---

"The illusion of safety is only as strong as our trust in the forces that guarantee it. Good evening - and welcome to the Haunting Hour, listeners.

If, of late, you have heard a plague of rats skittering past the hem of your robes then perhaps it is due time to begin searching for better lodgings. Certainly that may be the case for those members of the Ministry's level ten employees this past week. We might expect murder to turn up at our modest doorsteps in these dangerous nights of loosened criminals or drifting Dementors, but for it to happen at the very pedestal of Justice? To be lurking in the faces of those witches and wizards with whom we trust the equitable distribution of wizarding law? The spilt blood of a guilty man - if he truly was guilty - stains all but the red robes of the MLE.

That is not ingratitude you hear, listeners. As any I am... exceedingly grateful to the brave souls hiding behind our Minister's great skirts. Nonetheless they have failed both Wolfgang Storm and those so unfortunate to have been present at the Wizenmagot on Wednesday.

The question to ask is how we are meant to feel about such a blunder? Anger, I think, is a healthy reaction. The truth that might have come from the dead man's mouth is now lost to the passage of time, of bureaucracy. Might I be so bold to assume that it still perseveres? That it is being kept from us, listeners, by those same turncoats who had administered foul poison?

Turncoats in the Ministry of Magic. Let us not waltz around the issue, friends. They exist - and through neglect or sheer ignorance, are allowed to exist.

We might sit in the warmth of our homes this evening and lament Wednesday's events as being the deserving end to a wizard who might have done terrible, terrible things. I put it to you, listeners, that our illusion of security tonight is much poorer for what has happened to Wolfgang.

Whether you cast blame on yourselves, or the culprit, or the defenders of impartiality... well. I am all questions and no answers for you, tonight.

Do keep your ears pricked. I'll be right back after these messages, to see what the night owls have to say."

---

Balfour adjusted the knobs on the broadcasting equipment set up before him, headphones on to the relaxing sounds that were playing on his wavelength. He flicked the switch on the second caller (the first had hung up almost immediately).  “Good evening and hello." He spoke soothingly into the microphone. "You’re speaking to the host of the Haunting Hour,we’re not yet back on air.”

            "Hello there. Listened for months, never thought I'd finally speak."
“... right. I, ah, I always welcome new callers. Would you care to identify yourself or will this be an anonymous call-in?”
            "I don't see the harm in naming names. It's Storm. Johann Storm."
“Thank you J-- Mr Storm. We’ll be on air in a minute."

".... and here we are. Three, two--“

---

"Good evening again - and welcome to the Haunting Hour if you’re just joining us now. We have a Johann Storm on the air with us tonight. Yes. That Johann Storm, I do believe. Tell me Mr Storm, what has compelled you to call-in at this late hour?”

            "As you put it, Sir, the 'spilt blood of a guilty man'. And, he's guilty. I have no reservation to tell you that, despite him being my father. Though this does not excuse the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the events of Monday."

“A man is either too guilty or too innocent, if judged by his children. That is what the courts are for, after all.”

            "You weren't there. You didn't see."

“Most of the wizarding world wasn’t there, but it’s to them that the Wizengamot also answers. But don’t let us digress. It was just getting interesting, with you bringing up our knights in red robes.”

            "Knights. Hrm. Slow, perhaps their suits of armour weigh them down these days. They're not knights to the likes of Hannah Bombay, nor me now. The Ministry knew about these fights. They've known for so long, but I truly  believe they've let them continue. I mean, who cares? Just a werewolf, and a Muggle can't be turned. Not when they're so preoccupied... doing a fantastic job of dealing with the dementors, I mean."

“Miss Bombay’s name has not been entirely cleared, Mr Storm, are you certain you are happy to publicly declare her a knight?”

            "Hannah Bombay speaks more truth than anyone in that court."

“Now that is quite the accusation, alongside accusing our Ministry of being practically complicit in these Werewolf games. Are you not employed in the Ministry?”

            "Perhaps I won't be by morning."

“Very clever of you to say so.Let us see, then. As a Ministry employee and the son of this latest victim: you must have specific suspicions. Do you imagine that these claims extend to our highest office?”

            "To that ivory tower? There are more secrets than I can speak up there. It would not surprise me. If they could conveniently explain away my father's death as suicide they would, only the foul reek of dark magic I saw that morning is hard to clean from court. Someone else wanted him dead. Who could have touched him inside locked court cells? Unless those who hold the keys? The things he could have told... to a crowded courtroom.."

“Secrets we may never recover, indeed. Hm. Was your father very fond of you Mr Storm?”

            "I.. er.. Yes. I was his only child."

“And you were very fond of him?”

            "I somewhat idolised him when I was young, when the world is very black and white. But we all know the world is grey, and very dark in reality. The point you're fishing for - so let me assist - is whether we saw to eye to eye on all matters, and whether he would consider himself a proud father by the time he passed? To which I can only answer, no on both accounts. But I did not want to make such a man proud."

“Well. That is more than I expected for the bait. We might have openly established to our meagre audience that you haven’t the motivation to be a Ministry turncoat. Or the cunning to persuade us as much.”

            "ha!"




“At any rate, I must offer my condolences. I think we can agree that all  but the perpetrators of this crime are sorry for your loss.”

            "My thanks for your kind words. I am sure they will console my mother."

“It is a little late for concerned parents to be taking heed of these late night exchanges. Do you have any other comments to make on the subject of the MLE, sir? You have better cause than most to an assembly of listeners.”

            "I regret to tar them all with the same brush, Sir. There are some amongst them I proudly call friends, and they may have called me such. But details are missed. Men go free The innocent are held. I cannot agree."

“There might be a politician inside of you yet.”

            "There are other ways to cause a revolution. I fear this is only the beginning."

“I hope you are right, Mr Storm. We are only just getting started, and it has been an immense pleasure to hear from someone so... intimately relevant to these events.”

            "It is good to speak freely, Sir. Thank you."

“You’re most welcome. Revolution, listeners. Questions you may take with you to bed this night. Is our Ministry of Magic ill, and in denial of its symptoms? Are we ourselves the cure or cause? The Haunting Hour will be back after this jaunty tune, to wish you goodnight.”

---

“That is us off the air now, Mr Storm.”

            "Thank you. I hope you gained as much from that as I may have lost."

“... I don’t think there is much gain worth a human life. All the same, your opinion has been invaluable to us. Listen, Joh--“"

Balfour nearly knocked over his microphone stand, steadying it quickly with a hand that - for some reason unknown to him - shook. He took a deep breath to consult himself a moment, before continuing. “Apologies. Technical issue." This was becoming dangerous. "I think I had better wish you good night.”

            "I feel better for it. Better than swearing at Jarvies as I have, anyhow. Goodnight Sir, and keep going it gives some of us hope at the very least."

Off flicked the switch and his head filled with the sounds of the radio instead, shrill banshee music that was at odds with the time of the night. Balfour slid off his headphones as he leaned back in the chair to stare intensely into space. Jarvies. Well. That answered some questions.