Bob was hiding. Granted, it was a bad version of hiding—he had the door to the hospital wing wide open, after all—but he was pretty sure he'd finally managed to hash out an adequate person-specific Confundus Charm and Brian would not be bothering him tonight. Which was good, because Bob had already had to make his excuses to his mum as to why he couldn't spend the thirty-first with her (and try explaining to your mum why you, her only child, can't spend your birthday with her without getting into the fact that one of your coworkers might turn into a cursed killing machine), he didn't need to be distracted by Brian of all people. Stupid fucking birthdays.
Still, Bob had a duty, and that duty meant that he couldn't just hole up in his rooms for the night and ignore the rest of the world. Which was why he was sitting next to the door, trying to read his book and not worry about why the fuck Betsy had just gone stiff in his lap, ears flattening back as a dangerous rumble grew in her chest. Bob would hear Saporta or Beckett coming down the hall if something had gone wrong, right? Right?