Of course Hawke had spent the night at the office, transfiguring his desk chair into a recliner to catch only a few hours of rest before starting all over again with the sunrise. His mind had been too tired for dreams, or so it seemed. As soon as his green eyes had drifted shut they'd flown open again in seconds to the irritating sound of his wand going mad in his pocket, the alarm charm he'd set four hours ago.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Shut uuup,"</span>he groaned, ending the loud chirping immediately as he massaged his temples. He loved his job, but it was days like these that made him wish he'd just become a broom maker or some such.<br/><br/>Freshening his hair and robes with the murmur of a quick spell, Hawke returned his chair to its original form and warily eyed the stack of files before him, each containing the faces of known dark wizards and necromancers in Britain. They had no leads whatsoever . . . so this stack, some eighty witches and wizards tall, was the only starting point they had. It was impossible to track someone who'd never actually shown up at the crime scene at all. And, of course, it would be Hawke's job to investigate his own fair share of them. With a heavy sigh, he reached across the stack for the cold cup of coffee sitting on the edge of his desk, the fifth or sixth Theo had poured him last night. He'd sent his brother home to get some real sleep. Warming the beverage with the wave of his wand, Hawke eyed the file the mug had been sitting on all night, now sporting a nice brown ring. Normally he was quite organized, but the state of one's desk generally reflected the state of one's mind. And right now? Hawke's thoughts were all over the place after last night's events.<br/><br/>Hearing his fellow aurors shuffling about the office, Hawke decided it was too early to delve into his never-ending list of suspects. Instead, his hand went for the file with the coffee ring, Mr. McClagin's employee dossier that Theo had so kindly unearthed for him. Hawke hadn't gotten the chance to even crack it open the night before. Sipping lazily at his re-heated coffee cup, Hawke's thumb lifted the corner of the document . . .<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"Hawke, I regret disturbing you at this hour, but your . . . unique skillset is required in the interrogation chamber." </span>Hawke's fingers abandoned the stained file as he looked up from his desk, spotting Ophelia in the doorway, looking equally as tired as he felt.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"I've managed to hone in on one of our suspects in particular, but he isn't cooperating and refuses veritaserum." </span>As much as Hawke respected Ophelia, a part of him truly wished she'd wait until someone with the proper sanction to forcefully administer the truth serum arrived. Then again the serum was not foolproof, given some wizards could resist its effects. Leaving Hawke Ophelia's only option. And the spell was relatively painless.<br/><br/>But it was too damned early for this . . .<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Give me a second."</span>Of course he wouldn't refuse her. What if this man truly was responsible for the deaths of twenty-one aurors and civilians? And there was no one else to provide the service Ophelia required. At least not without first being granted permission by a member of the Wizengamot. Hawke finished his coffee, albeit slowly, as he mentally prepared himself. He knew he should take pride in his talents, but this kind of work always left him feeling . . . unclean.<br/><br/>Several minutes later found Hawke following the dark-skinned Auror into a small, powerfully warded holding cell. The only furniture was a heavy iron chair bolted directly to the middle of the floor, thick leather straps holding Ophelia's suspect firmly in place. Such archaic measures really weren't necessary, Hawke had always thought. Wizards who could duel their way wandlessly out of a room filled with aurors were few and far between. In the corner hovered a typewriter, diligently thumping out each and every word spoken within the chamber.<br/><br/>Hawke almost pitied the man bound before him . . . but only because of what he was about to undergo. In his early thirties, his head charmed bald and covered with intricate tattooing rather than hair, snakes and other tendrils danced across his lightly tanned scalp. Dark velvet robes decorated with studs, and pupils likewise spelled a neon green. The suspect certainly painted quite the picture.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"Nastah Dorns . . . "</span><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"No need. I'll find out soon enough."</span>It wasn't Hawke's intention to get short with Ophelia, but at this point he knew he had a rather unapproachable reputation among his colleagues. Those who knew him accepted it. His wand slipping from the sleeve of his uniform, Hawke crossed his arms over his chest, leveling the strangely dressed wizard with a tired glare, as if he'd rather be anywhere else in this moment.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Do us both a favor and drink the serum," </span>he urged, knowing very well he wouldn't get that lucky. They always chose the hard road.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">"Do yourself a favor and stop wasting your time. I'm innocent - done nothin' I swear it!"</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#00b300"> </span>That's what they all said . . . and there was only one way to be sure. Innocent or not, Hawke would soon violate this man's mind, extricate every last dark secret buried within. Then later he would attempt to assuage his own moral compass with the comfort that the things he did were in the name of seeking justice for those who'd been hurt. This was wrong, but as long as it was being done for a just cause . . .<br/><br/>Uncrossing his arms with a sigh, Hawke placed the tip of his wand directly in the center of the suspect's forehead, his tattoos reacting with aversion as they fled the light-colored aspen. "You could have made this easier on yourself." Hawke's eyes bore into neon as he heard Ophelia whisper a spell to insure Nastah's eyelids couldn't close. Taking a deep breath, Hawke locked down his own mind's defenses before delving in<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">. "Legilimens." </span>Hawke's mind cut through Nastah's defenses like a well-honed blade.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">"Give it back, Ethan. Please, I just wanna go home!" </span>A six-year-old Nastah Dornsby stood in someone's back yard, hair as red as flame and eyes full of tears while surrounded by several older children, one of which was now stomping a sketchbook into the dirt.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff4d">"Your drawings are dirt, so that's where they belong." </span>Hawke was overcome by heavy sadness . . .<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff4d">"Hey, Nasty! You know girls might actually talk to you if you'd get your face out of that stupid book." </span>A ten-year-old Nastah had hidden himself behind a strong Elm tree, only to be once again discovered by Ethan, who Hawke now understood to be the babysitter's son. The young Nastah said nothing, his eyes boring into the ground as if refusing eye contact could make him disappear. Before he knew it Ethan had closed the distance between them, his book thrown to the ground as a fist collided with his stomach . . .<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6"> "Better be, Slytherin!" </span>The sorting hat announced to the Great Hall, the Slytherin house table applauded, but Nastah's blue eyes rested on his sisters at the Gryffindor table. Ethan's eyes, boring into him from the Slytherin table, frightened him. Anger and disappointment . . . A fifteen-year old teen rolled his wand across a wooden table, wishing he could practice his spells . . . defend himself against the bullying he'd suffered at Hogwarts all semester. School was out for the summer, leaving Nastah with nowhere to go aside from his old babysitter's place. The door slammed open behind him, and Nastah nearly dropped his wand to the floor at the sight of Ethan standing before him.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6"> "Wh-what are you doing here?"</span>Ethan held no respect for his personal space, once again closing the distance as Nastah felt an invasive hand on his crotch, the larger boy holding him against the table.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff4d">"My house, I'll do whatever I want."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6"> "No, no please, not again, please."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff4d">"Beg all you want. It only makes me want it more."</span>Suddenly his pants were around his ankles. Slightly shaken, Hawke forced himself on to the next memory . . . Night time. Nineteen years old now, hair died a pitch black and cut into an edgy style. Nastah wandered Diagon Alley, his footsteps close behind another's, dark intent in his heart.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6">"Imperio." </span>The man's footsteps carried him into the shadows against his own will. This time Nastah had no respect for personal space, spinning the man to face his as he pressed his wand against his throat. Ethan's scared features stammered back at him.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff4d"> "What're you - what're you doing? Please, don't do this."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4dffa6"> "Beg all you want. It only makes me want it more. Avada Kedavra." </span>Ethan's still corpse fell at his feet. Superiority, power . . .<br/><br/>Hawke withdrew completely<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">. "I've seen enough." </span>Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. His eyes hadn't left Nastah's, neon begging silently into green. Both men were panting from their trip down memory lane. Nastah had never stood trial for the murder of Ethan Wells. No one had ever identified the killer . . . but there was nothing behind that tattooed skull that linked Nastah to last night's attack. And yet, Hawke knew, no matter what his motives, that this man was capable of murder.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"He's innocent . . . "</span>He watched the suspect deflate, as if he thought he might be off the hook. And Hawke honestly considered saying nothing, letting this man go, but nothing warranted the use of an unforgivable curse. Absolutely nothing, or so the law said. And Hawke was a man of the law.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Innocent of last night's attack, but guilty of the murder of Ethan Wells."</span><br/><br/>And with that he left the interrogation chamber, emotionally in turmoil as he carried himself back to his office. It wasn't every day he relived sexual assault through the eyes of another.<br/><br/>Once in his office, he warded and locked the door, needing to be alone with his thoughts . . . his thoughts of sending a victim to Azkaban for exacting his own justice. Maybe Nastah's revenge had been well-deserved, but Hawke couldn't sleep at night knowing that a man who'd made use of the killing curse still roamed the streets of Britain. With the flick of his wand, Hawke conjured a decanter of scotch from his own pantry at home and poured himself a tall shot. Downing the alcohol swiftly, his eyes fell upon the coffee-stained file in the middle of his desk. Arthur McClagin. Needing to distract himself with anything, Hawke's fingers pried the folder open . . .<br/><br/>. . . and green eyes blinked at the face of a stranger.<br/><br/>His shot glass dropped to the floor, the thin crystal shattering at his feet. If this man waving up at him from the photo was Arthur McClagin, then who had he run into last night? A timid office worker, or a necromancer who'd managed to murder over a dozen innocent people and then pull the wool over an Auror's eyes to escape without so much as a verbal reprimand? Hawke recalled every last detail of 'Arthur McClagin', his new number one suspect in last night's assassination attempt.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"You won't get away from me twice,"</span>he growled, Nastah Dornsby all but forgotten as Hawke repaired his glass and poured himself a second drink.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=http%3A%2F%2F49.media.tumblr.com%2Ff4d373bc141e9ab236b7dceb24c12217%2Ftumblr_o1q9sjbokG1s8ge1mo1_500.gif&amp;hash=5b425d3a5ea8aeb8410cb2c5ce564f9d" title="tumblr_o1q9sjbokG1s8ge1mo1_500.gif">
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