When they have finished interrogating her, seem to have satisfied themselves for now that Leta is not a suitable suspect in Theseus's poisoning, the Aurors tell her that her fiance is awake, that he is worried for her, but conscious and even speaking. The relief that floods her is nearly overwhelming in its intensity; she hadn't realized until now how worried she had been that he would never wake or speak to them again. He had been so sick, the night so long and frightening.

At first, she had been reproachful that these Aurors, men she has been working with for over a year now, some who she would even venture to call friend, would question her like this, but that hadn't lasted long. They are only doing their job, she knows, and as the one living with Theseus, that makes her a viable suspect. The realization lessens the sting a bit, though it does precious little for her impatience to get home to him, to care for him herself.

When she does arrive home, she finds that he has gone back to sleep and that Newt has vacated the chair at his side, perhaps to go down into his case. His curls are adorably tousled on the pillow, features drawn with pain that seems to plague him even in unconsciousness. Leta can't quite prevent herself from reaching out to run her fingers through them and it causes his expression to relax a bit, brings a faint smile to his countenance. Theseus has always been receptive to having his curls toyed with, has always loved it so.

The thought that it helps him eases the swell of disappointment in her chest at not being able to speak with him. Is it silly that she misses him so even when he's right here? Of course he had been awake just before she had gone earlier, but he had hardly been lucid, sick and feverish as he had been. A sudden wave of guilt tightens her chest at the thought that when he had awoken, she had not been here - not that that had been her choice, to go to the Ministry and be interrogated so for hours.

She ought not to have been surprised, really, given her last name and the rumors that constantly drift about. Rumors that she has bewitched Theseus in order to get into the heart of the Ministry, infiltrate it with dark magic. That she has him under a spell, or a love potion, or that she aims to take their beloved hero and turn him dark himself. The men she has been working with know her by now, but of course they have to consider her -

Leta is drawn out of her thoughts by the sound of him murmuring in his sleep, faint rustling as his fingers tighten around the sheets. She moves to cover them with her own, winches at how hot they are to touch even after the Healers are meant to have given him the antidote. She wishes that she knew if it were pain or the nightmares that so often plague him causing him to become so distressed in his slumber.

The clearing of a throat in the doorway draws her attention from her fiance and at the sight of Travers, she is forced to swallow down a prick of irritation. When will she have a moment alone with Theseus in all this mess?

"I'm terribly sorry about the whole business, Leta," he says, and her lips part slightly in surprise. It isn't often that she or anyone else gets an apology out of Torquil Travers. "We had to question you, of course, but you'll be pleased to know we have a suspect in custody - a real one." He doesn't look thrilled by the news, or perhaps it is worry she sees in his eyes. "Not a dark wizard as you would expect, but one of those who believes you've corrupted him. Someone who claims to know him personally."