Council member Archibald Wiggins was having a bad day. Although, it could be set that most of his day were bad. He was currently on his way to see the prime minister, she had summoned him. As the liaison between the council and the regular government Archibald spent a lot of time walking up and down Downing Street. On most days it made him feel important and pleased with his job, today however there was not much of either going on.

Now, he could have chosen to simply enter Downing Street eleven through a series of interior hallways. Downing Street nine, ten and eleven were all interconnected after all, but that would have shortened his walk by nearly three minutes. Archibald had never been good under pressure or in confrontational situations, which was why he took as long as he feasibly could, before he entered the prime minister’s residence.

He was directed towards a comfortable sitting room where Prime Minister Georgina Hawkins was having tea. She was a stern woman in her late fifties and she reminded Archibald an uncomfortable amount of his mother. “Mister Wiggins.” She greeted him; her thin lips arched downwards. “I expected you earlier, your lateness displeases me. Sit.” He hastily took a seat, feeling a lot like a schoolboy who had gotten himself in quite a bit of trouble.

“Imagine my surprise when I read miss Pole’s article in the paper this morning.” Archibald resisted the temptation to swallow. How did the old hag even get a hold of Pole’s article? She wasn’t a mage, he had checked.

“Complete and utter nonsense of course, the legalization of dragon scales was discussed and voted upon by the council. The idea that dark mages might have infiltrated the council is preposterous.” He blurted out.

The prime minister looked at him as if he were an existence far beneath her, much like his mother used to. “Of course, it is.” She said calmly. “Let me assure you prime minister, the council is trying to clean up what remains of the dark mages in England and….” He trailed off as her words sunk in.

“Forgive me prime minister, I didn’t mean to.” With a blush he shut his mouth.

“Mister Wiggins, the incident I’m talking about concerns page fifteen, bottom left. The second article written by miss Pole. The family of four that was murdered by magical means? It even made our news, surely you couldn’t have missed it?” Archibald, who was not in charge of magical law enforcement, shook his head.

“I regret to say I don’t recall such an article.” He said as professionally as he could.

“This is third case this year. The Sutton family was found buried in desert sand, their house seemed to have filled with the stuff. The neighbours didn’t hear a thing, there are no witnesses and the police is baffled. I think we both know, mister Wiggins, that this was done by one of your mages.” Before he could put the blame on dark mages the prime minister hushed him. She did that sometimes and it made Archibald want to murder her.

“The council is a branch of this government, as such, it falls under my jurisdiction, mister Wiggins. Now, I find it intolerable that a nonmagical, ordinary family has been killed on my watch. Because, yes mister Wiggins, it is my watch, your council answers to me, I try to keep the entire population of this country safe. So, I expect a full inquiry into these deaths, the report of which I want on my desk by Monday. Can you manage that, mister Wiggins?” He nodded and she smiled. “Excellent, then I will see you next Tuesday to discuss that report. Good day mister Wiggins.”

Archibald stood up, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. He was feeling a combination of anger, fear and embarrassment, not a good combination for any man, but especially not him. The feeling was made worse when the door opened and his least favourite mage in the world entered. Aram Winterhand looked dashing in his midnight blue suit, a charming smile on his face. It was a facade, Archibald knew, he had seen the void behind those eyes, had seen those lips curl into a cruel smile.

The handsome mage shook his hand enthusiastically. “Chased any snakes recently?” The mage muttered under his breath. A shiver ran down Archibald’s spine.

“Excuse me, what did you say?” He asked, stunned. How dare he bring up the photos in front of the prime minister? How dare he? The utter nerve.

“I asked whether you’ve been chasing snakes? A number appears to have escaped from the zoo.” He pointed at a headline of the newspaper he was carrying.

SNAKES ON A BUS, LONDON ZOO ON AND UNDER FIRE

The prime minister snorted. “Mister Wiggins doesn’t read the papers cover to cover; he will probably have missed that.” Wiggins, who was on his way out anyways and certainly wasn’t speeding up due to embarrassment, closed the door a little harder than he meant to. Still focused on the trial he just had to endure he stepped outside. He nodded at the police officer and started the short walk to number nine.

Two streets away, a black Sedan with tinted windows took a turn. On any regular day Archibald would have felt important coming out of a meeting with the prime minister. He would have had a bounce to his step, that would have shortened his walk to number nine. Today however, he was having a bad day and when he did have a bad day his pace slowed, allowing the black Sedan to make another turn, right unto Downing Street.

Unaware of the approaching car mister Archibald stopped in front of number nine. The Sedan had almost reached him. He walked up the stairs, fumbling for his keys. The tinted window of the right backseat lowered. He put the keys in the door. A gunshot cut through the regular sounds of the city. Archibald turned around, to see where the noise had come from. His movements were strangely slow, as if he was moving through butter.

Two more gunshots were fired in rapid succession. Archibald’s legs collapsed beneath him. His body was failing him. His lips muttered spells, but as a weather mage there were limits to his powers when the sky was empty. Even if it had been pouring, he had always been shite at healing magic. The truth of the matter was that Wiggins was an average mage at the best of times. It had been his bureaucratic skills and insight, not his magic, that had allowed him to rise to the rank of council member.

The window of the Sedan rolled up and the car sped up. It was halfway down the street by the time Archibald Wiggins breathed out his last. The pavement turned red as his blood flowed down the steps leading up to number nine. The face of the council member looked surprised, as if confused by the whole event.

The police were the first to arrive on the scene. Alarmed by the noise the cop in front of number eleven had first alarmed the prime minister, then he had called in the gunshots whilst running towards the crime scene. An ambulance arrived within minutes, but even doing their utmost, there was no saving the dead.

The next day, for the second time ever Archibald Wiggins was in the papers. The front-page articles were all very similar, but if you could read between the lines you would find out that although mister Wiggin’s murder was outrages and a tragedy it ultimately didn’t make much of a difference. Between the lines that had several members of government promise justice or revenge or both one could read that the government had already found a replacement for mister Wiggins. His name was mentioned only once, in a single sentence.

“The cabinet is looking forwards to working together with Aram Winterhand, who will be taking over for mister Wiggins starting next week.”