His stomach growled.

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

And the hands on the clock moved into the right position.

With a sigh of relief, Cooper Evans scrawled his signature on the bottom of a file he hadn’t actually finished reading but which he was certain would not provide anything surprising in its final paragraphs, and lay his quill down on his desk. Dragging a hand through his hair, the Auror tussled it around a bit as he used his weight to push his chair back and groan into a standing position, crimson robes flowing with him. Sweeping his wand into the holster at his waist, Cooper clung to the side of his cubicle as he stalked around his, his steps wide and hurried: lunch was awaiting his suddenly empty stomach, and he was in a hurry to get there. Nodding at a coworker, Cooper clapped a hand against another’s back as he stepped out into the hallway. As he walked, the Auror clapped a hand over his stomach to stop it from growling –it wouldn’t do to have the entire floor hear the evidence of how sodding starved he was.

It was four weeks today since That Night, yet at times it felt like so much less and at other intervals like so much more. Today was one of the latter instances: although Bella was on his mind, it was almost as if she were a distant memory. Anger and sadness were still there, and every day he felt the need to pursue his vengeance. But he was able to go through twenty four hours without crying or snapping or punching walls. Surely that must mean progress. It would take time, he knew, until he were entirely back to normal, but at least there were signs that he would, at some point, return to some semblance of what life was meant to be.

Stopping in front of the lift, Cooper clenched his hands harsher into his stomach, feeling it twist. He needed food: he’d woken up so late this morning, that he’d not had time for breakfast, and all he’d managed to ingest so far was coffee. He was certain he’d start to feel weak at any moment. With a small pop, the lift appeared, doors opening –and standing inside was a lone woman, one he’d never had guessed he’d be seeing today: Minerva McGonagall. He was certain shock was displayed on his face for an instant, but he quickly forced his lips to smile as he nodded. “Professor,” Stepping into the lift, the doors clanged shut behind him as he took a position that was not too close to the woman, yet not so far as to evidence that he was embarrassed to be in the lift with his old Deputy Headmistress. “What brings you to the Ministry today?” His voice might have shook just a tad –but it was excusable: he had no idea how one was supposed to interact with an old teacher. It was like those situations where you found the bartend of the Leaky at Mungo’s, or a healer drinking whiskey –you simply never knew what to say. “Hogwarts business?”

The Headmistress of Hogwarts was actually at the Ministry of Magic more than most would guess. It was all too easy to forget that Minerva was also an Elder of the Wizengamot, and had duties to not only the students of Hogwarts but also to the citizens of Wizarding Britain. She was, however, careful about when she made appearances, and in the way she did so.  All too often, she simply flooed into the fireplace of the nearest administrator, to avoid the creaky lifts and moreso to avoid the annoying chatter that followed her wherever she went. Today, however, she’d started at the atrium, and was headed toward the Minister’s office, to drop off some reports she’d signed for community service and fines. Needless to say, the Ministry’s coffers would be a bit heavier within the next week or so.

It was as if people couldn’t help but speak with her, no matter the urgent business they’d been intent on moments before looking up to see the elderly witch before them. She gave the cursory nod, but avoided engaging in conversations lasting for more than a moment or two, and when she finally reached the doors of level three, the last witch filed out of the lift, still calling out an offer for dinner any night of the week, no matter the time of day or night. Minerva was tempted to inform the lass that dinner at nine in the morning simply wasn’t dinner. As it was, she let it slide, for fear of an even longer conversation.

As the lifts prattled closed, Minerva let out a long sigh and looked up toward the memos floating carefree around the lift. Thankfully none had been for her, and as the doors opened onto level two, Minerva almost groaned at the prospect of sharing the lift with anyone else. A spell was on her lips to keep the lift from opening, but as the doors started to creak apart, she recognized the handsome face of Cooper Evans. Evans had been a student under Minerva quite a while back, and though his condition made life difficult for the then Deputy Headmistress, she still quite enjoyed the boy as an individual.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” She said to the auror as he joined her in the lift. “It feels like there’s been a surge of criminal activity lately. I’ve been so busy with Wizengamot things, I’m afraid Ignan might retire I’ve left him in charge so much,”

Don’t growl. Don’t growl. Don’t growl.

It was a mantra in his head as the lift lurched back into movement, and though some might call him mental for talking to his stomach he was personally quite content to find it worked –or perhaps it was simply the tight grip of one of his arms over his stomach that was allowing any air to gurgle through his empty belly. Either way, he was happy his hunger had ceased to make itself noticed, at least for the moment: like many things in life, it was absurd to feel embarrassed when one’s stomach growl in hunger, yet most human beings found it to be one of the most embarrassing things that could happen to them, along with tripping on a sidewalk while walking around or a spell backfiring and turning one’s skin pink. And Cooper could think of nothing worse than his stomach growling now. Here. With Minerva McGonagall besides him.

“That’s underestimating it,” He acknowledge with a nod, as he shifted his position somewhat. “Criminals seem to be retreating from the shadows and jumping into action,” his old Deputy Headmistress was not the only one to have noted it: the Corps was currently flooded with cases; they were never exactly calm, but with the current crime rate one would almost think they were still in the days of Voldemort’s reign of terror. “And you have the tournament, as well as regular duties,” Cooper smirked and slowly rocked his head back and forth. “Professor Storm is probably keeping busy.”

Don’t growl. Don’t growl. Don’t growl.