Late morning

Solomon Carstairs, having apparated into Hogsmeade and made his way towards the current place of residence of Mr & Mrs Storm, looked down to give his appearance a cursory check once he was before their doorway. That dreaded doorway through which the likes of Musgrave had once been invited... but no, now was not a time to recall unpleasant encounters[1] from over a month ago. With the infamous convict in their custody, it seemed that a courtesy visit would be the proper thing to pay.

At least insofar as he was advised. This was the Head Healer of St.Mungo's, wasn't it? And Deputy Head of Hogwarts. Wouldn't do to ignore their recent grievances.

It was a reprieve from being in the office, whatever his motives.

The department head straightened his tie - a casual red and purple affair to match his robes, which were not too formal - and gave the door a sturdy set of knocks. Three, to be precise. He held a bottle of fine wine in his other hand and had foregone brandishing his wand, remembering the manner of callers the happy couple were accustomed to receiving.

In all honesty, Solomon was looking forward to settling the air between them. He was determined to do so anyway. Miranda wasn't the sort of witch who encouraged that sort of behaviour. Talking with her, even at the best of times, was an uphill battle. Sol hoped that Ignan Storm was made of different stuff.

Or if not different, then at least less inclined to slam the door shut in Solomon's face.

1.	Lend a Hand - 7th March

Miranda was sat at the kitchen table when the knock at the door interrupted her breakfast. She was in the process of refilling her mug from the teapot when she froze. Visitors in their cottage were not a welcome thing. No good had yet come out of a visitor to Kaldfjord. The teapot was carefully placed back on the mat and she rose from the table, making her way across the small kitchen in her bare feet.

Arriving in the living room, the witch quickly spied her husband in his usual armchair, having given up on deposing the still nameless cat. The couple shared a moment of joint confusion and Miranda pulled her wand from the pocket of her baggy cardigan. The door was pulled open to reveal Solomon Carstairs on the doorstep.

Dark eyes scanned down to the wine and her lips twitched.
“Wine isn’t the best gift to apologise for letting a wanted criminal nearly murder my husband.” She didn’t move to let him in. “What do you want?”

Ignan was feeling altogether more himself for escaping the cottage[1] the previous evening. He was never all that good at recuperating and being patient after an injury, and a week felt like a year. He couldn’t fault the care - one to one attention from the Head Healer of St Mungo’s was something most mortals could never secure - but the care had eagle eyes and knew her husband’s mannerisms well now.

However, yesterday’s newspaper[2] had provided a perfect opportunity to convince Miranda to take a break. This morning he was nursing what could just about constitute a hangover, given how little he’d drunk on his potions. He’d forgone the sling, in an attempt to start using his shoulder again, though it was hurting more than he cared to let on.

The knock at the front door was not altogether a surprise, they did occasionally have callers, though they were strongly dissuaded. Miranda elected to answer it, Gerda out in their garden, tending to Miranda’s newly established herb and vegetable beds, covered in soil. Ignan had moved to do it, but their fluffy feline lodger had taken advantage of him sitting still. This only established that at some point, Ignan had nodded off. He tried to scoop it up with his left hand, his right arm not strong enough still to lift, and then gave up on seeing miranda would check who it was.

It was a surprise, either way, given her body language, but not a threat.
“Wine isn’t the best gift to apologise for letting a wanted criminal nearly murder my husband. What do you want?” Unable to see who it was from his position, Ignan tried to guess based on the greeting. Taller than Miranda, she’d looked up, but that suggested most of the population. Someone who hadn’t been to see them since, so that ruled out family. Apologies were firmly in the Ministry or the Carter family’s court. He doubted the latter, now that he had received a personal visit from Alec Carter, one of Miranda’s brothers, while still in St Mungo’s. Admittedly, Alec wasn’t coming to see him, but it had at least cleared the air.

No, this was… he nudged the cat off him and got to his feet to approach the door.

Solomon Carstairs? Good grief.

“Must be serious to doorstep personally,” Ignan remarked from behind Miranda, looking the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement up and down. “If it is indeed Mr Carstairs.” His wand found his left hand, and his chin lifted in challenge to Carstairs to prove who he was.

1.	April 7th So Long, Stalker
2.	April 7th Daily Prophet

It hardly surprised him that Miranda would choose to forego a greeting in favour of an immediate critique of his presence at their doorstep. It was a wonder she didn't look older than her age, the way she held on to her little grudges! Solomon smiled politely at the witch by way of response and added a dry, "Good morning to you too, Mrs Storm."

He didn't have much opportunity to say anything else, for a familiar figure had appeared behind his hostess. Not familiar because they had been acquainted before - but Sol had seen the odd photograph of Ignan Storm. The most recent ones being in either the Prophet or Witch Weekly.

Indeed, the man looked like someone who would marry Miranda. He also looked in better condition than expected.

            “If it is indeed Mr Carstairs.”

Solomon's polite gaze flicked briefly to the wand at hand and his smile turned charming, in the self-deprecatory way it usually did when confronted by an obvious fact. Of course they had to be cautious. Storm was right to imply that some validation was necessary.

The fact that his wife didn't was really just typical of a woman who invited a known convict into her home.

"A courtesy call, actually." Solomon held up his free hand to make it clear he wasn't armed. "Solomon Carstairs. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I believe Miranda will be able to tell you that I am the genuine article-" he glanced at her in good humour, "- as we last spoke in my office about a month ago to this date."[1]

It had been an unpleasant meeting and even Solomon would admit, his behaviour at the time was singularly rude. Not that he regretted it.

"You will recall: we discussed your interest in performing Legilimency on Mr Shufflebottom, an offer that I was compelled to decline."

1.	Lend a Hand - 7th March

Mira sensed her husband before she heard him behind her. There was a presence he had, a feeling he gave her that she still was unable to place a finger on. His greeting to Carstairs was less hostile than hers but he still didn’t invite the wizard to cross the threshold. They had to make sure it was him and Miranda, for once, was wholeheartedly in agreement for questioning the authenticity of their doorstep guests.

Right hand still on the end of the front door, the witch far shorter than the two wizards on either side pressed her lips tightly together, unsure exactly how she would confirm his identity. That was until she mentioned Shufflebottom and her grip on the door tightened. She didn’t need to be a legilimens to sense Ignan’s gaze now no doubt on her. She didn’t look to confirm, deciding that was most certainly a discussion for later in private. With any hope, after more potions, he would forget and Miranda wouldn’t have quite so much reason to dislike Solomon Carstairs.

“Come in” she didn’t need to confirm it was true in so many words. Reluctantly, the witch stepped back, holding the door open for the ‘guest’ to pass through the wards and enter their living room. She pushed the door shut behind him, still avoiding Ignan’s gaze.

It was with regret that Miranda thought about her now cooling cup of tea and the porridge that was sat abandoned on the kitchen table. She waved at the sofa for Sol to sit down, gaze flashing over the cat now having made himself comfortable in Ignan’s armchair. Had she not been so on edge due to Solomon’s appearance, Miranda may have found humour in their new pet’s habit of annoying her husband.

Ignan barely blinked while studying Solomon Carstairs on their doorstep. They had never met in person, but Carstairs was a visible presence in the newspaper through quotes and photographs. Ignan knew Miranda did not have a high opinion of the man, and her daughter, Ignan’s step daughter, certainly didn’t, as Solomon’s PA. Curious that he should doorstep them today.

“… we discussed your interest in performing legilimency on Mr Shufflebottom…” Ignan’s gaze dropped from the wizard at the door to the back of his wife’s head before him with a perturbed expression. Joining up the dots in his head, that put their last discussion not long after, or even directly after Musgrave had turned up with dementors. It sounded like Miranda had made a bit of a habit out of meeting with wizards for unusual conversations, whether it be attempts to put unexpected guests to sleep, or demands to read minds of prisoners.

The conversation had occurred, in some sense, as Miranda permitted entry. She didn’t look at Ignan as she let their guest in, stepping back and closing the distance between them. Ignan lowered his chin and gaze to her further, but she avoided a glance to him, training her eyes elsewhere. What on earth had she been proposing, the Shufflebottoms were her cousins. Ignan could understand why Mira had declined to mention the conversation topic had ever taken place, and thank goodness Carstairs had declined.

Front door shut, Miranda was offering the sofa to the other wizard. The cat had occupied Ignan’s warm armchair while they were all distracted. The Professor’s gaze stopped on his wife to offer the feline a withering look for its actions. There was a patter of larger feet in the kitchen, drawing his attention away from the group in their small living room. Ignan spied their house elf’s face peering through the door to the living room. Her face was smudged with earth.
“Would you take tea, Mr Carstairs, coffee?” Ignan asked, pre-empting Gerda so she could vanish to attend to duties, and hopefully wash her face before bringing it through.

“Do we owe the pleasure of your company to recent events?” The oldest of the three asked, reapproaching his armchair, resolutely ignoring the fact the cat had just rolled onto its back (seeking affection, Miranda had explained recently), but very much occupying his seat. There was no smooth way of reclaiming a seat from a cat, and sitting on it invited claws in sensitive body parts.

He stopped himself from drawing unwise conclusions, having noted the way the other wizard's eyes had shifted in Miranda's direction on hearing about the portents of her last visit on level two. Solomon murmured a quiet thanks as he entered into their home and gave their surroundings a cursory, well mannered examination. It seemed a comfortable home.

And there was a cat. The look that Ignan gave it was curious. A new addition? Or were the couple cat-sitting?

The department head wasn't certain what to do with the wine he had brought, and placed it on the closest table before taking a seat on the safe. He unbuttoned his robe jacket, letting the material fall loosely to the side. Tea was offered - and a sensible opportunity to explain why he was here.

"Tea, very kind of you." Solomon knew the couple had a house elf in their employ; he didn't trust Miranda to make a cup of tea (and it was really a wonder that he trusted her daughter).  "And you assume correctly. Lawrence Musgrave surrendered himself on Wednesday night, no doubt you've read as much in the papers."

His entire floor had been thrown into red alert over the matter. Even now, with the convict safely in one of their cells, the Aurors seemed restless. Eager to see justice done perhaps. More eager to see a former peer receive their comeuppance.

Sol had found it necessary to assign Musgrave the most appropriate legal counsel insofar as that was concerned but today he had to be less even-handed in discussing the wizard. "I came to offer my regret that we were unable to apprehend him before the pain Musgrave has afflicted on you and Miranda," he glanced at the witch carefully - taking a soft and formal tone, "And to reassure you that we are trying our utmost to ensure that he will suffer the legal consequences of his actions."

Ignan offered the visitor tea and then Miranda did finally look at him, unnerved by his sudden show of hospitality towards a wizard he knew she didn’t particularly like or particularly trust. Solomon Carstairs was a bureaucrat who had risen in the rank of the ministry to become head moron in a department of morons expected to keep the country safe. He seemed to think himself powerful sat behind a desk and with each meeting they’d had, he’d so eagerly reminded the Head Healer of her civilian status and lack of power in his domain.
He didn’t sit well with her.
Certainly not in her home.

Ignan’s gaze found the cat and Miranda stepped past him, reaching down and picking up the furry creature to free the armchair for the injured wizard. The cat was allowed to jump to the floor and Miranda sat herself in the unclaimed armchair on the other side of the fireplace, leaving Solomon alone on the sofa.

In the kitchen, Gerda could be heard now sorting out a tea tray. The elf listened well, anticipated their needs and wants before they had a chance to vocalise them.

“Trying?” It was the only word that stood out in his sentence; the only word Miranda could focus on. “Surely it’s a guaranteed?” Her eyes danced to Ignan, seeking his thoughts. He knew the laws better than her, having spent time as an auror. Miranda knew little other than the fact that Lawrence had attacked them, he’d taken control of dementors and he’d hurt people. He’d been on the run from the ministry. He had to go to Azkaban. It was impossible that he wouldn’t. Surely.

“Tea, very kind of you.” Carstairs accepted, and Ignan glanced to Gerda who vanished to attend. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Mira’s surprised expression at the hospitality. ”… no doubt you’ve read as much in the papers.”

Ignan shot the Head of the Department of Law Enforcement a look of mild disbelief, a silver eyebrow raised. The quote in the paper had Carstairs suggest Musgrave had surrendered because evading aurors was futile. He doubted anything had significantly changed in the week after Hannah Bombay had been brought back to life about three feet away from where the wizard had just taken a seat.

He decided to say nothing specific, allowing their guest time to say a little more as he stood beside his occupied armchair, ignoring the cat’s attempt to draw affection from the decidedly stoic wizard above it. Mira recognised his quandary, and scooped up their uninvited lodger turfing it to the floor in a gentler fashion. Ignan hadn’t fancied using magic, lest he be perceived as abusive to animals. He was in no hurry to learn ‘cat’.

“… regret that we were unable to apprehend him before the pain Musgrave has afflicted on you and Miranda…” Ignan settled back into his armchair, arranging his right arm back into his lap with relief. The shoulder still ached painfully.

“Trying?” Mira latched on, “Surely it’s a guarantee?” She looked to her husband from the adjacent armchair.
“Process.” He uttered quietly, glancing to her. “That’s if he makes it as far as the wizengamot,” he added, more to Carstairs this time. His gaze was cold, level. “Or through it. You have improved your checks since my late cousin’s murder in your courts? Be rather convenient if Musgrave were to pass before he answered.”

Perhaps Ignan Storm was allergic to cats? Or his arm too sore to dislodge the creature. Solomon much preferred dogs - his wife had a fetching greyhound that followed her everywhere. There was something rather endearing, however, about the awkward and unsaid moving about of the cat. The endearment lost its charm as soon as Miranda opened her mouth. Of course.

He smiled stiffly at her tone of voice, relaxing only when the other wizard exhibited a better understanding of the legal processes behind an arrest such as Musgrave's.

            "....since my late cousin’s murder in your courts? Be rather convenient if Musgrave were to pass before he answered.”

"We do learn from our mistakes, on occasion..." Solomon remarked dryly, referring to the murder of Wolfgang Storm in their custody. "His cell is under constant watch. His food and drink, monitored. He has a most fastidious attorney to prevent meddling even from within the department."

Wolfgang's murder had no doubt been the result of the Ministry's cells being infiltrated. He wasn't going to risk that this time - there would be no transfer to the Wizengamot cells. Solomon wanted to ensure they kept Musgrave close; certainly, the department could not suffer another embarrassment as such.

"But it will be some time before we see a trial," he continued in a more thoughtful voice, "Lawrence has information we need. There is some negotiation to be done. Nothing," Sol added quickly with a glance at Miranda: "-- nothing that will keep him from Azkaban, I imagine."

Lawrence Musgrave was being well looked after within the wall of the British Ministry of Magic. Solomon’s voice started to feel like background noise as Miranda imagined Musgrave sat in his cell, protected from the dementors that plagued him. Unlike anyone else (as far as she knew), she’d been inside his head, seen the pain and fear caused by his shadowing companions. The ministry was safe for him and she expected he was already looking better than he had in months.

Last night, she’d been convinced there was an end game involved in his surrender. She’d been unable to truly relax, certain that he had something planned. But the only real end game was to be protected by the monsters that haunted him, from whoever Solomon thought might try to kill him.

“Negotiation about what?” As she spoke, the house elf wandered into the room with a tea tray. It was placed on the coffee table between them and Gerda began to sort out the mugs.

“How do you know that any information that he gives you will be accurate? The dementors have warped his mind. And you’ve given him somewhere safe to recover. How do you know he’s not dragging this out for his safety?”

It sounded as if Carstairs had his ship ordered at last. Ignan was glad they had learned lessons from Wolfgang, not that it would be much consolation to Camille. The Aurors were altogether more competent than the court staff who were more used to shuffling through petty criminals - the likes of Shufflebottom, Miranda’s cousin’s husband, who associated with Musgrave.

“… nothing that will keep him from Azkaban, I imagine.”

“Negotiation about what?” Miranda chipped in, picking up on the wizard’s comment. Ignan glanced sidelong at his wife, cautious that this subject had her back up. Gerda crept in respectfully and began to serve tea, her ears tucked back, head low, not wanting to interrupt the conversation, and aware of the tone her mistress was using to address the guest.

“How do you know that any information that he gives you will be accurate?” Miranda continued, utterly serious. Ignan’s stomach sank a little at the way she was approaching things. “The dementors have warped his mind. And you’ve given him somewhere safe to recover. How do you know he’s not dragging this out for his safety?”

“He’s been assessed, has he not?” Ignan asked, less forcefully than Miranda, trying to remain more objective. “I know not by you,” he gestured to the Head Healer, “but by someone who’s professional judgement is good enough for them to practice under you, yes?” He asked Miranda, appealing to her to be reasonable. “Even if he is dragging it out,” Ignan added, “he’s still in custody. He’s not calling round to see you.” This was blessed relief.

“He’ll go to Azkaban then, there is no more final sentence, given the severity of his crimes?”

Dear Lord, it seemed like the Head Healer would not rest until she was elbow deep in the investigation itself! Solomon had to remind himself that he was in her house and that he had voluntarily come here, as a kind of olive branch. He nodded distractedly at the house elf who had entered to set the tea things; poor thing to have to serve a mistress like Miranda.

Ignan was an excellent buffer - more than that, really, a voice of reason. His questions brought the tone back to a more civil one before Sol could dream up an officious response for the witch.

"He has been assessed, yes, and I'm afraid I can't disclose details pertaining to our negotiations-" Solomon picked up a mug as he addressed Ignan, though he shot Mira a polite smile to finish, "- it's all sensitive information at this point."

Or unknown information, honestly. But that wasn't something he was in any rush to clarify. These things took time and Merlin knew that patience was not one of Miranda's strongest points. Sol sipped at his drink, eyes crinkling uncertainly as another point was brought to their attention.

            "He’ll go to Azkaban then, there is no more final sentence, given the severity of his crimes?"

"That's rather up to the Wizengamot,," he put down his tea and cleared his throat - he owed the couple some form of closure. "It's possible he could be given a harsher sentence or a more, ah, creative one. But of course, given that Miranda is on the Wizengamot..." the department head trailed off with a grim, light laugh.

Wizarding society was much too small for his liking sometimes. "We must try our utmost to avoid a conflict of interest when the time comes."

“…but by someone who’s professional judgement is good enough for them to practice under you, yes?[/i]” Ignan asked his wife, evidently trying to be the more reasonable and calmer of the two. He could be as reasonable as he liked, he’d not had to see his spouse slowly die. Her whole world had crashed down on her for the second time in her life and she was expected to rationally discuss the culprit’s future as if it meant nothing. Men were ridiculous.

She chose to say nothing, remaining silent as both men seemed to think that the whole situation was perfectly normal. Lawrence Musgrave was very possibly

Solomon Carstairs seemed to gravitate towards addressing Ignan and Miranda’s lips pressed together in mild irritation. Throughout most of her life, men had presumed themselves more important, more intelligent. It appeared that Carstairs was no different. she knew he didn’t like her; that didn’t matter. He could, however, at least show her some respect.

“…But of course, given that Miranda is on the Wizengamot...” Miranda had been taking a sip of her hot tea when Carstairs made the comment and her dark eyes snapped up to him. He was in her home insulting her!

“Well you’ll be glad to know I won’t be sitting for that case.” she responded, trying to keep her cool. Wizengamot members of elders weren’t encouraged to sit on cases they had any sort of involvement with. Miranda was wise enough to realise why and she certainly wasn’t going to complain. If she never had to see Lawrence Musgrave again, she would be relieved.

“I just want justice done.” Speaking of which, “What of Hannah Bombay?”

“… It’s possible he could be given a harsher sentence or a more, ah, creative one…” Ignan raised an eyebrow, unaware that the British Ministry considered torture. He had been asking if Musgrave would face a death sentence, but it had got lost in communication.

“We must try our utmost to avoid a conflict of interest when the time comes.”
“Yes…”
“Well you’ll be glad to know I won’t be sitting for that case.”

Ignan glanced from Carstairs to regard Miranda. She wouldn’t be sitting on it, because she’d be a witness. But given the number of things they might want to charge her former classmate with, the number of wizengamot unrelated to anything had to be depleting. The woman he loved could be sharp at the best of times but her responses to the Department Head sat on their sofa were cutting. She had taken a while to appear convinced about the news of the arrest yesterday, but Carstairs was dredging up everything which had kept Miranda from sleeping properly. Ignan knew how disrupted her sleep was since he had come home because he too had lain awake, mostly from the pain, but partly from his own mental dissection of his actions. He was keenly aware that as a healing first, there was still a great unknown ahead of them as to whether the runes would continue to keep him alive or whether the curse would progress again, and even as Head Healer, Miranda had no control over it.

“I just want justice done. What of Hannah Bombay?”