Wolfgang and Camille's residence, Frankfurt, Germany - evening.

---

He had been fussing back and forth for the whole evening, thin, long-fingered hands running through his greying hair. She did her best to seem ignorant to the whole performance, raising the newspaper to an angle that hid her features best. Her husband seemed uninterested in her opinion, by the by, though she had a fair idea of the matter. The squat little man with the tall top hat had been through the front doors that morning, sweeping up in his luxurious magically enhanced motorcar, which slid through Frankfurt like any other Muggle car, only it gleamed without blemish, and never seemed to require fuel.

He had breezed through the heavy doors and across the marble entrance hall, feet striding across the bank’s logo of a snake eating its tail set in the stone, with short strides, not hurried enough to make him seem stressed, making others slow their pace behind. A hush had fallen about the place, and she had merely glimpsed him before he had been ushered up the main staircase behind the red cord and up into the rich reception rooms beyond.

Senior politicians were often customers, but a certain fraud investigation in recent parliament towards Chrysopoeia had brought in one of its most senior figures, who each had a portrait in the board rooms once they passed away - making board meetings incredibly noisy and argumentative at times, according to her husband who had glimpsed such events.

By evening the press were clamouring for the latest, ahead of the lead story from the morning which had brought all of it together - how many false accounts were there at the bank? How long had the government been paying for these ‘advisors’ and who was recouping and withdrawing the monies? She and the other staff had been ushered to leave by the floo, which had been not the least bit pleasurable. Moving to Frankfurt had been to allow her to apparate to work and not stumble sooty and nauseous out of a fireplace twice a day.

The house-elf brought her a fresh cup of tea, and the two of them locked eyes and glanced to the master and back. She shook her head, dismissing it before he roared in irritation at it interrupting his thoughts, and it had to go and iron its hands and hammer its toes.

Then as she turned back to her newspaper she started in surprise at her husband looming over her.
"What would you do?" He asked in a quiet, but firm tone.
"What would I do about what, darling?"
"If you were me?"

Taken aback, she was lost for words. Her husband rarely sought her advice, and never about his own role. But then again, it wasn’t every day he was questioned for investing monies for government employees who simply didn’t exist.
"I’d be honest."

This was clearly not the answer he wanted, and the wrinkle of his brow and curl of his lip spoke that to her instantly.
"If Johann were here, you would ask him." She raised the newspaper again, indicating she wanted no further involvement. Her husband was the cleverest man she knew.
"But since he’s no longer your son, you’re rather on your own… darling."

In the kitchen, the house elf burrowed into the saucepan cupboard and plugged its ears.