After work hours.


Standing at the office desk, Balfour unbuttoned the collar of his black shirt with one hand as he poured himself a dram of whiskey with the other. The room was still in the process of being unpacked - open boxes full of tomes, field notebooks, personal records, the odd knickknack. Only the most immediate necessities had been set up since Monday's  announcement of his appointment as the head of level four. By necessities, one means work files and whiskey, basically.

Nothing remained of Carter's belongings save for the odd stool and the enchanted map that took up a whole wall of the office. Its many differently coloured tacks represented various populations of magical creatures. He used to  have a similar one for beasts in the division office but this was far vaster and there was more to observe.

As such, it encompassed the hectic and expansive nature of the week thusfar. Balfour anticipated this. In no way did he think Alec had an easy job of leading the department but, now that he was up to his elbows in paperwork, he could see the full extent of the late wizard's responsibilities.

"Mrs L!" the Scotsman called through the open door to the waiting room, where his secretary had already (somehow!) set up her desk. "Can I get that brief for the werewolf wing?"

He intended to spend his entire first week  going down to the different divisions to check-in on their projects and assure them that there wasn't going to be a Beast bias under this leadership. Although he was already dealing with documentation for the next full moon, he wanted to give the wing his entire afternoon tomorrow.

            "Yes, Mr Spectre, and I'll do you one better." Lanningham crossed into the room with the file, handing it over. "Ms Ballentyne has just come in."

Sipping whiskey, he looked over the rim of his glass and spotted the familiar head of red curls approaching the office. Balfour swallowed. "Thank you," he took the folder with a grateful smile. "That will be all today, I think."

Lanningham nodded primly, glancing at Bruce as the two walked past one another at the doorway. He dropped the file on to the messy desk and slipped off his reading glasses.

"Bruce. Was wondering when we'd get a moment alone," Balfour gestured at his little set up. "Firewhiskey? Or is this business after hours?"

On Monday, the inevitable had been announced. Balfour Spectre, Head of Beasts, was now their boss and fearless leader. Despite her irritation at him quite literally jumping into Carter’s grave when the wizard went missing, Bruce didn’t have much issue with her colleague’s promotion. It was a job she’d never aspired to, and out of the other internal division heads, he was the most suited. Goodness knew Cepheus Gamp would probably spend his time getting splinters stuck up his ass from all that fence straddling. Spectre had mentioned he’d been applying. Bruce’s reply? “Better you than me, mate.”

Since Monday, she’d mostly stayed away. There was certainly enough to be getting on with within the werewolf wing. Merlin knew her own piles of parchment weren’t seeming to get any smaller. Dido tried to help. She’d even attempted an organisation; something which had earned her an earful from an irked redhead about how she couldn’t find anything. Stressed wasn’t an attractive look, for sure, and the hours had been long.

Bruce had, however, purchased a promotion present for her new boss. She chose this evening once she’d sent her assistant home to deliver it personally. So, the head of the Werewolf Wing was making her slow and uncomfortable way through the outer office of the head of department. Mrs L was coming out of Spectre’s office, flashing a look at Bruce. Despite many suggestions otherwise, the older witch was still calling her ‘Ms Ballentyne’. So unnecessary.

“Why is it that I walk into an office and get offered firewhiskey?” The witch asked. She was, as usual, gripping her cane in her right hand, leaning on it as she stood in the doorway. In her left hand was his gift, a long thin package wrapped in beige parcel paper. “At least you asked, I guess.” She stepped into the office and held out the gift. “I got the new boss a pressie. At least pretend you like it, yeah?”

He poured a second glass for her as Bruce held out the long box. At first glance he thought it might be a walking stick but quickly dismissed the idea. Balfour possessed a lovely old cane, which was more of a family relic[1] and fashion statement, but to gift him one would be bizarre. It only came to mind because he was still getting used to seeing his old colleague walking around with a stick.

             “I got the new boss a pressie. At least pretend you like it, yeah?”

"Let's have a look then," he conscientiously cleared aside the whiskey bottle and some files to set the parcel down before proceeding to unwrap it. "Oh!" Balfour exclaimed, the paper tearing away to reveal a rainbow striped pattern below. "Why, Bruce..." he gave a bark of a laugh and finally lifted the long umbrella with great flourish. How kind of her. The wizard grinned.

Careful to aim to away, he opened it and gave the present a twirl. On the hood of the umbrella were printed the words: SPECTRE'S SHIT SHIELD.

Balfour cocked an eyebrow at Bruce, posing with the umbrella over his shoulder as if though it were a parasol. "Darling. You shouldn't have," he told her in mock censure, one hand on hip. "I'm sure it's going to get plenty of use in the next few weeks. The only people I can count on to behave are in Beast Division, and that's only because they're used to me."

The rest of the floor, familiar as they might be with Balfour, had yet to acclimatise to their new department head. He was the youngest one yet - and not everyone liked him in the way Witch Weekly used to, once upon a time.

1.	As seen in Cross Your Sorry Heart (6th Dec 2010)

As Balfour unpackaged the umbrella and opened it up, Bruce was grinning brightly, now holding the rather unwanted whiskey. What was it with wizards and whiskey? Did they enjoy their throats burning? She didn’t sip, only laughed at his pose. Well, he clearly wasn’t pretending to like it, and he shouldn’t have had to. It was an excellent present. The best sort. And rainbow too. Who wouldn’t love it?

“That rainbow patterns’ gonna be brown within a week.” The witch muttered, pulling a face. Wasn’t senior management all about redirecting the crap coming at you? Bruce wasn’t about to pretend to know much about Balfour’s new job, but she didn know that it wasn’t her. Being shackled to a desk was bad enough without adding the need for a rainbow shield. Now, she did take a sip of whiskey. Her expression did nothing to hide the shock at the burning, but she managed to swallow. Horrible stuff.

“Talking of which,” the only people he could count on behave… “if you get a memo from Carstairs complaining about harassment[1], he’s overreacting.” She shook her head, brushing it off. “Gets his knickers in a twist. My name shouldn’t come up.” She guessed he’d long stopped reading the memos send by her and then Dido. But just in case he felt the need to point it out to the new Head of Level 4...
"Anyhow, Congratulations! Good for you, making the desk shackles heavier!"

1.	Bruce has been harassing Carstairs with pointless memos since the 12th Jan

He closed the umbrella and lowered it in one graceful motion, and leaned it against the desk as he sat in his office chair. Balfour crossed one leg over the other, nodding at the only empty seat across for Bruce to take if she wanted it - the others were already stacked high with books. There was more shelf space here than in his old room but he clearly hadn't yet found time to sort it out.

"I heard about that from Mrs L..." he smiled dryly at the witch, recognising her distaste for whiskey, "apparently you made quite a stir amongst the secretaries. Got the firewhiskey from him as a welcome gift but that's all I've had so far, no complaints. Try not to piss off the personal assistants if you're still sending those bloody things."

Balfour opened a drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes. "Carstairs is annoying but he's not the one censuring your hate mail for you now, is he?" he slipped out a cigarette, lighting it with his wand.

That was another thing he hadn't really thought about before getting this job. The Scotsman wasn't a big target for harassment unless you counted the odd Witch Weekly quip - he had to learn from Lanningham that there was an alarming amount of dangerous mail for the Werewolf Wing, as well as for Gamp and Vaillancourt whenever another vampire situation was published in the papers.

"I can't tell if the shackles are a good thing or bad thing," he muttered through a cloud of smoke and shook his head, slumped back. "On one hand, less likely to get eaten whole by a Graphorn. On the other, I might have a Direwolf knocking on my door next month."

Balfour snorted and took another drag. "It isn't boring, at the very least."

Seeing Balfour behind the desk and back in Carter’s old chair reminded Bruce of that morning a couple of weeks ago. While she’d been trying to keep it together and get her head around the sights she’d just seen, Balfour had been already emotionally moving into the office. Now, he’d done it for real. Bagnold was going to be seething.

“Piss of?” Bruce raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “Nah, I’m too funny to piss anyone off.” With that, she sat down in the chair and propped her cane against the desk in front of her. “Dido already loves me, but she needs to stop making attempts to organise.” The memos were hardly rude or disrespectful. They’d been to prove a point. Did Carstairs want her bowel schedule on a memo, too?

Censuring her hate mail? Bruce popped the firewhiskey on a little bare spot on the desk and smiled. “Censuring my hate mail? You want a memo of pre-emptive thanks? Because, I have a drawer for the howlers now. Thanks to Bagnold. Although…you might want to wait a bit before you ask him for one. Until he’s gotten over the snarky comments that will be eating him up about your new desk shackles.” Desk shackles? Would one even believe how much Iona hated her new life of being at a desk!?

“I wouldn’t be doing my job right if you got a direwolf visit, anyway.” It wasn’t going to happen a second time, for sure. “Have faith, Spectre.”

            "You want a memo of pre-emptive thanks? Because, I have a drawer..."

He snorted a puff of smoke, unable to repress his laugh. "I don't censure your mail but if you want to give Tansi a thank you note, it could go a long way, eh?" Balfour shook his head at her in amused disbelief - Bruce was almost the opposite of Cepheus, who seemed rather nice (even too nice) to his secretary. "She's the one who has to pass on suspicious looking letters to be screened."

Maybe it was his upbringing or maybe it was Lanningham's formidable stare... either way, he knew that the first rule of politics was to be good to the assistants and notaries and anyone who was doing a job Balfour himself could not. They were important and the Ministry wouldn't function without them.

He reached for his whiskey when Bruce mentioned Kurby. They'd been at Hogwarts together. Balfour hadn't known much about the werewolf hunter back then and he liked to think that Kurby was, at worst, indifferent to him in the past few years on level four.

Obviously this wasn't the case at present. "I wouldn’t be doing my job right if you got a direwolf visit, anyway," the witch continued. "Have faith, Spectre."

"I have faith and a few damn good wards at the manor," he gestured a toast in her direction, "amongst other protections." Balfour drank. He was himself an unregistered wolf animagus - and he hoped to Odin that if anything like a Direwolf somehow got into Spectre manor and managed to find its way up the tower stairs without setting off the alarm wards, The Fates might fulfil their debt to him.

"So is Bagnold going to be a problem for me, you think?" One corner of his mouth lifted into a grim smile, going back to the subject of his appointment. "I thought he would have liked not having to welcome another outsider as Department Head."

“Yeah yeah,” Bruce nodded. She was nice to Dido, but she wasn’t exactly sure what she could actually give the girl to do. It wasn’t as if she’d ever had an assistant before. This was a nice change. “Will you send me a thank you note if I do something well, too?” Bruce joked, reaching forward to take the fiery whiskey drink in her hand.

“…at the manor,” Iona blinked, staring across the desk at Balfour. The manor. Like some posh lord supping tea and eating scones in a front room, the house elves being at their beckoned call. Iona? There’d been a mention of him coming from money, but she’d never thought about it before. Iona was the muggleborn who’d been brought up by a lorry driver and a florist. Now, she lived in a London flat with her auror wife. They were comfortable but not rich by any means. Wouldn’t a manor be nice? All that duelling space!

She didn’t get a chance to poke fun at the manor dweller, because he queried her statement about Bagnold. Another sip of whiskey later, and the rested the glass in her lap.
“Nah. His bark is worse than his bite.” Bruce had known Kurby Bagnold for almost his entire career. Even in the three years she’d been away, he didn’t seem to have changed all that much. It had cut her pretty deep that he’d just dropped her for that time, but she at least thought that she understood why. Bagnold wasn’t a mean person, but he seemed to struggle to show his emotions properly. Bruce felt very much like she somehow managed to surround herself with people like that.

“Leave him to me, I’ve got years of practice.” She winked, sitting back in the chair. It wouldn’t help at all to point out how irked both she and Bagnold had been to see Balfour jumping into the chair before Carter’s body was even cold. Nothing would be solved by such a move, and she hoped that even Kurby realised that.

“So, why would you want this stress when you live in a freaking manor? Is it falling down? Tell me it’s falling down.” The witch asked, grinning.

He lowered his shoulders, relaxing a little as Bruce assured him that Bagnold's bark was worse than his bite. Even better - she was happy to be the hunter's handler. Good. Balfour didn't need to be liked by everyone on four but he certainly didn't need the added stress of a snarky head of the WCU. The werewolf situation was already going to be a difficult one.

How did he always manage to get promoted in a crisis? It was the dragon epidemic back when he took over the Beast Division, and now a Werewolf predicament.

           "So, why would you want... live in a freaking manor?" the witch suddenly changed subjects. "Is it falling down? Tell me it’s falling down."

"It better not be," he replied dryly as he set down his glass with a snort, "the other Spectres would have my head if I let anything happen to it." Living in Edinburgh had only become part of his future in the last year or two; he'd always imagined being in London for much longer, and never thought too hard on being the head of a family.

But things change. Life changes. Beautiful wizards were met in strange bars, secret sons delivered to doorsteps - just as witches were bitten by werewolves or direwolves came knocking at doors.

"It's not about the job or money, you know that," he gestured at Bruce, who he felt had more invested in the Werewolf Wing than just her time. "I wanted this position to change things." Balfour's smile was just a touch whimsical and it made him look younger, boyish. "We've had a tough few years. You lot have especially. Maybe we can point ourselves in a new direction, difficult as that might be."

He hadn't the time to really sit down and think about exactly what his policies were going to be as head but Balfour had been thinking about these issues for years now. And he wanted to get a sense of the department before forging ahead.

“Everyone wants to change things, Balfour.” Bruce quickly replied with a quick raise of her eyebrows. That was how it had always seemed to go. Someone came in to a job as Head of Department, citing big ideas and dreams for the department. Two months later? Nowt, nothing changed. It was the same as before but just a little more resentment built in. It was deeply frustrating, but Iona had learned a long time ago to only trust what she saw, and not what she heard. She was also desperately aware that she didn’t want to become that leader, hence her keeping her own plans and opinions rather under wraps. Most people, unless they bothered to ask, had no idea where she stood on most issues.

There was a distinct youthfulness to Spectre’s smile; a youthfulness that she wondered how long it would take to vanish. She’d known him for a couple of years before her attack, and he’d always seemed to have his heart in the job, but would it be in the right place when the pressure was applied?
“Us lot? Do you mean werewolves or the Werewolf Wing?” despite having been back a month, Iona still hadn’t gotten used to being on both sides. It frustrated her that she felt like there were two sides. In an ideal world, there wouldn’t be. But there would likely never happen.

Either group he was talking to didn’t really matter. She sat back and took another sip of horrible firewhiskey. “I know what direction my team needs to go in, anyway.” He needed to keep out of that one until he’d actually learned how it all worked.

Bruce held, in the tone of her voice, the same jaded cynicism that prevailed amongst Ministry perennials. Balfour was in no position to contradict her - his work in Beast Division was far from what her wing faced, especially on the social and political stage. Opinions on dragons and merpeople and centaurs might vary but the public trusted none of those were going to come around at supper to murder them.

           "Us lot? Do you mean werewolves or the Werewolf Wing?"

"Both," he answered with a shrug, reaching for the cigarette he'd left resting in his crystal ashtray. "Since when has a bad full moon for one meant a good for the other?" Balfour took a drag and gave Bruce a searching look.

If the Wing experienced what she considered a good night at the cost of werewolves having a bad one, what did that say about the people who worked there? Or vice versa? There were werewolf rebels of course - radicals for whom a peaceful night of transformations in Ministry cells were far from 'good' - but Balfour had the spirit of a public servant, and believed that the Werewolf Wing's purpose was to serve the werewolf population as much as the uninfected.

He knew Bruce socially before she'd been turned; he had to get used to the idea that she was treading strange moral ground. Once a hunter, she spent her full moons in a cell now.

"Tell me." Balfour tapped the ash off his cigarette and sat back, legs crossed. "What's your direction then?" he was genuinely curious and was pleased to have slipped so seamlessly into talking shop in spite of earlier chitchat. "Considering you play for both teams these days."

Iona watched the smoke billow steadily as Balfour blew out his drag of cigarette. This was quickly moving from a friendly chat about his new role to a more professional discussion. She’d come in rather unprepared for that. The plan had been a quick deliver the gift and leave. But then the seat and the whiskey and the questions and here she was.

“You’ve a lot to learn.” She simply said in response to his question and searching gaze. She didn’t mean for it to sound patronising, more factual. A lot of werewolf hunters had a strange idea of a good or a bad full moon. There was a mind-set that she’d tried to shake from her own team years ago. A night packed with action and captures was not a good night, regardless of the intense adrenaline and sense of accomplishment. “Not everyone shares the same feelings on a bad full moon.”

"What's your direction then?" Spectre asked, making himself comfortable. "Considering you play for both teams these days."

Both teams. Team wolf and team wolf hunter. Since taking the job, Iona had spent many hours lying awake thinking about her new role. Over 3 years ago, she’d known what her opinions and feelings were regarding werewolves and what needed to be done. Now, having experienced the other side, she wasn’t so sure. It felt like she spent her life being pulled in so many directions, that she’d lost her own sense of self. So, how could she have a real sense of the team she played on?

“The registry needs to adapt and evolve.” She calmly started, shifting herself to get more comfortable. “Have you seen the forms people are expected to fill in? And the way they get treated when they turn up? The whole process is degrading. And when you do register? It’s not anonymous. Now, it’s not even safe.”

            “You’ve a lot to learn...Not everyone shares the same feelings on a bad full moon.”

He shrugged, noncommittal in his attitude towards this statement. Balfour was here to learn from the other divisions but he didn't much care for hunters who were tough on werewolves, or who lived for the thrill in the same way that handlers did when it came to dangerous beasts. For years he'd socialised and drank with the tough talking lot on level four - the difference being werewolves were actually people.

Bruce moved in a more practical direction, discussing the registry. Of course she would bring that up; her own registration was not so long ago. He had to remind himself that she was still new in her return to work, still not seeing clearly.

"I agree," he gestured pleasantly with the cigarette before taking another drag. "I'm not looking to make waves right away, still getting the lay of the land and whatnot, but I've always thought the process hindered more than helped."

This was, by a mile, the most the Scotsman had ever admitted to even thinking about werewolf affairs. He kept his distance before: on one hand because Ira Almasy was never one to compliment werewolf kind, on the other because you risked going drastically up or down the ladder at the Ministry if you were too vocal about sensitive subjects.

Well, he was a little high up the ladder nowadays.

"Was actually wondering if St.Mungo's would make for a better registry..." Balfour looked at the witch across from him, tilting his head inquisitively as he searched for an opinion. "They already have a list, don't they? For the Wolfsbane. If they treat the curse - the illness - then why shouldn't they be the first point of contact? Just an idea, of course."

He agreed. A positive start, at least. Bruce had been brought into this job for a reason, a Carter had claimed to be supportive of her plans and ideas. Despite being friendly with Balfour, and holding some respect for the beast hander, she wondered just how much support he was going to give her. The last thing she needed was a fight with her new boss after the mess of the January full moon. What did Balfour Spectre actually know about werewolves?

Surprisingly, Spectre made a suggestion that didn’t make Bruce recoil. She did frown; more in thought than anything else. St Mungo’s was the place where most people ended up after a bite. The healers were supportive and mostly non-judgemental unlike the wixes sat behind barriers of tall desks in the current werewolf registry. Iona thought of her own experience with Marrowbone, a healer she had her life to thank for. It really would have been far less intimidating and uncomfortable to do the paperwork there.

“Not a terrible idea.” Bruce replied with a shrug. “They already have a purpose-built werewolf ward on the 2nd floor now.” It had been all over the Daily Prophet when Storm had opened it up, massive progression towards helping those afflicted. Marrowbone had excitedly chirped on about it during a check-up.

“It needs to be a process that people can go through with more comfort. We’re here to help, not intimidate and reprimand.” The moment those teeth punctured skin, people thought differently of you, waiting for you to mess up and do something terrible. Bruce had never really understood it until she’d been through it, herself. Most people, she considered, didn’t. “We’ve already failed enough werewolves, we need to earn trust.” She’d spent enough hours trying to figure out how.

Not a terrible idea.

That was probably as close as he was going to get to a concession from the the Werewolf Wing. Balfour didn't harbour any delusions about the divisions working under him; he would have done anything to ensure the efficiency and safety of the handlers when he was heading Beasts, and he expected the same from the heads now. They had to prioritise their own.

"Yes, well, I have no intention of intimidating or reprimanding..." he blew out a ring of smoke, watching it disperse between them. "But I don't know how the Minister will feel, or the public. Even if this idea gets put through, it can't be made to look like we're going easy on werewolves."

Wizarding society was either afraid of werewolves or afraid for werewolves. There was no winning for the Ministry. Either you were too nice or you weren't nice enough; you couldn't please everyone, could you? He wanted to do what was best and what he believed to be morally right, though. To protect the people who needed to be protected.

"It's helpful that you are a werewolf yourself now," Balfour added thoughtfully before putting out his cigarette with a sigh. "Not that werewolves can't be cruel to one another, but at the very least you know the policies we enforce will affect you directly."