Interrogation room six was Morag's least favourite. There was a damp spot in the corner furthest from the door, and she had a habit of staring at it when her suspect was being especially uncooperative. Today there was a spider lurking in that corner, making itself a nest. She had half a mind to go over there and give it a telling off for thinking it was going to find any food this many levels underground. Idiot spider. How did it even get in here? And how did it get knocked up? Maybe it was an escapee from the Department of Mysteries. Morag wove out huge swathes of possibilities -- a trip through the Ministry on someone's shoulder, a desperate climb to find the perfect room, the best lighting, the best corner. She realised suddenly that she was tearing off a bit of her parchment with her idle hands, and pulled out her wand to transfigure the torn corner into a fly.
Bit cruel of her really, as a parchment-made-fly wouldn't nourish a spider, not the way a real one would, but it was the best she could do. Her suspect, a young woman in her early forties, looked at the wand warily.
"I realise you think we hate purebloods," Morag said scathingly, replying to the look (and we do), "but we don't torture our prisoners. We leave that to purists." Her wry smile held more bitterness than this woman could possibly fathom, and Morag was relieved to hear the tap at the window behind her. A glance showed that it was Roger, rather than an officer come to take her place, but he'd do in a pinch. "Auror MacDougal is leaving the interrogation room," she said to a Ministry issued Dictaquill, which was recording their conversation. "I'll bring you back some tea," she said in a fit of generosity. Cold tea. Because she really wasn't that generous.
"Thank Christ," she muttered, closing the door behind her with a heavy click. Her wand was re-holstered at her hip, and she leaned into the heavy wooden panelling behind her with an exhausted sigh, looking and feeling haggard. Roger dwarfed her, but she reacted to him as if she were the dominant party. Like always. Hero. Yes, she supposed he was.
Leaning up to grab his collar, she didn't bother to check if the hallways were clear (they probably were) before dragging him close, mouth pressing hot against his with misplaced aggression. Her hand freed the cheese from his fingers well before she'd finished with him, and she only let go to rip free a wheel of Edam before he got too grabby. Lost cause, really.