The answer was feeble but it was enough for Vincent to invite himself in. On the other side of the door he was met with a routine hospital room and very quickly his gaze skipped over anything of interest. (Not that there was much in the end.) Instead, Vince found his interest settling on the woman herself - Ms. Crawley, he presumed. She looked haggard at best, very much like she’d been through the wringer with a dragon and lost. (Or at least, that’s what he vaguely remembered of the bit in her file he’d skipped through.)

“Ms. Crawley,” The obliviator nodded perfunctorily in greeting. “My name is Vincent Iago and I’m here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic to ensure a clean bill of health after your accident." At least of the traumatic sort, he added privately to himself in derision. "Is there anything you remember from your incident that seems particularly noteworthy to mention on official record, or is there anything you wish to have dispelled?” His tone was even, business-like as Vince ran through the usual script. Sometimes victims did ask to have the memories of their traumas redacted, sometimes it was even on recommendation from the doctors and nurses involved. Vince for his own part hated this kind of work. Fishing around in normal people’s memories to make them feel better when he himself carried the weight of a million suns was not the most fascinating of tasks before the curse. Now, after, it was a slap in the face. He didn’t himself have the same option for obvious reasons, none the least of which was self-preservation. But damn if it wouldn’t have been easier to just let it all go, like grains of sand in the wind.

Green eyes studied Ms. Crawley’s face carefully then as Vince appraised the woman’s reaction. He might not find it meaningful work but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fascinated by the decision making processes of humans. He relied on such study actually, in so many other facets of life. On this occasion he felt no more softened by the woman’s haggard appearance than he was bored by the routine of it all. He almost wished she would say something interesting. Anything really to give his monotony a spark of life— (or a trigger to tug him away from his own failings, just momentarily.)

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