0715 hours, Atrium


Solomon Carstairs stepped out of a fireplace on the left-hand side of the long and sumptuous hall... a sight one greeted with such regularity that every detail, from its furnishings to its regular passersby were easily taken for granted in the early hours of the morning. He had done an unusual thing last night by actually going home to bed and wife instead of toughing it out on Level 2.

No sleep on either side of the Valentine's Day events. His relatives on one, ever protective of the one bloody Carstairs who had to get himself kidnapped - and the entirety of the media on the other.

The wizard dusted the floo powder off his navy cape and adjusted his spectacles, hurriedly making his way through the atrium towards the elevators. No doubt the floor would already be active. It hadn't stopped in its busyness since most staff had returned from their holidays, only made busier by the general panic of missing minors.

Around him, figures appeared out of flames and joined the slow but growing bustle of Ministry workers going about their day or disappearing into fireplaces to end a much longer one. He quickened his pace as he passed the Fountain of Magical Brethren.

"Mr Carstairs! Mr Carstairs sir!" a squeaky sounding youth, one of the boys from magical maintenance, was calling out. Solomon paused to glance over his shoulder at the ungainly wizard, who seemed to be struggling with a package in his wiry arms. "Oh Mr Carstairs, parcel for you - from Mrs Carstairs, it is. Do you want it up in your office sir?"

The emerald green packaging was of the sort Vera, his wife, certainly used when she sent little gifts to the floor - but this was far from little. Flat, though at least the length of a person, three by six feet or so. The boy set it down to lean against the fountain border, catching his breath.

"Mrs Carstairs?" Solomon approached the lavish parcel, noting the large cursive handwriting on the front: his name, with flourish. It wasn't Vera's but it did look familiar. Perhaps one of the galleries she ordered her portraits from. And they had forgotten to do anything for Valentine's this year.

"No. I'll take a gander, and if you'll have someone deliver it to Mrs Carstairs right away?" he loved her but they didn't need to worry about landscapes or portraits hanging about level two when there was so much work to be done. Honestly, Vera used to be so much more practical about these things!

Solomon lowered himself to one knee, pulling at a bit of the parcel paper to see what was inside - as he did so, the thought occurred that it might of course not be from Vera. It might be dangerous. But nothing happened. Only the sound of paper tearing and a few curious glances his way.

He frowned. A mirror? What the devil was she doing sending a mirror here? Solomon tore the wrapping all the way down the front, reflection  gleaming up at him from an angle; ye it did not reflect anything that was inside the Atrium, but a strange black room instead.


Zel Trumble's worried face stared back from the mirror, a small white figure. Solomon felt something in his chest stutter. This wasn't right. Zel Trumble was alive and well. Zel Trumble was at Hogwarts. He pulled at the wrapping with haste now, trying to get all of it off at once to see what was happening inside the mirror. A small crowd was gathering behind the Head of the DMLE.

And there, in the dark surface of someone's doing, was the night of the full moon in December[1].

No. Nobody needed to see this, this was evidence. Solomon unclasped his cape, going to throw it across the macabre show that was about to take place - but as soon as his fingers so much as grazed the frame, a bright red light emitted from the mirror. He reached for his wand too late. A burst of magic shoved the wizard and those around him, sending him flying back with an exclamation of surprise.

1.	Guide Us to Thy Perfect Light - the mirror from Zel Trumble's murder of the muggle who looks like Raine Almasy has recorded events of that night

Andromeda was reading the headlines in the Atrium. The Daily Prophet was tied up in piles at her feet. There was no good news lately. She had arrived ready for her shift. More work on the students disappearing. They had not found out who had made them disappear. Andromeda was frustrated. She heard paper tearing. She glanced over her shoulder and double took. Carstairs was unwrapping a big parcel by the welcome desk. Before she could think twice about it her boss was thrown to the ground. Andromeda threw the newspaper down. Her wand was in her hand. She ran towards the parcel. It looked like some sort of mirror but it was not reflecting.
"Sir!" Andromeda shouted. She backed away towards her boss. Her eyes did not leave the parcel. "Are you ok?"

"Mm. Fine," came Solomon's terse response to the Auror as he took a moment to lay on the cold marble floor of the atrium with closed eyes.

That... had been entirely his fault. Sharp aches ran through him, a combination of the blast and age. He was still trying to catch his breath when he managed to finally sit up and look across the hall at the mirror propped against the fountain. In it, an albino werewolf was lunging forward in a black room towards a redhead witch.

There were too many observers here.

"We'll need to think of a way to get it out of here," he allowed some of the other observers to help him to his feet before dusting off his robes. "The packaging appears to null the reactive hex." Solomon gestured towards Gamp to go ahead and deal with the frame while he drew his own wand and beckoned for the maintenance wizard to come over. A quick questioning was in order.

It wouldn't surprise Solomon if the package had come into their possession through some commonplace, vague method. In spite of the theatrical nature of recent crimes, there was a distinct modus operandi. Casual correspondences, routine Hogsmeade visits, ingredient suppliers.

Someone had spied their blindspots - those little cracks of society in which they assumed safety was assured and, for that very reason, were most vulnerable.

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