Rabastan was in a bad fucking mood.

He'd been in a bad mood for about a week, probably a bit before then because he'd somehow been dragged into decorating the entire bloody manor with his mother. She'd guilted him, to be honest, crying about how she didn't have grandchildren and he snapped that he'd help her put the bloody garland up if she would stop her ridiculous attempts at getting him to procreate.

St. Mungo's was ridiculously obnoxious with its brightly lit corridors and bustling employees. How could anyone possibly be jolly all the fucking time? Rabastan supposed it let him slip in and out of the crowds a bit easier, but still. When you were trying to create a bloody scene to save a man's life (not something he found himself thinking--ever), it became irritating, quickly.

He turned a corner and pulled out his wand, extracting the spell from the walls of the hospital that kept it lit so brightly. Rabastan grinned as the light flashed and turned into darkness, his wand spinning once in his hands.

Well, then.