Being Mykola Lytovchenko was easy. It was so easy, in fact, that you began to forget yourself. So you were walking down the street when it happened - when the cop car pulled up to you. When you were shot.
You didn't know your name had been released through Interpol as a suspect in an international bombing. You didn't know that some crony had figured out your first alias, and you didn't know how it was all starting to come apart at the seams like some badly knitted sweater. You were just worrying about your date with a co-worker's spinster sister. In all honesty you expected to discover that the sister had her reasons for being a spinster, and to spend half the evening people-watching in mutual appreciation of the female form, but you never got the chance.
Instead the police car flashed its lights and chirped the siren in a singular bee-whoop that would have been silly had it not been so serious. A frowning, balding man opened his door first, opening his mouth to drawl out some warning. But the other door opened quickly to reveal a shaking younger woman who already had her hands up.
"Hands up! Get your hands up, you scum!"
Well, that's not an order you were intent on disobeying, even as your mind spins with possibility. This is not, quite frankly, a position you wanted to be in. Time to play dumb and run at first chance. But not quite yet.
"Maria, put that damn thing away," the older man grumbles. "He's probably not even the man we're looking for -"
"He is! He is! I saw the sketch Interpol put out, it's him!" Her hands are shaking like mad now, and she's hiding behind the car door.
So. How to play this?
There's few real options for you right now. And you chafe under that. So you start to raise your hands, and then something comes to you - your wand. You've still been carrying it, even though you know any magic could be used to trace your location. If you pull it out, there's a greater chance the FBI's magic division will get involved. The greater chance there'll be a slip-up as you're transferred back and forth.
You'll take those odds.
First thing first is to tip them off. Your left hand is already midway up in the air, so you bring it down to your shirt, reaching in your jacket, and -
You see her face, and you know what's happened.
The loud noise didn't tip you off immediately. You blink - flinch a little - and that's it. But her face is all pale horror, just like you imagine yours was the split-second after killing Dumbledore, that moment when you forgot yourself for a half heartbeat and the enormity of what you had done came crashing on you.
Your wand fell out onto the pavement from your hand. You looked down to see the red on your chest blossoming on your shirt. Maybe you uttered something, a soft "oh" or "damn", you can't remember, because after that you fell back into the blackness.
You woke up slowly, surrounded by soft beeping. That's the first thing you're aware of - the beeping. Some instinct told you to keep your eyes closed, and you were glad of it, because then you can hear voices.
"…FBI Agents Murphy and Cooper. Please step aside." A woman's, curt and smooth.
Another woman. More frazzled this time. "I can't. He's in the ICU, for God's sake, he's not going anywhere. You can put those handcuffs away."
"We still need to stay here as protective detail. He's wanted for questioning in a bombing in uh…" A male voice, losing the thread of the plot. "What was it, Chechnya?"
"I don't mind a guard by the door but no trying to interrogate him. He's out cold still from the surgery anyhow."
"We're here as much for his protection as yours, ma'am."
"Sure, sure. …I'll bring you two some coffee?"
"That'd be excellent. Thank you for your cooperation."
Footsteps, and then the voices are lowered again.
"I can't believe we're actually protecting this piece of shit."
"Language, Murph." The woman's whisper was sharp as a whip-crack. "He's important. Sure, he's killed, but he's the only in to Voldemort's inner circle that they've got. Knowledge in that head could turn the tide of the war over in the UK."
"I'm not dying for him though." Silence, and then with more passion: "I'm not! It's nothing personal, Coop. You know that. It's just… I don't like this."
"You're not really going to smoke, are you?"
"Relax. I'm just going to chew on it a bit."
"You need to cut out that bad habit, Murph. It'll kill you someday." The distant flipping of pages, then the creak of a door. The heat of light on your face. "What all did they do to the poor man, anyway? Besides digging the bullet out… Ah, looks like he had a heart attack on the table."
"You ever been to England? They fry their lard in lard. I'm not really surprised."
"Still, I wouldn't like to be him when he wakes up. Most Magical medicine is, you know… neat. Bloodless. Not like having your ribs hacked open and spread apart so the surgeons can be elbow-deep in blood."
Oh Gods you are going to be sick. You are going to be sick. They did what to you? They did what?
The beeping gets a little quicker.
"Murph, you said you weren't going to light that thing."
"Just a little -"
"Listen, it's already stressing him out. Put it away."
The other female voice chimed in - "Yeah, put it away. No smoking in the hospital. It's already a miracle he's breathing on his own, he doesn't need any setbacks," she scolded.
The creak of the door again - more light on your face. The quiet shuffle of somebody nearby. "IV's still good… breathing's still good… excellent. Don't know about that elevated heart rate, though. But still within normal. Hey, you two," she said, raising her voice, "you'll tell me if you hear this going off, won't you? Just shout if you start hearing alarm bells."
"Sure thing."
"Great." Retreating now, towards the door. "I forgot to ask, on your coffees, how do you take them? I was guessing black, one sugar for you, and two creams, no sugar for you…"
Slowly, you open your eyes.
Merlin's beard, Severus, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?
