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The continuous lull of the ticking clock had dulled down into an incandescent burn in the background, serving its purpose as nothing more than a reminder to how long he’s been huffing over the paperwork set before him. It was only now that he deeply regretted not partaking in breakfast with his daughter, but on this day for some reason, he felt he was in no mood to partake in her wild presence. He didn’t what it was that drove her to act as she does, but now wasn’t the time for such thoughts.

Now was the time for action- or rather- planning? Owls had come and gone as frequently as the ticks of that clock. The Prime Minister of Spain requesting the regards on one of England’s famed academy’s, the Ambassador of somewhere describing illicit details of the whereabouts of a private quidditch game, and many more which had to have been redirected to their proper departments, just because you slap international doesn’t make all foreign affairs his department!

With a piercing blue glance past the blinds of his office, Alexander Rich studied the members of his department before returning to a letter that he was sure had reached every department within the ministry: Justin Phelps.

For whatever reason, his employer, that damned woman with painted lips, had disappeared. He hadn’t heard whisper or rumor of her wellbeing, or even of her disappearance in these passing months that had, he was sure, turned to years (but for the life of him he was not in the state of mind to count the numbers.) He couldn’t focus, and why should he? Since she’d gone, his debts began to rise all over again and it was all he could do to keep the enforcers away, to sway them from his home like flies and pray they don’t follow him to the ministry. He knew they would, if they could. But after the whole run around with Mr. Potter in his younger years and the whatnot with the Death Eaters, well, security had gotten tight, that was to be sure.

He’d been approached by a man, a man he knew well. The younger brother of the Nott family had made quite a name for himself, Alexander was almost surprised. He scoffed at that, though. The man was only infamous for his misdeeds, for his cases gone cold against him and all the dropped charges. It didn’t beg one to wonder though, with a well-placed father and a brother more akin to family loyalty than duty, well, you didn’t have to wonder.

But still, he had no choice, unlike Remington, and he would be forced to follow. His hands were already tied with that woman, he didn’t even know her name, barely knew her face, she was always so well to keep herself hidden, unlike the painted lady. What was it with him and loony women, anyway? His wife was insane, the painted lady mad, and this new woman just as deranged. It was her fault she’d gotten caught, it was her fault she insisted on him checking the runes and their enchantments, and then…

”Those sisters,” he sighed, physically drained, even the color fled from his features. He had to take them, they gave him no choice, they’d seen too much! He should have taken their care, assumed responsibility, watched them. But he couldn’t, and she knew he couldn’t. The ministry would wonder where he was; and if those girls hadn’t already, they might recognize him still. He knew Mister Machlachlan, there weren’t many in the ministry that he didn’t know, working for as long as he’d been.

With no options, he’d have to do as he’s told. Wait for instruction from her, and, read this envelope he’d been staring at that Remington had delivered by owl; it was clenched between his fingertips and sealed with wax and not the trace of a stamp. Slowly, he turned it over in his fingers and ripped it open between shaky fingers. And he didn't have a clue as to what it meant.

Shuffling paperwork in a manila folder, his fingers heard the distinct click of a file cabinet unlocking and slid it open with a creak. Just then, the distinct roll of the doorknob pricked his attentive ears and he slid the folder in its proper filing before closing the drawer soundly. His chair swiveled around to face the man, stern, solemn features creased lines in the man’s flesh across from him. A thick hide, an armor to hide the insecurities and the doubt and frustration that lingered behind. Alexander knew that feeling all too well. It was no secret the state of his titles and affairs—how recklessly in debt his family had been drugged down into by overzealous parents and a haughty mother with a love for the priceless and prestige, oh, and gambling. Or worse, the black widow trait that nearly every woman of the House of Rich would suddenly be so akin to, at one time or another. Even his daughter, whose fiancé had been murdered and was dabbled all throughout the tabloids, held a similar fate.

The House of Rich was a crypt keeper of skeletons.

Wesley spoke, and in silence, a hand motioned for the Edgeworth to take a seat in the leather plush armchair across from him. His elbows leaned into the desk that separated the men from one another, and a thoughtful expression crossed his glazed and clouded eyes. ”Domestic, familial, matters, yes? A divorce, was it?” He pondered aloud, as if seemingly attempting to remember a conversation he’d never even had. ”Yes, a friend of the family mentioned a gentleman such as yourself would stop by. He didn’t mention much…”

Alexander eased into the leather cushions of his seat, deeper and deeper into the plush confines as Wesley’s tale began with a downward spiral and only rocketed from there. Bony fingers crossed under his chin as his elbows rested in his arm chair, a contemplative look embarked upon weary features. At first, he didn’t know what to make of it; an elaborate over-exaggeration? Or worse, the peppered lights of truth that needed to be known, and nothing more. A hollow sigh flared his nostrils, his pressed lips wouldn’t crack just yet. Alexander allowed the bidding auction of silence to wear him down, to further his moment of unadulterated unknown (even if it was a lie.)

”I see.” He finally spoke after the hands on the clock on the wall behind Wesley prominently toiled one exact minute. It was a mechanical gesture with stony eyes behind a poker face meant for debts like these. ”You do have options,” he explained slowly, mulling over his words. ”You can alert the authorities, await her arrest, and, hope an unfortunate ending comes about her lack of acquiescence. Or…

“You can jump the gun, so to speak. Stage a death, arrange a funeral, await the death certificate and begin your life anew. If she’s disappeared this long, it’s unlikely she’ll arouse again, and, if she does, given your statement I can’t imagine them to be upon friendly circumstances that would otherwise not lead to Azkaban… Or her real death.” He concluded. Alexander leaned forward and rested his hands out in front of him, calm, serene, considering the subject at hand.

But Alexander understood—all in the name of family—he always said.

He nodded slowly, intricately, as though the very fabrics of time were pressed against his flesh and wringing around his neck. Sand cascaded, it seemed, the grains were rough against his sanity as the hourglass filled up to the brim and his eyes refocused, sharp, when they were once dull. ”Suicide.” He spoke so simply, so easily, as if it, the solution, had been there all along as an oasis in this desert. So many wizards, weak and great alike, traversed these wretched sands, and few of them would ever find their way to the end. ”For the right price, I’ll have my men stage a suicide locally, the body will be discovered several weeks after you’ve put out a missing persons to the ministry, and then,

“…You’ll wait for them to come to you. Soon after, you’ll the grace of arranging a funeral and then the freedom to live your life anyway you see fit.” He nodded assuredly, fingers interlaced in soft hands as he leaned forward upon his desk, always feeling the chains that bound him there. There was an air of finality that gyrated him, that implied the dire lack of options available to him, that, in some way, this was the only way out and they both knew it. Remington was right, Wesley was desperate; the Hogwarts Governor would have never subjected himself to such otherwise. But what in the world could have been the cause of this, he wondered.