Delilah Snardsworthy arrived at St Mungo’s in plenty of time to greet her best friend on the welcome desk, make herself a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, and settle down at her desk outside Miranda Storm’s office for AM. When she did enter the outer office, she wasn’t surprised to see the light in the head healer’s office already on. She did, of course, wonder when it had actually been lit. Miranda Elliot came strange hours. Nonetheless, unaware of the discussion her boss had been involved in about suspicious aurors yesterday, Delilah let herself into the office to see Healer Storm on her knees in the middle of the floor surrounded by parchment covered in her well known illegible scrawl.

The healer’s dark eyed gaze shut up at the door opening, staring at the older witch over the top of her darkly framed glasses. “Yes?” No greeting, no smile, just a question. Miranda was busy. She looked as if she’d been working on the floor for hours.

“Good morning, Healer.” Delilah spoke, now accustomed to her boss’ brash demeanour. “Can I fetch you a coffee?” She looked as if she’d already had a few.

The healer’s gaze returned to her parchment, thin fingers grasping one from the carpeted floor.
“Then you will leave me undisturbed apart from an expected auror.”

Lips pursed in irritation at the disrespect she had half of the time from her boss, Delilah nodded. “Expected when, Ma’am?”
There was no answer from the healer so the assistant left the room to fetch a coffee.

It was several hours before the auror arrived. Delilah’s mind had been swimming through any possible reasons as to why her boss would have such a visit but she rarely understood the witch.

“I shall just check she’s expecting you,” Delilah had muttered before knocking briefly and opening the door to see her boss still knelt on the floor amongst a mass of papers, the elegant emerald and gold head healer’s robes cast over a paperwork covered desk. The coffee was on the floor untouched.

“Two teas, Snardsworthy.” Storm said, rising from her position on the floor to offer the auror her hand to shake, “Miranda Storm, Head Healer.”

Snardsworthy.  Good hell that was a name.  He waited as the young assistant ushered him in.  "Thank you," he said to the assistant quietly as she bustled from the room to, presumably, fetch the tea.

Tea was good. It was an indication that this was at least following the conventional format of other meetings.  Carstairs' letter had been perplexing, if not vexing.  An informant had let him know that only yesterday, Storm had met with Carstairs personally.  He had no idea what his superior was playing at, but intended very much not to get caught in any crosshairs.  Things were messy enough as it was.  And it was a held belief by several in the hospital that Miranda Storm had very much earned her newly acquired last name.  He would have to proceed cautiously, with a reputation like that.

"Healer Storm," he said with a nod, taking the offered hand firmly.  It was returned with an equal--Adon couldn't tell if it was decisiveness or stiffness.  "Auror Adon Eleor," he provided.  Formal and unnecessary. They'd exchanged brief owls sharing at least that much information. And the time and place.  "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.  I have been working with your healers the past few weeks--Deville, Hughes, Mordent. They have been very helpful to the investigation.  I wanted to provide you with updates--and see..." his eyes skimmed the ground, strewn with bits of parchment, organized in a methodical sort of chaos that Adon could very well recognize.

She was categorizing.

He looked back up from the parchment, resuming the thought, "To see if perhaps there were a few pieces of information that may be of help further still."

Deville, Hughes, Mordent, Miranda found herself wondering which of the three healers had mentioned possible suspicions about their boss. Deville had regularly been put in her place by the head healer; Hughes had been overworked by her and Mordent was on a 1 chance probation with her healer training. Of course they had been helpful to the investigation, they had offered the auror a new lead.

Lips pursed tightly, Miranda indicated the two seater sofa and armchair set around a coffee table to the corner of the room.
“Oh don’t avoid the genuine reason you’re here, auror.” The healer decided to jump straight to the point as she stepped up to the chairs and lowered herself into the armchair. “Surely you’re aware that I spoke to Carstairs yesterday.” Legs were crossed carefully, hands gently resting in her lap as the assistant reappeared with the tea things.

“Oh don’t avoid the genuine reason you’re here, auror.”

Well.  Mungo's hospitality strikes again.  Adon's lips pressed together, eyebrows raised. 'Auror.' Deville had used that, too.  Bombay as well, for that matter. Why had they bothered even introducing themselves and exchanging names, then, if they were content to reduce him to a generic job title? 

He waited, settling himself wordlessly at her suggestion.  Icy, but not without manners, he supposed.

“Surely you’re aware that I spoke to Carstairs yesterday.”

"I am," Adon nodded, his tone guarded.  He was momentarily grateful to direct his attention towards the assistant who, by providing a quick couple of exchanges--tea? yes. black, please, thank you. you're welcome--gave him the opportunity to attempt non-magical legillimency.  Aw, fuck it.  "Though," he said, holding the tea and looking down at it to keep from betraying his mounting frustration at Mungo's unprofessional handling of this entire investigation, "I won't pretend to know what you discussed."

Adon swallowed a first sip of his tea before setting it down on his knee.  "Healer Storm," he attempted a tone of deference, though the defensiveness she seemed to be demanding from him was creeping in.  "I have been as direct and honest in my reasons as I know how. Perhaps," he proposed, leaning into the word before adding, quietly, "since you are finding it difficult to believe me, you could tell me what you suppose my genuine reason to be, and we can go from there."  He had had his own plans and agenda for their meeting--talking points, briefing content, and questions, but if experience had taught him anything, it was that no progress would be made until irascible moods were mollified.

“Your genuine reason?” The head healer leaned forward to take the tea Snardsworthy had placed on the coffee table for her. Leisurely, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip before lowering it to sit on the arm of the chair. Her glasses were pushed up to the top of her head, brushing long dark hair back from her face. She took her time in scrutinising Eleor for a moment before continuing,
“You’re here on the orders of Solomon Carstairs. Someone in your office has had the bright idea that I poisoned myself and innocent patients in order to have a policy accepted by the board of warlocks.”

Her teacup was placed back on the table and Miranda’s dark eyed gaze fell once more on the auror. Whether he was clueless as to the real reasons or not, she was on her guard. Miranda wasn’t accustomed to dealing with aurors.

“Now, Mr Eleor, the fact that I’m still sitting here with a hospital in my control shows that the ministry has no evidence. I suppose you’re here to gather it?” Eyebrows rose as Miranda remained calm despite the anger within. It was a strain to not be outwardly furious and hurt by the suggestion. For 30 years Miranda had been a healer and she’d worked at St Mungo’s for the majority of that time. She planned on leading the hospital until she physically couldn’t work anymore and someone had become suspicious of her. It felt like a betrayal.

Ah.  Adon's jaw tightened reflexively.  So Carstairs had been serious about that nonesensical, featherbrained idea.  Perhaps Adon shouldn't have cracked that joke about how the man had clearly been reading too much Witch Weekly.[1]

He gave a single shake of his head.  "Thank you for phrasing that as a question.  I can answer it directly, so there is little room for misinterpretation: you suppose incorrectly, Healer Storm." He looked about a moment before finding a suitable surface to deposit the tea permanently on.  It was well enough to cater to hospitable formalities when it was in fact hospitable.  It was simply distracting now.  His hands were instantly occupied in pulling several sheafs of parchment from his briefcase.  "I'm here--as Carstairs knows; it's all in the paperwork--" he said, holding the papers up for her to see, "to interview surviving victims and families to try to determine if there was potential targeting.  You fall under that category, Healer Storm, but I thought I would request your permission before doing so out of respect for your authority in the hospital."  Make no mistake about it, he had the ability to call a witness summons on any of the victims--herself included. 

"However, you are absolutely correct on the other count: you are not a suspect, we have scant evidence for it, and I see no reason to consider you one.  As I have also documented." Another wave at the papers. Adon was known as a fastidious keeper of paperwork; slavish to the particulars, and peevish on the details.  He did not care.  Seeing enough good, respectable detectives, investigators, and Aurors brought to question with cries of discrimination, racial profiling, or indecorous behavior had pushed that high enough onto the list of priorities.  Paperwork had been a burden, yes, but a protection worth putting the time into. Particularly considering the current climate of hostile skepticism towards the Ministry and Level Two particularly.

Sentiments which Adon could at least understand, even if he would not allow himself to fully--and naturally--sympathize with himself.

"The fact that you are here, and the fact that I have clearly stated that is not my intent to suspect you, I hope will suffice and allow us to proceed harmoniously, Healer Storm."  He waited, jaw still taut as a bowstring.  "Perhaps, to make myself absolutely clear, I can be candid and relay to you my current profiling of the possible suspect. It's listed as agenda item four," he said primly, glancing down at the sheet--if she'd only have let him proceed to give her the agenda before riddling him with her own heavy (and equally ludicrous) slew of accusations.  Mercy, Carstairs and Elliot were birds of a feather! "Considering your current concerns, I'm willing to forgo the prior three points and address them at a later time."  He waited a beat. "With your permission."

1.

From this thread. Carstairs: I suspect misdirection (or perhaps this 'baby brain' is the misdirection in itself) - of Miranda Elliot Storm coming under suspicion. Adon's to do list: Interview surviving victims and families for insight on potential targeting.  This will sufficiently cover Elliot Storm, who cannot be brought in as a potential suspect without sufficient motive or evidentiary basis. Shall I add Witch Weekly as suspect for coverage of baby brain malady?

Merlin this auror waffled on. The healer wasn’t a witch of many words. She liked to make them count and keep things concise. Her own paperwork was illegible in messy scrawl, filed for the simple sake of necessity. This auror relished in his paperwork, eager to work through his agenda while trying to insist that Miranda had control. He wouldn’t do anything without her permission. Both in the room knew that was a lie.

Elliot took a few moments to work through his words in her mind, not accustomed to being around people so….wordy. She decided to focus on his first point. There was nothing pleasant about being called a victim.

“You are referring to me as a victim? Does that mean you want to interview me or you’re being diplomatic enough to ask my permission to seek out families of our patients? Would they really benefit from dragging this all up again?” Miranda crossed her legs over and leaned forward. As much as Eleor had tried to be… ‘harmonious’, Elliot didn’t feel comfortable. It didn’t matter if she was a suspect or not, her hospital was under a gargantuan amount of strain and she was struggling to hold onto her position as Head Healer.

“It’s no secret, Mr Eleor, that we are trying to rebuild ourselves after this horrendous catastrophe. Our reputation as a pillar of the community has suffered and now you are suggesting that rather than a random poisoning, my hospital was used as a murder weapon?” Was he saying someone had tried to murder her? Her expression wasn’t warm or friendly; Miranda had once more become what her staff had nicknamed her; the Ice Queen. She looked cold, unapproachable.

“You are referring to me as a victim?"

Well, yes, as a matter of fact. She didn't like it, but it was semantics at this point.  It was exactly what she was. There were cancer victims, cancer survivors, poisoning victims, and in this case, they had unearthed enough evidence to indicate that it was a focussed attempt--not a random tragedy. So all connotations seemed true.

"From what I know, Healer Storm, I do not believe you to be helpless or passive; but forgive me if 'victim' is the term used to refer to those who have suffered from various maladies..." He gave a wave of his hand, trying to indicate he did not give the word as much weight as she would.

Does that mean you want to interview me or you’re being diplomatic enough to ask my permission to seek out families of our patients? Would they really benefit from dragging this all up again?”

"Both, really."  His gaze was level and, as best as he could muster, nonplussed.  She was bristling; it was typical from day 1 of this investigation, and it was understandable. But she was allowing him to proceed; he'd worked enough with Tamis Raynor's sturm and drang to be able to handle this well enough.  All that mattered was that he could carry on.

They had been rebuilding. They'd been frantic about it, but they'd been responsive.  Already there was policy reform; Healer Hughes had responded well to Adon's findings on some of the procedural weaknesses in the administrative office.  Usually, Adon's eye for detail was taken as peevishness by some. Hughes, however, had heard him out.  "From what I've seen, the procedural changes to intake, potions administration, and other changes have been appropriate responses; your staff seems capable." Now if only the media would choose to pick up on that... Unlikely.  But perhaps Storm would; he didn't expect her to warm to him.  Just listen.

He made sure to listen to her.  'Victim.' 'Murder weapon.' She went straight to incendiary, didn't she?  "I can't say for certain," was a cautious response.  Dree might be proud: diplomatic.  He didn't call her dramatic, at the very least.  This was her life, in shambles.  To come out from a fight for her own life only to realize her very livelihood was at stake next. Adon could imagine the level of emotions running through her veins, just beneath the skin.

"That is what I am trying to figure out. Even early on, though, there were indications that this was not random.  I've been speaking to Healer Mordent regarding the ingredients' source."  And then there was Drammes itself.  There was enough there to suspect interference, if not downright criminal activity, but gathering a bulk of evidence substantial enough for a conviction was proving difficult. 

"It is possible that your hospital was a target; or perhaps the poison was intended to get to one individual, and was circulated for that purpose.  But it is highly improbable that it was random. I need to determine what was the motivating factor in the poisoning--and what interpersonal matters may be at play. So--to answer your question, I do think that there is a great benefit from," he'd almost thrown her words, 'dragging it all up again,' back at her.  He took a brief pause as he considered, finally finishing with: "meeting with impacted individuals."  He looked at her appraisingly, hands shifting on the stack of parchment, fingers now moving to his quill.

"Since coming to this conclusion, I naturally wanted to meet with you first--for your insight on Mungo's affairs and your own illness." She was a prominent member of Wizarding society--and ripe as a target. Surely she had considered it...

“I call them patients.” Miranda Storm had decided that she didn’t like Adon Eleor much. It was most unfortunate for him that he had to follow up Solomon Carstairs and his accusations. Perhaps it wasn’t Eleor’s fault; but he was the representative from the ministry facing her. As far as Miranda knew, the friendliness and honesty could have been an act before he began to his in-depth investigation into her guilt. She would have to ask Ignan how it all worked in the minds of aurors.

He’d wanted her insight on her own illness. Miranda’s lips pursed tightly.
“Hm.”

A reality she was aware of was that she didn’t truly have any say as to whom the auror decided to see. If he submitted the correct parchment, she would have to answer any questions. But holding him and denying him would only slow down an investigation she wanted sorted. They were working desperately to rebuild the hospital and restore the public’s faith. This situation was hanging over her head like a rotting carcass.

“There isn’t much to tell about what happened to me, Mr Ellie,” (She was never good with names), “I took a ]headache potion from our supplies. I regularly suffer from headaches; I don’t wear my glasses enough, I work too many hours, I don’t sleep enough. Our apothecary always keeps a few vials to the side for me.” She paused, thinking back. “I got knocked out and woke up to find this had happened.”

Right. Patients.  From a clinical standpoint, that hardly differentiated between patients who were checked into the hospital who faced no ill effects from the poisonings as opposed to patients who did.  Double-patients, perhaps? Patient-ed patients? Patients adversely patiented by poison[/i]?  Adon personally would have chosen 'survivor,' if they were going to second-guess nomenclature.  Adon could argue semantics until the dogs came home.

Cows.  Did cows leave home, though?  Whatever.

And then there was victims as he intended it: victims of crime.  Sorry-- 'patients of crime.'[/i]  It had a sort of ridiculous ring to it--the sort of palatable PR.  He'd  have gone with 'survivor of crime', then.  He would start using that term right away; it was ridiculous and prim. Carstairs might like it. 

Truth be told, for all Healer Elliot Storm seemed to think she was no-nonesense, she did seem to require a bit of coddling.  Emotions were high--he got that.  But the self-righteousness didn't abide.  She could prickle and bristle all she'd like, however.  He was getting what he needed.

And it was looking ominous. 

"So it would be accurate to say that people knew you personally took this potion regularly."  It wasn't really a question; she'd said as much, but he didn't want his written report to make its way to Carstairs and back to Elliot Storm and wreaking havoc all over again because of willful misinterpretation. A follow-up: "You're referring to the apothecary in-hospital, correct? "The one Healer Deville had said was often staffed by healers-in-training, under supervision. "Who would know beyond your apothecary that you regularly take the potion?"[1] 

1.

December 11 conversation with Healer Deville. “We have an apothecary in the hospital. They’re able to order for manufacturers and distributors and measure out prescriptions for most common potions. Wolfsbane, pain management potions, ones for sleeping… even sometimes ones for ailments like spattergroit or dragon pox.  Other ones… for the flu, potions with a recipe that must constantly be adjusted...  Those we make here. A lot of the time we have the healers-in-training do it. There’s always a supervisor…”

"So it would be accurate to say that people knew you personally took this potion regularly."

Miranda didn’t react greatly. She stared across at the wizard; a stare that she gave her staff when they weren’t impressing her. It was clear what the auror was suddenly considering and the Head Healer wasn’t comfortable with the idea.

All the auror received in response to his question about the apothecary was a small nod before he continued.
Who would know?
“My husband.” The witch’s expression was plain, cold. Such a poker face, such coldness had earned her the nickname of Ice Queen over the past decade or so at the hospital. She wasn’t the most approachable of witches and especially not when an auror was in her territory asking questions and making ridiculous assumptions.

Internally Miranda was considering the decision that needed to be made. She could stonewall the auror and give him simple answers to his questions before sending him on his way or she could actually help by providing detail. While Miranda didn’t care much for aurors or having her privacy being questioned, she desperately wanted this solved.

“Very little stays secret in a work place like this. Protecting patient confidentially tends to lead healers to gossip about the next closest thing; colleagues. I have no illusions that I am not a popular choice of conversation. I’m the dragon like boss, Mr Eleor. People like to know my weaknesses.” Dark eyes stared into his, “But that doesn’t mean my staff would poison me, either.”

"My husband."

Adon nodded, not bothering to write that one down.  Of course the husband.  When she elaborated, Adon shifted the pad slightly, his expression attentive.  It made sense, in a way, though it couldn't be further from his own workplace.  Nary a word was spoken about peoples' relationships, love lives--hell, Adon had just found out, somewhat comedically, that Pratt was married again when the bombshell of a witch breezed into the office the other week. Month? When had that been, anyhow?  They weren't a bear-the-soul sort.  Adon had learned to be closed with them; it had been an education. Also provided, in part, by Pratt.  Adon was more likely to function on a basis of camaraderie and commiseration.  The Auror Corps in London were more, and merely, comrades-in-arms. 

But there were some similarities: "I'm the dragon like boss, Mr. Eleor."  Raynor had fit that profile, once.  And damned if he didn't know how to work around cold women, by now.

"It certainly would be out of character, from what I have seen," he said, simply, frowning as he considered his next line of reasoning.  "Colleagues only, then--and only the healing staff proper; none of the administrative staff, then, would be aware?"  Of course, being aware and being culpable could have several degrees of removal.  From what he had seen of the healers, here, they were doggedly loyal where their patients and the hospital were concerned.  And certainly defensive.  But unguarded talk... if anyone downstairs, who did not have the same view, let slip to someone of a certain habit...

But perhaps this was all a bit too focused. A bit too myopic.  Adon was not entirely sure that Miranda ElStorm was the intended target; he was only sure that she was hit. 

"I've been provided with a list of the hospital's donors," he said, pulling out a curled leaf of parchment with the Mungo's neat green crest and scrawl at the top.  "The list doesn't disclose dates or amounts of donations--but I'm hoping you could tell me, would any of these donors have access to particular information--the way the potions are distributed, circulated... Do any of them have close friendships with your staff here... taken tours of the facilities, perhaps...?" She'd bristle at this, too, no doubt.  That he'd have the nerve to waltz in here (and Adon didn't even bring his dancing shoes), asking questions first about staff (even if she'd been the one to mention them), and then the benevolent souls willing to loosen purse strings.

But doing so could loosen lips.  Get them insider information.  It could also ease the conscience, or hide culpability.  Just like, in Carstairs' reasoning, getting sick might hide your involvement. 

... In fact...

Adon had no sooner started to hand the sheet over to Storm before taking it back.  He looked at the long list--about fifty or so--individuals, reading them quickly.

Damn.  Yes.  There she was: Ira Almasy.  Ubiquitous, wasn't she?  It was a small world, but certain names had a habit of recurring and recycling.

Adon skimmed with the nib of his quill, scratching a circle around seven names:
Morias Balastine
Ira Almasy
Celestine Cormack
Tobias Randall
Dervla Bagnold
Siobhan Whitman
Lorens Talvas

"Particularly these," he said, handing the sheet back.  According to his profile, they were looking for someone who had access to not only Mungo's, but retailers.  Who had an intimate knowledge of its workings, as well as the contagion and its effects.  They either had a healing background or refined education, or access to those that did.  Working on a grand scale, likely within and without the UK, they also, quite likely, had a great deal of money.

And perhaps were attempting to make themselves appear doubly innocent. No, St. Mungo's staff were not likely to attempt to directly poison their charges, but would they be quite as guarded around someone so generous, so influential, as this culpable party?

The longer Auror Adon Eleor was allowed the speak, the less Miranda felt hostile toward him. He didn’t suspect her, and he was instead searching for an answer. As often as Miranda found herself frustrated with aurors (it was the prerogative of those having to mop up the bloody messes), she knew Adon Eleor was far more qualified to investigate this than she was.

So she didn’t bristle at his questions about the hospital’s benefacors. Instead, with lips pursed in thought, Healer Storm took the parchment from the auror and glanced over the circled names. Glasses from the string around her neck were lifted onto her nose and she frowned.
“These were all poisoned?” Cartsairs had had the same thought about Miranda. If you made yourself sick you looked more innocent…

“Morias Balastine,” A self quill was taken from the coffee table and Miranda began to put her illegible scrawl beside the wizard’s name. “Donates very little compared to others on the list. He is more of a hindrance than a help. He will donate minimal amounts yet expects regular tours, invites and something named after him. He doesn’t like the word ‘no’.”

The next name on the list was an interesting one.
“Miss Almasy is one of our more generous benefactors.” A rough number was scribbled onto the parchment. A few more quill marks and Miranda was looking back up at Eleor. “I struggle to understand, Mr Ellie, how, with the amount of money they put into St Mungo’s, these people could stand to gain anything from poisoning patients?”

Adon took a breath in through his nose, lips twitching briefly at 'Mr Ellie.' She'd said it twice now; if he corrected her, she might feel either pointed out, or irritated that he felt the need to. He let it slide.  So long as it didn't get to the other Aurors that he was now "Ellie." 

"It is an interesting question, Healer Storm.  I had a bit of a time of it myself. I was able to soundly rule out financial gain fairly early on: it seems that most of your main suppliers' competitors were adversely impacted in this; it is unlikely a one of Drammes' contenders either seeking revenge for having lost out on a money-making venture, or positing itself as the white knight. 

"Now, from a profiling perspective, crimes of either physical harm or reputation are almost always personal and often for revenge.  We looked closely at your staff for a time on that--laid-off employees, but it didn't seem particularly fruitful: this is systemic and thorough; not likely to be of passion. Something on a mass-scale, with international scope takes money and connections.  Connections to your hospital, connections to various apothecaries..."  He looked at the list.  "In most cases, I would imagine, your donors have both.  These few also have enough cause to avoid suspicion."

Instinct told him that this followed the pattern of terrorism. But it didn't add up: terrorists took credit for their acts.  The WBA, for instance.  No attribution had been made for the past series of random acts of terror.  And yet it did feel personal.  The Auror Corps had come under fire for it.  The Ministry. Mungo's.  It was as though someone had a personal grudge against the whole of the Institutionalized Magical World.  But what did they mean to build up, when they tore it down?  Certainly not a new order. They'd not been clear enough, not unified enough, not attributed enough.

It was mere anarchy.

Adon pressed his lips together, giving a sigh through his nose as he thought.  Healer Storm was jotting down quite a generous number indeed.   It was probably too much to hope to think that Ira Almasy could be the end-all culprit.  And yet, a relief.  He would like to rule her out definitively; particularly given her particular... skill set.

Morias Balastine seemed promising, from what Storm detailed of him.  "Balastine asks for detailed tours?" That was very interesting. "Could you provide me with the dates, and perhaps who conducted them?" he asked, making a note on his pad.

Eleor talked of his thoughts and with the idea of the culprit being so close to home, Healer Storm couldn’t help but feel nervous. For as long as it had been running, St Mungo’s relied on the generosity of its patrons. They were the reason the hospital was able to provide free healthcare to patients while still developing techniques and staff capabilities. She couldn’t do without benefactors and she couldn’t expect them to have no connection to the hospital. People with money liked to see where their money went. One of her jobs was to show them.

“I’ve done the odd tour myself but I prefer to avoid them.” As much as the Head Healer was no doubt the person benefactors wanted to see, she hated having to be polite and friendly as she led the wealthy around her hospital, trying to basically beg for more money. “My assistant does most so it may be worth speaking to her when we’re through.”

After she spoke, Miranda stood and walked to the office door. She opened it and stepped outside for a few moments before reentering with a leather ledger. It was offered to Adon.
“A list of dates and sums combined with tour dates. Delilah is a stickler for logging everything.”

“Is there anything else?” She didn’t sit down.