And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The Second Coming, W.B. Yeats

These halls and corridors had been much more shadowed the last time that he had walked them, but even in the light of the burning lanterns, it was not hard to find his way.  He'd claimed his visitor badge at the entrance and then taken the lift down, down to Level Five, stopping only once to ask directions to the new Muggle Affairs Office.  Atash had always prided himself on his ability to find things; making his own way through the corridors here with only minimal directions was a matter of meeting expectations.

This was by far the easiest of his three efforts to track down Dreogan Eleor.  The Muggle Affairs Office was clearly a new addition to the British Ministry; tucked away into a tiny hallway, as if it had been added on as a second thought.  Despite the late hour, the door to the Department Head's office had been left wide open.  A statement, surely, about something: accessibility, open communication.  From what he remembered, Dreogan Eleor paid very close attention to the message that he sent other people.

Atash paused just outside, still out of sight, though his footfalls had surely already given him away.  There was still time to turn away, but he would not have come this far if he ever intended to back down.  He cast a brief glance at the bracelet on his left wrist, and then stepped forward to breach the liminality of the threshold.

"Mister Eleor."  Atash gave a faint smile as he entered the office.  His dark eyes shifted quickly over the interior of the room, and then locked on those of the diplomat.  As Dreogan rose from his chair, the Iranian stepped into the room and strode forwards to meet him.  With a practiced motion, he tugged a ring off the ring finger of his right hand and extended his hand in a gesture of greeting to the other man.

Up close, the mage looked older, far less boyish than he had five or twelve years past.  His hair was much closer cropped, and there was a quiet gravitas that suited him better than the pedagogy he'd used to cloak himself back in California.  There was a weariness there too: a shadow to his eyes, as if he were not sleeping well.  His neatly tailored suit was obviously at the end of a long day, but it still had an official look to it.  Clearly, he had grown into whatever role he filled here.

The office itself couldn't have been more different than the colored silk tent where he'd first encountered this man back in Cairo.  The silk scarves and trappings of a diviner had given way to the large wooden desk and tall bookshelves, filled with knickknacks, neat scrolls, and rows and rows of books.  A very different sort of business was intended to be conducted here -- but then, he was in a different sort of business now, too.  That did not make either of them less dangerous or more kindred. 

He could have smirked, could have made a polite comment that highlighted the irony, how the tables had been reversed between them, but Atash merely raised his eyebrows, meeting the other mage's gaze steadily.

"Different circumstances this time, I think," he said mildly, twisting the ring to work it back onto his finger.  His English came far more easily, sounded far more practiced than it had been the last time that they had met.  "But they do not strike me as any more pleasant than our previous encounters.  You will have to forgive me for saying so, but I would not mind if this were the last time that we found ourselves together."

"Professor Hendurabi," Dreogan said, head snapping up from his papers and giving a warm but practiced smile.  "Yes," Dreogan observed as he rose, pleased at the English--and trying not to show it.  "It is always different between us.  That," he paused with a sharp gaze, "is what keeps things interesting."

Dreogan could do with a little less interesting in his life.  With a little less Atash Hendurabi.  But not yet. 

"Please," he said, motioning downwards towards the chair before the desk in a way that caused the belled sleeve of his robes to brush against a pile of curled parchment papers.  "Make yourself comfortable.  Would you like some mint tea?" he asked, moving towards the makeshift tea station where there was always a pot of tea ready--in the Middle Eastern fashion.  The scent was calming.  And had become familiar, over time. 

He poured himself a cup and, without waiting for Atash's answer, took the liberty of serving a second.  Moving to the man's side, he offered the cup and saucer before reclaiming his own and settling in the second guest seat, swiveling so he could look the man in the face.  "I appreciate you making the time in your schedule for the meeting."  Atash began with an admirable directness, and the discreet, vocalized desire to be done as quickly as possible.  No inquiries to his coursework or the Tournament--though Dreogan surely would not have minded discussing it.  As it was, his fingers curled around the delicate handle of the teacup, testing its balance before raising it to his lips.  Swallowing, he began.

"I am not certain what you have heard thus far from our mutual friend, or what you might have surmised," he cast a sidelong glance at the man before saying, "but it is regarding the Group.  It is an unpleasant topic of conversation for both of us, but I would appreciate any kindness on your part on providing some counsel." He gave an ironic smile.  Dreogan was not proud enough to acknowledge when he needed help; he wondered if the man before him would detest or respect such an admission. 

The key to getting as much from Atash Hendurabi as he could was to not make this about Atash--his knowledge, his past experience.  It was to make it about him.  Authority would not go nearly so far as frankness, coupled by a good dosage of Eleor determination.

He had given a polite smile and an acquiescing nod to the tea, and then settled himself into one of the chairs.  Even here in the middle of his Ministry office, with his perfect Queen's English and his occidental British mannerisms, Dreogan Eleor still maintained a hint of the East. 

They were going through the proper motions quickly this time -- the traditional offer of hospitality, the expected expression of thanks.  Atash waved off the other man's appreciation as he accepted the tea cup and saucer.  Balancing it on his knee, he settled back in the chair, watching Dreogan Eleor intently as he began to speak.

Like his proxy in Hogsmeade had before him, the diplomat gave few details to start off.  The Group -- it seemed as if all of this small circle of mages were obsessed with them, or at least overly concerned.  The Seer's suggestion that there was something to surmise -- that Eleor expected him to read between the lines -- made it likely that his initial suspicions had been correct.  There were sadly very few ways that a story such as this one could end.  Clearly, Dreogan Eleor had finally reached the penultimate moment of his tragedy.

He listened silently, taking in the words as much as the man.  An unpleasant topic -- it might be for Eleor, but Atash had no such reservations.  Plenty of regrets still lingered from his travels abroad, but his interactions with the Turkish group was not among them.  It did not surprise him that Dreogan Eleor felt differently.  From what little he knew of Adon Eleor, he wondered what the Seer's younger brother thought of his sibling's former association.

"I am happy to convey what counsel I can," replied Atash at last, giving the other mage a cautioning look, "but whatever Miss Cohen seems to think, I am no expert on the man who calls himself Gözde or on his allies, Mister Eleor.  I do not know how much advice I will be able to give."

"I am not looking for an expert," Dreogan responded with a quiet evenness.  Atash, of all people, seemed to distrust the term "expert" wholesale--it was little wonder, however confident Atash might seem in his abilities, that he would be bold with this caveat.  "I'm looking for someone who understands the situation differently than I do.  When seeking counsel, that is likely the most important attribute a person can have."
 
He rubbed his chin, the quiet rippling out to fill the room as he looked down at the mint leaves floating in his tea, sticking to the sides.  "Several years ago, you and I had a difference of opinion."  He tilted his head.  He may need to be a bit more specific.  "About dreams." He frowned.  "The question you posed to me--whether a person could change their fate--was, I will admit, something that I'd considered before in an academic or theoretical sense, but not in the same way I have considered it this past year.  And now," Dreogan said in a voice barely above a whisper, "you should know..." He shook his head, giving a sudden sigh through his nose.
 
He did not feel prepared for this conversation and, to a mind like Atash's, this would be abundantly apparent.  There had been too many balls in the air, with--between Gabriel and potionless nights--too little sleep, and too many dreams and too many variations to keep his mind straight.  "My dreams change," he stated with a blunt directness, giving the man the answer he had wanted years ago--likely years to late to mean anything to him.  But they meant everything to Dreogan in this moment.  "These dreams--the ones I have been having the past year--change.  I'm inclined to say that, rather than machinations of fate, they are prognostications." To a man like Atash, this was the closest he felt he could prudently admit to. Looking down, he swirled the teacup's contents, disturbing the mint before taking a sip and meeting the man's gaze once more, candidly.  "To resume our somewhat philosophical discussion from several years ago--with a bit more application on my end, I will venture to say that I have come to the conclusion that the only way of addressing these dreams is not to respond to the dream itself and be governed by outcomes, but to determine action through present understanding and circumstance--and let the dream, whatever it may be, be the consequence." He gave a wry smile.  "This is where your logic led you years ago."
 
Still, it felt unnatural.   Dreogan had been taught very strictly the relationship between consequence and action.  Faith, the act of fearing God was much the same as fearing (or desiring) consequence, and it was this that caused action.  God gave laws, and with them consequences, in order to guide mankind's actions.[1]  The only reconcilion that Dreogan had managed to make was that this was, perhaps, in a higher state, mankind was meant to act, not by a fear of punishment or desires of blessings, but independently.  Who a man was independent of threat or promise, was the true heart of a man.
 
Another pause.  "I have recently taken several steps to address this situation--one of which has been to establish a meeting with you.  My dream changes when I take action.  On November X, when we determined that we would meet, it changed again."  He frowned.  "We do not need to discuss how." In fact, they had not discussed the Dream at all.  "I only know this meeting is formative--and that is what I am after."

1.	Ezekiel 3:21

Several years ago -- a lifetime ago -- they had had a difference of opinion.  Put in such abstract, philosophical terms made it seem as if the conflict had been a mere academic spat, rather than anything that could have burdened either of their lives so heavily.  Atash would never admit that the Seer's warning had been the cause of any sleepless nights, but that did not mean that it was not so.  Choosing to walk a path in ignorance was not a decision that was only made once.  Knowledge only need be acquired once, after all; refusing to seek something out, especially when the answer was so readily accessible, took constant mental discipline.

But now it appeared that time and circumstance had shifted the Seer's paradigm.  Dreogan Eleor no longer spoke of avoidance or acceptance, but of choice and consequence.  Atash gave a quiet, slight smile, but did not comment in return.  They both now knew who had been in the right five years before.

The teacup was warm in his hands as he settled back to listen.  It did not take the other mage long to move from reconciling the past with his plan for the future.  The idea that this meeting might cause things to change -- the temptation was suddenly there again, to inquire if this changed things for worse or for better; to ask if his own fate might somehow tie in.  But Atash knew himself better than to give in so easily.  Instead, he sipped his tea and focused on the words themselves instead of any meaning behind them.

"So you wish to alter your fate," he remarked at last, frowning as he regarded the other man.  "Until you find an ending that you like?  I am not certain that preordainment works like that, Dreogan Eleor."  The mere act of choosing, of trying to alter, brought consequences unto itself.  As Eleor himself had said, either a man accepted his destiny or he tried to run from it.  Neither was ever fruitful.

But efficacy was not what the diplomat had asked him here to discuss.  Atash was quiet for a moment, and then glanced back at the other mage, tilting his head in silent apology.

"Either way," he said more softly, "I am sorry to hear about your brother.  That cannot be easy for either of you."  He traced a finger along the rim of his teacup, regarding it with a distant expression.  "Though it seems to be every Seer's tragedy.  That is not a burden that I think I would be able to bear.  It is much easier to live with only your own fate."

Dreogan shook his head decisively.  "No."  He let the firmness of that one syllable do its work in halting Atash's presumptions--including the presumption that giving the man an acknowledgement of Dreogan's own fallability, as well as Atash's former insight, did not give him knowledge in all things.  Least of all this.

 "I do not plan to alter my fate. You can be certain I would like to, but that is really not my priority."  Life was not a choose-your-own adventure book.  Dreogan did not exactly know how life and agency and predestination worked out entirely yet, but in that, he was in good company with the several billion living souls who had preceeded him in working out that predicament on this green earth.  "I wanted to let you know that I have, as things have begun to play out, been altering the Dream, whether I want to or not--sometimes in ways I do not like.  I am not sure, ultimately, if that will alter my fate; I don't suppose I will know for sure until I've faced it."  And this--this made him like any other man. A man without a set Fate.  He stirred his tea again. Tea was a poor, albeit habitual, choice for the evening. The tea was low, and he filled the drink again to its capacity, rather than risk the dregs taking form. It was not what he needed.

 "Impacting others' fates, and seeing its effect, is not particular to a Seer's life," he continued, setting his jaw.  "It would be rather reductive to think that one goes through life without impacts that alter the lives of others--whether or not those impacts have been Seen beforehand." He simply had a headstart in feeling the guilt.  Others, who had seen their brothers destroyed through their own actions, felt it more keenly after the fact.

 "Still," he said after a cautious pause, "thank you."  Expressing gratitdue was the surest way towards charitable feelings which, if Dreogan knew himself and the man before him well enough, was the only way he was going to be able to make it through this conversation together.

 He allowed a moment of thought to turn that gratitdue genuine.  Atash, after all, did not need to come.  And as superior as he liked to be, he was still here. Not--Dreogan hoped--to derive some source of self-satisfaction, though Dreogan would be a fool to think the man altruistic.  He had not proven himself to be in any instance in the past.

 "Originally, the goal of this conversation was to see if there was any way that you might be willing to be of service as an emissary to Godze's Group.  When speaking to Raizel, it became apparent that the best path available is to determine what it is they want, and to determine from there whether it ought to be delivered to them upon our terms, or kept safe at all costs." He frowned.  "Raizel seemed confident that you might be a neutral force in this.  I will admit I had my reservations whether you ought to be involved--for our sake, as wel las for yours. I know you do not have the personal involvement that I do in this--which is why I would trust your judgment.  But I know you would need other motivations and, to speak more or less plainly, while you have not, in the past, failed to name your conditions, I know your services are not to be acquired like some mercenary.  You have a profession that requires you to be there for your students. I respect that.  I did not want to interfere."

 He exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together in a firm line.  "But, as I have said, the Dream has changed, and with it, I have become resolved to see this converation through." He nudged the teacup on the table slightly.  A bit of the tea had trickled down the side, leaving a ring on the wood, which Dreogan now disturbed and expanded as he shifted the teacup distractedly as he spoke.  "My brother disappeared from the Dream altogether that night.  This could mean any number of things--which are fruitless to contemplate too deeply.  But I will admit that it is the strongest chance of his survival that I have had yet."  He pushed the teacup aside, altogether. 

 "You must understand," Dreogan said, folding his arms and resting them upon his desk.  A sharp smirk played across his lips.  "that I wish to change his fate. It may not work," he acknowledged steadily, "but I would not mind giving them a little bit of hell in the endeavor."

They sat alone in this very English office, but this conversation had shades of another that had happened a lifetime ago and half a world away.  Atash listened silently, his mouth pressed thoughtfully closed.  Dreogan Eleor was saying the right words -- right enough that he could guess who had given them to him.  The diplomat was going out of his way to make peace in this moment.  Clearly, he valued his success in this endeavor very highly indeed.

And soon it became clear as to why.  His brother had vanished from the dream --  Atash raised his eyebrows, but did not ask whom he had been replaced by.  It was too easy to get pulled into that game, to make changes here and there to try and lessen one's fate.  That had been the lesson that he had missed half a lifetime ago.  The Seer's intentions to save his brother were far nobler and more selfless, but that did not change the danger of his actions.

Atash frowned, looking as if he were deciding whether or not to speak, and then finally shook his head.  "I think," he said seriously, his eyes on the mage's, "that in contemplating this prophetic dream at all that you are sabotaging yourself and your brother, Dreogan Eleor.  I have seen it before."  He shrugged, rubbing a finger idly against one of the bracelets on his wrist.  "Not with yourself, but other visions, other Seers.  When you feel as though you can peek several moves ahead, it is too easy to focus on the end of the game.  You may miss the danger in the present."

Tilting his head to the side, he gave an easy, effortless shrug.

"So instead," he remarked with a mild, ironic smile, "let us decide what actions make the most sense now, rather than discussing what result they may have one day.  Ignoring the fact that Miss Cohen seems convinced that she can call in the same debt at least a dozen times over," he added in an exceedingly dry tone, "you will have to tell me more, Mister Eleor.  Why do you think that the man called Gözde wants something from you?"

"Thank you," Dreogan said, raising a hand, "for your intentions, but I have seen a great deal, too."  Atash was continuing in that self-righteous, pedantic tone that Dreogan had seen very clearly in his uncle's comportment when handling people he did not very much like.  He was civil. He was polite.  And he cornered them through belittling into going along and doing exactly as he said.

This unnerved Dreogan.  They may not have many resources, or many places to turn, but the man's comportment, his resistance, and their past history gave little assurance that he would be an ally.  Disclosing this level of information to a questionable force might not, as he had felt with Raizel, be "better than nothing." 

"I'm glad you agree--then.  That is what I am proposing," he stated, stubbornly.  He did not need to be held accountable to this man--to explain that he'd intentionally stopped the dreams a year ago, and that he'd stopped after the one-week of dreams he'd promised Raizel.  He didn't need to defend himself, and--that gut instinct that was breaking through a thin veneer of trained politics and politeness--this man shouldn't be making him feel as though he ought to.

With a light sigh, he rubbed his chin, looking at his teacup, rather than the man as he spoke.  "The logic does not escape me.  If the dream changes, it is not a reliable cipher, and you--you have nothing to do with the dream.  What I am doing, in this moment, is breaking from it."  He exhaled through his nose slowly,  "That being said, and before I go into rather sensitive particulars, if you do not wish to be involved in this affair, I will take no offense. You owe no debt to me," he gave a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulder, "and, as you point out, you may not owe a debt to anyone.  Suffice it to say that this affair has spanned generations--and that, if they did attempt to take or attack me, it would not be the first time."