On Frank’s calendar was nothing new, but strangely enough nothing he didn’t know. The usual Monday meetings had him less hopeful, because at this time of year they wouldn’t be productive. He knew that with more certainty, though he had less hope going into it knowing that hour would end without much progress.
There was something off about the way he moved. He knew, somehow, the resolution to the case in front of him—the stack of cases in front of him, actually. It felt like swimming, almost, and he fought the current as he decided that today would be a great time to—go elsewhere for the afternoon. The office was beginning to feel stiffer than usual.
Somehow St. Mungo’s became the place he needed to be.
Frank turned at the sound of one of the healers coming down the hall, so instead of checking into the desk with the receptionist—he waved them over instead. In his pockets were two bottles of butterbeer, though what he was hoping to talk about was much more serious than the butterbeer would imply.
“Ah—just the person I was looking for!”
@gidprewxttÂ
