[The events occur after Cináed's attack on Rosier and the treatment in St. Mungo's]

Rosier sat in a relatively dark and gloomy living room, holding his bandaged, injured arm as if it were a small baby. It was slowly dawning outside and he could see the burnt down, destroyed garden from his window. The poshly-decorated living quarters reeked of smoke and the glass on most windows were blackened with soot. He was tired, beyond exhausted, but he sat awake and surprisingly alert ever since he managed to get away from St. Mungo’s. Puck the house elf was kind enough to serve him breakfast (a full English with Rosier’s favourite vanilla scones for desert), which would in normal circumstances look delicious, but now he felt sick just looking at it. The tea was forgotten on the side as well – instead Rosier was about to pour himself his third glass of Firewhiskey.

He managed to send out some owls – hopefully in time. Also, all of the letters he sent out sounded extremely urgent and were written on an official St. Mungo’s parchment. An urgent summons to Pratt, Trevelyan and Radley, a request for Reid and a note to his colleague from Catastrophes. Rosier hoped all of them will manage to receive the letters as soon as possible. He wanted to deal with this situation quickly, before everyone finds out about it and start drawing false conclusions. It would look so bad if the press found out about this. What kind of message did this give to the public? That the Head of DoMLE was a weakling who apparently didn’t even know his neighbours?

It all needed to be investigated quickly. If this could happen to him, it could happen to anyone – and not everyone will end up as lucky as Rosier. If ‘lucky’ was the right word…His injuries were horrid – he will have a very hard time pretending everything’s alright. But none of this bothered him as much as that ‘bomb device’ that the attacker used on him. It was dangerous and effective, and according to Jason Marren, it was a miracle he made it out alive.

Finishing the third glass of the atrocious beverage (Rosier normally preferred drinks…classier than Firewhiskey), he checked the watch. It was almost six in the morning and the small birds outside already started chirping annoyingly. He tried to clear his mind and luckily this was something he was good at, otherwise he would snap and probably destroy his living room in rage. Instead, he calmly sat down, in a comfortable armchair with a half-smoked cigarette loosely hanging out his mouth.

Finally, there was a knock on the door. He got up with some effort, took his wand and walked down the hallway of his beautiful, neo-classically designed house. Every step he made hurt, but Rosier decided to ignore the crutch he was given. But still, if Rosier knew how he looked like at this very moment, he probably wouldn’t even consider opening the front door. There was no trace of his usual elegance there – his hair was a mess and there was still blood and dirt in it, the side of his face was in bandages and so was his entire left arm. He wore an old t-shirt with a sign saying “I heart Dom Wiedman”, accessorized with a pair of boxers and violet slippers.

Still, he opened the door and seeing the familiar wizard in front of him, Rosier barked; “Get in,” the cigarette still hanging out his mouth.

Being woken up just before five in the morning by an owl pecking angrily at the window was not the way he would have chosen to start his day.  It was lucky he hadn't broken his leg when he'd stumbled out of bed, and the fact that he'd managed to throw on clothes and make it all the way from his house to the Hammersmith Underground station without accidentally walking into something was likely a near miracle.

Bleary-eyed and yawning, Jonas had checked his phone twice since he left the Tube station to make sure that he was headed in the right direction.  The neighborhood was more or less what he would have expected based on the elegant tastes of their new Department Head.  Fine houses built around private gardens -- a bit more Muggle than he might have guessed, but posh magical tastes weren't really all that off from mundane ones once he thought about it. 

As he rounded the final corner, there was suddenly no need to reorient himself with his phone.  Even if the smoke still faintly drifting from the ruins of the garden hadn't been visible against the slowly-lightening sky, the tell-tale smell of burned ashes would have given the disaster zone away.  Jonas stopped short, instantly awake.  It was probably a miracle that the Metropolitan Police weren't already swarming over the blackened residence; but if they weren't here yet, with the sun about to peak over the horizon, they would be soon.

The early morning summons clearly wasn't Rosier simply being an arse.  Something had happened.  With a purposeful gait, Jonas strode to the front door, still scanning over the details as he raised a hand to knock.  The garden had burned.  By the looks of it, the fire had started close to the house -- near it, but outside of it, considering that the building was still standing.  There was no sign of water, no reason to think that what had likely been a considerable blaze had burned itself out.  The reasonable conclusion was that it had been put out with magic.

He was still surveying the scene in the garden when the door opened.  The red-haired Auror blinked as he turned to face the older man, blue eyes flickering quickly over him.  The mussed hair.  The bandages.  The cigarette.  The less-than-appropriate state of dress.  Jonas pressed his mouth shut, giving Rosier a wary look.  Whatever had happened, the new Department Head had clearly not come out unscathed from the incident, but he had apparently had time to get his wounds dressed before sending for his staff of Aurors.

"Long night, was it?" he asked mildly, schooling his expression to something nonchalant as he stepped easily across the threshold.

*CRACK*

About a metre behind Trevelyan, the figure of Edward Pratt snapped into view and he put a hand out to steady himself after a form of travel that had always left him feeling mildly queasy. Apparation was perfectly okay for those without apparently dainty stomachs. Ed couldn’t look at a dead body for too long without wanting to heave, being thrown around and whizzed through the air at a ridiculous pace was bound to make him feel funny.

The nausea, however, fell into insignificance as tired green eyes settled on the man at the front door in before the redhead. The eyes shot over Rosier’s face and down his body, analysing the damage before he briskly scoffed, “Bloody ‘ell, boss, ye look a state.” And with that the auror proceeded to turn on his heel, glancing at the rest of the street. It was probably best not to insult your superior’s...slippers.

Crimson robes, black jeans and a grumpy, grizzly and tired expression adorned the blonde haired auror as he glowered at the windows of neighbours across the street. It was too early for any peeping toms to witness a robed man suddenly appearing out of nowhere. It was early, too damn early for the father of four to be awake and stood outside his boss’s oversized house scoffing at the normally pristinely presented wizard.

He took a deep breath in another attempt to wake up and ignore the coffee withdrawal symptoms as he analysed the street before pale features screwed up. The air reeked of burning, and not just an overzealous housewife burning her kid’s toast.

Ed turned again to enter the house.

“That better not be me breakfast I smell burnin’, Sir.”

Trevelyan gave him such a look of appraisal that Rosier was now completely sure he must look beyond dreadful. But he didn’t bother about it for even a second. This was probably the first time that Rosier was truly glad to see his ginger colleague. He didn’t even think of maybe apologizing for his inappropriate attire…he most likely wasn’t even aware of what he was wearing.

“Something like that…” he replied to the Auror gruffly, without any trace of sarcasm. He sounded indifferent, tired and almost like he had nothing to live for. He looked out on the street over Trevelyan’s shoulder just when Pratt suddenly apparated in front of his house. It seemed that Pratt cared about the International Statute of Secrecy just as much as Rosier. The Yorkshire Auror’s greeting would usually get him a smart reply from Rosier, but not this time. He knew he ‘looked a state’, but that really wasn’t the point. He didn’t invite these two for an early morning slumber party in Chelsea.

“That better not be me breakfast I smell burnin’, Sir.”

“It ain’t,” he said shortly, before closing the door with a loud ‘bang’. He led them through his narrow hallway which was decorated with framed photographs and paintings and beautiful gilded candlesticks. The hallway was crudely lit, but still not too dark and it connected to a spacious living room with carved, wooden walls and a very tall ceiling. The windows which looked into the garden were completely blackened.

The living room itself was probably the only relatively messy room in the townhouse. There were parchments, envelopes, quills, broken glass, spilled ink and bloodied bandages scattered around the floor. The breakfast lay forgotten on a small, gilded table on the side. There were many empty glasses around…as well as empty and half-empty bottles of alcoholic beverages.

But before Rosier started explaining the situation to his colleagues he accidentally glimpsed over his reflection in a nearby mirror. After everything that happened to him last night, very little could shock him now, so he merely raised an eyebrow. Could be worse…but what was that dreadful shirt? And if the situation wasn’t so serious he would laugh out loud at his boxers.

“Alright lads, trousers off,” he said in a faux cheerful tone, not realizing his ‘joke’ was far from funny. He probably looked like a mad person right now. Not waiting for a reaction, Rosier sat down on the sofa, too exhausted to attempt standing up for too long. He found another cigarette, lit it quickly and thought about approaching the matter in the right way.

“Fine, you can keep your trousers. I burned down my garden.” Rosier mumbled incoherently with a cigarette in his mouth.

Considering how early in the morning it still was, this had become quite the surreal start to the day.  The smell of scorched earth -- or scorched flower beds -- was still more than palpable, and it appeared that the overly-decorous Rosier had suddenly lost his love for fashion, his need for trousers, and his will to live when he'd misplaced the number for the fire department. 

Jonas had never been quite so happy to see another Auror as he was to hear the crack of apparition behind him.  The fact that Pratt, unlike Rosier, had taken the time to get dressed spoke well of him as an ally in this situation.  The red-headed Auror glanced at his colleague, doing his best to summon up an expression of complete befuddlement.  Whatever the reason for Rosier's sudden decline in decorum and regression in grammar, for their boss's disheveled and likely-injured appearance, he hadn't the slightest clue what it could have been.

Following Rosier inside was more of a necessity than an option at this point.  The inside of the house had clearly not escaped the devastation he'd seen outside; the mysterious fire had burned long and hot.  Jonas trailed along behind until they came to what was clearly Rosier's workspace.  If it weren't for the empty glasses and bottles, the messy study would have matched the older man's workspace at the Ministry exactly.  Either Rosier worked best when he was surrounded by chaos, or the man's life was so completely out of control that he couldn't even manage to exert some semblance of order on his personal living space.

Rosier's opening remarks may have been humorously intended or not, but considering his current state of undress, it was impossible to know how to take it.  Even the gallant concession that they could keep their trousers did not do anything to put the conversation at ease.  Chit-chatting with one's employer was made much more difficult when one of you had decided that wearing bottoms was an option and not a lifestyle requirement. 

Jonas opened his mouth, shut it again, and then looked helpless at Ed, as if willing the other Auror to swoop in and take the brunt of it.  If this was about to turn into some long-winded breathless confession about how life was no longer worth living, he was leaving the entire mess of it for Pratt and be damned with it.  Comforting despondent superiors who were in the process of making questionable fashion decisions was not in his job description.

"Ah," he said, looking back cautiously at Rosier.  In situations like this, it was important not to make any sudden moves or use any big words.  "I see.  Were you -- hoping to accomplish anything by that, Mr Rosier?" he asked, his forehead creasing in seeming thought.  "Did the garden do something wrong?"