Three of them around the table was becoming a scene of normality for interview room four. One blonde, asking questions, one red, keeping tabs, suggesting caution, one steadily greying doing most of the talking. The walk from cell to interview room was a welcome chance for Lawrence to stretch his legs, even if the company was often crap. It was day 19 of Lawrence’s stay on Level 2, and a Monday morning. Despite sitting through hours of interviews since his arrival, with an ever-changing cast of aurors and occasional figures from other Departments who were supervised by yet more aurors or hitwizards, there was still more to be said.

Every now and then Lawrence would forget himself, lapse back into decades-past mannerisms of a fellow auror. He’d think on Pratt as more of a colleague on those good days than an adversary. The moments passed, dementors still lingered in the area around the Ministry at regular intervals, flocking back in squalls, but even when they were driven from London their impact did not leave him. Healers came and went at the worst, prescribed more chocolate, diluted draught of peace for the long nights.

But even on the bad days, Lawrence was keen to talk to Pratt if the subject was related to Hannah. When Graves confirmed who wanted to speak to him, he’d walker quicker from one box to the other.

“… They looked after the cage, that’s how I narrowed it down. When it was clear the wolves weren’t volunteers, they had to be sourced. Hannah was sourced.” Lawrence spoke swiftly, he was leaning forward, left arm resting across the table before him, right arm loosely pointing in the direction of the Head Auror across the table from him. The table itself was covered in parchment, notes for Pratt, a stack of them for Graves, and the most dog-eared and incomprehensible was crushed under Lawrence’s arms. The notes were made in the time he was allowed a quill and parchment to order his thoughts outside of interviews.

“I tailed them back home the night before, then waited for them that day.” Lawrence explained, mid-way through recounting (sometimes in a non-linear direction) how he had beaten up and left Hannah’s kidnappers for the aurors to retrieve. He’d not mentioned crucio, simply for the sake of not adding another charge of unforgiveables to his mounting charge sheet.

“You found them alright though?” He asked, a little rhetorically, looking from Pratt to glance at Harper, shifting his shoulders a little under her gaze, gleaning she never enjoyed listening to the more detailed recounts of violence, almost as much as he felt sick recounting them in gory detail.

Harper's nail varnish had either chipped away or been smeared by ink. It was one of those days and she was trying very hard not to meet her client in the eye while he was explaining another one of his crimes in a manner that was civil (relative to the terrible things he had done).

          "You found them alright though?"

The witch looked up from her notebook - it rested on messy stack of parchment - and bit her lower lip, affecting disappointment that she found hard to repress. "I don't think alright is the word I would use...." she had read the reports so it definitely wasn't the word she would use.

It was painful to remember, each time she entered this room, that beaten-up Lawrence Musgrave was the same wizard who had committed such acts of horror. Frankly, it made Harper feel sick. But she was getting used to it.

She was about to ask Pratt about the incident when the door swung open, and the sight of Solomon Carstairs made Harper forget her question all at once. The man looked like he had a thundercloud over his head. Harper pushed her chair back and stood up enquiringly - she was at the end of the table, the narrow side between where Lawrence and Ed sat across from each other.

Not ten minutes ago, Solomon had been sat down in his office - immersed in the air of a room that had been recently vacated by a large group of people whose conversations were of no trivial matter. He had been sat down in his office and he had done absolutely nothing in that time except stare into space, listening to the tick-tock of a punctual clock and the murmur of hurried footsteps in the main floor outside.

The cogs and gears in his mind were turning, perhaps in need of a little oil to ease their rusty creaking.

On his desk: a hand-written testimony[1] by Raine Almasy, witnessed by - of all people! - Ignan Storm. Storm. Solomon had seen and spoken to the man in his own home earlier this month, without so much as an inkling of how much the Deputy Headmaster knew.

In a way, the older wizard's signature was one of the things keeping Sol from thinking that this testimony was nothing but a garbled attempt of infighting subterfuge by Pureblood aristocracy; one that was using Level 2 as its playground.

But no. Ignan had put his name to this - which was enough to eclipse even Adon Eleor, whose turning in of such evidence was preceded by bizarrely absent behaviour and illness[2].

Most unavoidable, however, was the fact that the document was congruous with that of Hannah Bombay's evidence[3]. Solomon had sent the wands to be properly tested but a cursory examination was enough to tell him that he couldn't put this off for very much longer. The fact of the matter was that a respectable member of society was... well, not quite respectable any longer. A common ruse to which so many of them were blind.

Copies of blood contracts - never quite the real thing - and unreliable testimony were enough for Solomon to have had the House of Atreus watched since March. Ira Almasy had barely left her building since then. But this new information was unmistakeable.

If she would not act, then level 2 at last had license to do so themselves.

---

But all of that was ten minutes ago. Now, Solomon stood before the door to the assigned interview room and was motioning for the Hitwizard on duty to open it. The dull rumble of voices came from within. Good. He knew what that meant and it would save him the trouble of calling Graves in.

            "...found them alright though?"
"I don't think alright is the word I would use...."

He entered. The door closed behind him. Sol had come in with an eye on Musgrave but he quickly directed his attention to the other two occupants of the room, wasting no energy on his usual grim smile.

"Solomon," the defence attorney began, "Is someth--"

Solomon interrupted, "Yes. Sorry Miss Graves. May I drag up a chair? Join this - this cosy little meeting you have going on here?" he glanced at Ed with a meaningful expression. "I don't mean to barge in on your interview, Pratt. I'm afraid we've just received some urgent information that requires Musgraves confirmation."

1.	Of Course I Haven't Missed You - Feb 22nd
2.	Sick Leave - 13th March
3.	The Fetters of Thy Tongue - March 28th

The gift left by Lawrence Musgrave for Pratt and his aurors had been nothing less of a surprise. Ed wasn’t one to complain about things being made easier for him, but he would have liked the kidnappers left in a better condition.

He’d been about to tell Musgrave as much when the door opened and his boss walked in. Ed grit his teeth but his calm expression didn’t change as his eyes followed Carstair’s path until the wizard sat beside him. He didn’t mean to barge in on the interview, but he was going to anyway.

Pratt couldn’t remember the last time he’d known of Carstairs coming into an interview. The wizard struck him as someone far happier behind a desk with a pile of exciting reports to complete and people to grumble at. A nightmare for Pratt would be heaven for his superior.

“Sir.” Pratt quietly acknowledged and sat back in his seat, shoving hands into the pockets of his dark grey trousers. Like normal, Ed’s auror robes were left abandoned in his office and his shirt sleeves were rolled up comfortably. Like normal, he did not look like the leader of a group of elite dark wizard hunters.

“For the record,” Ed spoke, bright green eyes flashing to the quill dancing to the sound of his voice, “Solomon Carstairs, Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement has joined the interview.” Then his gaze fell on Carstairs, expectant but irked that this couldn't have been discussed with him beforehand.

“I don’t think alright is the word I would use…” Harper interjected, and Lawrence gave a lopsided smile, thus looking in the opposite direction to the door coming open. There were often comings and goings during interviews where bits of information were sent off for pursuit or papers requested to reference and cross inspect, but the expression Pratt and Graves’ faces made Lawrence flinch away from the door without realising he’d even done it. He’d not seen Solomon Carstairs much but in passing since he arrived on Level 2 late that night.

“Solomon, is someth-”
“Yes. Sorry Miss Graves.” Manners, yet he looked like he might be sick, or someone had crapped in his cornflakes, Lawrence didn’t know which. Carstairs was staring right at him, rather than addressing his Level Two colleagues immediately. Was this a spot check, a complaint - had something happened to Hannah?

“May I drag up a chair? Join this - this cosy little meeting you have going on here?” Carstairs asked. Lawrence barely blinked, but his more relaxed stance with Graves and Pratt evaporated. “… barge in on your interview…”
“Sir.” Lawrence served the Head Auror a glance to measure his response.

“I’m afraid we’ve just received some urgent information that requires Musgrave’s confirmation.”

Lawrence drew himself up straight, in contrast to Pratt’s lean back from the table. He turned to near face Carstairs head on as he joined the opposite end of the table to Graves, making it one to each side of the cluttered surface.

“For the record…” Pratt spoke for the sake of the verbatis quill dancing over a coiled roll of parchment.

“You look like you’ve had breakfast with a dementor,” Lawrence told Carstairs cooly, folding his arms across his chest, blinking slowly. This one had power to strike a decent bargain if the opportunity was about to present itself.

Neither Pratt nor Graves appeared to welcome his interruption. The latter simply returned to her seat, a suspicious light in her large eyes - she looked like she might have wished to object but her silence was welcome. Solomon wasn't here to spar with either attorney or Auror; his actual target appeared much more formidable than either at this point.

The department head settled into his chair and suppressed a heavy sigh when Musgrave opened his mouth. "You look like you’ve had breakfast with a dementor," the convict remarked.

Sol smirked, leaned forward to cross his arms on the messy table.

"What if I told you I just had breakfast with Ira Almasy?" he paused to let the name take an effect - watching carefully - and then continued with a grim smile, full of tension. "That would explain my mood, wouldn't it? Curious, though, I've never had the pleasure of meeting that witch in person."

Not up close and personal anyway. She was the sort of woman Sol preferred to watch from afar. Perhaps if he'd thought otherwise, he might have understood these series of events in a better light.

His gaze flicked to Pratt next to him, cautioning, and then back to Lawrence, "I need to know what it is you can tell me about the association between yourself, Hannah Bombay, and Miss Almasy." Solomon didn't have the luxury of playing this negotiation safe today - no doubt it gave Musgrave a great barter chip, but no chip was valuable enough to entirely compensate for the man's crimes.

"Your niece has already informed but, believe it or not, you're the more reliable witness in my eyes."

“What if I told you I just had breakfast with Ira Almasy?”

Lawrence stopped breathing. His eyes widened a fraction, and his shoulders became rigid. Carstairs was one of hers, no, not possible. If he was, Lawrence was well and truly fucked to put it politely.

“… I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting that witch in person.”

Lawrence’s lungs resumed function, though the fingers of his remaining hand gripped his left arm hard enough to leave himself bruises beneath his prisoner’s robes.

“… tell me about the association between yourself, Hannah Bombay and Miss Almasy. Your niece has already informed but, believe it or not, you’re the more reliable witness in my eyes.”

“If you’d met her, you wouldn’t make jokes.” Lawrence replied in a low voice. He glanced over his shoulder at Harper, betraying an expression more fearful than resentful or guilty which was his default in the interview room, making sure she was paying close attention. He looked to Pratt next, and wet his lips. “The last man who might’ve told you died in the courtroom. You can promise me Hannah's in Azkaban?” The question was directed at Pratt, because Carstairs had already lied in jest, and over the past two weeks he had built a rapport with the Head Auror, if one could go as far as calling it that.

“Ira Almasy provided cover, in return for my assistance. She also, to the best of my knowledge, employed Hannah at a later date.” He delivered the straight description directly to Carstairs with grim expression. “It is in her name I committed my worst, and others do now,” Lawrence inclined forward to the Department Head, arms still folded across his chest tightly, “and to say so is to only scratch the fetid surface of what Almasy is.” He sat back again.

“I will need guarantees.” 

Harper had no idea what the hell was going on.

She didn't like Solomon cutting into the interview but he looked like he would have ordered her out of the room if she'd protested, so her only choice was to keep silent and see if any sense could be made of what was being said. Which wasn't really working out. Breakfast with Ira Almasy, what? And Hannah Bombay? The first thing that leapt to mind was the situation with the Storms but Harper didn't know where to begin fitting the Russian aristocrat into that.

          "If you’d met her, you wouldn’t make jokes."

Lawrence knew exactly what Carstairs was going on about. The look on his face, though, she couldn't recall ever seeing it. Harper had met Almasy before - she was the aunt of a girl one of her clients[1] had murdered in'09. Ira had been with the girl's family at all legal talks and hearings. An intimidating woman, yeah, but not exactly criminal material.

The weight of what Lawrence was saying began to grow heavy on Harper's shoulders. Was it true, what he was saying? He hadn't indicated any of this before, which meant he was either biding his time or he was afraid Almasy's reach extended to level 2. She hoped it was the latter.

            "I will need guarantees."

Oh, for chr--

"We will need guarantees," the witch quickly cut in before anything else could be said. "My client's safety might be jeopardised if he chooses to cooperate with you-" Harper took a chance on what she knew about the courtroom death "- and neither this floor nor the Wizengamot needs another life on their conscience."

What she really wanted was to know what all of this was about, why Solomon looked so keyed up. It wasn't her place to ask right now but she knew it was only a matter of time.

1.	Arthur Lemon§

Ed’s initial response was to glance sideways at his boss. He far from appreciated the interruption with new evidence or a line of questioning without his prior knowledge. It was a courtesy thing. It was a respect thing considering that Lawrence Musgrave was his bloody prisoner and his job. Carstairs was supposed to sit behind his desk and read the bloody reports.

But Ed had to be a good dog and play along; that was what his boss’ expression said at the sideways glance. So, Ed said nothing as this new link to Ira Almasy was mentioned. As far as he knew, she was a rich witch who donated to charities and she hadn’t even featured in any investigation. So the Head Auror folded his arms while sitting back in the chair.

“…I will need guarantees.” Musgrave wasn’t surprised but appeared scared. Pratt was suddenly feeling bloody incompetent for not having known sooner. But another glance to his boss, Ed felt somewhat certain that Carstairs may have known before. What a dick.

“Hannah is in Azkaban.” He assured, giving a nod. Even a criminal with such a lack of morals and heart like Lawrence Musgrave had someone to love and care about. Hannah Bombay was his biggest weakness. “And as I said, if you cooperate, you’ll see her when she gets out.” Not that Carstairs had approved it. But if he wanted to go back on the guarantee when he was so close to the information he obviously wanted, he was more than just a dick.

But while Musgrave was more fussed about his niece, his lawyer was more concerned about him. Lawyers were a bloody headache.
“Everything’s being done to keep your client safe, Miss Graves. I can’t warrant any more of my aurors’ time unless what Musgrave says checks out.” His green-eyed gaze danced from lawyer to prisoner. “Ye handed yerself in to talk and do the right thing. Start now.”

              "If you’d met her, you wouldn’t make jokes."

So it was true, then. Solomon didn't doubt it - but hearing as much from a man who had little else to lose besides his sorry excuse for a niece, that brought it home. Perhaps he was wasting time here, perhaps they should be rallying themselves to seek out Ira Almasy at this very moment instead of sitting here in a room negotiating meagre guarantees. Pratt and Graves were quick to jump on their respective responsibilities.

Tiresome as it was, Sol did have to do this by the book. Procedure first. As far as he could tell Almasy wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"A meeting with Bombay and further security for your own safety, should what you say confirm our other sources." Solomon assured their prisoner - ever aware of the quill scratching away, more than just a gentleman's word.

He narrowed his eyes at Lawrence. "If her crimes are as numerous as you imply then I advise you to begin with the most recent or significant."

Harper was quick off the mark, and Lawrence blinked, lowering his gaze as she did. It had taken time for him to become comfortable with any of this, especially her at his elbow. He struggled to trust her, not due to her personality, nor even her role, but because she was another human being. But Graves was persistent. Sometimes it was fun to see her go head to head with whoever was asking the questions.

“Hannah is in Azkaban.” Pratt confirmed, and Lawrence nodded back. “… I can’t warrant any more of my aurors’ time unless what Musgrave says checks out. Ye handed yerself in to talk and do the right thing. Start now.”
“… should what you say confirm our other sources.”

At each response, Lawrence shifted his gaze and tilted his head at a different angle, waiting for them all to be quite finished. Solomon’s question required some consideration. Lawrence stared to his left at the clutter on the table. There were a dozen irritating, worthless tasks he had completed for Ira and Layton before Sandy had cursed him to a bed to heal him, but they were hardly what the other three wanted to hear. Anything with dementors was entirely Lawrence’s doing - unless one included the gauntlet the now Minister and his crackpot Department Head had laid down.

“All roads lead back to Almasy,” he uttered grimly, "and these are just the ones I've walked," he sighed. Lawrence lifted his remaining hand and traced back across the table with a forefinger from Sol towards Harper. “She’s been there since the summer werewolves,” he began, finger pressing the table inches from Graves’ notes, his finger travelled mid way down the table, over the paperwork, “the Leaky Cauldron,” it and paused again only a few inches on, “Trumble,” his hand moved along towards Sol, “Gamp,” he planted his finger inches from Solomon, “Hannah.” He looked up closely to Carstairs, “The organ grinder has many monkeys. Some of them are still in the building. So when you joke about breakfast, Mr Carstairs, perhaps you’ll check her diary.”

"Shit."

Solomon leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his face and trying to remind himself why it was he stepped up to take this bloody job in the first place. A cold feeling in his stomach had started to sink the moment Musgrave had mentioned as far back as the werewolf fights... and it just kept on sinking, because Lawrence just kept on talking. His insidious finger moved across the table with each point sounding more and more like the opening of musty tombs that wished to be forgotten.

So that stuffed animal in December[1] had been her doing.

He could see it clearly now: the pattern of theatricality running through the mentioned events, that macabre incident at the Opera[2] gone unsolved. How could one person have been so centrally connected to these crimes?

Who, besides Musgrave and Bombay, had assisted her in them? He could understand Hannah's frustration, now.

            "So when you joke about breakfast, Mr Carstairs, perhaps you’ll check her diary."

When Solomon lowered his hands, it was to fix Musgrave with a tired gaze. In the corner of his eye he sensed Miss Graves turning to look away from them; the sound of her own scratching quill was added to that of the enchanted one.

"I take it this is a significant risk for you." Sol's voice was low, raspy. "You... it sounds like you have a wealth of information to offer us, Lawrence. More than can be shared in detail at present," especially if what the wizard had said about monkeys still being in the building was true.

The department head rose, adjusting the collar of his robes distractedly. "Pratt-" he glanced at Ed and knew in one glimpse that his Head Auror would be absolutely livid, "- a word with you outside?"

1.	Draw a Line - 24th December
2.	Murder at the Opera - 3rd Jan '10

‘Shit’ was definitely a suitable word to use to describe the avalanche that Pratt felt had just landed on them. Lawrence handing himself in had felt like a win, a hollow victory among the disaster surrounding them. But this…Ed was quickly trying to piece it together as he watched Lawrence’s hand move, as he listened to the connections he now felt like a moron for not having found.

But Carstairs knew something and Pratt wanted to rip his head off for it. Where in Merlins’ name had he got this information from? Why the hell wasn’t Pratt privy to it before because now he was sat in this bloody interview room looking like a bloody flobberworm with nothing to say.

Almasy was behind the werewolf fights, behind the leaky cauldron and…Ed grit his teeth…behind Hannah Bombay’s joint attack on the Storms. Bombay was in cahoots with Almasy, working with her uncle. Of fucking course.

No wonder Bombay had refused to speak to anyone. No wonder Musgrave was scared. But Bombay must have spoken to have been sent away to Azkaban for only a month. Ed wanted to strangle Carstairs right now. Someone was on the inside.

"- a word with you outside?" Ed’s bright eyes flashed to his superior and he said nothing as he stood and left the room with the other wizard.

With the door shut, Pratt pulled his wand from his holster and cast a silencing charm around them before he finally allowed himself to speak.

“Did ye fucking well think I was the mole because that can be the only bloody reason ye kept me in the dark about this. Ye knew! Bombay refused to speak to anyone but she told you and ye bloody let me get on with those interviews not having a bloody clue! How the bloody hell do I do my job when I have half the bloody facts?” His voice grew louder, angrier as he finally got it out. “Unless you enjoy seein’ yer ‘ead auror looking bloody incompetent in front of a dangerous criminal? Is this a bloody joke to you, Carstairs?”

“-significant risk for you.” Carstairs replied shakily. Lawrence levelled his stare back, finger still pressed on the surface of the table before the Department Head. He watched the other two men remove themselves from the room and only then lifted his finger and turned to regard the verbatis quill on the scroll of parchment.

“For the record,” he told it, following old protocol, “Solomon Carstairs and Edward Pratt have left the interview room.” He looked to Harper and gestured in a lifting motion towards the quill without a further word, requesting she stopped the recording.

“Couldn’t risk it.” Lawrence told Harper, looking her in the eye. It was by way of apology for not bringing this up with her before now. She had a right to feel angry with him like Pratt did Carstairs. “In my time the Ministry was pretty fucking rotten, but at least there was a war for us to blame it on.”

He pushed his chair back from the table, “just stretching my legs,” he uttered, lifting a hand in reassurance, remembering that any sudden movement was a potential threat from him, or a hitwizard might perceive such.

The former auror got up and paced his side of the room a few times, left arm crossed over his stomach, right hand fingers pulling nervously at his bottom lip over a light salt and pepper beard. When you might use a wand or a razor to do something stupid, you had to grow a beard and be supervised brushing your teeth.

“I know I don’t deserve to bargain, but I want that bitch put away.” He told Harper as he paced, regularly glancing at the door, “Can’t do that when I’m dead. She’s going to take other people down with her, people I’m not convinced are there out of choice, like Hannah.” He stopped, leaned against the back wall behind her and puffed out his cheeks in a long sigh. "Hope you haven’t booked a holiday this year.”

It was way too early in the morning for a drink. Regardless, Harper was wondering if she had anything in the secret office stash that would look appropriate to drink at would would definitely be lunch-at-her-desk later today. She had quickly started to scribble down what her client had been saying, noting down approximate dates next to each event listed.

They'd get into the details eventually, she knew, but it would be easier if she pulled all relevant articles from the archives for some research on Almasy. God, which lousy soul was going to get her for a client?

Solomon and his pet Auror rose from their seats... no doubt to have a word to fill in the knowledge gap, of which Lawrence appeared to have the smallest right now. He was the most well informed of them.

            "Couldn’t risk it."

Harper looked up, realising she had been staring at her notes a bit too adamantly since he'd begun his account. She didn't say anything. Not because she was angry - the number of times people have withheld information from her was nothing to brag about - but because she couldn't figure out how to visualise this new, bigger picture Lawrence was beginning to paint for them.

"Cancelled all my holidays when I had to take you on," she smiled in spite of the sigh that followed her riposte, and closed her notebook before looking over her shoulder at the wizard. "I get it, though. Why you didn't want to say before. Talking's always a risk... especially if she's as dangerous as you say she is."

Not event their department head looked like he thought Lawrence had been exaggerating. That was pretty telling.

She looked back to the desk, at their notes, and then settled her attention on the interview room door. Not quite observing. "I've met her before. Almasy." A serious, contemplative expression came over the witch's features.

"Couple of years ago. Had to defend a guy[1] who killed one of her nieces." Harper could still picture Ira Almasy in her mind - tough to forget a face like that. "She must be a very good actress."

1.	Arthur Lemon§