Open thread for all Wizengamot, MLE, RCMC, Daily Prophet, and any other parties interested in the trial (including nosey public) - please see the plot chapter to familiarise yourself with recent off-page and on-page events

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Monday arrived all too soon. Rain had fallen in London all of Sunday giving it a dreary, winter-impending feel. It had kept restless feet inside, and prevailed through the night and into Monday.  Weather diviners suggested it would continue into the week. Johann had listened to it all night, and hadn't slept a wink, mind too noisy, thinking of the week ahead.

The courtroom was perhaps even busier than it had been on the first day of the trial. Not a huge amount had been done on the 15th, but a lot of formalities of who people were, and a further insight into how the trial would work. The preliminary questions had followed, covering evidence from the scene, the examinations of the Muggle (now released from St Mungo's, not a werewolf).

Then it had turned a little more ugly, prying questions to key witnesses, such as Hannah who Johann hadn't seen since the event. He had wanted to talk to her a number of times, but he couldn't form any words even near suitable to address what had happened. The wizengamot had not treated her kindly by any stretch of the imagination. Her previous appearances, and her status as a werewolf still made her a second class citizen.

Even though his father had pretty much refused to talk to the aurors, feigning prolonged illness in St Mungo's or just clamming up, there was evidence to suggest Hannah's kidnap was a reality, and she had not willingly entered into the fight. His account to Woolfolk and the aurors had holes that were to be poked and prodded.

It was frustrating that Musgrave had not been found. Johann had spoken at length about his involvement with breaking up the fight. He was quite sure if Musgrave hadn't intervened Hannah would have done far worse in her werewolf state. His father would be dead, and he would probably have been the same. Despite the fact he knew Musgrave had served time in Azkaban and had lived less than a noble life since his release, it would have been a different story if he'd not been there to help. Hannah was less complimentary, though it sounded as if he'd at least got her to safety, which had been Johann's immediate worry for her. He'd not been seen since, and some had suggested he might not even be alive, considering what he'd done, and who might be involved at the other end of the puppet strings.

At the end of Wednesday prior, the trial had adjourned for the full moon. Thursday and Friday set aside for Hannah and Wolfgang to transform. It was a useful moment to digest what had been said before, and for Johann to try and distract himself by turning up on Level 5 to do some work. He'd been sent packing. 

Since the start of the trial he'd been put on compulsory annual leave. It had been hard to predict when he might be called, and it wasn't until after he'd been questioned before the wizengamot that he could watch the rest of the trial, his part done. Being away from work was more than odd for the workaholic.

Today was meant to be the day they'd begin to hear from Wolfgang. Considering he'd given little to no evidence to the aurors, and what he had conflicted, there was a suspicion he might continue, or some sources claimed he had been holding out to bargain. Certainly what legal help he had were setting it up to bargain over his sentence.

As such, the Daily Prophet were in, and the public gallery had a queue. Knowing his father, Johann thought, he would probably perform for the audience. He would not want to spend the rest of his life in the middle of the North sea. The option back home wasn't much better, Johann thought, so lessening the sentence was the only sensible route.

"Your tie's not straight." Elixa muttered from beside him, bringing him out of his thoughts. He let her straighten it like a mother hen. She'd taken the day off specially to be there, though he protested. As she attended to the item of clothing he usually hated, he happened to lock eyes with his mother further down the bench for family.

It was only for a moment, but enough to make his stomach churn with new worry. They'd hardly spoken, and his mother had been somewhat hysterical when he'd visited her in the Knockturn Alley bedsit his parents had ended up sharing. Ignan had been keeping an eye on her at Hogwarts, and she'd been back and forth to teach, taking great pride in her work, even when her husband was in the dock. She was not the pushover the family had once perceived.

A hush fell suddenly across the room, a door had opened and the Wizengamot were filing in. Eye contact with his mother was immediately broken, both of them getting to their feet respectfully. He counted them in, names, backgrounds, views on werewolves, conviction rates. He'd spent several sleepless nights trying to calculate the probabilities.

"Morning, morning." Edwin made his way through the comfortable wizengamot's waiting room, turning his three-cornered hat in his hands. He'd been glad of the two days off at the end of the previous week, there was always far too much to do on level 3, but he'd wanted to sit on this one, to see that it was done right.

There were plenty of familiar faces amongst the Wizengamot, and Edwin was pleased to see faces who had judged admirably against Bombay and Greyfriar last year. Though, despite this, here she was, biting members of respectable society… albeit in highly irregular circumstances…

He'd met Wolfgang at the Pepper's garden gathering the other end of summer. They'd got on! Strange to think the fellow had got caught up in such a mess. The Wizengamot would see him right. Bombay had motive, co-ordinared with the son.

"On time this morning," Edwin remarked as the court staff called them in to begin. "We'll see how long that lasts…"

Sat below the Wizengamot, forced to face them, the lawyers and the gallery, the healer looked defeated. Once a perfectly turned out twenty something with smart clothes, tidy hair and a glowing complexion, Hannah was now pale, dowdy and dressed in clothes that no longer fit. She’d lost weight from time of the kidnap, not being allowed to eat until the full moon and barely being able to stomach food since. She’d not eaten through worry. Worry of what she’d done or could have done to the muggles, worry for her career and future, worry for how this trial would play out. She’d driven herself to distraction and now sat before the Wizengamot as a gaunt shadow of her former self.

Months ago Bombay had wished she’d never have to sit here again, never have to stand as the Wizengamot led their way into the court to decide her fate, to penalise her for horrors beyond her control. Yet her she was, watching the congregation rise to their feet as the plum robed witches and wizards made their way into the court. This was the first time Hannah didn’t stand up for their entrance. She wanted to defy them in the only way she knew how. Words had no effect. Words, as she’d found, ended with her being hauled out of the court room and yelled at.

Tired eyes searched above her for any sign of the friendly face that’d saved her life when her uncle had brought her to the small house in the woods. Where was the bulky bearlike wizard with a scruffy beard and booming voice? She needed his kind gaze to spot her, to reassure her. Instead she locked eyes momentarily with Edwin Glass, the harsh wizard who had felt the need to share his thoughts the last time she’d been on trial. She challenged his gaze for a moment until he took a seat.

They were a week into the trial. Hannah had been permitted to briefly give evidence, to plead that she hadn’t been responsible, to show the scars from the silver that had been wrapped around her wrists from the night of the kidnap. Thin fingers rubbed the wrists, still sore when she remembered it. Silver burned a werewolf to the point that it could still be agonising weeks later. Hannah wished she could wrap Wolfgang Storm’s neck in it.

Mother's eyes met son's. She wished she could take back the words she'd said last they met, the shouting, the blame. The damage was done.

The more she had sat and listened to the accounts, the questions, the more she had begun to question the whole situation. Everything from her husband's relationship with his secretary, to the way he had dealt with the engagement, and the strange occurrences with two of him in the living room, right through to the long absences since they came to Britain. Her trust in him had been shaken and tested, and she had always stood firm, determined he was innocent. He had always been good to her. They stood firm together. She had no reason to doubt Wolfgang. She'd made her promise.

"Wollen Sie einander lieben und achten und die Treue halten bis dass der Tod euch scheidet?"

The wizengamot were arriving, and they all stood respectfully, apart from, Camille noticed, Hannah Bombay. Perhaps she was sick? The witch was gaunt, thinner than Camille remembered. She and Johann did not interact and passed by each other like ghosts. The papers were full of speculation, references to a former trial.

Her eyes lingered on the back of the young woman's head, and not for the first time, she wondered what might have become of her if she hadn't met the family. If she'd never become friends with Camille's son. Would she have had a less eventful year? Would she have still been taken and forced to fight a Muggle?

"Merlin, please let the wizengamot judge wisely," Camille uttered under her breath, "Grant them the wisdom to see my husband receive just reward for his sins."

Knox Greyfriar was many things and one of them was 'asked to recuse himself from the Wizengamot for these proceedings in particular due to his uncomfortable proximity'.  It was, of course, discriminitory and preposterous. He'd filed an official grievance and copied in the Werewolf Legislature, but the wheels of accountability were boggy.  He knew the trial would be over before his complaint would be given shrift which is exactly what his opposition planned on.  Grounds or not, they knew how to push a paper.

He'd sat in the gallery for every hearing, for every day of the trial, determined that he watch theses proceedings unfold, determined to be there for Hannah Bombay who'd nearly died in his easy chair.

Quill Som was in the gallery and sitting stiff.  Beneath her robes, her leg was trembling as she tried to keep her composure.  The courtrooms were an upsetting space for her.  If she'd ever had any positive associations with this place, they were long destroyed by what she'd seen happen on that beautifully laid granite and marble mosaic floor.  Her friends - strangers too - dragged away pleading for their lives as impostors in plum robes used the Wizengamot as what was essentially a gallows.  A farce.  She'd had to watch, every second fearing she'd be found out.  That she'd find herself in that dark round arena.

But Glass had said in passing that she should be there, at least once, since she'd had a hand in the investigation.  She'd put it off as long as possible until he said it less in passing and more in point.  Someone from the Department needed to be there while he filled his duties as Elder.

She took a shuddering breath.  The witch sitting next to her notice and turned, and at that Som pushed the fear down hard. She locked her shoulders back, lifted her chin and began to climb that mountain.

When the summons for the Wizengamot had come and with it the descriptions of the case, Gabrielle had not been particularly pleased. Late July had been horrific, all ofAugust equally a nightmare as she had to keep eyes and ears on her workers' eyes, mouths, especially if it drew conclusions towards Johann. Hesistantly, she had agreed to not excuse herself from the trial, hoping to gain some understanding - if there would be any to begin with - about Wolfgang Storm.

And so, she was there the day when the council was summoned in, dressed in the scarlet robes, stomach sloshing in a rather chaotic motion as they initially entered the courtroom. Avoiding sitting next to Glass, Gabrielle scanned over the individuals around the room. The Storms, Elixa Mordent, Hannah Bombay, spectators. Ugh. What a circus, indeed. Her facial composure took its form of stone, indifference even as much deeper below, Gabrielle just wished she was at home or with Francis, oblivious to the horrors that had occurred in July.

Her eyes strayed a moment longer than it should have with Johann and then with Camille, the stony expression breaking briefly to look nothing but absolute sorry for the pair. Maker, this was going to be a nightmare.

Artemis Childs might not have been on duty but like the many other Ministry employees today, she had streamed in with the crowds to observe the goings-on of this particularly titillating trial day. Or at least to the best of appearances.

If anyone wondered at how the Wizengamot Clerk had managed to arrive at the courtroom so soon after being seen briefly chatting with the wizards on guard at the Waiting Cells, they did not mention it.

Ira was exceedingly comfortable in Artemis' skin as she took her place between two other clerks scooting down the benches, smiling at them with that awkward manner people adopt for situations in which cheer might be perceived as ill spirited. The two witches did not pick out their colleague as acting out of the ordinary and they settled down to quietly watch the key players after the Wizenmagot had filed in completely.

There were countenances to be discerned when the matter at hand came to fruition. Now, however, Ira only glanced at her timepiece every so often. Bureaucracy was not a precisely timed affair. If anything delayed, then she would be most disappointed. If anything rushed, she might even be endangered.

The risk would be worth it. It nearly always was.

Over the past month and a half, Wolfgang became rather accustomed to the lacklustre breakfast the Ministry gave suspected criminals. It was enough to stave off serious hunger, but not enough to build any strength. The belly ached, and it added to the irritable feeling of the prisoner, breaking wills. At St Mungo's they had fed enough to help him regain his health, but as the first week progressed and the aurors came, he began to eat less and less. They asked him about Birmingham, about empty swimming pools in the middle of the night. They probed about silver cages and Muggles, about Lawrence Musgrave and Hannah Bombay. And still they didn't tire, so asked about how his relationship was with his son, who he knew in Britain and what he enjoyed doing at full moon. As the days went by his denial of any accusations faded into disinterest and depression about his situation. Camille's visits were cut short, supervised, and he spent most of his days alone, sleeping, silent.

The four walls of his St Mungo's sideroom, protected by a lowly member of the Department of Law Enforcement with not enough NEWTs to be an auror, became a cage, and within it, Wolfgang Storm became trapped in his own mind.
"Sweetheart," Camille squeezed his hand, "Darling talk to me. It's unbearable to see you like this."

He was a cursed animal. He was no longer a wizard, but an abomination an evil monster. A disgusting, execrable dog. He was no longer a husband to his beautiful wife, he was no longer a father (though he hadn't been one for quite some time before that, one might argue), he had no life, he had no purpose or meaning. He couldn't leave, the Ministry held him in place, and he couldn't walk comfortably, his leg torn to pieces below the knee. He would be forever disfigured and never the same. He saw no future.
"My love, please tell me what you're thinking. I only want to help you. To get you better." As the door closed behind her, not a word spoken in return, Wolfgang would find his cheek wet, unaware he had been crying.


"We're here to see you released, Mr Storm!" the tenacity of young faces, bright minds with legal knowledge at his bedside in the days before the full moon had roused him from his depression. Where Camille had only offered support, love and attention like any other partner who had pledged to have and to hold from this day forth, these young wizards and their notes were what he could relate. Facts, figures, reason, history, research, they brought it in droves to his sickbed.
"You're the victim, Bombay bit you, she turned you and has ruined your life."
"She's got form for being out on a full moon. We can build a case that she willingly took part, lessen your sentence if they push that you ran things. What with Musgrave being her uncle. Wouldn't be hard to run a smear campaign, she's pretty much beaten, penniless too."
"Apparently she was housing her uncle earlier in the year, so seems they're pretty close, we could put it to them that they conspired against you, that you were an innocent party -."
"Well, we're also exploring the line that your son recruited them to seek revenge for you disapproving of Hannah as his fiancee…"


The first full moon had felt as if his limbs were torn from each other, every bone breaking in his body as he could not control the urge to howl, pace and claw. He had woken naked in the morning and had never wanted to wake again. There was an intense hunger, and the hospital brought him rare meat to eat before and after to help him recover. He tried not to think of it, but it confirmed what he already knew, that he was no longer Wolfgang, but just a wolf.

The early days of the trial he listened attentively for hours on end. As each person gave evidence against him, he sat silent, unblinking at each of them. His emotions would have ordinarily boiled and he'd have found it impossible to hold his tongue in previous months. But now a quick temper simmered beneath the surface but otherwise he felt as if someone had taken his emotions, put them aside in a box and was holding them safe. Safe for that very morning.

In his holding cell, Wolfgang finished the water with his breakfast, He stretched his upper body, joints cracking in all the wrong places. His second transformation had been as bad as the first, and he had spent as much time since sleeping. The time awake was spent preparing his responses with his legal helpers, who were positive they could bargain if he played the part. As his tray was taken away, they were let into his holding cell, and one offered a cup of very strong black coffee. Despite how bitter it tasted after so long without much but bland food, Wolfgang gulped it down, thankful. Together, they reviewed the plan for the day before being called away, leaving Wolfgang alone in his cell once more to wait out the rest of the time before the trial resumed.

The cup of tea handed to him through the hatch in the door ten minutes before was a blessing.
"Wet your whistle, Mr Storm. You'll need it before you sing like a canary," explained the guard outside, who joked with another voice outside. Thirsty, and nervous as he stewed, Wolfgang sipped at it thoughtfully while he waited, wondering how quickly time was passing outside the four walls. His hands shook as he lowered the cup.

Finally, the door swung open, and he was led up in chains. He tried to force air into his lungs to steady himself as he limped slowly up the corridor, leaning heavily on a crutch. As much as it was to ease his leg, it was also for show, to seek pity from the wizengamot. The trip seemed to take longer that morning, and he overheard the guards discussing the fact the place was packed and it had taken longer to get people seated. The knot in Wolfgang's stomach tightened, and he felt a pang like a stitch, increasingly lightheaded as he waited.

They led him up and into the courtroom shortly after, a sweat beginning to break out on his brow as he reached his seat, overlooked by all. Bombay was already there, and looked as ill as he felt. It seemed neither of them had enjoyed their transformations before the weekend. His eyes swept over the wizengamot, now familiar faces from the previous week, and then through to the public gallery. Camille was there, though he barely looked to her, and Johann who avoided his gaze. Behind them, there was not an empty seat at that side of the room, and a dozen quills twitched in readiness. He had an audience, just as his team had wanted. If his pleas did not do the trick, the talk of them and the suspicion that would ripple through wizarding society after would begin to chip away at those who needed to fall next.

One of the clerks on duty stood to sum up the recent events of the trial before it had adjourned for the full moon. The public gallery leaned forward to catch their every word, hearing first hand rather than through the newspapers. Wolfgang pulled at his shirt collar, feeling warmer. The stitch in his stomach wasn't easing. The nerves of having to speak for longer than he had in weeks was setting in, and his heart seemed to skip a beat every now and then. Perhaps tonight he would be able to plead he needed to return to St Mungo's for some care. They would have something - draught of peace or similar - that would steady his nerves for the following days.



"The court now calls the defendant, Wolfgang Storm."

The sound of his name seemed to come from a mile away, down a long tunnel. There was a rough shove to his left shoulder by one of the attending guards. His audience was waiting, he couldn't keep them. Seizing his crutch, Wolfgang heaved himself to his feet, head nodding, feeling heavy on his neck. The pain in his side was stronger now, and he bent forward with a hand to his side to rub at it, to ease the stitch. He licked his lips slowly, his breath shallow and haggard, colour draining from his face all of a sudden as his blood pressure dropped.

The need to vomit came very suddenly. He pitched forward. Crimson flooded from his lips, breaking through the hand he pressed to his mouth to try and hold it. It streaked the wood balcony before him and splattered to the floor beyond. There was a shriek from the gallery at the sight of it, and a guard's hand clapped his shoulders, pulling him back.

He staggered, choking, and clattered backwards against the chair, wrestled to the ground, initial reactions that this was an elaborate stunt. His thin frame convulsed beneath their hands as they called to him, trying to rouse him. Before aid could reach him sufficiently, he lay still, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling of the courtroom.

"Hopefully, long enough to finish this before it drags on much longer," Ignatius said to Glass as they made their way into the court.  He was careful to make sure that he was one of the first into the courtroom, with the recusal request made to Greyfriar, he had maneuvered his son into a seat on the trial.  Custom and precedent normally kept them off of the same issues, unless it was before the whole Wizengamot, but he'd  read enough before the trial began to want the extra vote.

He was grateful that the youngest Ignatius' werewolf status was still closely guarded.  Had it been out there, it could have been his grandson sitting before the Wizengamot, accused of crimes for actions beyond his control.  Granted, he would have preferred a more sympathetic victim.  Ignatius knew from his years of service with the other men and women in the courtroom that Bombay's past conviction and appeal, not to mention being a werewolf, would be strikes against the healer.  Hence the need for someone else who would be more in line with him.

Very little of what Wolfgang Storm had told the aurors had made sense.  And what had, had contradicted something else he said.  Ignatius was loathe to let him speak anymore, but the wizard had the right to defend himself.  Ignatius just hoped the man would say the wrong thing, or even better go so far as to perjure himself.  He knew some of the other Elders would still see the man as a victim of a werewolf bite, not yet at the point where he was a werewolf and subject to the prejudices that entailed.  Something that again did not favor the healer.

There was little he could do about that at the moment, and he'd already worked out with his son that the younger Prewett would ask most of the questions the two of them had, unless Storm said something utterly egregious.  Of the two Prewett's, the younger had always been more outspoken during trials, while the elder Prewett asked few questions and became outspoken only when deliberating with the Wizengamot.

The day was finally beginning with Storm being called forward.  The man did not look well.  Perhaps he needed to visit with the magical law enforcement patrol.  It wouldn't do to let the accused gain sympathy by being sick...  Ignatius leaned forward when Storm pitched forward and vomited.  The guards pulled Storm back as Ignatius stood, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"You!"  Ignatius bellowed, pointing at Bombay, "Help the man. Damnit!"  He slammed his hand on the wall in front of him.

While the younger Prewett from the other end of the Wizengamot members shouted to the clerks, "Get healers, Now!"

Leaping from her seat near the back of the Wizengamot where she had been observing her first trial quietly, Miranda began to spring down the stairs, passing members and elders in plum robes standing to get a better look at what was happening below them. There was a yell down to Hannah Bombay to help Storm but the young witch on trial refused to move, sitting stoic in her seat, disobeying her healing code to watch a wizard she hated die.

“Move, out of my way!” Elders were stepping into the aisle to better see the commotion as the courtroom burst into the sounds of people trying to figure out what was happening. Miranda pushed through the gate at the bottom of the courtroom to reach Storm who was now surrounded by hitwizards and courtroom officials. Her wand had been pulled from behind her ear on the way down the stairs and she pushed past these hitwizards who stared around to see who dared get involved.

The shaking and convulsing had evidently been momentary and now Wolfgang Storm lay still and lifeless, pinned to the ground by yet more ministry officials, blood covering his face and hands.
“Release him,” she commanded, staring at the wizards sternly. They didn’t necessarily know who she was, they looked weary for a moment, glancing to each other before they let go and stepped back.
Mira knelt down beside them, plum Wizengamot robes providing cushioning for her knees as she put two fingers to Wolfgang’s throat while her wand was hovering over his lips. While waiting for any type of pulse, she closed her eyes to block out the courtroom and began to whisper an incantation to a complex and difficult spell.

“Do something!” A wizard ordered beside her but Miranda ignored him, focusing on her spell before she visibly flinched. Hand came away from his neck and her fingers instead gently closed his eyes before she stood back up.
“There’s nothing that can be done. He’s dead.”

"He looks terrible," Elixa whispered as Wolfgang took the stand. Johann's father looked thin and angular at the best of times, but he looked like he had starved for a while. His clothes hung off him and he hung on to a crutch. There were patients at the hospital who looked better. Perhaps that was the ploy? Her right hand grasped Johann's left, which was bitterly cold.

When he pitched forward the crowd in the gallery collectively oohed in speculation, but the sight of blood triggered screams. Elixa's eyes widened, this didn't look like an act at all. Someone on the front row of the Wizengamot was shouting for someone to help him. Despite not being a fully qualified healer, Elixa let go of Johann's hand and dashed forward, but she was shouldered out of the way by court staff who interpreted this more as an intervention and distraction.

Wolfgang fell out of sight, there was a deafening noise as people scrambled for a look, flashbulbs popped. Suddenly the decency of death and conduct in courtrooms went out the window and it was a fight for a decent shot for the paper.

"There's nothing that can be done. He's dead." Elixa heard Miranda Elliot's words from the floor of the courtroom, and it felt as if the air had left the room. It couldn't go like this - he was meant to give evidence, he was meant to confess!

She turned back to her extended family, to see Camille making her way down, white as a sheet, her eyes not moving from the place her husband had last been seen.
"Gods, I'm so sorry Camille." Elixa heard herself say, an automatic reaction.

Elixa glanced to her to Hannah Bombay, who hadn't moved. What was this, had he taken his own life somehow, or was this more?

The court staff were barring the doors, wands out, there was hysterics from some of the public confusion over whether this was a curse or something else, and others were at risk. She looked about herself for familiar faces, cues for what to do, whether she was best to return to her place and wait or help somehow.

Primrose had been one of the few in the Legislature to actually go and talk to victims.  When she had interviewed Storm, she had not gotten much information, and honestly, when examined more closely, had left much to be desired.  As a person who had a vested interest in all things to do with werewolves and information, had prodded.

Of course, others prodded too, as part of a larger investigation into the business.  She might have done the same, were she in a place to do so.  Apparently, however, once she’d “badgered the witness” (really, who got off saying such things to her?  She was merely doing her job…) she was pushed to the side and relegated to reading about it in the Prophet with everyone else.

Or she would have, if she weren’t such a practiced eavesdropper.  Having four sisters and a propensity toward needing to know everything at any given point, Primrose was practiced at the skill.  Truly, they must have still talked about her years as a prefect.  If they didn’t, there was certainly historical erasure going on.

The point of the matter was, however, that Primrose had followed up and this was the trial to see, apparently.  She held no pity, but plenty of disdain as she sat in the gallery, like many others, waiting to see what happened.  Prim had plans for this.  Moves that needed to be made.

Clearly, no one was listening to her, but with recent events, she did not see how they couldn’t.  Ghastly business led to action, and action needed an informed leader.  When Storm was called to the stand she could barely contain herself: she shifted in her seat and felt her stomach tumbling.  There was a sudden sound and everything seemed to be moving inexcusably fast, but also slowly at the same time.

Prim bounded to her feet to see what was going on – but others did the same, standing and panicking.  She heard a call for healers, and then a gasp.  What was going on?  On her tiptoes to try and see over, the man was on the floor and the healer was not doing anything. 

It could only mean one thing.

Prim’s cheeks reddened and her fists curled.  She was not in an emotional fit because someone was dead.  She was in a fit because justice could not be done and whole stories could not be had. 

While not back at square one… it was certainly a gigantic setback. 

During his life, Idara had found Monsieur Storm a rather vile man.

A man of discerning tastes, he had been shrewd, insightful, with a strong work ethic one could admire. Precise. And an ability for numbers, it seemed, only gave his mind a more logical bent. But in truth his virtues had been few, and in light of his other qualities their number had only been underlined in their sparsity; though the witch was no stranger to doubt and condescension, Wolfgang Storm had had it down to an art form. He hardly had to say anything to convey his opinions loud and clear. And his eyes… Even mere moments in his presence had left Idara with a pressing desire to wash her hands.

But not even then would she have imagined such an end. Vomiting blood—violent convulsions that preceded only death—it had been swift, but far from painless. Stunned, blue eyes stared at the lurid splatter on the floor. The graphic clarity of the scene made it no less difficult to absorb.

Beside her, a body craned forward—its frame tense, but curious. “Not normal, I take it?” Husky tones reached Idara’s ear, marked by dark, riveted eyes and rigid shoulders.

Sharply Idara inhaled. “No,” she said, clearing her throat. She willed her hands to uncurl; gradually, they obeyed. “It most certainly is not.”

An exhale. “Then we should leave.” A hand pressed against the small of Idara’s back, light yet firm—insistent, when the older witch was slow to move. “Boss?”

Idara shook her head. “They’ve already locked the doors,” she murmured, unable to look away. Distantly she registered a swear. She could see Quill Som from where she sat—Primrose Woolfolk, Healer Elliott, Elder Prewett. Edwin. Various emotions painted their faces, but they all amounted to the same: a dead convict was no more welcome than a living one. Not before justice could be had.

In her shock, the remaining Storm family was forgotten—a most grievous error on her part. But there would be time for that later. For now, there would be only watching, waiting—wondering what might come next.

Hannah Bombay seemed entirely unmoved by the death nearby. Edwin didn't have too long to dwell on this, though it did raise questions.

Hell broke loose, there was panic, and the different parties in the trial immediately crossed paths and got too close. There was no stopping the defendant's wife - that was clear enough. Camera bulbs popped from the Daily Prophet and other papers that had come to watch - some of them were foreign, he knew that well enough.

As the doors were barred by the court guards, Edwin tried to seek calm, amplifying his voice with sonorous and speaking in an even, steady tone.

"Clear the court."

He looked to Tarron, who would call an immediate adjournment once again to deal with this bloody matter. One of the clerks was duly recording, though looked as if they wanted to get away from things for a strong cup of tea for nerves.

The doors were sprung open and the noise turned to feet, though there were quite a few gawpers.
"Bloody ridiculous," Edwin commented, making his way down and out of the body of Wizengamot towards Quill, trying not to smile to himself about the commotion.

"Out!" He'd got quite good at cracking camera lenses in his time. The press never knew when to leave. His wand was outstretched towards them as they protested.

"Never a dull day." He remarked, attempting to look peeved, but the phrasing suggesting the slightest of delight in this turn of events. "Looks like I will be back in the office sooner than we thought while MLE get their act together." He paused, frowning, "I regret suggesting today would be a good day for you to come, Quill. Terrible."