Late evening. Rated [M] for mature language.


Virgil tugged at his sleeves irritably as he waited in a nondescript office for Solomon Carstairs.

He was not sure why they had left him here - or where his parents were, considering that it had been some hours now since the Aurors had discovered them in Camden Town. Still… it felt nice to be clean, in warm clothes. Ji-Hyeun's sister, one of the Aurors, had offered him her sweater when his had proven to be ragged even after a scouring charm. It was form fitting but warm.

A witch had come in a moment ago with a tray of iced biscuits and a pot of hot tea. The baked goods had been polished off as soon as she’d left, scoffed down as much for energy as for taste.

Solomon entered like a leisurely afterthought. “Ah, Virgil. Your father is on his way.”

Lie #1, thought Virgil as he brought his legs up on to the chair and crossed them. He wrapped his arms around himself and eyed the wizard warily as the door was shut. Solomon sat across the desk with a polite smile.

"Okay." Virgil replied as indifferently as he could.

This did not seem to deter his distant relative. Solomon wasn't one of the Carstairs he often saw at reunions, if at all, and in fact all he knew of him was from the papers. “I only wanted to check in on you personally. Tea?”

And that was lie #2. Virgil watched the older gentleman pour two cups of pale, valerian tea. A deliberately drowsy brew. This wasn't preferential treatment. This was an interrogation - or a persuasion. Edgar was already here and someone was stalling.

Virgil was too tired to be angry, though awake enough to cut corners in conversation.

"Who did it?"
            The teapot was set down delicately. "We...can't say yet."
"Can't or won't?"

Solomon handed him a cup and saucer but, failing to get a reaction, tactfully left both on the tray. He frowned at the empty plate of biscuits.  "Can't. I understand that you and your friends are angry. I'm sorry we failed you."

Surely lie #3. This reeked of pretence. Virgil's gaze, brittle and bright blue, snapped to Sol's countenance like a dart.

"An apology. You really should drag the rest of us in here if you'd like to issue one..." he drew himself in tighter, feeling the hostile shiver scaling his slight spine.

Solomon hadn't known what to expect of the Carstairs boy but this wasn't it. He looked like he might splinter if somebody so much as touched him - but there was something incisive about that stare. The curious impression of being looked through.

"Please, Virgil, we're only trying to help-" he explained with an airy, light-hearted gesture as he sat forward. "- and we don't want you or the others to... how do I put this."

The Slytherin cut in cynically: "Fuck you up?"

"To make public statements you might later regret." Solomon pretended not to have heard; he was beginning to regret this decision. He had assumed it would be easier to persuade Virgil than any of the other youths to be discreet in what information they shared with the public. A trusted messenger among peers.

They were related, were they not? And Virgil had neither called Solomon a twisted dickstain nor turned him into a mallard duck. [1]

Perhaps Bevans might have been a wiser choice. The DMLE Head watched as Virgil lowered his legs to the floor and glanced at the door as if though he had heard something. "That's my father."

Somebody knocked. Solomon rose to answer but the door swung open, and an irascible looking Edgar Carstairs coming through - in the corridor behind him, the apologetic manner of a level two intern who had clearly failed in her task of keeping the thespian away.

Time was up.

1.	Wrecking Ball - Feb 14th