“You hate the press.” Bernie Carter said to his younger sister, linking arms with her and flashing a camera his trademark grin. Unlike his sister who usually did as she could to avoid the attention of the public, Bernie C, lead singer of Bernie and the Graphorns, practically bathed in their attention. He loved cameras, he loved the spotlight and he adored giving interviews for articles all about himself and his music. Both siblings had always wondered how they’d come from the same stock.

“She hates prejudiced arseholes more.” Piped up Cynthia Carstairs, Irene’s adult daughter.

The photographer inclined her head at Cynthia before glancing back at Bernie. “Exactly that.”

“They’re probably here to see how the scorned witch is dealing in the aftermath of her dramatic separation from the Minister himself. Trying to catch a rogue tear or any hint of devastation.” Jeff, Bernie’s husband waggled his eyebrows teasingly. Irene didn’t reply. Instead, she was gearing up the will to finally address those gathered. Already, she could feel her heart beginning to pound as the nerves took over.

Sensing his sister’s discomfort, Bernie gave her arm a squeeze. “Imagine them all dressed in floral nighties. People say naked, but that could be pretty ghastly looking at this lot, sis.”

“I can read it, mum.” Irene waved off her daughter’s offer and stepped out in front of the large black curtain concealing the gallery where her photographs were proudly on display, including one of herself and her own scar.

“I never chose to be bitten.” Irene began and the room went quiet. In her now shaking hand, she had a piece of parchment that she glanced down to. “None of the volunteers that sat for me chose this, either. I-I’ve not met a werewolf that did choose chaos, pain and becoming a second class citizen over the freedom to control their own body and mind. Unfortunately, there is a group of people deeply misinformed, and are now targeting us because we happened um…because we happened to have been deeply unfortunate. They will tell you that we are monsters and that we could cause great destruction to society. What they won’t tell you is that we are humans with families and lives away from the full moon.”

When Irene turned, the curtain dropped and disappeared to reveal the exhibition.

Irene’s jaw dropped open, and her eyes widened. She started to move inside as her face lost all colour.

The canvases all hung on the walls as they had a mere half an hour ago, but they had been thoroughly destroyed. Black and white portraits of her volunteers hung close to pictures of their scars up close. Raw, simple and artistic. Yet now, slash marks similar to those of a werewolf had torn each canvas, and covering several of the faces were a mixture of cruel and hateful words meant to insult werewolves. Irene’s own portrait bore the words ‘Bitch’ with a slashes right across the centre of her face.

Covering the floor was blood and tufts of matted fur. Before Irene knew it, Eliza, her personal security witch had her elbow. “We should go, Irene.”

Camilla's reason for attending the exhibition was twofold. Firstly, she had always had an interest in photography. Not taking photos - she was far too lazy for that. But she loved looking at photographs. She loved how a snippet of time could be frozen for eternity, how a single image could evoke a thousand different emotions, how twenty people could see the same image but see something different. Even Camilla herself had been surprised by how photographs made her feel. Perhaps she wasn't as shallow as she had always assumed.

The second reason, however, reiterated how shallow she actually could be. She had seen a photo of Irene Carstairs linked to an article about the Prime Minister's infidelities. The photo stopped Camilla in her tracks. There was something about her, something in this older woman that jumped out from the page. She was three-dimensional on a two-dimensional plane. She sparkled. She was beautiful. So, Camilla did some research and found that today was to be the launch of Irene Carstairs' latest exhibition. Camilla had to see her in the flesh.

So, here she was, dressed in a smart-casual all-black outfit and white sneakers. She had a glass of champagne that had been handed to her as she had entered. There was a good crowd of people; fellow photographers, enthusiasts, reporters. Most were probably here because of that filthy-dog-of-a-husband of hers. They probably wanted to get a good look at the jilted woman, find out what was 'wrong' with her to make him stray, because surely she must have been depriving him of something to make him want to have affairs? Camilla's eyes narrowed at the thought. No doubt Irene was the absolute model wife who deserved nothing more than a man - or a woman - who would keep her on the pedestal she belonged.

How was it possible to have a crush on a person you had never met, never spoken to, never even seen in the flesh?! Camilla didn't know, but her feet had brought her here, and now she was stood watching this magnificent woman address everyone with the kind of strength and poise she wasn't sure she'd seen in many people before.

Then, it happened. The curtain dropped, and Camilla watched as Irene's face turned ashen. Camilla hadn't even looked at the exhibition yet, she was so intrigued by the photographer herself and wanted to watch the pride as she unveiled her latest collection. But Irene's reaction was not what she had expected, and Camilla's own eyes widened as her eyes moved to the slashed and defaced photographs behind her. She felt her pulse quicken slightly as she scanned the damage, resting finally on the photograph of Irene herself, the photograph that had come off worse than the others. The one that labelled Irene as 'bitch'.

Zeta Pepper in her aubergine jumpsuit and gold flats with her hair up in a matching gold-colored band was among the gallery show's younger attendees, a member of the younger art set keen to rub elbows with the privileged art class (and have champagne on the house). Zeta was a little unlike the others though, as she came from the art world. Her father was the infamous Monty Pepper, portrait artist to the elite, among other things.

She was avoiding the adults she knew like the former professors or the Werewolf Wing people who no doubt remembered the rabblerousing she'd done as a teenager. Really, Zeta was hoping to meet Irene Carstairs. She really wanted to see the much-anticipated work.

And see it she did. The curtain dropped and for several long moments Zeta can't have been the only one to wonder if the defaced photographs were part of the exhibition. Some kind of social commentary. As the din of outrage grew, Zeta stopped rifling through the little pamphlet about the artist's statement, which mentioned nothing about the blood and gore.

No, Zeta nudged forward to see for herself, just like she'd always insisted on doing.

"Oh, my god...!" she muttered. "It is real?"

The blood, the hair.

Unlike Zeta Pepper, Knox Greyfriar knew instantly without any hints or clues or context that the defacement of the photographs was the work of a vandal. He'd sat some time ago for his own portrait[1] and there was nothing about the Mrs. Carstairs that gory or exhibitionist, no indication that she intended to deviate from what was intended to be an austere, warm, and reverent portrayal.

Greyfriar pushed to the front, coming in along the sides, immediately concerned for Irene with whom he'd become quite familiar. He found her being handled by her ever-present bodyguard, the sharp Eliza Darkwater.

"Irene, what a preposterous affront. But don't go. Think about it," he urged. "Think about it."

Knox wasn't sure where the plea came from only that he grew so tired of constantly sitting by and being small. Irene must feel the same, he thought.

1.	6 March 2018 - A Beast Howls in my Veins

She followed after Zeta, slipping through the crowd to get closer to the front and drawing up next to her girlfriend breathlessly.

Osha's heart had been set racing just from the sight of the defacement. Unlike Z, she hadn't even thought of all this being part of the exhibit. It was just so awful, and Irene Carstairs didn't seem like the sort of artist who would scrawl bitch over an image of herself.

"I don't know," she replied as she took Zeta's arm, her voice small and upset. "I don't think I want to know."

       "Hey, not too close." Robin Louvelle pointed out from just behind them, looming. "That's a crime scene now."

Osha glanced up, over her shoulder to look at the Alliance leader - but his gaze was directed at the exhibit, settling on his own photograph. It hadn't been written on but the slash marks had torn it up from corner to corner.

He glanced down at the girls. "Not real, by the way. The fur and blood."

"Can I not get one night off?" Murmured Andromeda to her brother. Handing him her drink. She reached into her clutch. The one with the all-seeing eye embroidered onto it that totally did not swallow would be thieves whole. Anyone who thought that was mistaken or had not tried to put their hand in the auror's clutch. "Let me through." She raised her voice at the gasping crowd. "Drinkwater!" She raised it higher to the hitwix at the photographer's elbow. Drinkwater was on the clock.

"Put the curtain back for Merlin's sake." Strongly suggested Andromeda to the gallery staff. There were reporter's camera flash bulbs popping and purple smoke rising above their heads. Her wand danced above her dark curls. Pale yellow lines in the air criss-crossed just behind where the curtain was pulled back. A ward to protect the crime scene. As Louvelle had called it already. She had overheard him in the crowd. When it had parted for the senior auror like the sea for the ancient wizard Moses. Only without the same renown.

It had become quite the exciting weekend for Ligeia. She had padded some extra time off work surrounding her class reunion, so she could round out 'playing dead' for a parlor mystery[1] with the chance to see Irene Carstairs' latest exhibition. Ligeia was no fair-weather supporter for werewolf rights, although her career and other engagements made her appearances limited. Hopefully to soon change.

Given that last night's outfit was still on the mend, Ligeia had gone for a business casual chic up-scaled from one of her old Hogwarts uniforms. It still had one of her early synodoic monograms by the breast. This close to the New Moon it was greyed out of any crimson, almost faded into the black cloth. She also wore a large pair of reading glasses, to aid her view from the second row of attendees. Her almond shafted parasol was balanced on the tip as she applauded after Irene's speech.

Although soon Ligeia found herself the only one to still clap, slowing to silence as the crowd went from festive to aghast. "I take it that wasn't the intended effect?" she asked her neighbor, as she gathered what she could of muttered conversation from the crowd.

The twice serving former Headmaster, Knox Greyfriar, pushed his way to the front. She heard Zeta Pepper and Osha Warrington, Hufflepuffs a few years younger, react to the vandalism as Healer Robin Louvelle made his assessment. "Such a shame. Art is meant to be provoking, not so horrendously censored."

As she followed the path of Andromeda Gamp through the crowd, Ligeia leaned to catch her parasol by the crook of her elbow. "Pardon me." She bowed her head to Irene Carstairs and family as she passed, to offer her condolences. Catching up to where the Senior Auror was closing off the scene she had pulled out her own clutch from her parasol, unfurling her credentials. Her forensic analyst clearance under that of her St. Mungo's identification.

"Evening, Ms. Gamp," Ligeia greeted. "Unfortunate for the showing to take this turn. P.E. Ligeia Canterbury, I've assisted Level 2 on occasion. Did you need assistance processing the scene or do you hail for a crew?"

1.	The implied followup to Danger After Dark, Apr 13, as per the plot discussion

Janice Wilson
ELF

"Why bother covering it up?"

A shrill, angry voice talked over the white haired freak who was trying to get Auror Gamp's attention. As far as Janice Wilson was concerned, the only people who wanted to be here were freaks.

Heads turned and the crowd moved away from her, though she didn't try to get any closer to the front. Janice didn't have her wand out; if someone tried to hex her for speaking the bloody truth then they'd be hexing an unarmed witch. Bitterwood could use that to kick up a fuss. He was clever like that.

"It's the truth, aye?" she continued loudly. "That bitch thinks she can dress the whole lot of 'em up, make them seem like the rest of us. That's the fucking lie, it is."

Janice hadn't planned to say anything today. Yet after watching everyone react to her and Ishaan's handiwork, the words came without hesitation.

Nevermind what Bitterwood said about not drawing too much attention. Why were they supposed to hide how they felt? It was natural and right.

Behind her, Irene barely registered the aghast exclamations from those who’d come to support the exhibition opening. Her mind was racing, trying to make sense of the atrocity before her, the pure vindictive vandalism against her work. The outright hatred that she'd always been spared from. Suddenly Irene was rather certain that had either been the blockade that was Solomon or the fact that she was suddenly, finally making her own stand for what was right.

Knox appeared at her side, having pushed through the crowd, and Irene shook her head. “I’m not going.” Instead, she was considering what her next step needed to be. Sadly, however, that control was taken from her hands when someone clearly from Law Enforcement came to order Eliza about and demand the curtain be put into place.

"Why bother covering it up?" Before Irene could refuse such a suggestion, the shrill voice came from the crowd, and Irene turned on her heel to see the crowd parting around one individual. Beside her, Eliza clasped her wand, but Irene laid a hand on her wrist, a plea to not act so quickly.

“I’d never try to be like you, Madam, I’m not full of hate.” Irene calmly responded. If being married to the Minister of Magic had taught her anything, it was that optics mattered, and her losing her temper or showing an emotional response to this outrage would only fan the flames of the hatred clearly being levelled against her and her subjects.

“Is this your handiwork?” The witch indicated the mess behind her, “If it is, perhaps I might thank you, for you have done what my original work could not, and that is to evidence the hatred levelled by people like yourself. Thank you for showing me that I was right to speak up.”

He turned, like much of the crowd, from the exhibit to the young woman making a scene. She was short and unremarkable looking, and her hands were clenched in fists at her sides.

Robin grimaced when Irene started talking back. His own rule with ELF was never to engage - not unless physically provoked anyway.

       "Speak up?" the witch crowed, incredulous. "Wot, by taking pictures? Oh, aye, real brave. Nobody's buying it, you lot are just performing to folk who already think exactly like you."

Despite the clear emotionalism, she hadn't responded to Irene's accusation of this being her handiwork. A camera flash went off somewhere around them - and then another. Fuck.

Andromeda looked skeptically at the witch with startling white hair. But her identification checked out. Not that it looked like anyone here had been injured.
"Make yourself useful." Said Andromeda before everything was interrupted again. Dark haired witch. Beady eyes. Yorkshire accent. The crowd cleared around her. Great. A crime scene, a crazy and cameras. The photographer replied in what became a very public conversation. Heads switched from one to the other. Like a Wimbledon tennis match. Not that many of the wixes in the room would know what Wimbledon was unless a tennis ball hit them between the eyes.

Andromeda shot a pointed look at Drinkwater. Conveying that she thought it would be a good idea to get the Minister's wife... ex ... wife... out of the fray. The patrol would be here in moments. Encourage the crazy one out the door.

Cepheus[1] had been keeping a low(ish) profile in a small social group including his sister, Andromeda.  As Head of Being Division, werewolves didn’t fall into his Division since the creation of the Werewolf Wing before his appointment, but they were adjacent, and Ceph counted a great number of werewolves in his social and professional circles. Anything Irene Carstairs did came with public and media interest, and to not be there was more of a social sin than being there.

When the curtain had dropped to reveal the exhibition, Cepheus hadn’t quite known how to take it. Perhaps this was some new form of immersive art, but the place looked a mess. There was an audible intake of breath from the crowd around them. Ceph’s eyebrows drew close together over his nose in confusion. Though, with art one was meant to look contemplative rather than perplexed, as if one understood it. But on this occasion, the actions of those in the limelight suggested this scene hadn’t been the plan.

“Oh, my god… it is real?”
   “I don’t know-”
      “Hey, not too close… that’s a crime scene-”

“Can I not get one night off?” In his bafflement of the scene he had entirely forgotten he was stood next to his sister, a senior auror. She thrust her drink into her brother’s spare hand, and stalked through the crowd in work mode. Well, she had worn red…

But before much could be done, a witch called out from the crowd, gaining the attention of the assembly, and most importantly that of the photographer at the front. Ceph didn’t recognise her face, not someone he’d encountered before as far as he knew. She was in her twenties, perhaps, with an accent from somewhere near to Pratt, the North East.

“It’s the truth, aye? …. make them seem like the rest of us. That’s the fucking lie, it is.” Strong ELF vibes coming from this one, Cepheus thought inwardly, wishing his hands were not both occupied with drinks. The tension in the room had leapt right up. Irene Carstairs was quick to respond, though with remarkable calm.
   “… I’m not full of hate… Thank you for showing me that I was right to speak up.”

The photographers and media were lapping all of this up. For a moment Cepheus considered whether this was a stunt for their benefit, but while Irene had been the Minister’s wife for years, it didn’t seem like something she’d stoop to, and Andromeda seemed pretty convinced there was something to answer for.

“… Nobody’s buying it…”
    “Why, did you want to purchase a few canvases for the Foundation’s offices?”

Cepheus winced inwardly at the familiar snarky voice and glanced round carefully to Johann Spectre’s looming figure over his left shoulder. The German’s expression was dark, staring right at the impertinent witch, his arms folded in one of his sharp suits from work. A fact Ceph knew from earlier conversation.

“Don’t poke the bear…” Cepheus muttered under his breath, trying not to move his lips, well aware he was in the line of sight between these two now, and he hadn’t got the right outfit on for a scrap.

1.	Dressed by Nuri

Exhibitions like these Arcturus didn't normally visit for a number of reasons. However, Robin had extended a cheerful invitation to him during work and Arcturus knew that it mattered greatly to his friend. He was not wont to interfere in werewolf business unless their injuries called for his aid, but he was supportive of werewolves in general and it was more important that he was there to show it. That Cepheus would invite him as well shortly after was just a funny coincidence, though it also made great sense.

That said, he had not ever been to an exhibition that would cause such a stir before, nor one that was as provocative in its reception. Gut instinct told Arcturus the rips in the canvas were not part of it. He'd not felt this much terror in a long time once the curtain had dropped. But he understood the reason well enough, and his eyes immediately sought out Robin in the crowd if he could find him. A sudden urge of overprotectiveness, perhaps.

The back and forth got him to stay closer to Ceph. If his partner wanted to stay low, Arcturus still stood out a bit. That said, all attention was on Irene and the shrieking witch, whose words he frowned at. "Not a single denial," he murmured, eyes still looking out for any familiar faces in the crowd - at least, the ones within his line of sight.

Johann, of course, could not keep his mouth shut. Arcturus could only glance back and forth in nervousness, uncertain of what could transpire here and making sure his wand was safely tucked away in his sleeve. Just in case.

Considering his position at the Ministry, Balfour had thought it would be a fine and casual show of solidarity to attend Irene Carstairs' exhibition today. He had not anticipated the scene before them - although maybe someone should have, looking back on ELF's track record.

“… by taking pictures? Oh, aye, real brave. Nobody’s buying it…”
       “Why, did you want to purchase a few canvases for the Foundation’s offices?” his beautiful husband spoke up, which was natural.

Balfour stepped a little closer to Joh, shoulders bumping, and drew his wand from the inside pocket of his burgundy suit jacket. Very likely he wasn't alone in this, and the lass would have to be mad to try anything in a room of werewolf supporters.

But that's what they had thought about Cynthia Bombay, too, and her behavior[1] in January.

      "I didn't say nothing bout the Foundation now did I?" the witch spat, venom shifting from Irene to Johann. "At least our lot are being honest bout werewolves!"

"Our lot?" Balfour repeated, pointedly.

Robin took the cue from the other side of their group. "So you are from ELF?"

The woman looked around uncertainly, as if just realising the position she's put herself into and the eyes focused on her. ELF or not, maybe she hadn't planned on all the attention.

       "I didn't have nothing to do with all this!" she stepped back, defensive.

1.	22nd Jan - Rock Steady, Baby

"Make yourself useful," Ms Gamp said before the next interruption. Ligeia gave a small curtsy as she listened to the challenge to Irene Carstairs made by a witch in the crowd. The briefest of pauses to listen as Ligeia wormed her hands into gloves, before setting about collecting samples. Not that Ligeia had expected needing her full forensic kit but she always had vials and envelopes hidden away somewhere.

"Doth she protest too much," Ligeia mused as various hubbub from the shocked crowd and possible instigator erupted. If she was the culprit what did you call a perpetrator that never left the scene of the crime? Still, if she wanted to be a rabble-rouser it wasn't just werewolf supporters in attendance. Supporters (and werewolves) with high positions among St. Mungo's and the Ministry. And the press, Ligeia was going to have to change out to her dark glasses if the flashbulbs got any more intense.

"That appears to be fake stoat," Ligeia said, verbally committing notes to memory as there was enough chaos in the gallery to turn a Verbatis transcript into a word search. Healer Louvelle's assessment of fake props was correct. Ligeia, along with Papa Argyle and several in the Canterbury family were hobby hunters so she could smell fake taxidermy from the other end of Knockturn Alley.

"And this weave is imitation bear skin---hello," uncovered in the mess of the ruined artwork was a sizable piece of glass. It didn't appear to belong to any of the slashed Carstairs portraits although it blended in well with smaller shards of glass scattered among the vandalism. There were a few flecks of fake blood along with another scrap of fur that might have been wrapped as a grip.

"Possible weapon, Ms. Gamp," Ligeia called out to the Senior Auror.