It almost wasn’t satisfying. Smoking a cigar and not being clouded in its rich fumes. He couldn’t not not smoke. It would ruin a perfectly good opportunity to monopolize on a villainous cliché. Lurking just beyond the streetlight in the shadow of a nearly abandoned building, lying in wait for the good hero to return unsuspecting. All the while nonchalantly enjoying a good fag. But the smoke. The smell would give him away.

And where was the fun if it killed his entrance?

Letting out a low, long smokeless breath, the man in question carelessly flicked the ashes of his cigar on the concrete as he took in the storefront, entirely unimpressed. Peeling letters above the threshold declared ‘Reed and Wright’, the muggle’s attempted clever pun for the bookstore had obviously failed as it was clearly out of business. And, judging by the cobwebs growing just visible in the grimy upstairs window, the only slightly-more-magical but no less discrete operations above had long since desist as well.

Leaning back against the alley wall, Richard Burke took another long draw on his cigar and crossed his arms. Just for a moment doubting the validity of his information.

It was not like it was a waste of time. Where else did he have to be? But it would be embarrassing.

More embarrassing than it already was. Icing on the cauldron cake, as it were. Nothing quite beat having to crawl back to the Middle East with his tail between his legs to inform his Egyptian… associates… that his little vacation back to the United Kingdom had not quite been the lounging under dreary skies he had been hoping for. All thanks to the red-headed investigator who once lived and worked out of this establishment. Before he got his badge back and decided to become a very big red sore on Burke’s unmentionables.

But, he apparently limped his way back here a handful of weekends out of the month, to check the mail.

The Irish wizard’s face was impossible to read, masked in the shadows of the deepening evening. This was a fantastically bad idea. His worst yet. The man, known in the business simply as The Irish Man, was careful – very careful. Its how he bloody well survived all of these years. But he was, in one word, Desperate.

And sometimes a calculated risk was in order.

So for the second weekend in a row. Here he was. Annoyed. But patient.

And it turned out that there was reason patience was tooted as a virtue. The red hair might have been a more noticeable trademark, if it wasn’t hidden beneath one of the most ridiculous hats Burke had yet to lay eyes on. And with British Wizarding fashion, that was saying something. The slight off-kilter cadence to the man’s step though. That was telling enough.

He waited until he was busying himself with his mail before he spoke, tossing the nearly spent cigar on the sidewalk.

“Yer know,” he started, accent thick. Maybe on purpose. “There’s a phrase…sumthin’ ‘bout snakes…steppin’ on ‘em… nae seein’ ‘em.”

Once upon a time, the little office above the secondhand bookstore near Covent Garden had been better than his second home.  Ever since Jonas and his wife had moved back to London, he'd spent most of his waking hours here.  When his marriage had gone sour, he'd spent most of his non-waking hours here as well: it had been work station and bedroom and sanctuary, a refuge when he hadn't had one, a place where he could escape when nothing seemed to be going right.

When he'd first taken a job with the Ministry, Tamis had asked him to keep his office and his practice.  Back then, it had seemed a good a chance as any to draw Tawse in.  But trying to stay undercover hadn't lasted long.  He still used it occasionally -- when he wanted to meet with Lexus or someone else who couldn't come into the office, or as a repository for all of the files that he hadn't wanted Cameron Rosier to find.  But in the year since he'd rejoined the Auror Corps, he'd been coming here less and less, until even stopping in to check the post on a Saturday seemed a chore.

He hadn't wanted to come today -- there was plenty else he would rather be doing -- but he'd put it off for too many weeks running.  As usual, parking on the street had been abysmal.  He'd settled for a spot two blocks down around the corner, and hiked the rest of the way in the light rain.  It had taken a moment to turn off the alarm, fumble for his keys and get the door open -- the lock tended to stick, now that it was only rarely being turned -- and bent to collect the Muggle post that had been building up on floor behind the mail slot when...

“There’s a phrase…"

Jonas's blood went cold.

He knew that voice.  In a dark alleyway, just before it was lit one last time by a flash of green light.[1]  On a recording, as it booked a doomed plane trip for Kabir Ahmed.  He'd heard it a dozen times in his dreams, replayed the sound over and over as he tried to imagine what he'd do if he ever came face to face with the man again.

And now, here he was: the Irish Man, standing before him.

Jonas let out the breath he was holding, flexed his hand, and gathered the letters in his arm.  His left one -- he left his right one free, at his side and relaxed.  No wands yet, but ready to draw.

"Last time I stepped on a snake, it got electrocuted," he said conversationally.  It took everything he could muster to turn around and face the man, to keep his voice level.  He slanted a glance to one side, then the other.  No one else that he could see.  If this was an ambush, the worst of it hadn't hit yet. 

Which meant, Jonas thought with cold and clear precision, that he still had a chance to murder this man before he walked away.

1.	Into That Good Night

A slow, dangerous grin flashed white in dark as the man named Jonas Trevelyan failed to disappoint. The Auror froze, shoulders tensing – but he didn’t startle, didn’t jump. Burke had really expected no less. After all, Auror. But he could just make out the other man’s eyes tracking left and right, quickly evaluating the street and their neighboring buildings, his wand arm dropping would-be-casual to his side. The grin on Burke’s face grew until it was all teeth. Dark wizard hunters were so much fun. Especially these British ones.

They had never met formally, this ginger and himself. Just a quick skirmish over used books a while back. The man and his Israeli consort had cost him a good deal that afternoon. They had cost him a good many things in the past couple of years. Aurors. They were so much fun. But they were also a bloody nuisance; sticking their noses where they had no right belonging.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the frigid drizzle pattering the sidewalk, Burke was the epitome of nonchalance as he stepped further into the buzzing glow of the streetlight – only sparing the muggle contraption one annoyed glance before settling his attention back on the Auror. As if he did not realize (or simply did not care) that the slightly taller man was best entertaining how to kill him.

The Irish Man was… rougher. The five o’clock shadow coating his chin and neck was less rugged stubble and more two-day-old uncheck beard. His dark hair was a little longer than he normally might have worn it and plastered damply to his skull. There was a still healing bruise on his newly tanned right cheek. He was a powerfully built man but looked like he might have missed a few meals. His step was slightly checked. As if there were injuries not currently obvious to the naked eye. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a dangerous tension about the man, like a leopard would eye a gazelle when it was not particularly hungry. The mirth of his grin did not reach his eyes.

His Egyptian associates had been… very persuasive… about returning to England.

And he would very much like to pay Jonas Trevelyan back the favor.

Instead, he laughed at the other man’s quip, pointing a finger at him and eyes dancing as if sharing a joke between two old friends.

“That was you!?” He laughed again, at the irony more than anything else. Of course he had been the one to barbeque his little present to the spitfire Niobe Thursby. It had been quite rude. He had even sent a card. And it was the only verbal confirmation he gave the Auror that he even knew what he was talking about. Smart lad. He’d figure it out.

The grin faded, his lips compressing into something more sinister. “Aye. Well. Th’ last bloke that got in me way suffered ah worse fate.”

It was a throw-away comment, a sparing of words as much as a thinly veiled warning. These Ministry types did not appreciate a good back-and-forth of casual death threats, though. They all had their funny bones removed when they took up the badge. So he held up a placating finger,

“Fer the record. I nae make it oot o’ here, an’ yer little reporter lassie dinnae make the night.” He tilted his head, giving Jonas a reproachful look. “Ye should really look into gettin’ her sum better protection, mate.”

The Auror’s confidence had grown when he say the streets still empty around them. And Burke could not resist rolling his eyes, spreading his arms, making no motion at all to his wand, indicating the vacant space, clucking his tongue in disappointment. “An’ ye thought ah didn’t bring collateral.” He slid his hands back inside of his pockets. He wasn’t an amateur. He had back up and it was where he needed it. Unlike the intent written clearly across Jonas’ face, he wasn’t here to kill the other man. He sobered, stating seriously, “Just want’t talk, mate.”

Jonas stared at the other wizard, his expression unreadable. 

Mentally, he ran through his list of options.  Niobe Thursby was capable of taking care of herself.  The witch hadn't lasted this long as a capable reporter without the ability to get out of scraps, although the Runespoor smuggling ring usually tended to go for overpowering numbers.  But even so, he wasn't about to protest.  If this man in front of him had chosen to target Niobe to keep him in line instead of threatening Jonas's own family, he wouldn't disabuse him of the notion.

Which brought up why he'd gone through all this trouble; why this man had supposedly decided to 'talk,' instead of hexing Jonas where he stood.  From what he had seen, the smuggler had never hesitated in murdering someone before.  Unless...

The memory stirred unbidden from the dark place where he'd filed it away over a year ago. 

"You'd think something that big would put up more of a fight."

And then Adon's clipped words:  "At the very least, he was not surprised."

Tait had been expecting his death.  That much was clear.  But why had he been expecting it?  What had happened to tip him off?  And then the incongruity:  Tait's missing badge, which they'd never seen taken from his body...

Jonas let out a slow breath, and then cocked an eyebrow at the other wizard.  "What we're doing now, innit?" he asked mildly, as he turned back to his building and started inside, leaving the door open behind him.

Under normal circumstances, he would have taken care to mask his limp.  Even amongst the other Aurors, it was a sign of weakness that he generally didn't want to show, but now, he didn't bother.  Jonas made his way up the long stairway and pushed the door open into his office.  Aside from the odd clandestine meeting and his occasional late-night research, the small space hadn't been used in almost a year.  It showed in the dust that had accumulated:  drifting through the air, covering his desk and the ancient old computer that sat atop it.  Jonas tossed the stack of mail down on top of some other, older envelopes that he'd never bothered to open, and nodded to the man who'd once murdered his best friend.

"You want a drink?" he asked amiably, jerking his head toward the back room.  "Reckon I've still got a bottle or two lying about."