About 4pm

“Boss.” It was late afternoon on Bruce’s first day back after her short trip away to what was supposed to have been Madrid. She’d spent the morning catching up on paperwork and the events of the past few days. It appeared that the Werewolf Wing took no break even if its leader tried. The howler drawer in her desk had once more been filled, and Bruce was finally feeling up to speed on what had been happening in her absence. She’d therefore taken the past hour or so to finalise her proposal for the next change she intended to implement with her superior’s support.

When Alec Carter had offered Ballentyne the job of leading the Werewolf Wing back in December, he’d informed her that it was for her unique perspective. From her reputation, he’d had the confidence in her that she would improve things, and this was what she intended to do. Unfortunately for Bruce, and Alec himself, Carter had been brutally savaged by a direwolf less than a month later. Balfour Spectre, Carter’s overly eager replacement and a long-time colleague of Bruce, had kept his cards all too close to his chest. She’d already had a pretty good read on how the rich estate owning pureblood felt about vampires and their rights, but she knew far too little on his opinion regarding her kind.

When Bruce entered her younger boss’ office, she was wearing a pair of thin brown trousers, a baggy white shirt and dragon hide boots. If one excused the limp and the cane in her hand, she looked more suited to fieldwork than an office. A simple black holster around her waist held her wand and her red hair had been scraped back into a messy ponytail. In Bruce’s left hand, she carried a leather-bound folder with pieces of parchment trying to burst from the seam.

There was a look of disgust wrinkling Bruce’s freckled face as she pushed the office door shut behind her. “Some overzealous idiot has confiscated a whole herd of giant dung beetles and their food supply and it’s sitting on a desk out in the bullpen.” She hobbled into the room and made straight for a seat. “Herd? Herd of dung beetles? Or are they a colony? Swarm?” she shook her head. “Stinks either way.”

He chewed, without really tasting, the croissant Mrs Lanningham had brought when he returned to the office from a day of conferences. Balfour was in street clothes as he took another wolfish bite over his desk - eyes glued to a report propped up in front of him. Something or other from the Spirit Division about a supposedly haunted castle.

A glance at the clock above the door.

Still an hour or so until he got off from work to meet Feliks, for a long walk they had planned through the city parks. Bal tried not to have anything scheduled for the very end of a work day; it was the appropriate time for drop-ins and last minute reports, and the atmosphere was certainly less officious than morning hours.

He was about to give up on the Spirits report when Bruce walked in, and he reached for tea to wash down the pastry.

"A nuisance of dung beetles," he shut the folder, leaning back in his chair to smile dryly at the witch. "Aye, the irresistible aroma of our esteemed department." Although by now his nose had grown accustomed to a plethora of nauseating scents.

Balfour noted the leather folder Bruce was holding - nor did he miss that she was taking a seat. The werewolf had something to say.  And whatever she had to say, it would be much more entertaining than reading about shifty ghouls in Scottish castles. He tried not to betray biases but the Werewolf Wing was very interesting to him.

Never a dull moment. "Welcome back to the jungle, Bruce..." Balfour ran a hand through his hair, conversational. There was a boyishness to him lately - from spending time as a father, maybe, or as a reaction to the new responsibilities of department head. He didn't notice it himself.

"Something on your mind?" the wizard asked casually; he noticed some crumbs on the front of his shirt and dusted them off.

Well, if Bruce was unsuitably dressed for the office, one might be completely unsure of how to describe how Balfour Spectre was turned out today. The DRMC was about the only floor where staff weren’t expected to be dressed in smart robes in dowdy colours, and clearly Bruce’s boss had chosen to turn out in was looked very close to pyjamas. She paid no mind, rather focused instead on what on earth you named a collection of giant dung beetles.
“A nuisance.” The former werewolf hunter repeated, smiling at the answer. It was apt, really.


Balfour was kind enough to welcome her back to their pit of stenches and chaos. “Yeah, thanks.” Certainly, better to be here at work than treading the uninviting streets of Madrid.

“Yes! Thank you for asking, boss.” Bruce winked. Of course, she’d not entered the office for a chin wag. There was important stuff to be proposed. “Something pretty big on my mind, actually. A big and powerful word beginning with A.” She sounded like a saleswoman trying to flog her wares.

“Amnesty.” The word was floated between them, Bruce using both hands as if to illustrate the word. Amnesty. She had absolutely not idea how the pitch would land with this audience of one, so she blithely continued. “Septamnesty…” she frowned, shaking her head. “The name can be put to a vote.”

It was beginning to seem obvious that Bruce's good mood was part and parcel of ulterior motives this afternoon. Balfour settled comfortably into his office chair as he crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands together.

He was more relaxed these days - having discovered that being department head often meant having to quietly sit and deliberate on matters, a skill less in use within the Beast Division. The divisions on four carried intersecting tensions and sometimes it felt like he was directing traffic at a clogged up muggle motorway.

           "A big and powerful word beginning with A.”
"Um," the wizard frowned a little.
            “Amnesty.”

Ah. Balfour tilted his head to the side, still somewhat confused. The last time he'd been discussing amnesty was with the vampire Vaillancourt, who he asked to give him a brief lesson on vampire history. Tristan mentioned the amnesty bestowed on old vampires when they registered after the hunting ban.

"Amnesty," he repeated after a pause, understanding now. "You mean for unregistered werewolves?" Balfour's eyebrows went up for a moment. "That would be quite tidy wouldn't it? Good press if we play it right. And we'd get some long time stragglers."

Those werewolves who had gone unregistered for so long, who might be desperate for the respite of consistency in Wolfsbane or safe house. He was sympathetic - he didn't trust the Ministry either, for most of his adult life, and gods knew what he was doing here at the heart of it.

"Alright. I like it." Balfour said in a decisive tone, reaching for the cigarette case on his desk. "An annual occurrence, you think, or just this one time thing? And I'm vetoing Septamnesty, sorry."

“That’s the idea.” Bruce nodded in response to the thought of bringing in those unregistered werewolves who’d been avoiding the quill and ink for too long. With no punitive measures if they were to produce themselves to register, perhaps they may be more likely. Knox Greyfriar had certainly seemed to think so, and Bruce was inclined to agree with the esteemed older wizard.

Internally, Bruce relaxed thanks for her boss’ receptiveness to the idea. His accord was the first hurdle because little got pushed up the chain if it couldn’t get past the Head of Department. He was the gatekeeper, really. A gatekeeper that this subordinate was quite certain was quietly bias. Perhaps on this matter, he might be able to change her mind.

“I like Septamnesty, I’m not gonna’ lie.” The play on words cheered her up. Werewolves needed cheering up. ‘Septamnesty, come and sign your name away for a lifetime, we’ll give you some nice sweet treats and maybe even a keyring.’ “But we can get someone on the marketing.”

“Anyway, we play it by ear, I reckon. We might get no takers at all.” That would the worst outcome. “So, we need to plan it right if it’s a goer. And it can’t be here. No Ministry location.” That, she wouldn’t let him veto. The folder, Bruce pulled open and lay in her lap. “We set up registration spots dotted around the country. Or we go to them.” She hadn’t even considering getting onto her proposed simplification of the registration documents, yet. “Septamnesty on your doorstep.”

He laughed a little at Bruce's insistence on the word - it played well with her description of its potential, as if the amnesty were an eccentric carnival arriving in town. She was really trying to sell this, wasn't she? Balfour listened placidly enough but he could already see himself picking at the corners, trying to find the weaknesses or downsides.

            “Septamnesty on your doorstep.”

"Actually vetoing that bit. Nobody's going to come into the Ministry, aye," he slipped a cigarette out of its case, "and nobody wants us on their doorstep. What if people call us in to register their mates as a prank? Bloody nightmare."

Balfour lit up, drawing breath as he glanced at the wall that dominated one side of the office: an unbroken map of their territories, with various pins to signify different populations, safehouses, sanctuaries and so on.

"So, no Ministry locations. Spots all around the country, that makes sense...." the wizard puffed out a tendril of smoke as he looked back to Bruce. "Do we have any idea how many unregistered werewolves there are? Educated guesses, statistics? Let's not worry about a no-takers scenario."

If nobody registered - fair enough. They could say they tried, they opened their doors and offered a clean slate. But if there was a sudden influx of werewolves registering...

"I want to know we're ready." Balfour's gaze flicked to the folder Bruce had brought into this afternoon chat. "Do we have enough safehouses? Enough wolfsbane? What would it mean to your wing if you suddenly had to deal with, say, a dozen new werewolves? Two dozen?"

“Okay, no doorstep service.” It had been an idea to float and it had sunk instead. Balfour had a point in the pranking. That would save them a lot of time and effort. But even if Balfour hadn’t agreed, the registration spots set up around the country were not something Bruce was willing to compromise on.

“I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess at numbers. We could be talking 50 but we might also be talking a few hundred. Merlin knows how, but some people have been managing to hide it for decades. As a rule, most we pull in on a full moon tend to be newly cursed. No support system around them. But there’s underground networks of unregistered werewolves and I’d guess they spread further than we reckon.” Honesty, Bruce tended to believe, was the best policy. She wouldn’t want to tell Spectre any specifics when in truth, they had no real idea. You could get people figuring out the likelihood based on average numbers per full moon and multiplying it by those registered and do some jiggery pokery magic maths, but that would be about as useless as a werewolf catcher turned werewolf trying to work a full moon.

Bagnold liked to moan about Balfour Spectre and how he’d kept Alec Carter’s seat warm while his body was cold, and Bruce didn’t discourage the moaning because that was what Kurby did. If he was moaning about Spectre, he was moaning less about his werewolf boss and former mentor. In Balfour, however, Bruce was seeing signs of leadership and a level head. He was making, in her opinion, awful moves in vampire rights, but right now, he was asking the correct questions. Fortunately, they were questions she’d been preparing for.

“We’re ready. All but a few of our safehouses are under capacity and we should have enough wolfsbane. If it’s the budget to get more brewed, that’s the problem you solve, boss.” Iona looked up from the folder, raising an eyebrow. “And if we’re not ready now? We get ready quickly. Would you rather this two dozen werewolves out in public or in a makeshift safe house until we create something more permanent?” Iona felt like she could predict the bureaucratic nonsense in response to that question. Spectre would rather it was all above board so it couldn’t come back on him.

Fifty to a few hundred...?

His brow lowered slightly, information sinking in. Balfour knew there were networks of unregistered werewolves out there - back when he'd been on closer terms with the Donovans, it wasn't unusual to hear them refer to their illicit friends or places like Lapin. What he hadn't anticipated was how many there just might be. A whole other world hiding in their wizarding world.

It was a realisation much like many others he had when familiarising himself with Beings. Vampires, centaurs, house elves, everyone in their own worlds that intersected with wizarding norms.

"I'd rather two dozen werewolves in cells they're unlikely to escape from," he muttered dryly, thinking of the bother they had at the last full moon[1] with a werewolf attack near muggle territory.

Luckily, real life was rarely a this-or-that situation. "There has to be something we can do to better our chances. Some of these unregistered werewolves, they must be using alternative cells, especially the ones who've been hiding it for years. Alternative cells that work..." Balfour tapped cigarette ash into a green glass ashtray and sighed out a cloud of smoke.

"Can we offer to appropriate the cells, if they're willing?" he looked doubtful as he took another drag. "Make it out to be like a free upgrade. They don't have to abandon familiarity, we offer to reinforce and man their safehouse."

The last thing he wanted was to offer amnesty and safety, and fail on both fronts should somebody escape to commit a massacre. It was probably the last thing Bruce wanted too.

1.	3rd August - Goodnight Moon

Bruce very nearly performed one of Kurby Bagnold’s famous eye rolls when her supervisor pointed out the obvious. Everyone in the country would rather two dozen werewolves weren’t in cells they could escape from, including the werewolves themselves. Just as she was beginning to see what Bagnold saw in Spectre, the Head of Department started to contribute rather than offer pointless comments.

“That could work in the short term.” Bruce gave a shrug, sitting back in her chair and stretching out her injured leg with a small grimace. It had been a long day, and even sitting behind a desk rarely helped with the constant ache. Pain potions dulled it, but they would then dull her other senses too.

“Then we have the problem of needing enough experienced staff to man them because I’m not having a repeat of January. I’m not putting any old civvy on door duty. That means either Fournier provides some of his Beast Handling team or we hit up Level 2 for another favour. I’m not sure Carstairs will appreciate another visit from me anytime soon.” Or if she would appreciate a tête à tête with him, either. Bruce, in her anger at having been inappropriately reprimanded by her wife’s boss and all too eagerly reminded of her disability, had gone a little too over the top with her response in the form of immature memos.

            “Then we have the problem of needing enough experienced staff to man them..."

So it would come down to manpower, if they did this. Balfour tapped his cigarette again and realised it had nearly burned down to the stub - that kept happening these days. His cigarette box was being refilled more often than it used to and he wasn't fool enough to think it had nothing to do with new responsibilities.

"I'll talk to Solomon," he offered, before taking one last drag. "We're on familiar enough terms, I don't see why he wouldn't agree to it if it means more werewolves registering." After all, Sol's wife was a Lycan.

Out went the cigarette in the ashtray and Balfour sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. "Fournier's easy enough to convince. I'll work on the short term if you'll apply yourself to the long term - whatever form that takes."

More cells, more safehouses, more trained staff. It was so easy to see, from his new vantage point, how people or being could fall through cracks in their system. Wixes simply didn't care that much about the minorities of their population. Out of sight, out of mind... and when their main interaction with werewolves were terrifying Prophet articles, well, it was no wonder the campaign for rights wasn't as vocal as it could be.

“Better you than me.” Iona avoided having to deal with Solomon Carstairs if she could. And Fournier? While she worked with him and was perfectly professional, she’d never quite forgiven him for emptying her heavily potioned coffee back in February

“One other thing, Boss.” Bruce began, making no move to leave now their first order of business was practically complete. “I’m not sure how much you know about WCU employment contracts, but if you are taken out of commission in the line of duty, you, or your family should you be killed, receive a pay-out. If you survive, you get a pension on top. It is what meant I didn’t have to work. I was in a privileged position.” It felt ridiculous saying it. Almost four years ago, Bruce had been bitten, mauled and almost lost her life or her leg. Most wouldn’t call that privileged.

“Too many of our wards don’t have the privilege of being looked after by their places of employment. They have to work, but no one will have them. That is not something I want to continue on my watch. We need systems in place to support them. Lists of werewolf friendly employers, financial help for those that can’t work or can’t find work.”

He thought about another cigarette but decided against it.

            “One other thing, Boss.”

Balfour reached for his cigarette case and listened as he lit up again, promising himself that this was the last one until he got home. Bruce had got her foot in the door, she wasn't about to leave without saying everything she intended to when she entered his office. He nodded once - aware of the werewolf hunter contracts, similar to those of certain beast handlers.

"Resources should be straightforward enough," he thought out loud, pensive behind a veil of smoke, "but financial help will have to wait until I can bring it up at a meeting with Glass..."

Somehow, it was difficult to imagine that would go swimmingly. Balfour sighed as he scratched the scruff of his five o'clock shadow. "Maybe. Hm. Maybe we can sort out some manner of," he gestured with the cigarette, "sponsorship situation. Businesses, organisations, anyone with deep enough pockets. All through us, of course."

Merlin knew it would be easy enough to abuse the trust of werewolves desperate for employment. That would be the kind of thing Ira would do. Cultivate a dependency, compromise them. Balfour felt his mouth go sour at the thought of being able to see the world through her lens.

"I'll think on it," he half-smiled at Bruce, trying to shake the feeling. "No promises but I can promise you I'll try."

Clearly, it was better to put her intentions and propositions to Spectre alone rather than during a meeting. Catch him at the end of the day where he’d be more pliable in the hopes of getting rid of her to go home. It was how she’d managed with management back in her WCU days. It seemed to be how Bagnold managed with her now. Bagnold, however, often held her to ransom over something else, a trick she’d not taught him in her mentorship.

The further Bruce got into the job, she more holes she found with the systems in place within the Werewolf Wing. When Carter had invited her in to offer her the job, he’d had to really sell it to her. Bruce hadn’t been at all keen on the possibility of returning to the Ministry. He had also insisted that she would be perfect because of her perspective. He’d explained how one struggled to see flawed systems if they were unaffected by them. Bruce knew more than anyone in the leadership of the ministry exactly how the werewolf curse could affect someone. Having been employed by Carter, however, Bruce had understood that she would have a certain level of support to push through any ideas and new schemes. Balfour was an unknown and she still wasn’t sure if she truly had his support. Did he have similar agendas to his predecessor? At least this meeting was causing that assumption to lean in her direction rather than against.

“It should be supported through the Ministry.” Bruce said quietly, frowning. She wasn’t trying to be obtuse on this one, but it was something she strongly believed. “It is our responsibility to protect the public, and if they’ve been attacked by a werewolf, that is on us.”
No promises. But he would try. Maybe Balfour wasn’t turning into a politician just yet. Didn’t they make promises they intended to break?

“I can put it to the Minister myself, if necessary.” Bruce gave a strained smile and raise of her ginger eyebrows. “You take my buddy Solomon and I’ll chat to Glass.”

            “It should be supported through the Ministry.”

He lifted his shoulder, a helpless shrug, as if to say this was the way of things. It wasn't that he disagreed - werewolves were members of the public and were entitled to their assistance - but he, more than most, had functioned in a social atmosphere of anti-werewolf sentiment for many years. You didn't wine and dine with Ira without witnessing the casual cruelty of those views.

"You want to chat with Glass?" he repeated incredulously and then, quickly catching on, smiled. "Aye, why not. Ask him for more than you're asking me, Bruce. Go all out."

They could go for a variation of good cop, bad cop. And Bruce made a fantastic bad cop when she wanted something, when she was really invested in it.

"It'll soften him up for me," Balfour clarified, tapping his cigarette thoughtfully. "I can play it off as compromise, he doesn't know enough about my views to think I'm on your side anyway."

And he hadn't forgotten about seeing Glass at dinner with Ira[1] last year, when Bal had crashed Ascendio looking for blood. From that alone he could assume their Minister's views didn't follow a true moral compass.

1.	14th Jan 2011- What's a King to a God?