Murder at St. Mungo’s
bastan:
“Theo,” he repeated after him, nodding his head in confirmation, although the pronunciation was just as same as it had been. Still, he had a feeling that there would have to be some memory charms involved. He wasn’t the best, but felt thankful that he had the boy genius himself by his side to figure things out if they began to go wrong.
As they crossed the barrier doors of the hospital, Rabastan followed Barty’s lead, nodding to the woman as they passed by, but avoiding speaking to anyone unless spoken to. Once in the lift, he could feel as his heart started to beat quickly in his chest, the sudden rush of adrenaline making him anxious with what was to come.
Punching in the floor number, the lift slowly rose along the levels until it came to a stop and a tall, slim wizard appeared on the other side of the metal bars. In a panic, Rabastan tried to hit the floor button again to prevent him from joining them on their climb, but failed to as the other caught his arm in the door as if to hold it after it opened up to him.
“Atwood, Foster, good morning!” the wizard said, his voice too cheerful and too bouncy for the early morning. "Say, Foster,“ he continued as Rabastan shot the other a concerned look. "What’re you doing in this part of the building today? I thought you were a sort of Spell Damage and Spell Damage only kind of man.”
They hadn’t advanced more than two floors before the lift ground to a halt once more, and Barty glanced nervously over at his companion, who was desperately pushing the 8th floor button in an attempt to override the lift’s controls. However, his efforts were proven to be for naught as the grate slid open and a tall wizard entered, exchanging pleasantries with Rabastan before turning to Barty himself. Was he Foster? He felt the panic well up inside him as it fully registered that he was expected to give a reply.
Questions like these were what the blond had most feared, and yet when actually faced with it, the feeling of anxiousness that had previously possessed him seemingly melted away under the pressure right as he opened his mouth to speak, much like it had in school whenever he had to present research he had done half-heartedly the night before. “You and me both,” He said coolly, shrugging his shoulders almost apologetically as if he himself couldn’t believe that he had to break routine, “Apparently some poor sod up in the Poisonous Potion ward’s not responding to the standard treatment, and I got called up to see if it might be the result of a rare curse, rather than a botched potion like they’d first thought.”
His answer seemed to satisfy the healer, Archibald Scott, as his badge read, and the moment his back turned to Barty, the nervousness returned. His eyes desperately searched for the other boy’s, needing some kind of reassurance from the person that had always been the more calm and collected of the pair of them. Their eyes met briefly, but Barty’s face fell as the strange features of Rabastan’s disguised body did not have the same, soothing effect on his nerves, despite knowing that inside was still his flatmate. Barty silently vowed that if they made it out of this alive, he would spend the next week after the potion wore off taking advantage of the other’s body and he his all they wanted, if only they could complete their mission without fail. Hands trembling, he buried them in his pockets as the other man continued, “How’s that project coming along for you, Atwood? Managed to get the patient back on the ground again?”
