Friday was Iona’s last official day off work. She had almost recovered physically. From the amputation, the wound had healed with the help of magic salves and bandages. The scarring was neat, and Iona was still getting her head around the absence of almost constant pain. The new wooden leg had been fit after the full moon, but she was still relying heavily on her walking cane due to the fact she was so unused to the balance needed. This would improve with time, Robin assured her. At some point, she may be able to get around without help. Despite the physical improvement, Bruce was still struggling mentally with the loss of her safehouse, leg and feeling of sanctuary and safety at home. She’d not been sleeping well, disturbed by nightmares dragging her back to the burning barn. The recurring theme had been her trapped inside the barn as the flames engulfed the structure.

On the matter of ELF’s involvement with the attack and the arson, the Ministry’s big brass had been tight lipped, a fact which she’d discussed in detail with Robin. This, combined with the rather grey area of suitable sanctions and punishments for such hate crimes, had caused Robin and the WA to form their own plans to make the Ministry sit up and pay attention. Iona, filled with her own anger and frustration over the situation, had told her friend that she at least felt obliged to give a chance to the Minister to do what was right.

She’d made a request of the Minister’s PA to meet with him before her return to work on Monday. So late morning, Bruce found herself standing outside the Minister for Magic’s office, looking down at the purple carpet beneath her boots. As a rule, she tended to avoid having to deal with Solomon Carstairs. That was often left to Spectre who clearly enjoyed being a quill pusher and a pseudo politician. With this message, however, a middle wizard was a bad idea.

When she was finally admitted, Iona’s movement into the large office was slow; not through pain, but through the fact that she was still very clunky and uncomfortable on the leg. Her movement was stiff and reliant heavily on the wolf handled cane. Iona was dressed in her usual style, and her wild red hair had been scraped back into a bushy ponytail. If it was possible, she was paler than usual, and still looked pretty exhausted.

“Minister, thanks for making some time for me.”

"Ballentyne," the Minister of Magic stood to greet the head of their Werewolf Wing. "Not at all. Considering recent events I was expecting a word from you, through Spectre or otherwise."

He gestured across the large desk, indicating the chair. "Please."

Solomon Carstairs enjoyed his Fridays, as a rule. They were busy but who could deny the satisfaction of clearing one's books before the weekend? He had grown into the routine of a parchment workaholic over the years, though you would think he was bad enough back on Level Two. All day long he signed paperwork, chaired meetings, listened to briefings.

It suited him just as comfortably as his pinstriped robes.

"Now," the wizard gave Ballentyne a nod once they were settled. "How can I help?"

Sol did not always get along with the raucous lot on Four - his experience with them as Head of Law Enforcement had been conflicted, each department stepping into one another's badly defined boundaries. As Minister, however, he had softened a little.

Maybe it was Irene, not living with her anymore. Wanting to make it up to her by relenting on Werewolf Rights where he might have otherwise stood firmer. Or maybe it was getting harder not to see his time in power as a rare opportunity.

“I’d rather not rely on Spectre for this, Sir.” However much Iona had always avoided stepping foot on Level One’s purple carpet, she felt it was necessary for her to be the one to speak with the Minister, not someone on her behalf who certainly didn’t have the same experiences. Very few people could contain themselves when it came to telling Iona how uniquely suited to her job she was, and this was one of those times when only she would do. Fortunately, Carstairs wasn’t an intimidating wizard, even if the office he now held was ostentatious. If Iona felt a little overwhelmed by the office she was in, she needed only to remind herself of her first encounter with the current Minister and how embarrassed he’d been when attempting to reprimand Zora for a misunderstanding. Truthfully, she didn’t think he’d been terrible as Minister for Magic, and he wasn’t a terrible person. He’d even sent her flowers in St Mungo’s. Or his assistants had.

Bruce felt underdressed as she seated herself opposite the wizard in smart pinstriped robes, but perhaps that was because Iona was feeling hyperconscious about everything on her first visit back to the Ministry after the full moon where she’d lambasted Fionn Kerrigan and nearly exploded with emotion. As she’d clunked indelicately through the atrium to the lifts and through Level one, all eyes had been on her. Over a week ago, Iona had been front page news, with an image of their burning barn accompanying a work mugshot of her.

In the chair, Iona sat awkwardly, unsure how to comfortably position herself. The wooden leg stuck out in front of her and she rested her cane against the desk.

“It hasn’t not gone unnoticed that the Ministry,” Iona looked across the desk, directly at Carstairs. ‘Ministry’ meant him, “has remained tight-lipped about its stance regarding the Eradicate Lycanthropy Foundation. What is your stance, Minister? Britain needs to hear it.”

He wasn't surprised by her question - it was the kind that got lobbed at him by Irene and her friends, by anyone of his personal acquaintance who was interested in Werewolf issues. People who were allowed to see the foundation as clear cut in its devious intentions.

"I have yet to word my stance as Minister," Solomon replied dryly but not unkindly. "Britain might need to hear it but I can't hastily say what I feel towards ELF. As an organisation, they have repeatedly claimed to be non-violent in their... efforts to serve werewolves."

But of course word and action did not match. If the ELF camps had been on this side of the pond, he might have been able to react speedily to their growing supporter base. As it was, they were wily about distancing themselves from questionable actions. On paper.

Sol sighed tiredly, tapping his desk. "I know what you want. You want me to condemn them. It's... it's quite the statement, I'd be making."

His staunchest opponents thought him too progressive, as it was. Those who supported progressive values, however, found him lacking in that area. It was a battle he knew he could never quite win.

Seated before Bruce was a politician in striped robes. He’d been a politician when she’d first met him, but now he had an even bigger desk and even more people to do his politician nonsense with. Even in her position, Bruce had to spent enough time watching what she said and how she phrased it; she wasn’t sure she’d ever manage to adequately take a step up simply because of how challenging it was to truly bite her tongue on significant issues.

There it was, the suggestion that it would be too much to publicly condemn the organisation that had no doubt attacked her. Iona pressed her lips together, trying to stop herself from saying something she might regret. Ever since her bite over 8 years ago, she’d been blamed for losing her temper. People always accused the wolf within her. Before that, they’d commented on how it was clearly a trait of having red hair. Never had she just been allowed to be angry. Even now.

“Your silence also makes quite the statement, Solomon.” Iona countered after a moment’s silence to consider her wording. “This was a hate crime. If it’s not enough for you that it was an attack against me and my property, let’s take another angle. It was an arson on the Head Auror’s property. An attack on her spouse. If they come for us without reproach, any of those werewolves that I have worked all this time to build trust with, are in danger of the same thing. Is that the statement you wish to make? That’s what your silence says.”

He sighed, sitting back and shaking his head at the witch.

"I will publicly condemn the attack itself, its perpetrators. You must know that?" Solomon looked her in the face searchingly. "The safety of all werewolves is of great concern to me, Bruce. What happened to you can't happen again, to anyone."

But of course his devotion to the werewolf cause would always be in question. It did not matter that he was married to one or that good policies had come into being under his heading - doubt came with this thankless position.

"It's ELF I can't condemn," he continued, softly. "As long as they insist on their official stratagem of non-violence, I could be seen as attacking their supposed endeavors to help werewolves."

Unfortunately, none of the caught perpetrators had come out officially as ELF people. They had tenuous ties, circumstantial connections. The kind of thing that Sol knew, having once led Two, would need more grounding to serve as real evidence for an accusation.

Bruce wanted to know that he would condemn it all. She wanted to believe it. But she’d been feeling extremely cynical these days. She still hadn’t returned to work and was well aware that her state of mind still wasn’t right. The anger radiating in her body showed no sign of simmering down because it wasn’t anger over just her own situation. The more she sat at home thinking over what had happened, the more she could see escalation in the coming months. One would have thought that the Head of the Werewolf Wing, former hunter herself, living with the Head Auror would have been pretty untouchable. But this was the statement they’d intended to make. The ELF would come for anyone, no matter how well protected they appeared.

And now the Minister of Magic, despite his own wife’s affliction, appeared to be straddling a fence.

“Help werewolves.” Bruce breathed the words out, exasperated by it all. She wanted so badly to stay calm, but it was so difficult at the moment. Zora bore the brunt of it, but the redheaded witch was close to boiling over. “I’ve lost my safehouse and my leg, their help can go to hell.”

With a sigh, Iona shifted in the chair, still visibly uncomfortable as she repositioned her leg. She’d get used to it and it would feel more natural, Robin had repeatedly promised her.
“This sounds personal,” she muttered, aware of exactly how she sounded. “Bloody hell, it is personal. But this isn’t only about what happened to me, surely you know that, Sir. Burning down my safe house was the perfect way to tell all werewolves that they’re not safe.” Bruce was aware that she was rambling, which was very out of character. She was habitually a very confident person, but her experience in the past couple of weeks had knocked her for six. “It’s been almost two weeks and you haven’t publicly condemned this hate crime against a Ministry official. How is every other werewolf going to look upon this when you can’t even protect your own staff?”

He sighed, taking off his glasses tiredly. Solomon wondered if it had been a mistake to accept this meeting - Bruce was clearly still reeling from the attack, still under the emotional influence of what took place on her own home ground. And her leg? Merlin, she's lost her leg years ago, in practice.

But he let her speak her peace as a parent might let their child wear out a tantrum.

"The attack will be condemned and there will be measures taken to increase security," Sol spoke as soon as he could get a word in. "My hands are tied outside of that, Bruce. I can't lob accusations against Bitterwood's people, they'll use it against me. Against the Ministry, and Godric knows people don't need another reason to distrust us."

Werewolf opinion wasn't the only one he had to worry about. They didn't constitute the majority of the wizarding public, and it was something of an unending dance trying to balance everyone's perceived needs against each other.

"I understand this has been a great shock to you," Solomon added more gently. "But I can't give you what you want. It's not even mine to give alone, when everything I say implicates all this..." he gestured around them, meaning the Ministry.

Was she boring him? Bruce watched with irritation as the pinstripe wearing big boss merely sighed as if too tired to tackle this conversation. Generally, Bruce avoided Solomon Carstairs. He’d shown enough about his character on their first meeting when he’d eagerly dragged Zora in for a telling off, presuming the witch to be insolent rather than looking at other options. He’d treated Iona like an incompetent leader the day of the kidnappings and Carter’s murder, boldly reminding her how she was incapable of handling a direwolf. No one liked their disability thrown in their face when they knew everyday exactly what they were capable of handling. He appeared to have mellowed over the years, and her meetings with him regarding werewolf policy had been tolerable. Flowers had even been sent from this office to her room at St Mungo’s when she’d been admitted. Flowers were not enough, though, and Iona was once more feeling abandoned by a Ministry that she’d given her entire career and her health to. She’d been bitten in the line of duty, and she’d been attacked at home because of her position now.

“This,” Iona also gestured around them, “stands for nothing if you don’t protect the people that work here.” She wouldn’t go on labouring her point, there was little point because the Minister didn’t understand. But she’d tried.

“When?” It would be her final question. “This happened almost 2 weeks ago, and not a word. When do you plan to condemn the attack? When do you plan to make sure people know that hate crimes, such as this, will face severe consequences and not just a brush off? Would you have waited so long if it had been Irene attacked?”

He bit back a response, slipping his spectacles back on. Poor Irene - if Solomon wasn't using her to justify his leniency towards werewolves, the werewolves were using her to bait him. His wife was right not to want to make a public figure of herself.

"I will not be badgered into making statements based on your expectations," he replied coolly. "Spectre has already spoken[1] on the Ministry's commitment to werewolf safety and I will speak in my own capacity when there is more to say."

Sol was willing to offer Bruce a bit of slack because of what she was going through but she was veering on the side of emotionalism. He was sure she'd like nothing more than to keep lashing out like a child.

"Now if you'd please excuse yourself..." the wizard raised his eyebrows, peering at her grimly. "I do have other obligations, Bruce. And you shouldn't let yourself get worked up over this, so soon after the attack. It isn't healthy."

1.	3rd Jan - Head of Werewolf Wing Attacked

She’d crossed her line, evidenced by the change in demeanour from the Minister. Bruce, however, didn’t feel anxious or even regret it. She was done playing nicely and acting a certain way just because of who people thought she was. Being calm and polite and getting the job done professionally hadn’t worked well for her up to this point, because people thought they could take her down. And now, Carstairs thought he could patronise her. Was it because she was a woman or did he patronise Spectre and Pratt too?

Bruce had been told to excuse herself, like a disobedient child who’d taken up too much of her stern parent’s time. The meeting, as far as he was concerned, was done. Out of it, as he’d rightly said, she wasn’t going to get what she wanted. So be it. She would tell Robin exactly how their Minister for Magic had other obligations, and she would join his proposed sit-in in the Ministry atrium, consequences be damned.

Despite every one of her muscles and nerves twitching to make a snarky response to his clearly paternalistic remark, Bruce held her nerve. She nodded, her expression now hard. It was foolish to believe he would do anything to actually stand for the right thing. Carstairs was a politician.

“These aren’t only my expectations, but you will find that out soon enough.” She pushed herself to stand, hating how obviously unnatural her movements looked and felt. “Thank you for your time.” She wasn’t thankful, not at all, but Bruce was also not about to burn every bridge she had because her boss’ boss was a chauvinistic dick.