Works hours had clocked up to about 26 when Miranda Storm finally stepped into the fireplace at 12pm that day. She had been in for the full moon, getting her hands dirty on the 1st floor to help the staff on duty. It had been a while since Miranda had been on the floor on a full moon, but she’d been warned that extra hands might be necessary, and she had, afterall, once been the Healer on Charge of this floor. She’d spent many years as the head of this floor, and knew full moon procedure like the back of her hand.

Fortunately, they’d not been overly busy during the night. They’d had the usual come in with scratches and scrapes. A couple who’d found themselves on the wrong side of a werewolf, as was regular. In the morning, while she’d not been on the ward at the time, a young teen had been brought in after an attack at a safehouse. That was not something to be shared outside of the circle of those who needed to know.

Despite the number of hours that she’d been up, Miranda had found it hard to drift off to sleep when she finally collapsed into her bed. There was an inexplicable feeling of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. Something was off, but she had no idea what.

Regardless, she finally did drift off and was woken later by the house elf telling her it was time. Gerda was always given a time to wake her up, or her schedule would be even worse than it was. That meant that the poor elf always got the look of death until Miranda started to get her wares again.

She took a long bath, enjoying the feel of warm water and the herbs soaking into sore muscles. But something was still not right.
Everything was timed perfectly, because once Miranda was dressed in some blue chinos and a white jumper, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she was coming down the small spiral staircase as Ignan stepped through the front door.

Well, that feeling in the gut wasn’t him. He looked fine. Tired, but fine.

“You're home early. School didn’t burn down without you, then?” A wry smile accompanied the question as she pulled him close to her, standing on the bottom step of the staircase for a little added height. Lips were pressed against his as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

The morning of teaching had felt harder than usual for the Deputy Headmaster. He was thankful that he had the afternoon off. Usually he might tackle mounting marking, or attend to school business, but not today.

While he’d been isolated and unwell with the flu, his students had been tasked with writing a series of essays. It had kept them quiet and busy under the eye of colleagues, but had left him with a stack of marking mounting. It was more the return to work he had expected than the get well cards containing glitter. Glitter!

Balfour Spectre’s owl had arrived as he dismissed the second years, brought to his office by one of the Hogwarts house elves. Balfour wished to speak with both of them on Ministry business. The lack of specificity left Ignan with a sense of foreboding.

He had inked a brief response, despatched with the elf, outlining that the previous night’s full moon would invariably mean Miranda would return some point from lunchtime onwards. He advised Balfour to call after one o’clock unless Ignan sent a further owl indicating Miranda was not yet home. Such was the marginal unpredictability of running a hospital.

As soon as the sixth years had left to take lunch in the great hall, Gerda had attended to transport the mound of awful student essays home to their Hogsmeade cottage. Being stubborn about his recovering health, and also abhorred by his week or more of imposed captivity, he had walked back beneath a thick blanket of January cloud.

Miranda was descending the staircase when he stepped in, dressed casually, hair tied up. She appeared relaxed. Gerda had left his essays on the coffee table, and given the size of the cottage, it was clear Balfour Spectre was not yet here.

“You’re home early. School didn’t burn down without you, then?” They had missed each other on Monday when he’d returned from his first day back, after all. Her smile, the hand that reached for him, were well received. He had missed kissing Miranda. For such a stoic, ill-at-ease with public displays of affection, husband had missed wife’s touch.

“No, sadly still standing.” He confirmed. Her arms were still around his neck, and he stepped closer to draw her against him. It was a little uncharacteristic, but as she was still stood on the second step, it made it easier.

“Just as empty-headed as anticipated. The only thing full is the hospital wing.” He took a half step back. “Which I understand you gifted a healer to, despite Greyfriar’s suggestion I might supervise it until my magic returned.” He raised a silver eyebrow. “Thank you for saving me from certain hell.”

He left a grateful kiss on her forehead, and stepped back, allowing her to take the last two steps.
“We might have a caller this afternoon,” he told Miranda, looking away as he did, busy slipping his cloak from his shoulders. “Balfour owled. Wanted to speak to us both promptly about some Ministry business. No detail.” He furrowed his brow. “Johann best not have got himself arrested somewhere abroad.” He doubted it was his relative, but it punctuated the uneasy feeling of anticipation.

It was a little past one when Balfour found himself standing at Ignan and Miranda's doorstep, folding and unfolding his spectacles with both hands.

He had taken the Minister's orders advice[1] and given himself time to gather enough information before calling on Alec Carter's next-of-kin. Level two was always helpful in that regard - they couldn't confirm when it was a funeral could be arranged, but they passed on enough information for him to answer the inevitable questions. Alec's parents, Claire and Jacob, had been his first stop.

The sound of his mother's crying just wouldn't leave his ear. To bury a child - no matter how old they were - seemed a cruel circumstance. Alec's father was far more stoic, silent. Balfour had answered his questions dutifully, but only after he had given them both time to process.

And now he was going to have to do it all over again with Miranda. Which was different. He came because he wanted her to hear it from someone she knew, not because it was mandatory. A part of him was haunted by how she had been when Ignan was at death's door[2] last March, the grief that he had not anticipated from a woman who was otherwise frigid.

Breathing in deeply, he slipped on his spectacles and knocked on the door.  His expression was carefully neutral but there was tension in his stance, in the way he smiled politely when the knock was answered.

1.	10th Jan - New Moon
2.	28th March 2011 - In vain thy struggles - all will soon be o'er

“You’re welcome.” Miranda offered her husband with a deadpan expression. Greyfriar had tried to have Ignan ‘recover’ at Hogwarts as an extra adult in a ward full of sickly children. What sort of wife would Miranda have been if she’d let that horror unfold on her husband?

Ignan kissed her, pressing his lips to her forehead and stepped back, letting Miranda finish her descent of the stairs. Despite it being a pleasant surprise to see him after her night at the hospital dealing with the full moon, she knew that there had to be something up to bring him home so early on a Tuesday. Ignan, like Miranda, was a workaholic. Neither one was inclined to just take an afternoon off on a whim. Such an oddity left her feeling decidedly unsettled.

“Balfort?” Miranda got her explanation. Or, at least some sort of explanation. Balfort, fiancé to Ignan’s younger and far more frivolous cousin, wanted to speak to them. Merlin knew what about.

“Well, he must have done something.” The witch muttered with a frown, brushing her fingers through some of the loose hair falling down from the ponytail. Clearly, she didn’t need to wait long for a real answer, because a knock sounded at the front door. After a quick raise of her eyebrows to her husband, Miranda slipped past him and pulled the door open.

Not surprising, Spectre stood at the door, looking far more serious than she’d noticed before.
“Are you okay? What’s he done?” Because why else would Balfort be calling her husband home early and casting a shadow on their doorstep?

            “Are you okay? What’s he done?”

His greeting lost its way before it could leave his lips, and he stared open-mouthed at Miranda for a proper few seconds. What had who done? Alec? And what did she mean, was he okay? Did he not look okay? Balfour glanced down at himself as if to check and then quickly pulled himself together, refocusing. Whatever she was asking about, it didn't seem like she knew of the tragedy he was about to convey.

"Um. I'm fine, thank you," the Scotsman glanced curiously past her at Ignan, then turned his attention back to the witch. "I have some news to deliver from the Ministry, actually. It would be better if you were sitting down." That was trite but it was trite for a reason, maybe. "Do you mind if I come in?"

            "Ignan's birthday," Miranda quizzed, verifying that he was the genuine article, "name the worst present."[1]

Considering the seriousness of his purpose here today, that was only slightly more bizarre than Johann demanding to know what they'd taken from the Spectre kitchen cabinets[2] last January. He blinked, thinking back[3] to that particular gathering. "Those rather funny books about growing old," the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, not a complete smile.

As he entered their home, Balfour wondered if it was better to just say what he came to say or to allow a little prevarication. It didn't seem right to just blurt out the news. And yet to delay it wasn't a mercy either - Ignan and Miranda were clever, they would be anticipating something awful.

"It's about your brother, Alec. There was a Direwolf attack last night."

1.	With Mel's permission!
2.	14th Jan 2011 - Our Weakness is Clear Now
3.	10th September 2011 - The Family Man

As Balfour stood on the doorstep, Miranda’s gaze wasn’t shy in analysing him. After raking over his expression (not one distraught with grief or frustration over his future spouse getting into trouble), her eyes travelled down. No marks or anything serious looking. But his stance was stiff, controlled. Miranda’s arms subconsciously crossed themselves over her chest as she quizzed him to verify he was in fact Balfort Spectre. Neither she nor Ignan were going to make that mistake again.

Once that matter had been handled, and their uninvited visitor was inside that small home, he announced the reason for his visit. Miranda wasn’t sitting down as suggested. She was stood up, a few paces from the door when he mentioned her brother and direwolf attack within the same few breaths.

It suddenly didn’t feel necessary for Balfour to offer any more information, because as Miranda’s blood started to run cold, she felt quite certain that she knew what was coming next.

Alec was Balfour’s boss. Head of RCMC. He was a former dragon tamer. He had nothing to do with werewolves or direwolves other than managing the people that did. Alec was now a desk jockey.

“On him?” Miranda’s head was suddenly spinning. Ignan had been called back home. Spectre was delivering the news personally. Alec hadn’t been brought into St Mungo’s.
Direwolf attack. Attack. Alec was dead. Had to be. If not, he’d have been admitted. And why else come here?

“Why are you telling me this?” She knew why. The sick nausea in her stomach was telling her why.

He watched, rather helplessly, as his words sunk in and something changed in the air - if not in Miranda's manner.

Balfour suddenly wished he had dropped by level five and asked Johann along for this, Johann who had held the Head Healer in his arms when she was distraught at the possibility of losing her husband. To lose a brother was unimaginable to him. His own brothers were handlers but they were never in as much danger as himself, never at major risk of a sudden death.

Alec wasn't either, though. He was meant to be a man behind a desk and not a target.

            “On him? Why are you telling me this?”

"I'm afraid he died in the attack." Balfour cleared his throat, meeting her in the eye for only a second. "The incident," he grimaced at the word, the coldness of it, "is being investigated by Law Enforcement and the Werewolf Wing, as we speak. Miranda -" he added abruptly, brow wrinkled in an apology that was not his to make, "- I'm so sorry for your loss."

“It’s about your brother, Alec. There was a direwolf attack last night.”

There was no positive outcome story that would begin with that line, in Ignan’s book. Balfour Spectre would not make a sudden social call to talk about Alec Carter, he would only be here to convey official news. The occupants of the cottage were quick to draw their own conclusions as a result.

“On him?” Miranda asked, suddenly still. “Why are you telling me this?”

Balfour was here to break news, then Miranda wished him to say it. Ignan was motionless, allowing the exchange to progress unhindered.

“I’m afraid he died in the attack.”

Spontaneously, Ignan drew a sharp breath at this news, and raised his chin, unsure how Miranda would react. They had last seen Alec at Christmas, suffering time with Miranda’s parents at the old family home. He had provided good, but somewhat inappropriate humour. They’d almost been getting along.

“The incident, Spectre continued, “is being investigated by Law Enforcement and the Werewolf Wing…” This was not an incident at work, this was an incident as a result of work?

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Ignan reached out gently to Miranda, to place his hand on the back of her left shoulder. Reassurance, even if he did not know the words to utter to fix this. Somehow he felt it inappropriate to utter anything at that moment. That silence was a better option for all given the gravity of the news.

And there it was. Died, a word with such painful finality. Over 30 years ago, Miranda had long since lost count of how many people she’d delivered those words to. You were trained to actually say the words ‘dead’ or ‘died’. It had to be clear and final. Died. Alec had died. Alec was dead.

The words following ‘died’ were barely registered as Miranda stared across at their family friend. Her expression had hardened, her shields immediately erected. A hand found her shoulder, a caring gesture from a man who always seemed to be stood by her side. A caring gesture wasn’t going to chance this.

“Gerda,” Miranda suddenly summoned the house elf, who, having heard the conversation, poked her head out through a gap in the kitchen door. “A pot of tea.” The house elf vanished, and Miranda moved to sit in one of the armchairs. As she lowered herself down, her back was stiff, and she waved at the sofa before crossing her arms again.

“Do my parents know?” Her mum and dad had already lost one son[1], how would they manage losing another? And his ex-wife and sons?

“Where did this happen?” She asked, her voice disturbingly calm. “Alec doesn’t work the full moons. He isn’t trained with werewolves.” He couldn’t have been reckless enough to be on duty then, surely?

1.	Leon Carter, Miranda oldest brother was murdered by Theodora Kingstreet on 2nd May 2008 at the Remembering Day Ceremony at Hogwarts.

There were no tears. No expressions collapsing into grief, no wavering voices, no anger.

Miranda simply asked her house elf to prepare tea and they collected themselves in the seating area, Balfour taking a seat on the far end of the couch. Of the older Carters, the witch appeared to take after her father more than the openly emotional Claire. She closed herself off and submitted questions, logically, reasonably. It was a far cry from her state at St.Mungo's when Ignan was dying. Maybe it was different when there's still a chance - and when you risk losing somebody you love, having met them later in life than most.

"I've come straight from seeing your parents," he answered with a quick nod, taking off his spectacles. "They were listed as next-of-kin."

Whilst he was working under Alec, Balfour never spared a thought for the Carters. He was his own man and to think of a grown person as somebody's child was not natural in a work setting - and yet whenever a handler died or was injured, Bal found his point of view would change.

They were all somebody's child. Or brother, or sister, or parent, or partner, or treasured friend. Loved. Miranda loved Alec.

"He was attacked in his flat," Balfour explained as he tucked his spectacles into his pocket and grimaced. "It's very likely he was targeted, this wasn't an incidental attack. The body is currently with Law Enforcement, undergoing examination."

He reminded himself not to volunteer any information about there having been a vision - nobody needed Healer Storm on a warpath.

Her parents knew. She’d need to go there tonight, see how they were. Probably see Sam and Jamie to tell them. That was something that Miranda knew how to do, give bad news. giving it was far easier than taking it. It was far better to give than to have these things happen to you. These things like being killed in a direwolf attack. Or losing your brother to a direwolf attack.

She stayed silent as he answered her question about where the attack had taken place. At home. Alec had been at home when he’d been killed. Targeted. Not just a victim of an accident, wrong place wrong time. They’d come for him.

The way Balfour just said ‘the body’ sent a chill down Miranda’s spine. She closed her eyes against the onslaught. Still no tears, no panic. Just closed eyes. Perhaps she needed to think of the ice palace she’d conjured for the Occlumency lessons. Ice Queens didn’t fall apart with grief.

“The body.” Miranda said under her breath, her fingers gripped the fabric of her jumper as her arms were protectively folded over herself. Gerda reappeared, ears down and floppy, a tea tray with a small selection of biscuits on a plate.

“Does this have anything to do with the safe houses?” The question came calmly as her eyes snapped open. She’d been at St Mungo’s this morning when the teenager had been brought in. Miranda tended to be privy to a lot of information as the Head Healer. “Why would someone target my brother?”

Whether this was a front, or just the shock, Ignan wasn’t sure. But he allowed Miranda to give Gerda orders and take a seat in an armchair. Her whole body language was stiff, she was busy coming to terms with the news.

Ignan remained stood at the foot of the stairs for the moment, observing in silence. She needed the space. Miranda asked more of Balfour, their messenger.

“I’ve come straight from seeing your parents, they were listed as next-of-kin.” Then this news was a kindness given their connection. The Ministry need only notify the direct relatives, not the siblings. The initial benefactors of any estate were priority. Though Ignan was sure Alec had a former wife and a child that would need to learn in time.

“He was attacked in his flat. It’s very likely he was targeted. This wasn’t an incidental attack.” Ignan had fought a direwolf once before. One had come to Hogwarts, attacked in broad daylight and he, Georg and another colleague had held it off to protect students. Georg had taken injury. Faced with one alone, by surprise, perhaps at night, would blindside the best of wizards.

“The body is currently with Law Enforcement, undergoing examination.” While Miranda closed her eyes at this, Ignan looked sharply to Balfour.
“The body.” Miranda echoed. Ignan might have chosen his body as a turn of phrase.

“Does this have anything to do with the safe houses? Why would someone target my brother?”

Ignan hadn’t yet seen the day’s newspaper in detail (and indeed there had not yet been a headline with respect to he safe house incident by that point in the day). Unbeknownst to the couple, the Minister had released a statement as Balfour stood in their living room.

“Safe houses?” Ignan asked, ill-informed. “What’s the issue with safe houses, and how is that related to him?”

Gerda reappeared with a tea tray in firm grip, ears folded back in response to the serious tone between the three wixes. Before she poured, she handed her mistress a packet of cigarettes without disdain, giving a little bow before turning back to the teapot.

He licked his lips, glancing away guiltily when Miranda repeated his words. The body. After listening to the reports of last night's activities,  it was easier for him to distance himself from it. If there was truly grief in his heart for what happened to Alec Carter, Balfour did not think it would touch him until much later. The two men were not close and for now it was, to him, an incident. A body. Something to be handled.

             “Does this have anything to do with the safe houses?”
       ""Safe houses?“What’s the issue....how is that related to him?”

Balfour look at the Head Healer curiously - for a second he wondered how she knew about the safe houses, but then remembered that although the remaining werewolves were safe, the same could not be said for the two attendants.

"It's not related to him, at least as far as we can presently tell," he answered slowly, glancing at the house elf who so quietly set down the tea. Oh, he'd need his own cigarettes later. "Somebody infiltrated a Scottish safe house," Balfour explained nonetheless for Ignan's benefit. "Injured the attendants, and now two werewolves are missing."

Try as he might, he couldn't correlate the missing men to the dead one. It certainly didn't answer Miranda's question: why it was anyone might target her. brother

Balfour crossed his legs, interlacing his fingers over the upper knee as he cleared his throat. "I don't dare speculate on the intentions of the perpetrator, Miranda. It could be anything," he grimaced, "from Alec's stance on werewolf policy to his hiring of a werewolf to head the werewolf wing. We just don't know."

They could have just done it to fuck around with them, throw the Ministry into chaos for one afternoon. If so, mission accomplished.

Fortunately, Ignan didn’t try and crowd his wife. He stayed a polite distance away, allowing her space to process the information that was being thrown at her. Alec was dead. Found in his own home. Direwolf. Their parents knew but no one else. Balfour continued. Nothing to do with the werewolves kidnapped. Miranda wasn’t so sure she wanted to believe that. In her experience, most events were linked, somehow. Especially if they were centered around the same group of offices on the same night.

Gerda returned with tea and offered her mistress the pack of cigarettes. Unsmiling, Miranda reached out to take them. She hadn’t realised her hands were shaking. Cool in a crisis, Miranda Storm’s hand were unstable as she pulled a cigarette from the packet and placed it between her lips. She raised her wand to light it and threw the packet towards Balfour. He, too, was a smoker.

“You believe someone killed him because of his policies?” The witch asked, the Devonshire twang to her accent strongly clipping her words. Gerda started pouring tea into the three cups, but Miranda didn’t touch hers, focusing instead on drawing a long drag off her cigarette.

She closed her eyes again, breathing to try and push down the panic. Alec had lived with them for years on Jon’s dragon ranch. They’d been best friends until Jon was killed. Now Alec was gone too.

“A husband and two brothers down,” Miranda, expression plain but close to breaking point, glanced up to Ignan. “You need to run.” She didn’t wait for Balfour’s answer, she could feel the tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. Instead of waiting for them to fall, the witch pushed herself up from the armchair and left the living room, heading through the kitchen and out into the garden.

Ignan was a little surprised at the news of the safehouses. It was, what sounded like, a targeted attack there too. The motives behind going for Alec Carter were considerably less clear.

“A husband and two brothers down,” Miranda spoke grimly, “You need to run.” He could hear the emotion at the edge of Miranda’s voice, so was not surprised she chose to get some air rather than be observed by two wizards.

“Give her a moment.” Ignan spoke aloud, as much for his benefit as Balfour’s. Miranda was a very proud person, and had only cried in his presence on a minority of occasions in their relationship and marriage. When it came to family, Ignan always felt there was a whole unknown history, especially with regards to her former husband. He tried very hard not to go there unless Miranda brought it up herself.

“Was it quick?” He asked Balfour, partly out of grim curiosity, partly out of wanting to provide the small comfort to Miranda that there was dignity in her brother’s death. “Did he appear to put up a fight?”