Just Another Day, Just Another Night, Not Just Another Investigation

I throw down my mechancial pencil, lean back in my chair, and rub my eyes. I’ve been camped out in this chair all day working on Ron and Justin’s case. If I can finish these sketches in the next couple of hours, then I’ll still be able to stop by St Mungo’s before going home and dropping into bed.

I glance over at Hope who is sitting at her desk on the other side of the Mind Evidence office. She’s been perched there for longer than I’ve been here, working on the mock-ups she sketched from the Anememis recordings from the Mill. I don’t know where her attention span comes from, but she could probably out-sit, outstare, and outlast a stone statue.

I strech my stiff back and it cracks.

“If you magicked yourself a better chair, that wouldn’t happen,” Hope mutters, without looking up.

I turn and glance over at her and say off-handedly, “I didn’t know that you cared.”

“Hmmm,” she muses. In profile, I see her frown in concentration as she sweaps her quill across her parchment in one long stroke. “I care if it has anything to do with this case and our deadline. It’s almost six o’clock and we still have another two other Anamneses to work up.”

I swivel back around and frown at the little glowing cube that is projecting what can only be a room inside of the Mill and then down at the parchment lying in front of me. I want to tell her that magic does not always hold all of the answers, and that sometimes old fashioned Muggle techniques might just be a better alternative. Although Hope isn’t adverse to trying new things, I get the distinct feeling that she’s firmly entrenched in those flashy magical techniques. I know that she believes that the Muggle approach to forensic art is clumsy and antiquated.

I twirl my pencil between my fingers and wonder why the she refuses to listen to me. Oakes hired me because my Muggle forensic art background was supposed to compliment her magical techniques.

If she’d just done the drawings on-site like I suggested back when we did the Matherson case, then we wouldn’t now be struggling to convert the perspectives recorded by the Anamnesis to overhead views for the site sketches. We wouldn't be wasting all this time.

“Well, if you didn’t run off that night, maybe you could’ve done the the on-site drawings, and then we wouldn’t be wasting all this time.” Even though her voice is calm and cool, her words find their mark and burn.

I stop twirling my pencil and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Hope, I don’t appreciate you practicing on me,” I say slowly. Just because she’s a Leglimens doesn’t give her the right to misuse –

“It’s not an abuse, we’re working on a case, Dean, an important one. I’m responsible for getting these sketches done accurately and to Oakes by tomorrow morning.”

I turn around. Hope is leaning forward on her elbows and rubbing her temples.

“These sketches are practically all we have.” She seems to be talking to the drawing in front of her. “Artifacts has only managed to salvage a handful of things from the crime scene, there have been no positive identifications made on any of the bodies, the Macmillan interview didn’t yield any substantial leads, and ever since Hopkins had that meeting with Gawain Robards, the MLE Head, last Wednesday he’s been…” She raises her head and searches my face. “You don’t happen to know what that was about do you? I hear that there might be some sort of disciplinary action.”

I wipe my mind clean of all thoughts related to events that transpired on the morning of March 1st and Tav and my little plan. I ask casually, “And what is Hopkins doing?”

Hope sighs and pushes away from her desk as she absently taps her quill against her other hand. I notice that she’s barefoot; her heels lie discarded under her desk where she must’ve flipped them off. “Well, it’s more like what he isn't doing.”

“Is he refusing to cooperate?” I ask, alarmed as I redirect my thoughts.

“Well not refusing straight out, but he’s been slow on getting us the Hit Wizards’ field reports and he giving Magical Signatures the run around. I don’t know why he’s dragging his feet on this, considering it’s two of his men who are probably going to be permanent residents of the Spell Damages Ward at St Mungo’s –”

“You don’t know that,” I tell her firmly.

“My apologies. I know you’re friends with them which is all the more reason that you’re supposed to be helping, not rolling around in your chair and thinking about –”

“You’ve been sitting here reading my mind this entire time?” I gape at her incredulously.

“You need to work on becoming an Occlumens,” she says evenly and without apology. I know she’s trying to deflect my question by drawing attention back to me – it’s a common interviewing technique used to keep witnesses from learning any personal information about the questioner.

She calmly places her quill down on the parchment spread across her large desk and turns around in her chair, smoothing her robes and crossing her legs. “By the way, how are your wand retraining lessons going?” she asks as if we’re having a pleasant chat over a cup of tea and crumpets. However, I know that she’s trying to redirect the conversation.

“Fine,” I tell her as I stand up. I don’t need to become an Occlumens if she would just stop barging into my mind. I consider telling her this, but she probably has read it in my thoughts already. I decide to save my breath.

Hope smiles. “Dean, seriously. Relax. Just sit back down. I only suggested studying Occlumency because it can offer protection, especially if you’re going to be interviewing criminals who might be Legilmens.”

I’m not sitting back down. “I’m getting a coffee,” I tell her.

“Sit down.” She motions to my chair. “Please. I need your help on this investigation, and would rather not waste both of our time having an adolescent spat. I promise that I won’t intrude anymore if you show me a faster way of converting perspectives.” I take note that she’s now deal making – another common interviewing technique.

She Accios her wand and swings it around and my chair immediately grows taller and the backrest plumps up. “There you go,” she smiles at me and winks. “You can thank me later.”

I shake my head. Merlin, she’s a piece of work. “Hope, you’re a dangerous negotiator.”

“Well, that’s the general idea.” A little satisfied smile spreads across her features. “And it’s also why I’m so good at what I do – I make deals.”

I walk over to her desk. “Show me what you have,” I say without pretense. The faster we finish this, the faster I can get out of here.

---

Two hours later, I’m removing my cloak as I enter Ron and Justin’s room. It’s dark, save for the meager light radiating from the small lamp sitting on the table in the corner. Susan is curled up in a chair with her legs tucked underneath her, dozing quietly. A book lies open on the floor where it must’ve slipped from her fingers.

I pick it up. Engraved in gold lettering on the cover are the words, ‘Communicating and Coping: How to Reach those Suffering from Permanent Spell Damage and Help Yourself’

I quietly pull up a chair between Ron and Justin’s beds and survey what’s left of my friends.

Ron’s face is obscured by bandages; only his hair peaking out over the mass of gauze gives away his Weasley identity. The uncountable number of cards and flowers that are cramed into Ron’s side of the room stand watch like silent sentinels. Justin is still and staring. His face is pale and gaunt. I almost prefer to look at Ron because the way that Justin just lies there with his eyes open and blank worries me more than anything. At least with Ron, you can imagine that he might be blinking or something under those bandages – that he might still be there.

All of the other times I’ve visited, it’s been during the day when there were people bustling in and out of the room, and Susan and Hermione were busy updating us on what the Healers and Medi-witches and wizards were saying. Having them there with their brave faces on and Justin’s little sister prancing around the room, it was easy to imagine that things weren’t really as bad as they seemed – that everything would be back to normal soon. During the day the air in the room positively vibrates with desperate love and, most importantly, hope.

But now in the blue-darkness of night, nothing stands between me and the reality that is stretched out in those beds. There are no friendly faces and bright smiles to distract me from the fact that no matter what anyone says, Ron and Justin are still lying there…lost somewhere.

“Hey, mate.” I say quietly to Ron, not wanting to disturb the strange stillness of the room. “I brought you something.”

I prop a spongy, orange disk next to a huge bag of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans that sit on his crowded bedside table. A card says that they’re from Harry and Ginny.

“It’s so next time you don’t bloody break Hampstead Heath and practically make Ernie faint due to lack of oxygen.” I smile wistfully as I remember how Ernie hyperventilated and practically busted his gut laughing as we all stared horrified at the broken window that Ron shattered with one sweep of his hockey stick. Funny how that now seems like a million years ago and how, at the time, my biggest concern was tackling Justin on the ice.

Ron continues to just lie there. I want to imagine that he’s hibernating like a bear or something and it’s just a matter of some bizzare biological trigger or a mysterious alignment of the stars and he’ll wake at any moment.

I stare down at Susan’s book in my hands so I don’t have to acknowledge that he may not be hearing a word that I’m saying. All is quiet except for the steady chorus of beeps coming from the machines that crowd their beds.

After a long while, I say into the darkness, “Ernie figure skates, you know. His mum taught him. That’s what the toe pick business was all about.” I swallow hard and continue, “I think that we could get him to show us his sit spin next time.” I try to laugh, but it comes out all wrong.

I turn and lean on Justin’s bed. “Hey, Justin, did you hear? I’m challenging you to a re-match…when you’re well again…” the words evaporate when I look at Justin’s face. His eyes are open and glittering in the darkness. I think they almost look wet with tears, and I wonder if Justin is still in there somewhere listening.

“You don’t want to be left out of all the fun, mate. I mean, you can’t let Ron and I fumble around on ice…alone…” My eyes wander to Justin’s little sister’s stuffed bear that is leaning against his arm and my words begin to falter. “Especially Ron…he’s absolute rubbish, you know,” I whisper hoarsely.

I bow my head and squeeze my eyes shut against the wetness that is suddenly there. “Although, he’s probably not as horrible of a skater as I am.”

I sit there for a couple more minutes not knowing what to say before slowly getting up and collecting my cloak. I don’t have the heart to wake Susan, so I place her book back into her hands, cover her with a blanket, and turn off the light. The room is submerged in black. And for a second, not being able to see the machines, the bandages, or Justin’s unseeing eyes, it easy to imagine that they’re just sleeping.