It was nearly six o'clock in the evening and Dreogan was where he was every Saturday evening: returning from prayers at his temple, hazarding the minefield of tourism and teenage punks that filled the streets of Camden Street every weekend: at least 100,000 visitors each weekend. Dreogan pulled out his mobile, pressing number six and waiting for someone to pick up on the other end, nervously.

"Hey. Kiva." Dreogan's smile was broad as he shouldered his way past the bustling crowd of tourists and Londoners dressed in pleather and PVC. Camden Market. Dreogan, on the other hand, was dressed in his typical dark suit and tie, his yarmulka still atop his head, unnoticed in his mass of curly hair. "Am I calling at a bad time?"

Dreogan was shouldered by two teens in dark trenches. Dreogan paused, letting the phone drop down from his ear a moment as he paused to watch them walk broodily past. His yarmulka had nearly slid of his head, and now feeling the weight of it, he removed it and shoved it into his inner pocket of his blazer. The two looked back at him, eyebrows raised.

Teen angst. Perhaps the only language that crossed all cultures.

He shook his head, the smile reaffixed. "Sorry. I'm at Camden Market. The crowd's particularly . . . colourful today. Yeah--just coming back from Church. My mother stayed to talk to . . . she's got this women's group and as much as I like to be harangued by eight middle-aged Jewish ladies, I've left her to her own devices." Dreogan looked both ways to reorient himself, not wanting to bump into anyone else, and wet his lips. He didn't want to head home just yet. Work was waiting for him there, and it was such a clear day. Perhaps he'd take the opportunity to wander a bit. It had been a while since he had explored this market. Maybe he'd visit Portobello Market instead. Yes. He'd take the tube; mercifully the District and Circle line actually seemed to be in service today. "So . . . how was your day?"

Dreogan by now had separated himself from the bulk of the crowd and paused, hearing the reception fade out. He retraced his steps. "Hello? Kiva?" he asked, looking at his surroundings. A small shop -- The Black Rose and beside it . . . Spank Clothing. Fetish wear. Dreogan looked away quickly and moved forward, risking losing reception altogether. "I'm sorry -- reception's a bit shady here. Can you hear me?"

It was a shame the Ministry didn't understand how making people suffer was therapeutic.  If they did, they'd have a much better shot of relating to former Death Eaters and his ilk.  And, perhaps, they'd understand better that the hours of therapy the Ministry forced his type to sit through only increased their desire to wreck revenge on the Ministry. 

Today had been Blame Mother day in group therapy.  Within ten minutes, most of his fellow group participants had realized the grimy old witch that led the group wouldn't be sated until each of them provided some horrendous story about their mothers.  The first few stories, maybe, had been true.  By the third, though, Cináed, Arnie and Larry had settled into a fabulous one-up game where each sought to improve upon the previous fabricated horrendous mother horror story. 

As usual, his path back home led him through an interesting muggle neighborhood.  It was a strange place; many of the muggle kids dressed more like wizards than many of the wizards these days.  And they had a strange apathy about them.  Playing with their minds wasn't quite terrorizing but was still slightly therapeutic.  And, it was easy.  There were so many paranoid muggles, it didn't take much to set their minds to running. 

A faint easy wisp of black smoke drifted from the tip of his cigarette as he trailed two paces behind the young woman.  The rabbit's foot jingled against the front of his full length leather robe.  In true predatory fashion, his eyes were glued on the young woman's back.  It took only a few steps for the girl to become aware of her stalker.  Her steps quickened but Cináed's stride quickly and easily matched it. 

The girl looked over her shoulder, keenly aware of the strength of the stranger's gaze but, otherwise unaware of other surroundings, she caught her shoulder on something.  She staggered slightly, reaching out and grasping the arm of the young man on the cell phone.  "Oh - excuse - excuse me," she said, glancing uneasily back towards the long-haired man standing a few feet away, still watching her. 

"Not to worry," Dreogan responded automatically with a light smile, prepared to move on, yet surprised that she still maintained the pressure on his arm, steadying herself. Apparently she was quite shaken. Examining her face, he realised the blow was not merely physical. She seemed terrified.
 
He followed her gaze and straightened instinctively. "Kiva? I'm sorry . . . I'll . . . call you . . . back," he muttered distractedly, taking in the man's appearance. He seemed to fit in, the elder version of the teen menaces frequenting the place. But the gaze was doubtless more predatory, more malicious, practised, and hardened than his own assailants: the angsty teen punks. Under Dreogan's observation, the man unashamedly continued his stare, quite unlike the pickpockets, whose eyes and paths shifted as they sensed detection. This man was confident. He had an air that felt familiar to Dreogan . . . He had fought men like this.
 
Looking between the young woman and the man, Dreogan took a step toward the man to place himself between them. He kept his tone even and his expression relaxed. "I'm sorry. Do you need something?" As he breathed in, he felt the comforting pressure of his wand and candle in his inner pocket. He'd not reach for them, however. The man might think he was going for a knife; that would prompt action, and Dreogan still felt fairly confident this might be resolved peacably.

Really, becoming an animagus would be worth the effort in the end.  Not only would it help during the continued absence of a wand, but he'd always wondered what it'd be like to be able to smell fear.  It must be fantastic.  And, as the girl with the overly black hair stumbled against some fellow talking into his hand, Cináed could just imagine the aroma of panic she must be giving off.  Like perfume.   

While his attire shared the darker palette of most of the youngsters in the are, the style of the clothing was far less ... Cináed wasn't actually sure what they called it.  Ragged.  No, the fellow was dressed how most older muggles dressed when they went to their jobs during the day.  So clean, so boring. 

Pathetic muggle.

A small, shallow grin twitched at the corners of his mouth at the young man, but for a few breaths, his eyes remained fixed on the dark-haired girl.  What he'd actually do if he cornered her, he didn't know.  Most of the time, he wouldn't know until the opportunity presented itself - but he was always careful.  Any traces of the encounter was usually categorized by the idiotic muggle reporters as typical ... what did they call it ... teenage punk trouble.  They were a tough crowd, after all.  But, fate it seemed, would not elaborate on what fate might have held in store for the girl.  All thanks to her wood-be savior. 

"I'm sorry?" Cináed replied, disinterestedly after retrieving the cigarette from his mouth and blowing a lungful of black smoke in the muggle's face.  "I don't see how its any of your business."  He took another, long lazy draw off the fag.  With a twitch of an amused grin he nodded to the girl behind the fellow, his lip curling as he flicked a wink her way.  The girl flinched.  Muggles.  They were so predictable.  "Mother just wanted to make sure my dear sister had her lunch money.  We'd hate for her to get hungry.  She's a little ... "  he leaned down and towards the suited fellow and twirled a tattooed finger around an ear.  "...confused sometimes."

Dreogan had been complimented on diplomacy -- it was, after all, his present job -- but he had as of yet to receive any compliment on his acting.

Which was why, perhaps, despite Dreogan's better jugment, he was unable to maintain a calm composure. As the man leaned in, blowing smoke, Dreogan reflexively tensed and took two steps back. Dreogan realised only a moment afterward that such an action could be taken as a momentary yield. Far from his intent, the reaction had been instinctive: keep out of striking range and out of arm's reach. Consistent with this, Dreogan's expression betrayed none of the fear of the young woman, yet wavered considerably from his diplomatic expression of civil courtesy. He found himself unable to keep the look of disdain from his face. His lip curled slightly and his brows lowered.

"I see," he stated curtly, a sharp edge in his voice. In a lighter tone, though no less pointed, he added, "You'll forgive me for observing that your . . . dear sister doesn't seem to want to be any of your business." Dreogan allowed his gaze to level with the other man authoritatively.

He took it all in: the distinctive tatoos, the height of the man, the hair -- one could not help but notice that beard -- the cut of the coat (almost wizarding, to his eye, but that seemed to be the effect these Goths strove for), the stare. Those eyes. Yes, the eyes said it all. He knew the type. Getting thrills from preying on the weak. The need to feel control; not over goals or situations, but over human lives. Control through depriving humanity; sometimes even depriving life. Hell only knew what the man wanted with the girl -- possibly only to scare, possibly for more -- but Dreogan decided it stopped here.

Turning from the man deliberately, he smiled at the young woman. "We'll get you a taxi, hmn?" he said, squaring his shoulders protectively and slowly beginning to walk, listening for the man's steps behind them. Their location was not ideal, their area still secluded, and the predatory man very much appeared as though he could easily have friends here. As subtly as he could, Dreogan slipped his hand into his suit pocket, feeling through the various items there until he felt it: ihwaz. Taking the smooth runic stone between his fingers, he pulled it out and, putting his arm momentarily across the small of her back in a guise of guiding her, Dreogan tried to covertly drop the rune of protection into her pocket.

He was not, however, subtle enough. Without the use of his magic, Dreogan's stealth was markedly reduced. The woman, now on high alert, twisted away from him as soon as she sensed his hand upon her pocket, and looked at him with an expression of mingled fear, suspicion, and betrayal.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, eyes wide.

Dreogan bit the inside of his cheek as his jaw clamped shut. A fair question. One, he realised with wide eyes, he had not been prepared to answer.

OOC: Breaking off here in case Cin has been following them the few steps they've taken.

It mattered little what prompted the reaction.  Whatever it was, Cináed couldn't deny the satisfaction the bubbled up as the young man took a step back.  What had started out as a frustratingly dull day was continuing to look more promising with each moment.  This muggle was proving to be quite the source of entertainment.  Perhaps even more so than the girl might have been.  Even if nothing came of it, fostering a little indiscriminate fear would, at least, provide for some amusing stories around the pub that evening.

"How friendly," Cináed said, laughing derisively.  From the curled lip and the unfriendly scowl, the love was radiating from the muggle's face so nicely.  He looked over the fellow's shoulders at the girl.  "Oh, but you know how it is.  He really likes going to the Healer - or school-" or whatever those bloody muggles called them.  "But, sometimes we all have to do something we don't want to."

Cináed followed behind the pair.  Which of the two actually was proving to spark his interest the most, he didn't know quite yet.  Girls, especially of the somewhat insecure ilk that frequented this neighborhood, were such amusing and satisfying targets.  But, the hero-playing meddler seemed to almost be begging for attention. 

Muggles - male or female examples of the lesser beings, were miserable and weak.  The fellow was being stoic now but that only seemed to heighten the temptation.  And, those muggle investigators were so naive, so stupid.  Chances were, he could find a wand, blast a muggle's ears off, leave the wand next to the body with the ears and they'd still refuse to see it for what it was.  "Gang violence" was always the explanation.  And, without the wand left behind, the Ministry was, likewise, naive.

They rarely investigated muggle on muggle violence, especially if there was nothing suspiciously 'magical' about the interaction.  There were some forms of muggle violence that were, easily, just as satisfying as wandwork. 

Cináed drew up, his eyebrow lifted in surprise as he noticed the fellow drop something in the girl's pocket.  The girl turned towards the fellow in an accusatory, her unease intensified by the previous suspicions.  Christmas had, apparently, come early to Cináed.  "Oh, can't you see, my dear sister," Cináed said, nodding towards the man next to her.  "You never know who you can trust.  Just because he's being subtle about it, doesn't mean he doesn't have ... his own questionable motives.  How do you know who, really, to trust.  At least, I'm not lying to you."

Cináed cast a satisfied smile at the would-be hero before turning back towards the girl.  "I know you heard never to take candy from strangers.  That tidbit he slipped in your pocket might be poisonous."

Dreogan's face changed, grew even more attentive -- if such a thing was possible -- the moment the word "Healer" was spoken. He had never heard the word used by a Muggle. It was always "doctor." "Nurse." "Physician." "Therapist. . . shrink." More than ever, Dreogan was on his guard, keeping as best he could a nonplussed expression as the young man approached. Gave his glib monologue.

Dreogan held up his hand, the rune still between his fingers, for all to see. He wondered if the menace would recognise it; if he'd allow any recognition to dawn across his face if he did. Meanwhile, Dreogan strove to find the words.

Now, how the hell did one explain a rune to a Muggle? "It's . . . a good luck charm." He gave a small, sheepish smile. "I thought you might need it.  Though . . . I should have asked," he managed quietly.

The girl, still looking between the two men from the street, noticed the men's looks. At each other. She seemed to waver, teeter on the edge of some decision. Finally, with a bluntness that overcompensated for erratic fear, she blurted, "I've got to go," and began quickly, abruptly to walk away.

Dreogan made no move, rather watching the trench coated man. If he chose to follow after the girl, he'd intervene. But if the predator decided to drop the chase and the prey found an opportunity to escape, he'd not impede this. It had, after all, been his goal in stepping in in the first place.

"Maybe your sister's a big girl," Dreogan said to him. "Maybe she doesn't need either of our help."

The change in the dainty fellow's face didn't go unnoticed.  He regarded the other with undisguised curiosity, drawing in a deep breath off his cigarette as he did.  Without the advantage of words, through the curiosity in his expression, Cináed was attempting to inquire: are you one, as well? of the man.  Instead of voicing his question, though, he exhaled another lungful of smoke. 

Again, without words, Cináed's question seemed to have been offered an answer with the upheld rune.  So, the other man was, despite appearances, a wizard. Cináed's lips wrinkled into a grin around his cigarette and he nodded his head in acknowledgment of this new development.  Fabulous. 

Pathetic.  But, fabulous. 

"Of course, of course," he called after the black-haired girl as she made a hasty retreat.  "Dear sister, be careful.  You never know who might be lurking in the shadows."  He stared after the girl, pointedly ignoring the fellow for several minutes.  For the time being, he'd have to be satisfied with the visualizations of the fun he might have had had this puny guy not intervened.  He let out another long puff of smoke in the girl's direction just as she slipped out of sight. 

"Yes.  A big girl," he repeated.  If it weren't for the grin still twitching at the corner of his mouth, the response might have simply seemed sincere.  "Shame."  It was only then that Cináed turned his attention to the fellow.  So, the thin man before him was a fellow wizard.  The man's attire was muggle - and not even the poor attempt at muggle attire that most wizards managed.  He was convincing.  Again, pathetic.  The grin persisted on Cináed's face but the edges of it had hardened.  "I would have shared," he said, darkly.  "If you'd asked."

What was implied, what was suggested, the lewd commidification of a human life implied in the simple word "sharing," such a perversity of community, a bastardisation of the socialist living Dreogan had come to admire . . . These things, delivered with such glib amusement . . .

Something within Dreogan snapped and the only external manifestations were a sharp intake of breath through his nose, the hardening of his features, and an intensity in his voice that had not been there whilst the girl had been present. It could not have been; Dreogan learned that agression shown during a potential hostage situation escalated threats rather than ameliorated them. However, now, Dreogan took several steps forward, looking up at the man -- who stood several inches taller -- with an unveiled gesture of confrontation.

"I would never," he spoke in a fervent, low tone, "ask anything from you." He looked squarely at the man in front of him. The man, parading behind beard and tattoos was not accustomed, he suspected, to receiving threats. But not because he was supreme; no. If that were the case, he would not have picked an easy target. It was because, Dreogan reasoned, he did not rise up to the occasion. This propensity, to sell himself lower than he might, was perhaps merciful; he might have picked a more prominent target . . .

Dreogan paled at his own train of thought. A life was a life, no matter who the person was: Muggle or Mage. It did not matter if the man had threatened the Prime Minister or the Minister of Magic. Dreogan would have acted the same. And then, Dreogan wondered and weighed out the disadvantages to positioning himself so opposite to the man's goals. Inside, Dreogan felt a timidity he loathed, mingling with the temerity that prompted action. Rash action. Dreogan grit his jaw and said nothing -- did nothing -- more.

There was never a way to tell from looking at a mage their ability, and the man's confidence -- much like Dreogan's own -- betrayed experience and expertise, but Dreogan had encountered capable mages before and come off the victor. It was fortunate for the man, Dreogan decided, that he had met with him here. On Diagon, even Knockturn, Dreogan might have been moved to acts.

"I never want to see you come back here. And I will know if you do." Dreogan's vindiction and confidence were unwavering. He ran through the list of precautions he would take on Camden Street. Scrying -- a surveillance map. A ward would be too ambitious. The first two would be deterrent enough in the area, perhaps. The man probably had a larger feeding ground and was practised enough to know to change his patterns. Scrying, when prudently used, might be able to trace his movements.

Silently, he stood, unyieldingly close to the menace of a man, awaiting some indication his words were more than understood: they would be heeded.

It was delicious.  Cináed had struck a nerve and had prodded the scrawny kid to action.  Course, 'kid' was probably an unfair label.  For all he knew, the man in front of him was older than he was.  But, whereas Cináed looked older than he was and this fellow, with his buttery smooth face and head covered with frizzy, curly hair looked younger in comparison. 

However old the 'kid' in front of him was irrelevant.  When Cináed saw the reaction behind the other's eyes it was clear: the game had been officially turned on.  Cináed took a deep drag off his fag.  As the fellow took a step towards him, Cináed opened his mouth and exhaled a series of puffs of smoke at the fellow.  With each puff, his lips curled in a slight snarl. 

"Again.  Shame.  I'm sure she would have been.." Cináed repeated, darkly, whatever humor had been in his voice earlier gone.  "Enjoyable company."  He took a few moments, regarding the man as he took another breath.  Hunting muggles was sport.  Nothing more, nothing less.  A way to pass an afternoon in whatever manner seemed to fit the time.   In his mind, it wasn't about weakness or cowardice - muggles didn't have enough relative worth in his eyes to warrant such consideration.  It was, simply, personal enjoyment. 

The man that stood in front of him now, though, was a different story.  He was a wizard - and, it seemed, a muggle-lover at that.  Which raised the stakes but, also, raised the potential satisfaction.  He couldn't outright attack the fellow; doing so would land him back in Azkaban far too quickly and this muggle-lover wasn't worth that.  But, the prick had to be reminded of the natural order of things. 

"I wasn't aware you had authority over this neighborhood," Cináed pointed out, arching an eyebrow.  "Besides, I've done nothing wrong.  Surely, I'm still entitled to the same basic rights as them."  He nodded to the muggles around them, most of whom had settled back into their routine.  "You simply don't like me.  Surely, that's not enough reason to deprive me of my rights.  No?"

Dreogan's jaw grew tight as the man blew smoke into his face but did not flinch, thinking instead on how he wished the man to choke on his own smoke as his own words. It was a shame the setting did not allow for it.

It was a shame Dreogan was a Ministry worker and a diplomat.

It was a shame Dreogan Eleor was his father's son; he wasn't sure he could ever do such a thing. Stop aggression, yes. But retaliate? Perpetuate?

The man before him was clearly deranged; hardened. Not a bit of remorse, and where there could be no remorse, there could be no reform. Perhaps it wasn't such a shame that Dreogan was a Ministry worker after all. Perhaps Tamis might know something of this man. Dreogan thought on the tattoos on the man's arms. Those would be distinctive. If the man was a former criminal -- and his mannerisms betrayed much practise -- they should know.

Perhaps he was not the only one who would be keeping an eye on this man.

Dreogan said nothing on authority. It was not only an issue which he himself struggled with at times -- how could one have authority over another person? -- but also did not wish to touch upon his affiliation with the Ministry. Particularly to this man, who he suspected would be less than friendly to such associations. Not that the man was particularly friendly. There was nothing so macabre and sinister as malice masquerading behind smiles and easy words.

"I think," he said mildly, "you've misunderstood the principle of 'rights.'" He shifted his weight, tilting his chin slightly. "You see, rights implies the ability to act while remaining under the protection of the state. One has a right to speak freely; the state will not interfere. What you are really referring to is agency. One may act as he will, but not without consequences. You have chosen to harass a young woman. Harassment is an offense not sanctioned by the state apparatus and is not free of consequence. Whether I like you or not . . . that is inconsequential." His face grew hard. "But I'm sure you are correct in your perceptions on that."

Cináed's eyes narrowed and, with a sly grin, he took a small, though distinctive towards the prat.  There really wasn't that much room to move between them; just enough to make the gesture hard to ignore. 

The tension was palpable, almost taste-able.  Cinaed could feel the adrenaline filling his bloodstream and it made him feel alive.  He wanted to push the man in front of him to reaction.  He knew he couldn't strike first, but - oh, to see him loose control.  He was treading on thin ice but, so far, it seemed everything could be explained away with simple ignorance. 

The prick finally spoke.  Why was it that those that disapproved of violence also seemed the ones to use long, convoluted sentences.  Hiding behind their words as if they were a shield.  "I don't want the protection of the state," Cinaed said, quietly, deeply.  "Nor do I want it.  The state is for those unable - or unwilling to decide for themselves who the enemy is." 

"And, yet, there have been no consequences," Cinaed replied, a broad grin spreading across his face.  "But, I consider myself dutifully slapped on the wrist.  Thank you.  I've been enlightened.  Feck off."  If the man wasn't willing to rise to the challenge, Cinaed would get bored quick.  The day was young and Cinaed was full of adrenaline to work off.

Dreogan willed his hand to relax, to not reach into his suit jacket. Instead, he ran his thumb along his palm, his other hand in his pocket, feeling the rune there.

"The state," Dreogan said tensely, also leaning in, nearly chest-to-chest with the man now, "is for those who  know what community is and who choose to--"

His words came to a halt, however, as a familiar voice travelled from down the busy street. "Dreogan?" Determined to wait it out -- to not appear weak to this man -- he tried at first not to notice, only stiffening in response.  "Dree!" The sigh was insistent now, and something in Dreogan yielded, collapsed, as he took a step back and turned towards the source of the voice, now much closer and nearly at his elbow. To his right, his mother, a shorter woman with soft features eyed the two men scrutinisingly, eyes widening, jaw setting. "I'm sorry," she said finally --Dreogan didn't think she sounded very much like she was. -- crossing the distance to the two men, continuing to take in every detail, looking at the man's hands, her son's temples, his jaw, the man's smile and tattoos. . .

"Don't be," Dreogan said finally, eyes still resting on the bearded man. "You weren't interrupting anything." There was a moment's silence in which Dreogan feared with an almost tangible anxiety that his mother might speak directly to the man, but her only response was to frown deeper.

"Come on," Dreogan urged, painfully exercising his self-composure in order to turn from the man, now wishing with his mother here, to be out of the way of the menace, frustrated now that the man had seen her. He'd like to have kept her in the dark about all of this and entirely uninvolved. He offered his arm to her and began to walk, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders before his mother noticed. She always had an eye for those things. But then, Dreogan had never been good at hiding it.

Cinaed snorted, his lips trembling slightly in suppressed annoyance around the filter of his cigarette.  He had no positive words to share about the state; the state had never been that good to him.  His father was already in Azkaban and had suffered the dementor's kiss during Cinaed's earliest memories.  He perished a short time later.  That series of events had already soured his taste for government long before he'd been arrested himself. 

"It's sad,"  he said quietly, lowly.  "If you define your community by its submission to the state." 

For the first time during their exchange, Cinaed pulled his attention away from the man in front of him as the prat retreated and turned towards the source of a shouted name.  His eyes scanned the crowd quickly for the source of the name, finally settling on the short frame of a woman.  Cinaed looked from the woman back to the man and back again.  The similarities weren't glaringly obvious but they were there to be seen.  This woman was, definitely, related to this man.  Dreogan.  The name, as well, was familiar.  It would be one he'd be investigating.

"Oh, how rude," Cinaed said as this man, Dreogan, turned away with the woman.  The cold, threatening tone had left his voice completely.  A broad grin settled on his features.  "You didn't even bother introducing us.  What kind of person denies others such basic etiquette?  Even I wouldn't be as crass." 

Cinaed dropped the cigarette on the ground and snubbed it into the ground with the heel of his shoe.  "Of course, I'm sure we'll be meeting again, fair lady."

The man did not understand, could not understand, and likely never would understand: state was community. It was meant to preserve community; true, yes, it did at times define community when deciding who would be included and excluded -- a matter Dreogan found historically problematic when that juristinction was alotted to those less than worthy of such weighty decisions, those who didn't represent the opinions of the whole -- but community was not subservient to state. Because the state represented what it preserved, community dictated state. Or ought to.

It did on the kibbutz. It very well could here, if things were made right.

But the man before him could not understand that, he decided as he turned and, arm in arm with his mother, began to walk. At his jeering retor, Dreogan felt rather than saw his mother's eyes shift towards him to read her cues. He kept his gaze stiffly forward, jerking the labels of his coat to relieve the tight feeling across his shoulders. His mother was gripping his arm tighly, causing it to shift across his shoulders. He pulled now on the bottom of the coat, nodding as it seemed to fall into place. "Keep walking; don't bother," he instructed in a low tone. He did not pause in his step, though he momentarily considered calling out a retort to the man: how could he introduce a man whose name he did not know?

Because, the truth was, Dreogan needed to know the man's name. Dreogan had yielded more than he would have liked, more than this man had. The man had a name now, and surely he knew if he was not Ministry, he was in defense of it. And he knew his mother, now, too.

This was most troubling; best to get her out now.

But as the man voiced Dreogan's fears -- a sinister threat lackadaisically couched in the rhetoric of tired farewells -- Dreogan jerked to a stop, shaking with restrained anger. His mother, intent on following his first advice, tugged on his arm.

"Come on, Dree. Let's go," she cooed. Dreogan didn't appear to hear it, but felt the grip on his arm tighten as he stood, still rooted to the ground. He considered.

The man probably had a wand. Negligible -- Dree had fought many heavily armed mages before. They were surrounded by Muggles. Insurmountable -- he could not make a scene. His mother was here. Not ideal. . . not ideal.

He couldn't. The man couldn't know; he was prodding. Trying to find a weakness. . . If he knew . . .

Dreogan exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the tug on his coat from his mother. He felt sick. Nearly dizzy with anger. In a moment, Dreogan realised that while he had always prepared for this, suspected it, he had never fully anticipated this: his family had only been threatened twice. It stopped his world each time.

"Dreogan!" his mother now hissed in his ear. "We are leaving now!"

Uncertainly, he turned to look her in the eyes. Terrified. Dreogan gave a hollow smile to match his stomach and nodded. "Alright," he said, moving again, his mother matching, then outstretching his pace. Dreogan consciously kept an even step and did not once look back to see if the man was still watching.

In a little while, he would not need to see the man to know where he was.