---

"Haply I may remember, And haply may forget[1]. I hope this broadcast finds you resting in good health this night, listeners. And if not - if you are in fact one of those who still remain in wards, sleepless eve - then I pray you will soon find yourselves in such a state.

The festive season upon us and melancholy prevails. Over a month ago it seemed that wizarding society had been knocked off its feet by the violent destruction of what had practically been a local landmark. And now in the wake of its fires, we find that a quieter blow has been dealt.

And I do believe by a motivated mind.

Either we are experiencing a series of crimes, each inspired separately by the other, or all of them together a singular declaration of challenge. But to whom is this challenge directed if at all? Leaders? The public? Taunting the extent of their malicious reach and the inability of our politicians to deliver just retribution. I hope you are as angry as I am, listeners. The elderly have passed. Children have died. There is no moral ambiguity here - no werewolf policies, no confusion of ethics. The innocent and the frail have been outright murdered.

In our last broadcast, I asked of you: what next?

This, this was it. All we have been able to do in either event is to pick up the pieces left behind.  Healing is necessary but we cannot be satisfied simply by licking our wounds. I plead with you and before the voices of influence: something must be done.

Do not think I have crossed over to banalities of hope and of strength. I am not here as a comfort, you recall, but as a reminder. Even with the threat of poison slowly receding below the horizon, we cannot be complacent. There is sure to be another after this, and another if we do not take action. Write letters. Rally spirit.

The Daily Prophet and its fear-mongering ways serves only to divide us. Healers, laying under the pressures of terror or guilt, are being viewed as incompetent. Villains. Unfeeling. We cannot afford to ostracise those who would mend us. Surely that would be fulfilling the intent of these contaminations? Can we allow personal grievances to cloud judgement? Too lost in our own sorrows to notice the suffering of others?

Perhaps this is not what we want to hear, so close to Christmas. A time of rest and cheer. Come the twenty-fifth, at this hour, you will want to switch on the carols and fictitious mysteries. Light a candle for the fallen and partake in mulled wine.

Before you rush to such comforts - I shall return after these messages to take calls.

---

1.	When I Am Dead, My Dearest by Christina Georgina Rossetti

     
Balfour flicked the switch off on an earlier call, a wizard who had muttered a inaudible words and broken the connection before a response could be made. He sat back in his chair and carried the microphone in one hand, restlessly drumming a tune against the desk with his other. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could get back to bed. This was a trying subject and he wanted badly to forget it instead of reporting on it - but truths couldn't be ignored.

Another caller switch was flicked on, lighting up a bulb in neon orange.[1]

“Hello. This is the Haunting Hour, and you’re speaking to its host." Balfour eyed his cigarette box pensively, considering another as they spoke. "How may I help you this evening?”

A female voice replied. "I work at St Mungo’s. I’ve been very heavily involved with this poisoning and I wanted to make sure people have all the information they need."

“That’s very kind of you." He sat up straighter - awake to the opportunity of a possible Healer voicing their opinions. "Will this be an anonymous call-in or...?”

          "Let’s keep it that way for now." The witch countered, to his disappointment, though he was already working the dials to get them back from messages. Balfour cleared his throat, heard it in the tenor of his broadcasting voice.

“Alright then. We’ll be on air in about... 3, 2....”

---

B.“Welcome back to the Haunting Hour, listeners. We have with us this evening, a concerned staff member from St.Mungo’s Hospital. Tell us, miss - or madam. Are you calling to discuss the ramifications of this latest contamination?”

              J.“I am. What it’s done to our patients, not to mention our staff, caused massive panic throughout the hospital. We’re still getting patients who have used the poisoned potions at home.”

B.“No doubt it has put the Healers in a difficult position, to feel like they have been poisoning their own patients.... How has the hospital been dealing with its inability to use the poisoned stock?”

        A heavy sigh preceded the response.

              J.“It has been a very difficult and trying time. We have been using spells and enchantments to deal with symptoms. It’s put the treatment of some patients here prior to the incident very far behind in their healing process. We’ve been working to make our own potions for very serious cases. Admittedly we’re all in a scramble. We’re currently working to find an antidote to the poisons in the botched potions.”

B. "You have my sympathies. We’ve suffered a great loss of life from this tragedy.”




B."But perhaps it is not so much tragic by chance as it is by intent. Do you suppose that this contamination has been part of a larger chain of events, occurring over these past few months?

              J.“If you’re implying that this is connected to the Leaky Cauldron explosions on Guy Fawkes, I have my own suspicions. I was involved with that as well; it was gruesome. There’s someone out there who really likes to hurt people.”

B.“I imply nothing that isn’t already in the minds of our audience. It is an unusually incidental state of affairs. What do you think anyone stands to gain from targeting the already ill?”

             J. “That’s the strangest part. The innocent victims of this incident are of little threat to anybody. I’d like to ask whoever is doing this that question myself, frankly. There have been several children who’ve never had the chance to live, dying too young."

B.“I hope that for all our sakes, the perpetrator of this crime is listening to that very question.” Moments of silence. “We might assume then, caller, that there is no way for the contamination to be viewed as an accident rather than an agenda?”

              J.“I think it’s clear that the Leaky Cauldron explosions was a deliberate attack. That place has been a wizarding landmark for hundreds of years. As for the potions... some of the contaminants were very rare materials. The poisons- just don’t make sense together. No one would make such a grand error accidentally.”

B.“Thank you. You make a compelling argument. As someone who works at the hospital, however, you must know how difficult - or how easy - it is to infiltrate your supplies. It is possible, I'm sure, that St.Mungo’s has a traitor or even traitors in its ranks?”

              Another pause. J.“I’m saying nothing about the level of security at St Mungo’s. Of course there are many suspects; we have to look into every possible option.”

B.“So it’s not entirely implausible, then?”

              J.“Not entirely implausible. But everyone is innocent until proven guilty.”

B.“A fair way of looking at it. We would be hard pressed in finding peace of mind, if we were to believe that our dear Healers have it in for the weak or enfeebled. You and I then, in collusion with our listeners tonight, might derive that an unknown person or organisation has been rather eager on giving your hospital a tough time as of late. Is there anything you have to say to those seeking reassurance and advice in an atmosphere of distrust?”

              J. “It’s sad to see our community plagued by arbitrary, violent attacks on its people. I hope the community works together to find the source, rather than fall apart out of fear and paranoia. This has been a terrible loss for so many people.”

B.“I could not agree with you more. As with the attack on the Leaky Cauldron, I'm confident that wizarding society will band together to heal. There is not an evil yet that we cannot weather collectively.” 

“Are you still awake, listeners? Do be careful as to what you consume before drifting off to sleep tonight. And be brave, perhaps have faith in our hospitals if not in our Ministry of Magic. I leave you on a heavy note. May brighter news prevail in the dark days to come.

Until next time.

---

The glimmering, blinking lights of  broadcasting equipment went off one by one and Balfour Spectre looked up at his guest with a crooked smile. She was in a spectacular evening frock: short, rust coloured organza in feminine layers all encasing the strange and lean figure beneath. The witch reached across - he caught the chalky whiteness of her powdered décolletage - and drew a Russian cigarette from the case. It was clear that she had just come back from something quite beyond his scope of glamour.

"Aren't you supposed to be in hospital?" he offered his wand to light the cigarette on instinct, she lingered at the flame to meet his eyes languidly. There was a touch of champagne there.

Not her usual self. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" she purred and blew a puff of smoke away from him. He stood, walking leisurely around the broad desk to join her on the other side while she continued. "Left to your carols and mulled wine."

Balfour snorted at the derision in her voice and plucked the cigarette from her lips. He breathed in, then let it rest as they looked at one another. Both a little tired, postures relaxed. She'd come down to watch him. That was all: idle curiosity. Sometimes Ira could be predictable in that way. Balfour handed the cigarette back, their fingers touching, and kissed her pale cheek kindly.

"Merry Christmas. If I don't see you before."

Ira replied in Russian - something he couldn't quite catch. She watched him retreat to the elevator doors, blinking slowly.

1.	Healer-in-Charge Jules Deville