1100 hours, The Dorchester. Central London.


Jebediah Layton was spending this fortnight at a modest suite of the muggle establishment, comfortable in his false identity. It had become custom to keep mobile. On occasion, the wizard would return to the more permanent home he had established in east London, but for the most part he moved from one hotel to another whilst keeping an ear to the ground.

The Ministry presumed him dead. This didn't mean they weren't still picking up after Ira Almasy - she had certainly left behind enough information to keep them preoccupied by her past involvement in various crimes.

            "Will that be all, sir?"

He placed his trimming scissors on the marble counter in the bathroom, giving his beard a thoughtful stroke. It took a different shade to his otherwise fair head of hair - run through with streaks of silver now. Layton tied the plush white bathrobe across his chest and stepped out with a friendly smile.

A trim young man was just done setting up his breakfast on a tray table by the window seat. "Yes, quite." Layton thanked the eager server and slipped him a generous five pound note before he left the suite. And then the privacy of the room was his own once more. It was a peaceful morning and the view outside was one of Hyde Park, green treetops tinged autumn orange.

Layton considered the selection of eggs, bacon and roast tomatoes. He picked up a tomato and went to sit at the window, unlatching it so that the morning owls might make their delivery. 

Keeping up with wizarding society, all the while eluding its forces, was necessary. He maintained subscriptions via proxy for The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly and The Quibbler. He received the first two today and settled down to read between mouthfuls of red. It did not take the wizard very long to find an article that gave him pause.


He stared at the photograph of the child, running his thumb across it. A son. Ira had a son. Layton quickly did the math - it couldn't have been long before she had employed his services, months perhaps. So she was a mother when he first met her. And never a word to him about it either, scarcely a thought in spite of their frequent exchanges as Legilimens.

Merlin, her chest was a vault. He closed the magazine and rose to his feet, pausing at the tray table to pour a cup of hot coffee. His hand shook. Layton set down the pot, breathing in deeply. The child was half her, half empress. And, yes, half of that bastard Balfour Spectre. Storm would no doubt have a hand in parenting the boy. In spite of his misgivings Layton could acknowledge this as a fortunate circumstance.

And yet. He approached his bedside, reaching for the phone.

            "Good morning, how can I help you?" a chipper voice answered.
"This is Mr.Leslie. I was wondering if you could make a booking for me, at another establishment."
            "Of course, sir."
"The Balmoral in Edinburgh."
            "Yes sir. And on what dates?"

Layton glanced at the copy of Witch Weekly in his hand. "Christmas," he replied. "The entirety of December, if you'd please."