Jules was no stranger to stress. Most of the time she embraced it, finding that the pressure helped her focus and get the job done. She thrived on deadlines and emergencies, quickly able to adapt to the fast-paced situation. In these past few days, however, Jules found herself struggling to switch into that mode. Her mind was constantly attempting to come up with the solution to the problem of the botched potions -- to no avail. Patients were dropping like flies, and these potions were to blame. All Jules wanted to do was find the culprit.

Of course, the whole staff at St Mungo’s was working together to solve this. It wasn’t often that the departments all agreed upon something, normally competing with each other for funds and patients. Now the main goals of each division were crystal clear: Keep your patients alive. Figure out how to stop this.

As the head of the Potions and Plant Poisoning department, many people were counting on Jules to figure this out. After all, this was her area of expertise. Clearly the potions had been tampered with, and Jules had been working tirelessly to figure out what exactly had made its way into them. Other healers were helping her of course, but in true Jules fashion she wanted to be completely in control of this assignment. She was determined to solve this and it took up most of her thoughts. Lately, Jules’ mind had been more scattered than ever before. The young witch was normally able to control her thoughts just like she did her staff and sick people. Now, it wasn’t quite so easy.

Time was not on their side, and with every clueless minute that passed, they ran the risk of another death. It was unwise at this point to use potions to treat patients, but in some cases it was absolutely unavoidable. There were long-term invalids that depended on their daily doses; werewolves who needed their wolfsbane; burn victims who needed salves. There were still a few explosion victims checked into the hospital, their wounds slow to heal.

Jules mind had become an endless list of herbs and ingredients that could have caused these effects. After a few hours of scribbling down every possible one she could remember, Jules decided it was time to get out of her head and study the reference books that she kept on her floor. There were shelves stocked with books on every possible poison -- the answer had to be in there somewhere.

When she arrived at the bookshelves, Jules was irked to see that there was already a young man there that she did not recognize, at least not at first. He certainly wasn’t one of the department heads -- Jules had been spending nearly every waking hour with that group. Suddenly it dawned on her -- the reason this young man looked so familiar. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

Ambrose tensed as he turned towards the voice—well, shoot-- He’d known before he saw her, but he was still hoping to be wrong. There was no mistaking that vibrant hair and sharp gaze, however: Healer-in-charge Deville. It was rare for Ambrose to not relish in the sight of a familiar face, but Deville and he… Well, she was under a lot of stress, he was sure.

“Good afternoon, Healer Deville, how are you?” He moved to put a large tome of potion ingredients back where it belonged, “just checking some things.” Or, he had been, before Deville scared the daylights out of him. He offered her a friendly smile, regardless.

He gazed at her for a moment, unsure if she was up for pleasantries and chitchat. Most likely not, but their rocky acquaintanceship made Ambrose somewhat sad. He was sure she was a nice woman, underneath her iron authority. Ambrose liked to imagine she had a soft spot for cats. She seemed like a cat person. That didn’t help him here, but it did make him feel a bit better, somehow. His fingers lingered on the spine of a different potions tome.

“Sorry, am I in the way?” He asked, uneasy of her presence. Perhaps he should leave. His fingers tapped the book as he tried to read her expression.

"...I should get back to work, but it was nice seeing you." He was on break for quite some time still-- perhaps Healer Deville would know that, though Ambrose hoped she wouldn't-- he simply didn't want to get on her bad side more than he already was. His hands left the books as he stepped towards her, making to move past her and to the exit.

As the boy turned around Jules’ recognition was confirmed. Crossing her arms and jutting out her hip, she stared him down. “Things?” Jules asked incredulously. Coming from her the words sounded especially condescending and critical. The boy before her was Something Darrion, whatever his name was it was the last one that really stuck out. His family owned a successful potion distribution company. Now their great-whosit was poking around her books?

Jules narrowed her eyes. She recalled her first experience with the boy, when he’d flubbed up some poison remedies. Now he was trying to make a quick exit, and Jules put a hand up and said “Ah ah ah! Not so fast.” She had her hand on the boy’s chest now, and she stared him down. She wasn’t much shorter than he was. Jules was a pretty tall woman, and appeared even taller when she was glowering down at you.

“What things were you just ‘checking up on’?” Jules asked him. “There aren’t any patients in the bookshelves for poisons.” She glanced down at the book Darrion was clutching. She snatched it out of his hands and pushed him to the side. At this point Jules was operating on two hours of sleep a night, after just regaining a normal sleep pattern after the explosion chaos. She looked at the book he was reading, which just happened to be the one she was going for: Malicious Molds and their Misuses*.

Jules looked back up at Darrion and did everything but snarl at him. “I don’t care if your great-gran’poppy invented the bloody cauldron. What the hell are you doing on my floor?” Jules crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, waiting impatiently for an answer.

*if this is too GModdy let me know!!

The healer's cold palm on his chest stopped him dead. Ambrose stood his ground, trying to remain composed, despite the eagle eyes that glared at the victim in her talons. Yes, things. He'd been reading. What did she want, an essay? Getting snooty with his superior was nowhere on his to-do list, however, so Ambrose resigned himself to a guarded silence. He raised his palms towards her as she pushed him aside, allowing her to swipe the book without a fight.

Deville seemed angry was a massive understatement.

What the hell are you doing on my floor?

Her voice made his blood run cold. Her stare made his fingers tingle as he adjusted the sleeves of his uniform. Healer-in-Charge Deville was stressed. Ambrose understood. They all were. Even he was having trouble keeping level-headed in the face of her tone. He wasn't sure if his weaker half wanted to cry, run, or raise his voice, but he suppressed it all. He could manage it for a while longer, but he desperately wanted to be out of Deville's crosshairs. His smile was gone. Ambrose allowed his jaw to tense, but tried to not look unhappy.

"Checking the references," he said, as composed as he could manage. He tried to clarify, aware that he had stated the obvious: "Just brushing up on..." He was trying hard to not say stuff or things, but Healer Deville's intimidating aura stole much of Ambrose's vocabulary. This wasn't the first time. He made a weak gesture to the book as he grasped for something intelligent to say. "Ingredients. Facts. Anything. I've been reading the books here." Any cold silence between the in-charge and the in-training lasted for far too long, at least in Ambrose's mind. His brows lowered slightly as he tried to gauge Healer Deville's thoughts.

"Do you want me to leave?" He asked quickly, his eyes locked on hers. "If I'm not supposed to be here, then I didn't know." The influx of cases guaranteed the in-training plenty of hours on the third floor, but each floor ran slightly differently. In all the chaos, it was hard to say what he had and hadn't been told.

Had things ever been smooth between them? Maybe a month ago, when he'd first arrived and she was obligated to be kind, but since then... His stare was skeptical, unsure if he was imagining things.

Since the batch of lethal potions had been released on the public, Jules had been rushing around at full speed doing everything possible to come up with a solution. This was her area of expertise, and in her moment to pull through, she felt rather lost. This incident had been so unexpected, with its juxtaposition to the explosions… Jules herself was still recovering from the burns she’d received a month prior.

As Flynn had noted, she could not imagine what type of person could do such a thing. The lack of explanation left Jules grasping for answers that weren’t there. Jules did not like feeling inferior or outsmarted and the past day and a half had left her feeling exactly that way. So seeing the dawdling of the heir to the Darrion fortune irked her. The few incidents she’d had with the boy had led Jules to the conclusion that he might just be the new Marrick, the halfwit who couldn’t hack it in the field and had landed himself in the mortuary.

His calm attitude enraged her. With all the chaos that was going on, the kid could have been doing something besides skimming through books he did not understand.

Checking the references… Just brushing up on… Ingredients. Facts. Anything. I've been reading the books here."

Jules maintained a steady glare throughout Darrion’s bumbling speech. She could feel the impatience and frustration rising inside of her like bubbles in a teakettle about to whistle. Jules narrowed her eyes and analyzed the young man before her.

“That’s some excuse,” she responded flatly after a heavy pause. His struggle to come up with a real answer, the book he’d selected -- it was all very dubious. This wasn’t even the floor he was supposed to be working on; he had proved his ineptitude for potions early on.

“How about you leave the critical thinking to those who have the competence?” She snatched the book out of his hands without lowering her scathing glare. “I recommend sticking to changing bedpans rather than interfering with an epidemic.” Particularly if that person had been the one to incite said pandemic. Jules continued to analyze the fidgeting healer-in-training. She pretentiously held up her nose, so she was somehow now looking down at Darrion, despite the lack of height to make that physically possible.

"Do you want me to leave?.... If I'm not supposed to be here, then I didn't know.”

“I’m still rather curious what you’re doing in Poisons if you belong in Artifacts.” Jules said in a way that implied her suspicions. “Especially considering the poison that has infiltrated our medical supply?” Of which his family was one of the main distributors, she didn't say. Jules left out information to see if she could catch him in a lie. She raised the eyebrow directly below where a vein in her forehead was beginning to bulge. A bulging vein in Jules’ forehead was never an omen for friendly conversation.

“That’s some excuse.”

For just a split, waning moment, Ambrose wondered if she was about to let him go. Maybe, just maybe, she’d tell him to shove off and get out of her way? Somehow, Ambrose would have welcomed that, especially instead of her next words.

“How about you leave the critical thinking to those who have the competence? I recommend sticking to changing bedpans rather than interfering with an epidemic.”

Ambrose glowered at her, his features dropping into something more displeased. He had gotten O’s on his N.E.W.T.S.—all of them, including potions… Though, that was several years in the past, it wasn’t like those crammed grades proved anything anymore. Still, he had a firm grasp on more advanced medical wandwork before he even came here. Even if his potions did need some brushing up, Ambrose was more qualified than several other in-trainings, and he knew it. He held his tongue, but the devil on his shoulder did wonder: How much trouble would he have gotten into if he’d chosen to challenge Healer Deville on her condescending statement? No, he shook off the thought. She was stressed. He was stressed. Now was not the time to pick fights. Ambrose thought it best to leave her to her business.

“I’m still curious what you’re doing in Poisons if you belong in Artifacts. Especially considering the poison that has infiltrated our medical supply?”

... Though Healer Deville did not seem to agree. Ambrose did raise his brows a bit at that, surprised at her confusion—did she not remember him being here? With the Poisons floor overflowing with patients, he wasn’t the only in-training on the wrong floor.

“I’ve been here since the poisonings started. A lot of the trainees were reassigned to this floor, since there’s so many patients…” He trailed off, absolutely positive he was telling her something she already knew. There was no way she wouldn’t have known that; she’d interacted with him, personally, just a few days ago. Ambrose gave a confused scowl. Had he misheard? Was he misunderstanding? Was he supposed to read between the lines? Something in her tone told Ambrose she was not asking for clarification. But, then, what?

"I..." he narrowed his eyes in thought as he backtracked, trying to find the bigger picture of her question. Perhaps she was wondering why he was in this particular reference room? But he’d already said… Especially considering the poison that has infiltrated our medical supply… Something nagged at him. She already knew he was here because of the poison. Her sentence stood out, like a loose thread begging to be yanked, but where did it lead?

“Sorry? What?” was all he could find to say. He tried to keep the question as benign as possible, “Really, I was just reading. If I should go, I will, but I… Just…” Ambrose shook his head as he took a step back from the in-charge, as if that would lessen the intensity of her tired eyes.

“Are you okay?”

The question surprised even Ambrose, as it had completely slipped past his mental filter, prompted by the fatigue behind her features.

"I mean, with everything happening, I'm sure you..." he forced himself into silence, unable to find words to justify the sudden personal intrusion. It wasn’t a great question, and Ambrose shrunk back in anticipation of her telling him so. "Sorry. Do you need something from me?" 

Time had become a more abstract concept than usual in this whirlwind of an epidemic. Jules was narrowed by the scope of her own perspective, where time meant nothing and the only thing she cared about was results. She didn’t hear anything except possible solutions, not completely cognizant of the fact that days had passed and she wasn’t actually a robot. Jules had basic human needs, but at the moment they didn’t seem relevant.

Out of necessity she had disconnected herself emotionally from the situation. Name could not be significant, faces could not linger behind her eyelids. There was someone to blame for all of this chaos, and before her stood a young man with a second severe strike against him. And that had just been in her experience - her suspicions had been raised, and she wanted answers. He didn’t appear to have very many, stammering and stuttering.

“Are you okay?”

There wasn’t a nerve in Jules’ body that had relaxed in the past four days, but she refused to let herself crack. Evidently she thought she could do this out of sheer willpower.  An eyebrow shot up so quickly it looked nearly like it might fly off. How dare this young man make any indication that Jules Deville wasn’t perfectly alright. Still she said nothing, glaring impatiently at Darrion.

“I mean with everything happening, I’m sure you…”

Jules shifted her weight and somehow her glare tightened. Darrion seemed to realize his error -- well, he’d gotten a job here somehow, hadn’t he? This was unexpected. Jules’ lips remained a firm line. The instinct to shove a stiletto where it didn’t belong occurred to her. She also suspected he might deliberately be trying to rile her up.

“No, everything is not okay, Mister Darrion. Dozens of patients have died and I’m doing my job, quite unlike yourself.” This trainee was too big for his britches, thinking he could solve this by himself. All of the heads of departments were scrambling. Jules looked down at the book for a moment.

"Sorry. Do you need something from me?"

“Yes. Get off my floor.” Jules snapped. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair askew, but she exuded power -- or at least the potential energy to do some true damage.

Did she want him to do his job, or did she want him off her floor? Because, at the moment, those things were mutually exclusive. She was doing her job, quite unlike him... Right. And what, exactly, was he not doing? Deville mentioned the dead, but he'd wandered off by himself after giving away "I'm sorry" after "I'm sorry" to the living. Mothers, fathers, siblings, children, friends... Each one had drained him, and there was still more to come. If he wasn't doing his job, then perhaps he should simply quit, because he didn't know if he could handle any more. Ambrose knew dozens had died, because he was there for it, too! She had reminded him of that, as if he could ever, ever forget the suffering of so many people.

Every instinct told him to walk away, leave her be, but her words flicked at his nerves, chipping away at an already fault-ridden wall. She was powerful. Ambrose understood. Trying to defend himself could very well be social suicide. He understood. The words made sense, the consequences were front and center in his mind, but a spark at the end of some frazzled nerve was fighting, grabbing at her words, threatening to ignite into a blaze. Much to her annoyance, his better judgement, and the chagrin of Natural Selection, Ambrose was not afraid of her. He was trying to be civil, here, but her eyes were quickly breaking him, and many suppressed thoughts were threatening to ooze through the cracks.

“Listen, I don’t mean to be in your way, but I work here, too. I’m supposed to be here," he raised his chin slightly, appreciating what slight few inches of height he had on her.

"I'm sorry if you can't accept that, but the least you could do is be professional about it, so that those of us without the competence can keep up. If you have any interest in talking this out," his lip threatened to twist into a smirk, as much as he tried to resist it, "I'll be here."

He raised his brows slightly in question, "What do you think? Maybe later?" he asked, trying, earnestly trying, to keep his tone natural. Ambrose reached to take a different book from the bookshelf, since she'd so surreptitiously commandeered his first choice.

“Listen, I don’t mean to be in your way, but I work here, too. I’m supposed to be here...I'm sorry if you can't accept that, but the least you could do is be professional about it, so that those of us without the competence can keep up. If you have any interest in talking this out," his lip threatened to twist into a smirk, as much as he tried to resist it, "I'll be here."

Jules resisted every urge to perform a uniquely painful hex on Ambrose, one that would choke out his inane squealing. However, when he mentioned the word ‘professional’ she was quickly reminded that such a move would not be a good career move. It was hard to resist those violent, angry bursts when she was worn so thin, but the force of her willpower was unyielding. She was stone. Stone, except for the bulging vein in her forehead that throbbed with each wave of frustration. Jules had felt its twitch for days.

How dare he sass her. Through a very clenched jaw Jules said, “I did not authorize you to be here. If you knew one iota about professionalism, you would understand that I am one of your many superiors. Your future here depends on your behavior and your skill, neither of which you have demonstrated positively.” She glared hard at him, would’ve burned holes through his head if she glowered any more.

"What do you think? Maybe later?" he asked, trying, earnestly trying, to keep his tone natural. Ambrose reached to take a different book from the bookshelf, since she'd so surreptitiously commandeered his first choice.

Jules was perturbed by the boy’s arrogance. Having grown up in a rich family, she knew this elitist behavior probably came from wealth. She grabbed the second book out of his hands just seconds after he picked it up. “You are not entitled to anything.” She slammed the book onto the other one, and it was just loud enough to be slightly intimidating. “Your job right now is grunt work. You observe and take notes and do the dirty work. You do not diagnose. You are not qualified.” Jules straightened her back. “I suggest you start doing your job, because if it were up to me, you wouldn’t have one.”

There it was—Ambrose turned his body towards her in an annoyed shuffle, unable to stop a sigh from escaping his mouth.

“I’m not diagnosing,” he said, raising his brows in a matter-of-fact expression, “I’m studying, because I’m on break from my ’dirty work,’ which I have been doing.”

Lately, his job was mostly consoling of families, and damage control… It was perhaps unkind to think of that as ‘dirty work,’ but those were her words, not his. She may have been on her feet all day, but so was he. In fact, when he wasn't, he was sitting-- with patients and their loved ones, apologizing, explaining, arranging. He gave sincerity to each one, and he felt it in the strain of his voice.

“But, you’re right. Apparently I’m not ‘entitled’ to these books… Which you could have mentioned, back when I said that I wasn't sure if I was allowed to be in here.”

(Walk away, Darrion, his mind pleaded, but his nerves weren’t done:)

“It seems strange, though, that you’d be opposed to me learning a thing or two. I seem to remember you telling me to do that, in..." his shoulder rolled in a thoughtful shrug, "...some choice words, I'm sure you remember.”

Ambrose looked her in the eye. He took a large breath, lifting his chin. He wanted to go home. He tried to remind himself that they all did-- in fact, Deville, most of all, seemed like the most likely contender for some R&R. He tried to reel in his resolve, but the words were tangled in his pride. Be sympathetic, be understanding... the words were faint under a towering wall of frustration. So what, if she was tired? What right did that give her to treat him this way?

"Is there some reason I can't do that?" he asked, his words coated in a sickeningly sweet tone as he feigned innocence. "After all, isn't that what you're here to do?"

The past several weeks had been stressful for everyone, but Jules had the tendency to have narrow vision. Her spiky, cold personality -- and consequential loneliness, perpetual single status -- was preferable to being overwhelmed by the needs of others. Emotions -- they got in the way of good work, they were distracting.

Right now there were several chinks in Jules’ armor, all sudden and some detrimental. But she kept fighting, determined to win the battles; she would assess the damage later. Later never came, especially not since the poison outbreak. She was so angry and confused, unsure who to blame or how to get revenge. There had to be someone behind all of this, some evil-doer; it was the natural response of someone having lived through the Dark Lord’s reign.

The sounds of the hospital grew loud in her ears, and she could see that Darrion was talking but heard none of what he was saying, just the constant talk and chatter and beeping machinery and the sound of emergency messages whipping by. Her brained evidently had turned off for a second, and her sensory receptors were about to become overloaded.

Without bothering to figure out what Darrion had said, she snatched the rest of the books from the top of the shelf and piled them in her arms. A strand of hair fell from her neat updo, which wasn’t so neat anymore, and she glared at it until it magically moved back into place as if the wind had blown it.

She turned her glare to Darrion. “Get. Off. My. Floor.” Before he had the chance to answer, and before her body had the chance to reveal her stress levels, Jules turned on her heel and marched toward her office, slamming the door.