The basement floor of the Knightsbridge apartment building has been cleared of its dust, though dark still lingers. A man sits with his elbows on his knees, hands together as his lithe frame curves around a mixture of broadcasting equipment... bruised lips at an old microphone. Balfour Spectre is in his fresh shirt sleeves, looking especially clean and crisp . His companion, Whisky, rests drowsily on its paws next to the mahogany desk- awaiting the soft, soothing voice of his owner. Time.
"Nobody can hear you cry at this time of the night. Or scream, even. Good evening and welcome- to
the Haunting Hour.
A murderer
walks our streets, listeners. Can you hear his footsteps? No. No you cannot. I would advise you contact your local bureau of hauntings if you hear sounds of an eerie, unearthly nature. Even if they do not hurt you now... it is no guarantee that they never will. All imaginary hauntings may be referred to St. Mungo's, that is, if you still
trust them with your sick and ailing.
Why, witches and wizards of our magical community, is that skepticism I hear in your voices? Or a deadly cough, desperate for early graves, blood-spotted lungs? Let us calm ourselves and be reasonable beings of questionable evolutionary origin. Aurors and Healers do not share a home, though you may wonder if they
should.
Yes. Do wonder.
And remember. The hospital is no
Hogwarts, where the budding lives of our treasured children may
only be put at risk by
trusted Ministry officials. They
are trusted, aren't they? Forget I even questioned the future fates, held in adept hands of quill pushers and politicians.
It is late, listeners, even for this old dog. Go to sleep. Dreams are finite while the weary road of work ahead of you is
not. Close your eyes and consider the dangers of youth, without which you may or may not have survived adulthood. And children?
You are past your bedtime. Until next week... stay in trouble~"
Feel free to PM Balfour if your character would like to call in on the show. 
The Haunting Hour [02.03.2010]