Outfit

Daphne sighed, still sat behind her desk. It was seven thirty, and overtime was becoming more of a habit than an occasion. Everybody else had gone home without saying goodbye, leaving the young Auror completely alone. Glancing up at the clock, two slender hands reached up into a perfectly coiffed blonde mane, tugging gently at the roots. It was starting to get on top of her. She was stuck in London, at the Ministry, and was making no headway with the Schlagenweit case. It was impossible. Every time Daphne thought of Paris - of her home - she could almost cry. Back there, she had friends, she had family, she was performed at work every single case. But now? Only her grandparents were around, and Juliette. Making something more than an acquaintance had been difficult - people at work hated her, and most of the time outside of the office she was too tired to even think about socialising.

Flicking through a few files, Daphne tried to put all of these thoughts to the back of her mind: anything that made her remotely humane was a weakness. Getting stressed and tired would only result in a bratty Auror - she had to remain aloof, professional and detached at all times. All the best magical enforces in France took that approach. Crossing one leg over the other, she etched a few notes with a brown quill, her handwriting utterly flawless but devoid of any particular distinguishing feature. There were still some leads that needed chasing, and part of Depardieu's drive behind the Schlagenweit case was not purely centred on her own progression. A part of her wanted to solve it for Sasha's case. Yes, yes, the Auror Handbook was all about not getting too involved, but a child was involved. He deserved a bit of justice after the somewhat terrible hand life had dealt him, and if Daphne could facilitate that, then every conscious effort would be made.

She grabbed a handful of old dusty case files, which, like the rest, had proved utterly useless. Taking a final glance at them, Daphne opened her left desk drawer, ready to finally call it an evening. She let out a high-pitched and short-lived scream. A noise, not too dissimilar to to the pop of a balloon, erupted from her drawer, and a chorus of enchanted voices sprung forth. In a sickeningly sweet tone, the words "Daphne Depardieu's never solved a case, let alone have a smile on the face, maybe in London you can't keep up the pace, head back to Paris and cut to the chase," sang out, gleefully annoying and utterly demeaning. She slammed the drawer shut and immediately, water poured out of her large brown eyes. It was an enchantment too far.

Daphne's head sunk into her hands, a quiet whimper escaping her lips as an endless stream of tears dripped onto the desk and parchment littering her desk. Maybe they were right. She'd never fit in.

Legs--after Harcroft One and Harcroft Two--was the office stickler. Malone, as it had turned out, was One of the Boys, for all she rolled her eyes and quoted protocol. And Bailey was as well-meaning and approval-seeking as they came, for all Adon was concerned. Benign.

But Legs resisted humanity like a miser resisted luxury. Not because she didn't have it. But because if she admitted to having it, she might need to start acting like it. However, unlike money or wealth, humanity was nearly inexhaustible. Unlike money, using one's supply of a little compassion coupled with a backbone tended to strengthen and multiple them.

Adon didn't much understand the need for closeted emotions--particularly once they'd been let out into the open--but he didn't want a depressed, stickler-ish, and defensive Depardieu going for his jugular, so as he softly padded through the aisles of cubicles, he cleared his throat. Then, when he was nearing his approach, he dropped his files. Contrived, and somehow less sincere, but he hoped she appreciated it.

That'd probably be the last bit of pandering to her methodologies that he'd be doing that evening.  After that, he was going to force her to be happy. Because he was just that nice.

If Adon was surprised at the suppressed tears--and he wasn't--he didn't very much show it. Adon was more distracted ticking through a list of likely offenders. Radley, Pratt, and Jonas were too infatuated with their internal elbow jabbing to even pay attention to anyone outside the circle. And if they had pranked Daphne Depardieu, they would have sabotaged her office supplies. Not challenged her competence.

In fact, one could hardly challenge Daphne Depardieu's competence. She was relatively new to the office, which meant she had a relatively new caseload. Which meant they'd take a good 3-4 months until closing, if all went as usual. Anyone who questioned her solving a case--when he himself was working on one spanning some 15-odd years--was likely 1. very stupid or 2. very ignorant of the involved processes.

Interns. Trainees.

Which would explain the high-school drama and juvenile antics. A singing telegram. Really.

"Hm," he commented musingly, standing at the entrance of her cubicle. "Perfect rhyme schemes aside, they don't really seem to know how to put two and two together, do they?"