Approx. 1000 hours.


Almasy had left their wayward Scostman in the office, and disappeared to do whatever it was Pratt made the trainees do with their Saturday morning shifts. Some menial form of torture perhaps.

There hadn't been any attempts made to restrain or otherwise incarcerate Balfour Spectre. Largely because he had come along quietly and appeared to have gotten the anger out of his system after harassing Misslethorpe with a couple of hexes. Solomon was given a quick report about the incident on his way up in the elevator; he had been on level three for a brief meeting and had kept his visitor waiting for a good quarter of an hour.

"Mr.Spectre." Solomon closed the office door behind him, going to shake hands with the wizard who'd risen to his feet. "The last time you assaulted somebody in public[1] she turned out to be a criminal mastermind and mass murderer. Should I be keeping an eye on Healer Misslethorpe?"

The two men stood across from one another for a tense moment, until the older of them smiled and gestured at the chair across from the desk. "Please."

Balfour resumed his seat whilst Solomon took up his place behind the table - spectacles gleaming in the low lamp light, a man comfortable in his dominion of folders and paperwork and ageing WANTED posters curled up at the corners. He drew his wand.

Two crystal tumblers floated over from a side table, and a matching decanter poured them both a finger of Firewhiskey.

            "I'm not in a holding cell," Spectre observed and accepted the drink.
"You are in custody." Sol replied, settling down with a sigh. "We can arrange bail soon, and see if charges are brought forth."

Wizards hexing one another was not high on his list of priorities. Nobody had lost a hand and any jury would sympathise with the father of a boy raised an orphan. The problem with Witch Weekly was they left out the sob stories that undercut their scandals.

1.	Lovers Quarrel in Slandermouth? - 15th Jan 2011

Balfour was confused. He was expecting to find himself in one of the cells, those very cells which had held the likes of Lawrence Musgrave. He was not expecting whiskey with Carstairs. They were not total strangers, of course - he had attended the same parties and events as Solomon. They existed in vaguely the same social sphere. His goddaughter was a Carstairs[1]. Their lives overlapped at the edges.

This was the most direct interaction to date.

"I'm not going to apologise, if that's what this is about." Bal tried to guess at the department head's intentions. "The fellow didn't even know what it was he attached his bloody name to. Or pretended not to know."

            "He's a shrewd journalist, not a clever one. Never mind him." Sol tasted the whiskey and glanced into the amber liquid. "What do you suppose Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Heliotrope Le Jean and Sasha Schlagenweit have in common?"

What in Odin's name was going on? Balfour stared, nonplussed. He recognised each of those names for very different reasons. It was too early in the morning to be playing Sphinx riddles. "Get to the point. I'm not exactly having a leisurely morning."

            "They were all children slandered by Witch Weekly. And they scarcely had any wizarding relations. Easy targets." The older man toasted his glass in his direction. "Between us two? I must say I admire your recklessness," he drank.

Hesitantly, so did Bal. "It truly was reckless of me," he admitted in a bitter voice and set down the tumbler. "Listen, I need to write to my son as soon as possible. I've wasted time on Misslethorpe."

1.	Alex Carstairs

"Of course." Solomon agreed, having indulged himself with this meeting and savoured the Firewhiskey. "My assistant will see you into one of our conference rooms, where you will be held while Mrs Lanningham sorts out your bail. I'll have the young lady bring you parchment and ink. Would you like me to set into motion the filing of a gag order?"

            "Bit late for that, don't you think?" Spectre snorted - he seemed calmer, mollified by the prospect of being able to owl the boy. "If I'd known they'd give up the game so easily in Moscow I would have filed for one before this business."

They exchanged a look that indicated the same question passing through both minds: what would Ira Almasy have made of all this? Lil Snigger's head on a silver platter? Misslethorpe in a werewolf game?  Explosions at the headquarters? Or would she have fed her own flesh and blood to the wolves?

Solomon smiled grimly. Even knowing what they knew now, it was hard to divine the logic behind such madness.

"The order will prevent the press from disclosing further information. I do advise it," he gave his wand a slight twist so that the office door slowly swung open. Reid would be waiting outside. "His mother's case file is still an open investigation and I don't doubt she had enemies who would think twice about exacting revenge on a child."

The seriousness of the situation was not lost on Sol, flippant as he was about this morning's events. Balfour's expression mirrored this same gravity. They stood and shook hands once more.

            "Thank you, Solomon.'"

"It's nothing. Really. Don't mention this to anyone." Sol raised his eyebrows in good humour. "And do try to stay out of trouble, Mr. Spectre. Think of it as an early Christmas present to the rest of us."