Two books on his lap, and two more on the small, elevated, round table he was occupying, plus the cup of strong Cuban coffee, plate of unfinished cinnamon roll and a haphazard pile of notes made Roger look like a complete mess of a scholar. Thankfully, it was not an uncommon practice in that part of Brittany, the café Faux Amis he was currently in being in close proximity of the University of Western Brittany.
Contrary to his untidy setup, Roger's mind had never been clearer. This was a conducive atmosphere for him. He knew the location of every item in his messy pile of notes, and, alternating between nursing the cup of coffee and using a fork to take a piece of roll into his mouth with his left hand, his right hand could freely flip through each open book. He'd much rather be sitting on the floor with everything spread out in front of him, but as much of an appealing alternative that way, he'd simply look uncouth in public.
Flip. Flip. Sip of coffee. Sigh. Yum. Flip.
The book on his left thigh was a botanist's published manuscript on ancient poisons, while the one on his right thigh was a grimoire of a potioneer, outlining venomous ingredients. He was trying to find a correlation, checking each identifiable historical event the botanist had written and locating it on a timeline in the third book on the table, while at the same time using the same method and taking into account wizarding events the potioneer had mentioned and pinpointing it on a timeline on the fourth book.
He should have had a fifth book, a book on pureblood House trees, but he couldn't acquire an accurate enough one on such short notice. If he could find every commonly occurring venom in both worlds Muggle and Wizarding, create a timeline and check each pureblood Potions master who existed during those times, he'd be able to significantly narrow down the list of suspect Houses who might be using the highly potent, untreatable, untraceable poison for illegal means.
He wasn't a detective, but only a few people in Wizarding Britain could use symptoms to identify poisons, because the books on his lap had no name for the poisons, only their effects on the body.
He really shouldn't be partaking this project alone, but he couldn't find a patient and at the same time competent enough Healer or Potions Master to join him in his tome scanning.
Such was the life that Roger chose for himself. If he sat still everytime and stayed in his flat, or went through charts at St. Mungo's everyday and did everything routinely, Roger would sooner kill himself than die of old age. He was aware that he was having some sort of mid-life crisis, or, he supposed, a quarter-life crisis, but he hadn't the faintest idea how to do something about it. All he knew was that he was aching for something to do or happen or anything for the matter, and he felt so sick and needy and lonely and frustrated with himself all the time that any moment it could turn self-destructive.