Kyle Gibson... right?

The dog, after its name was called leaped off the couch and sprinted towards Moira. This surprised Kyle as he stood up after the dog had cleared the area. Hoping not to startle Moira, he wasn't sure how to approach the situation. He didn't want to get hit. Withdrawing both his wands -- his father's, and his sister Bailey's, Kyle tossed them towards Moira as a gesture of peace, and a way of showing he had not come to kill her. "Moira... it's me. Kyle." He said cautiously. "I threw my wands towards you, I've come with pure intent." He said, struggling to find the words he had been searching to use for the last four days.

"I'm innocent." He said, his a little too gruff than what he was aiming for. "I didn't kill those men."

Hearing something hit the floor near her, Moira jumped, reaching for wand in her pocket.  She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do if Donnelly had actually found a way into her apartment.  She was sure it was only a matter of time before he came looking for her, inevitably having gotten himself injured doing something she didn’t want to know about and needed medical attention.  She just had hoped she might have learned a few more defensive spells from Dreogan before that day.

Hearing the voice and the words Kyle spoke she was suddenly confused.  Everyone had seen him at the Memorial Ceremony.  Yet, she herself had been convinced he couldn’t have done such a thing.  With a flick of her wand she used a nonverbal spell to light the apartment, squinting a bit at the sudden light.  She looked down for a moment at the two wands on the floor and back at him again before lowering her own wand a bit, but still keeping it ready.

“You bloody nearly scared me to death,” she said, before looking down at Wylie.  “And some watch dog you are.  I’m sure you tired to sit in his lap as well.”  She still gave the dog a pat on the head as he wagged his tail, totally oblivious to what she had said.  Bending, she picked up the other two wands, setting them up on the ledge of her fireplace.

He was in need of help, that she was certain of.  He was in a world of trouble, and she knew if the Ministry found out she would be as well…and she was certain Marcus would not be amused at this turn of events.  She knew he needed to give her reason not to turn him in.  She also knew she owed it to her friendship with Bailey to let him say whatever it was he needed to say.

“Alright,” she said, looking back at Kyle, “if you’re innocent who killed those men at the Memorial Ceremony then?  I’m willing to hear you out, but you have to tell me exactly what happened.”

Kyle frowned, even if Moira's reaction couldn't be called anything but the best considering the circumstance, it was just the situation that upset him. Accused murder is nothing to be toyed with, and he didn't know how in hell he'd convince her. Memories could be altered, polyjuice couldn't be proved... it was all a very big mess.

"It wasn't me." He repeated, running his hand through his hair which still happened to be a little longer, and a little browner in order for his role to play Remus Lupin, a role which clearly he didn't deserve -- or by the public's eye at least. "Everything is a blur... I remember seeing someone with Nicola, and then--" He paused rubbing his temples, "Then something about... the guy with her, I thought he looked like me. It struck really strange, but of course I was dressed this way, and Kris has much shorter hair. I approached the guy after he uh," Kyle said, cringing a little at the thought, "Kissed Nicola, and as she left and I approached the guy I remember a blow on the side of the head."

"Then I woke up bloody, tied up, in this cellar. I get out of my bonds, confront the guy who still was in my form or whatever, but he gets away. Then the ministry storms in..." Kyle said, realizing he was half rambling, half mumbling.

"Point is, I didn't do it. I didn't kill those men." He said plainly. "I'm not asking for a place to stay, I'm not asking for pity, I'm asking for the gentle hand of a friend and a direction to go with." He said with a weak smile. "That," He added, lifting up his shirt to reveal a gruesome gash, "And I need to fix this pretty quick before I die from an infection of sorts."

Moira listened as he spoke, her wand lowering a bit.  She wasn't sure what to do...something told her she could believe him, but she hesitated for a moment.  It sounded more then reasonable...innocent people got caught up in things all the time.  She knew that first hand, but it didn't easy the conflict in her mind.

When he lifted his shirt revealing the gash, however, all of her thoughts were pushed aside.  Turning, she locked the door again, remembering the lecture she had received about a week ago after leaving it open.  Wylie would have to wait a few more minutes, she needed to deal with his injury.

"How did you get that?" she asked, trying to narrow down a list of what she would need to treat it.  She crossed the distance between them quickly so she could get a better look.  "Is it from a spell or did you cut it on something?"

She was suddenly relieved he had thought to come to her.  Certainly without care the infection would have made him extremely ill or worse.  She could get him patched up and try to give him some advice.  She wasn't sure yet what that advice would be, but she could worry about that later.

Dreogan climbed the stairs of his complex tiredly, shifting the weight of his shoulder briefcase as he went. He was exhausted. In his mind, Dreogan decided he was growing old.  These stairs did not used to be so difficult; though conscious of keeping himself in good physical condition at all times, Dreogan had to admit that his recent carelessness in his sleep habits wore a body down.

Still, he decided as he placed the palm of his hand upon his door, waiting for the familiar series of clicks and the sounds of shifting, scraping metal as the locks moved out of place and debarred, the day was over and he could finally get rest. He put his hand on the knob and entered his flat quickly, flicking the lights on with his wand and smiling as Tabitha galloped towards him with light step.

Nothing amiss, he smiled and threw his briefcase upon the couch, moving to the refrigerator to retrieve the remnants of Tabitha's canned food for her supper. He scooped it out onto a plate. Just the kind of cooking he could handle.

He placed the plate on the ground and looked down affectionately as the cat began to lap at the beef. Dreogan himself turned to his pantry, pulling out a can of mushy peas and another of corn. He looked in the refrigerator, realising that he, sadly, had not had time to go to the grocery store before . . . well, before he had been overwhelmed with work.

He moved back to the pantry, pulled out some bread and began to feast upon a dinner of toast and canned, warmed vegetables. Leaning over the counter as he ate standing, he compared his dinner with Tabitha's. The resemblance was uncanny; it didn't matter much that Dreogan seemed to have upgraded slightly from feline cuisine. He frowned and moved to the couch, settling himself there and placing his meal on his lap. Tabitha looked up, gave a rolling mew and trotted over to him, sniffing at his plate before leaping up beside him in order to get better access. She lost interest almost instantly, turning up her nose and returning to her original dinner. Dreogan gave a soft, rough laugh. "Not fit for a queen," he called. His frown deepened as he took a bite and dug through his briefcase, looking over the work of the night.

It was nearly 12 o'clock by now, and Dreogan was tired, but he wanted to make sure they had left off in a good place. He read through his notes, his expression softening as he read over a scrawled line by Akiva. She'd written it upside down to him as they'd been sitting across from each other. The writing was terrible. His smile broadened, but quickly faded as he heard voices upstairs.

Two voices. One male.

At nearly 12 o'clock.

Normally, Dreogan would could not find it in his heart to pry on a potentially private manner, but her situation with Donelly warranted extra precaution to Dreogan's mind. And, as he listened to the hushed voices -- no merriment -- he felt a knot grow in the pit of his stomach. Dreogan rose slowly and moved to the built-in bookcase, lifting the heavy scrying mirror from one of the shelves and looking at it, debating. But it didn't take long to decide. Thinking of Moira, he waited, looking into the surface of the mirror, seeing her image -- or the back of her -- as she faced a young man.  Dreogan felt his blood grow cold as he recognised the face from Remembering Day. Kyle Gibson. Damn him! He slammed the mirror back onto the bookshelf, letting the image go dark.

Setting his jaw, Dreogan pulled out his wand once more, flicked his wrist -- causing his lights to extinguish -- and moved to the door with silent precision, taking the same precaution to lock it once he reached the other side.

"Fiat lux!" he whispered as he held a candle in one hand, wand in the other, ascending the steps to Moira's flat. The door should be locked. He was certain of that; he had told her to keep it locked, upgraded the locks, and hoped she had mastered the ability of setting up her own wards. But, if there was an unwanted young man in the apartment . . . surely she wouldn't lock herself into her own apartment; though the warding spells would still be up. Dreogan hesitated a moment, wondering how best to proceed.

He had taught her how to set up the locks and wards; he knew well how to dismantle them. With a few whispered words, Dreogan was satisfied that impediments would not be a concern. "Alohomora!" he spoke in a hushed whisper, knowing that stealth perhaps was gone as he heard the metallic click as the door unlocked.

Force it would be, then.

Dreogan brushed through the door, wand raised and candle ignited. It took a moment for him to process what he was seeing. Moira lowering her wand; Gibson, wounded, lifting his shirt. . . Two wands on the floor. "Accio!" he hissed, the wands flying towards him. Dreogan clasped them with the candle and maneuvered quickly to place himself between Moira and the assailant. But this put him closer than he would like to the young man who might very well have still been armed. From what he had seen at Remembering day, he was not underprepared. The man who had killed a hostage and was now in his friend's flat despite her precautions. And he had killed a hostage . . .

"Gibson! Corner, now!" he ordered gruffly.

Kyle sighed as he felt his would sort of pulsate, perhaps a side effect from the dark magic. He hadn't been hit with a spell of that sort since his duel with his brother two years ago, and those scars were barely visible to the naked eye by this time. Though a trace would always remain, serving as a constant and painful reminder of his inadequacies in protecting his sister. The logic of the matter had yet to reach Kyle. There was no way he could've won, but he couldn't accept that.

"Dark magic, I presume." He said, looking down to see the gash, barely healed, infected, the skin around the wound a much darker shade than his usual tone. Whatever the magic was, it was degenerative. "The uh, guy." He began not sure how to explain the situation. "My double got me with it, I didn't hear the incantation though. It isn't like I could show up at Mungo's and ask them to fix me up." He added with a frown.

Just then, some one else burst into the room. Kyle recognized him from somewhere, perhaps the Prophet or the ceremony before he had been taken away. Whoever he was, he recognized Kyle like many in the Wizarding world would if he were to show his face. After snatching his wands, he commanded Kyle to go to the corner, a command which Kyle quickly obeyed. This wasn't the kind of situation you argue with.

"Uh, Moira..." He said in a half whisper, his eyes darting between the mystery intruder and the healer. "As you see, I'm uh, not armed." He said sounded dimwitted, his hands in the air like on muggle television shows. "I need to get used to this..." He muttered to himself, his shirt now having dropped back down to his chest, visible droplets of blood soaking through. His blood pressure raised considerably when the man came in, and that didn't do any good for a wound which had yet to heal.

"Dark magic, I presume."

Moira nodded, as she looked closely at the gash.  It made sense if he had to face off with whoever this double was.  She felt a bit sick at the thought of someone who's adult life hadn't even really begun yet finding themselves in these circumstances.  It was unfair really, especially if he was innocent.  She found herself believing him and she wasn't sure if it was because he was telling the truth or if it was what she wanted to hear.

It isn't like I could show up at Mungo's and ask them to fix me up.

"No, that would not go well at all," she said dryly.  "Just give me a minute to get a few..."

She didn't finish her statement as Dreogan burst through her door.  She nearly groaned as she looked at him as he gave orders.  This was not going to be a fun conversation.  In the commotion Wylie had started barking, and Moira rolled her eyes at the dog.  As Kyle spoke she moved between he and Dreogan before she had to do twice the work to bandage him up.  She held up a hand for Dreogan to wait as she dealt with the noisy barking.

"Wylie, quiet!" she commanded and the dog stopped barking as he turned to look at her.  "Honestly dog, Dreogan you bark at?  Go lay down."

She heard a slight grumble as Wylie made his way to the large cushion on the other side of the room.  She gave a slight sigh as she turned her attention to her neighbor.  He was certainly not going to be amused by this, she already could tell.  She had rather hoped he would be out until Kyle was gone, but she should have known she wouldn't be that lucky.

With a wave of her wand which was still in hand, she closed the door that Dreogan had left open.  She didn't need any of their other neighbors getting any ideas...this night was already getting much too complicated.  It shut quietly, leaving them cut off again from the outside world, which she hoped was the best option.

"Dreogan," she began, searching for the right words to explain this situation, "he's not going to hurt me or anyone else...he was framed."  Of course she couldn't prove that, but she believed it.  "I know Kyle couldn't have done this...no matter what we all saw.  Just lower the wand, please."

She was nearly pleading with him as she said the last statement.  What reason did he have to believe that Kyle was innocent?  If she didn't know him she might not have believed it.  If she hadn't known Bailey as she had she certainly wouldn't have given him a chance to speak...nor would he be in her flat.

Dreogan took in the scene: everything. Kyle's complacent surrender, the blood, his grimace, Moira's reticence, her frustration, the order of the apartment, the addition of a picture frame on the shelf since last time he had entered . . .

Dreogan's jaw jutted and tightened as Moira stepped between him and the suspected--confirmed--murderer and dissmissed the dog. And closed the door, now worried about who might enter it.

Moira had a heart of gold, but he suspected that she had a brain of steel. Stubborn and not one to yield to reason.

"I'm afraid, Moira, that knowledge isn't communal. What you know doesn't carry to me. And what the Ministry knows thus far has been irrefutable. I need more than a testimony of character. He can explain himself as well from the corner as he can from here. And better seated," he said, using his wand to quickly summon a chair, which scraped along the floorboards as it moved to the corner. "Sit, if you please, Kyle Gibson," he added testily. If they insisted on him being nice. But he would not lower his wand.

Kyle felt relieved when Moira supported his claims. She had been good friends with his sister before her death, and that had certainly paid off. Any amount of allies in a situation like this was a godsend. He just hoped this Dreogan fellow would back off, and not call the Aurors down on him anytime soon. He needed to tell his side of the story... however hard to believe it was.

Kyle sat obediently, thinking this might have been a bad idea. He didn't anticipate nosy neighbors to burst in, wands pointed. But he was just being protective. Kyle would have done it for someone like Nicola. As he thought that, a wave of depression hit him. He missed her so much, and her image of him was most likely shattered. The kiss, the murders he didn't commit, it was all so much. He had been debating on whether he should contact her, and he still hadn't come to a conclusion.

"I didn't do it. I was knocked out, I woke up in a dank cellar. Then I saw myself, a doppelganger of sorts. We fought, he got away. That's why I'm wounded. I managed to escape the Aurors," He said, clearing his voice, "by pure miracle. I don't know what else to say..."

"Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I shouldn't have done this to you. But I'm not my brother..."

Moira gave a slight sigh again as Kyle seated himself in the chair.  She kept her positioning; not planning to back down from her belief that Kyle was telling her the truth.  She also knew she would need to heal him sooner rather then later.  She also felt the dull thudding of a migraine forming behind her eyes as the tension in her body became more noticeable.

Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I shouldn't have done this to you. But I'm not my brother...

At his statement her brow furrowed slightly and she shook her head before turning away from Dreogan to face Kyle again.  The mention of his brother brought back the not of distant memories of Bailey and what Kyle had witnessed at the hands of his brother.  Out of instinct she crossed to the corner where he was sitting, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I will be fine,” she assured him.  “And, you’re right; you are not your brother, which is why I believe you.  The most important thing right now is to heal that wound, I just need to get a few things and then we can finish this conversation.”

The last part of her statement was directed at both of them.  She wasn’t sure if Dreogan would believe Kyle or not, but she wanted to make sure Kyle received proper treatment before anything else happened.  Her tone conveyed the fact that nothing else would happen before she was confident he wouldn’t suffer from some infection.  Looking over at Dreogan she added, “I’ll be right back.”

Moving away from Kyle she headed towards the bathroom and the small stash of medical supplies she kept there.

"Coming here was a bad idea," Dreogan seconded with a sigh. Sure, it was a possibility that Kyle Gibson had been framed. It was also a possibility that things were exactly as they appeared to be. The murderer on stage had somehow managed to circumvent all security and escape with frightening ease. Dreogan was sure that if he could kill as he had, he could scheme. He could lie.

But Dreogan was not sure how to tell if he was. He would play it down the middle of the line. Act as though he was, treat him as though he wasn't. He needed to be healed and he needed to be heard. But he needed to be guarded against.

Moira excused herself to get her healing supplies. Dreogan nodded and kept his wand at the ready, but not pointed. Gibson was not going anywhere; he wanted everyone to be clear on that. But Dreogan willed a more peaceful expression on his face as he waited.

"I don't know who your brother is," Dreogan conceeded, trying not to be irked at Moira's flawed reasoning that if a man was no someone else, he would be the opposite of someone else, "so you've no fear of the weight of reputation beyond your own at present. If what you say is true, your testimony can be verified with Veritaserum. Running any more will prove much worse for you. Even if you did not commit murder. . ." Dreogan's face darkened a moment as he recalled the news report and Leon Carter's death, "murders," he corrected pointedly, "you know more than anyone else on the matter. It would be best for you to appear at the Ministry with a well-prepared testimony. And a lawyer."

"My brother..." He said quietly, thinking to himself. "You might remember him from the papers several years back. Diagon Alley, twelve dead." He said frowning, realizing he wasn't supporting his own cause. But Dreogan would have found out from Moira eventually. "Then there's Bailey."

Shaking off the bad feelings of Mark, Kyle straightened himself. The last thing he could afford to do was look weak. He needed to be strong. "But I'll take Veritaserum. A liter of it if I have to." He said hesitantly. The talk of appearing in front of the Ministry seemed wholly bad at the moment. No lawyer would want to represent a criminal like Kyle, no matter if he was innocent.

"The public has already decided my guilt. I need to bring in the real one who did it, it's the only way to clear my name." He said grimly. "Going to the Ministry would be like jumping into the Dragon's jaws. The trial wouldn't be just." He said sadly. "A bloody Wizemgamot Elder was killed! His peers would be judging me."

Dreogan shook his head adamantly. “It doesn’t matter who your brother is or what he has done. Those claims do not hold up beyond pathetical appeals and courtroom rhetoric,” he dismissed. The sins of the father coming to visit until the fourth generation was an outdated notion, one which was perhaps resonated in social spheres, but no longer in civil ones. “I’m sorry to hear about your brother, but it has nothing to do with this,” he added sensibly, allowing a touch of sympathy to soften his expression. The boy was scared and emotional. Who wouldn’t be – guilty or no?

A practised killer, perhaps. But the emotions could easily be feigned; the instrument of a practised killer.

“I don’t carry Veritaserum on me,” Dreogan continued, “but you can be certain that at some point, it will be administered,” he said vaguely. There was no way, in Dreogan’s reckoning, that Gibson could get through this process without intensive questioning.

“You are right on one point: the culpable party needs to be found – and preferably before a trial. It doesn’t necessarily need to be you who brings them in, Gibson.” Dreogan was not volunteering anything, but he knew that a teenage boy, at large and highly suspect, would not be adeptly equipped to track down such a criminal. There were professionals. Trained professionals.

“I understand it might be tempting to pursue this on your own. . .” he began in a conciliatory tone. “Logical, even. But you must trust me when I say that things like this are never as possible as one would hope.” Dreogan’s voice here grew soft and his face faltered with suppressed emotion, turning back to his own efforts to regain his father, independent of the diluted efforts of both the British and Israeli Ministries of Magic. All futile, but Dreogan had been closer to arriving at a truth than either government. Perhaps if they had devoted the proper energy . . .

He stiffened and cleared his throat. “And I will add that I cannot in good conscience let you pursue this course. You are suspect, even if you are innocent until proven guilty.” You should consider a lawyer; one that can be trusted,” Dreogan persisted. “A legitimized advocate to the Ministry that can make your voice heard. Prepare a statement and special conditions. Your concerns on the Wizengamot are legitimate and should be brought to the attention of the Ministry.”