"What in the world?" Abby stood at her desk, staring at the mess of her file folder system that a trainee had left for her while she'd been out last week. It wasn't like she was extremely organized, either. She'd learned how to prioritize the news and messages that streamed in, deciding which ones Carstairs should see right away, which ones should be sent to Pratt, and which could be left at the bottom of the pile.

As she spent the first hour of her morning reorganizing, she avoided peeking at all the tempting files Mr. Carstairs had requested, detailing school records, employment, crimes, and any other relevant information attached to the Lilly siblings and her pentral. She'd only just come to terms with knowing the pentral's name. Iona. The entity had a name, she had a face, she had a life that had been documented that showed she was real. Iona wasn't just a voice in her head, but a person with family and history and dreams. Dreams that had been lost decades ago.

Though the pentral had been quiet while Abby had stayed at home over the weekend, there had been times when she'd walked over to the door without knowing how she'd gotten there, or stood at the window and watched the world outside. The pentral felt restless, hurtling towards action, then drawing back in fear. Abby didn't know what she was thinking, but she could guess. She didn't want to die yet. Or again. Or at all.

Abby glanced up from her desk, about to go find Trevelyan to ask him to look at the case files with her, when Mr. Carstairs called her into his office.

Abby paused in the doorway of his office, then took a seat. She looked at her boss, who she hadn't come face to face with fully since Tuesday. She waited to feel something, anything, some shift in how she felt about him since that silly hex he'd fired and apologized for, or some worry over whatever Yavin and Sol might have discussed after she'd left. Her pentral felt nervous, and moved in her seat. But there was nothing from Abby. No change in feelings. It was as if she'd taken the parts she hadn't liked from that meeting and put them away in boxes in her head, and they'd vanished since Tuesday, they weren't there for her to examine anymore.

"I see the office survived a few days without me," she smiled. "But just barely."

He didn't necessarily want to do this but he knew it was the rational decision.

Solomon had picked at his memory, trying to recall what he could about Iona and their interactions as youths. It was painful to admit to himself that he had been something of a knob back in those days - insufferably righteous and always pulling at the proverbial pigtails of any girl who looked like she would blush at it. The world had felt small and ready to be conquered.

But perhaps not to Iona.

            "I see the office survived a few days without me. But just barely."

"What would we do without your expertise?" he replied with his usual dry smile, rising from his desk to take a leaf out of Morgenthau's book: he sat down in the other spare chair, so that they wouldn't be across from one another. It made him look smaller than life, though his officious robes leant some gravity.

The squib had been his personal assistant for some time now. She would know if he were prevaricating, so he chose the more direct method. "Tell me, Abby. Has Iona been chatty lately? Or have I scared her into a rabbit hole all this time?"

Mr. Carstairs took the seat next to hers and Abby looked at him for a long moment, torn between amusement, a smidgen of affection, and a sense of irony. What was it about Carstairs and chairs? The gesture reminded her a little of how her older male relatives acted at holiday parties whenever she walked into the room. They'd always clear their throats in unison and relax their postures and smile at her in a dry, disarming way and ask if she was comfortable sitting on the armrest next to her sister and if she was warm enough in her cozy winter ensemble and if she'd had enough to eat during dinner.

But her boss must be sitting there for a serious reason, not for a kindly chat about the paperwork on her desk. Abby straightened in her seat.

He said her name, Iona, and Iona stirred.

Abby took a breath, resisting the urge to make jokes about rabbits with pocket watches. She knew her boss well enough to know not to derail the conversation before it started.

"She's been quiet, but she's not the chattiest person anyway. She talks when she has something important to translate."

Abby wasn't sure why she'd picked that word. Translate. Translation! She shook her head for a moment and rubbed at the side of her face.

"I don't think you scared her too badly," Abby met his eyes, not daring to glance at or think about the Lilly case files she hadn't read.

"It wasn't you so much as it was hearing her name and confronting the identities of the Lilly siblings for the first time, from what I can tell."

He smiled a bit. Translate. Yes, he remembered that. She'd been amusing - not just fun to laugh at but clever enough to get a good laugh out of you. Morgenthau was right about their personalities blending, these two girls. It wasn't natural, though he'd make use of it for the purpose of this investigation.

"Yes, I'm sure that must be very difficult for.... the both of you." Solomon intertwined his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees while he looked at Abby with that almost mournful face. "I want to speak to her. I want to know what happened, where it all went wrong. How she got to know them."

If it had not been for the missing persons report, made by her father, it could have been as if though Iona never existed. Nothing but a phantom in the vague memories of people passing through the Ministry. How was that fair? And was it fair that she had to die again?

Solomon didn't know. This wasn't the law anymore, this wasn't justice. Yet somehow he was going to be responsible for making the terrible decision.

"Can you ask her for me, Abby?" he searched her face, serious. "Ask if she'll tell you, or if she'll come out to play."

Abby studied her boss. Carstairs was being especially nice and understanding today. He'd used Yavin's phrasing even, and was sitting in the spare chair. She just didn't want it to go wrong again. Socially, professionally, pentral-ly. Could she walk out, and then walk back in tomorrow, if it all went wrong?

The problem was, he needed more information to zero in on the Lilly siblings, like she'd known he would. Abby wanted to trust him, she did trust him, and yet she shifted in her chair, uneasy. Iona moved with her, silent and skeptical in their head.

"I don't think she's ready to take over quite yet. I can tell you her answers, or what she decides to answer."

Abby glanced around the room and hastened to explain, "Don't worry. She hasn't prevented me from answering since our meeting when Yavin freaked her out. She'll probably be more chatty with just you."

Abby smiled. No Level Nine, No Yavin, and no rude boys in pajamas. She didn't have much to hide anymore. She just wished she'd picked the chair facing the open door.

"Mr. Carstairs," she sobered suddenly, a little too suddenly. "If for some reason she doesn't talk or she gets upset, or something goes wrong," she tilted her head, not wanting to offend him and unsure how to articulate it.

"It might help if you call in Raine, or Auror Trevelyan. She feels like she knows them because I know them, and they've been so kind."

Abby didn't want to bother Fauna again, who had spent the day with her last week and had been there over the weekend. Raine was there for her everyday, and Jonas Trevelyan every work day, and on a day like a Monday, that meant a lot.

When Yavin freaked her out? At least she had that in common with everyone else in the Ministry of Magic.

Solomon adopted a patient expression, the same one he had used when his children were young and would pester him with questions after a long day on level two - sometimes he still did this, especially when Earnest got into Witch Weekly for running amongst the scallywags of the Quidditch world.. Abby, however, was unlike either of his two.

He wondered how difficult it was to raise a Squib, and if they ever felt a part of the wizarding world.

"Almasy or Trevelyan, of course." Sol's smile barely reached his eyes but he touched his badge to summon Jonas, having taxed Almasy on another matter the other day. "He'll be here shortly. Then we can get some questions out of the way, so we won't have to repeat this again. I don't want to cause you further discomfort."

Merlin knew it was hard enough working on level two with a pentral inside of her. Not to mention a pentral who disliked him.

Not very long had passed before the red-headed Auror stepped into the office.  Spotting Abby, he flashed her a warm smile.

"Welcome back, Miss Reid," he said cheerfully.  "It's good to have you with us again.  This place nearly went to pieces without you."

He paused for the barest brief instant as he made his way into the office, his gaze flicking between the strange sight of the Department Head and his assistant, sitting next to each other side by side in the spare office chairs.  This hardly looked like he'd walked into a normal sort of conversation.  With all of his focus on decorum and proper protocol, seeing Carstairs sitting on the wrong side of his desk felt a bit like the natural order had been turned upside down.

"You need something, sir?" he asked easily, stopping just inside the door.

           "You need something, sir?"

Solomon stood, offering his seat to Jonas before leaning against the front of his desk to face the two visitors in the office. Or three, rather. "We do, Trevelyan," he noted the auror and glanced at Abigail for a moment. How to phrase this? I'm not trustworthy enough to interview a ghost? I accidentally hexed a squib so please ensure I don't do it again?

"I would like to conduct an interview with Miss Reid's pentral," the older wizard gestured at the girl, friendly, "and I understand that she would be more comfortable with a redhead in the room."

His mouth tugged into a wry smile. Trevelyan or Raine Almasy. Clearly, Iona had a penchant for the more fiery of races, including herself.

"If you would be kind enough to oblige us," Solomon went on, "we could perhaps make some progress."

Solomon Carstairs wasn't easily offended, and merely summoned Trevelyan, who was familiar with the pentral investigation. Abby relaxed in her seat, glancing up with a smile when Auror Trevelyan arrived. She knew it must look odd, with Mr. Carstairs in the other spare seat, and she caught his glance as he stood.

Redhead! Abby grinned, ignoring the pentral mentally rolling her eyes.

"Yes, exactly, there's a new club in town and it's called redheads who are nice to Reids. It's a very select group. Only you and Raine have made the cut so far."

Trevelyan sat down, and Abby would bet one hundred galleons that Carstairs had a very patient look on his face again, so she left it at that. Her smile faded naturally, revealing some of her unease beneath it.

Normally, the only person who paid this much attention to his hair color was Ed Pratt.  Jonas arched an eyebrow at both of them, but gave a good-natured shrug, moving to sit in the chair that Carstairs had vacated.

"I'm honored," he quipped, giving her a wink, "although I'm a bit surprised your sister let me join."

That was the rub though, with all of this.  Aileen Reid was still not herself.  All things considered, she seemed much less herself than Abby did, even though the latter was carrying a pentral that they now knew to be the soul of a witch named Iona McBoid.  Aileen!Aileen might spend all of her spare time snarking at him, but pentral!Aileen didn't seem to recollect any of their old strife.

Carefully, he lowered himself to sit, positioning the chair so that he was facing both Abby and Carstairs.

The pieces were in place - and those pieces who alarmed Iona were out of today's game - so Solomon crossed his arms, gathering his thoughts. Where to begin? Abby would be answering so he couldn't speak the way he might address the Ministry librarian.

A part of him wanted to ask straight questions: when, where, how. Instinct and advice told him to try a different route this time.

"Is Iona well? I mean... is she in pain, living inside you?" Sol watched Abby, aware that the inhabitation was not exactly comfortable for his personal assistant and might be equally disorienting for the pentral. "I want to ask about her life leading up to the event of her death, meeting the Hunts. Is she comfortable with this line of questioning?"

Many years had passed since last he'd seen her but if she died so long ago, Morgenthau had warned him that Iona might be emotionally stunted. The Mysteries head suggested a gentle approach, one that referred to her well being. That showed her they cared.

Which he did. Maybe Yavin didn't, not entirely, but Solomon knew Iona. Even a tenuous acquaintanceship was worthy of feeling.

Abby smiled at Trevelyan. She was not surprised. The Auror had been kind to her sister at the lowest point in her life, at a time when he could have used his knowledge of her past against her, or simply refused to help beyond what his job absolutely required him to do. But he did everything he could because he was Jonas Trevelyan.

Abby glanced at her boss, who seemed uncomfortable but was clearly making an effort.

"In pain? Only when-"

She shut her mouth, stifled her words and flashed him a quick apologetic smile. The Hunts? Who were the Hunts?

The Lilly siblings.

Abby blinked, then gave a slight nod.

"We get headaches sometimes, when emotions are high. The headaches aren't so bad lately. It used to be that whenever we switched - she would take over or I would come back - I'd get a warning. My head would hurt, my skin would itch, I'd feel fidgety. But not as much anymore."

Abby fell quiet for a moment. She knew it meant that their personalities and selves were merging more and more with time.

"She says she expects it to be an uncomfortable line of questioning but that she's prepared to answer anyway if-"

Abby tilted her head. A few seconds passed.

"If you promise not to send her to Level Nine or some other unpleasant place once she's told you everything."

Another few seconds passed. She straightened in her seat, eyed Carstairs, and crossed her arms in a similar manner.

"You said interview, not interrogation, correct?" Her mouth twisted skeptically. "Can we get up and leave at any time, or is that going to cause us pain?"

Iona held his gaze for a few more seconds, then glanced at Trevelyan. Someone who might, just might hold Carstairs accountable.

There was an odd tension here, between Carstairs and his assistant.  It probably didn't help that the Department Head's first questions were a bit on the awkward side.  But then, even in the magical world, there wasn't really a natural way to ask a possessing spirit if she was willing to share the memories of her own murder.

Jonas stayed silent, his attention split between both Abby and Carstairs as the girl responded.  Her speech was punctuated by pauses and half-formed thoughts, as if the girl was listening to someone speak that only she could hear.  And clearly she was -- the pentral inside her, that Carstairs and Morgenthau were so eager to be rid of via the Department of Mysteries' Death Chamber.

The idea of condemning someone to death when they'd already had their life taken from them once didn't sit well with him.  The problem was that he didn't have an alternative to suggest instead.  Morgenthau was certain that the spirit inside Abby was warping the Squib's own thoughts and desires, shifting them to be more in line with her own.  But still, nothing about this supposed solution -- about banishing someone to die a second death, after the first had been so traumatic -- nothing about it felt right.

Judging by Abby's questions, it didn't sit right with her guest either.  At the suggestions that the conversation might be forced, Jonas frowned.  Iona, the pentral, wasn't a suspect in any crime.  Level Two didn't coerce witnesses into speaking with them. 

"No one's taking anyone's agency away," he interjected firmly.  He flashed Abby -- gave the pentral, Iona -- a small, reassuring smile.

"The Hunts have been underground for so long, it's been hard for us to dig up anything on them," he said, holding her gaze.  "Anything you can remember will help.  But if you decide you want to stop talking, no one's going to force either of you."

He filed away her comments about the headaches - to be repeated to Morgenthau later, for whatever purpose he needed such information. Solomon wanted to concentrate on this actual conversation. He wanted to see a glimmer of the Iona he knew - some morbid curiosity compelled him forward.

            "If you promise not to send her to Level Nine or some other unpleasant place once she's told you everything."

That... that was going to be difficult. He pressed his mouth into a thin line when Abby's tone changed to indicate a switch in personalities; the glimmer showed itself, more than a glimmer. This was Iona speaking. Luckily, Trevelyan cut in to make assurances while the department head considered his options.

"Yes," he agreed, lifting his gaze from the floor. "I'm sorry for stopping you, the other day. It was a reflex but I know that doesn't excuse my behaviour. If you wish to leave at any time, that's your prerogative."

Even if he was concerned for the squib. Morgenthau was getting into his head and it was beginning to look like the Death Chamber might be their most viable solution. But maybe that's what you get when you go looking for answers on Mysteries. The path less travelled.

"I can't make any promises about level nine. That's for you both to decide, together." Solomon opted for as much of the truth as he could confidently convey, holding his hands out with palms up. "What I can promise is that we'll try our best to ensure the Hunts are held accountable for what they've done. And we need your help to do that."

Iona tilted her head at Carstairs. Was it really up to her - to her and Abby - to decide? She didn't think so. Someone was going to march her to the death chamber sooner or later. Someone in power, be it family or the talking heads of the Ministry, was always making decisions for the ghosts and squibs of the world.

"Hm. A different tune from the one you sang last Tuesday."

She looked at him a moment longer, then glanced at the redheaded Auror, curious if he'd been told much about that meeting. Trevelyan seemed firmer with his reassurance, had an easier time meeting her eyes, and acknowledged that she might not remember everything. Good. Her memory had blanks in it, areas of uncertainty, and if there was something she couldn't remember or couldn't bear to answer, she could fall back on that.

Though Carstairs sounded sincere, what worried her most wasn't whether she could leave during this meeting or leave immediately after. The words 'hold them accountable' stuck in her mind. She wanted the Hunts to pay more than anybody, but she knew she wasn't blameless.

"I'll tell you as much as I remember," Iona nodded at the Aurors. Her arms were still crossed loosely, but she straightened in her seat.

"Should I begin at the beginning? You already know it," she glanced at Carstairs. Did he? Had he bothered to remember anyone outside of his select circle, or outside of the drama of attending Hogwarts in the seventies? The corner of her mouth curved up in a wry smile.

"But for this one," she gestured at Trevelyan. "This young one, I'll sum up."

Her years at school were fairly clear, separate from Abby's lack of Hogwarts experiences. Starting there might help her remember the rest.

"The year is 1973. Nerdy girl," she gestured to herself, "Is sorted oh so predictably into Ravenclaw. Her first few years pass by and she soon learns to avoid the Slytherins and Gryffindors and extremists fighting their own little war. Girl writes letters a lot to her cousin Lori," she paused, pushing back her regret. "Girl meets boy. Boy is sweet and kind and pays attention and studies with her in the common room. One problem - Boy looks up to his older, scary sister. The sister has problems. She fights with the students and professors and anyone who gets in her way. No one quite accepts her. She just can't get along."

While Abby's sense of dramatic flair framed the story and gave Iona's voice a falsely cheerful edge, bitterness made her sentences short and curt.

"Sister invites boy and girl to the Divination tower one night. Girl stupidly says yes. Sister almost kills them all during some harebrained out-of-body ritual. Dumbledore's most displeased. Boy and his sister recover. Girl takes a little longer. Boy is there for her. Sister takes all the blame and is expelled. Without her, school is wonderful, even with the rest of the students all choosing sides. Then they graduate. Boy graduates first, and girl spends her seventh year writing him letters longer than her essays - and her essays, as Carstairs knows, are frighteningly lengthy. Girl still writes to her cousin, but the letters are shorter."

Iona took a breath, rubbing at the side of her face with her hand as Abby's questions buzzed in her mind.

"1980. Girl meets the world bright eyed and bushy tailed and hopeful that the war will end soon. It does."