Tuesday 20 July 2010
@7:30p

"Oi.  Oi!"

A blonde wizard of seventeen years looked up from a folded quidditch magazine and a bundle of chips.  Mouth full, furrowed brows, he called out at a tall wizard who he hadn't seen for...bollocks...had to be a year? 

He trotted across the crowded evening street towards Gringotts.  He had to dodge a couple of families who were getting a jump on Hogwarts shopping, and a witch pushing a cart stacked with teetering cages each with owls in them.  But shortly he sidled up to none other than Adon Eleor.

"Mate, figured you died," Figaro greeted.  It wouldn't be so obvious to those who spent time with this lad on a daily basis, but he'd grown a few inches and trimmed up as some boys did at this age.  He'd also seemed to have shed some of the constant agitated glee that had always harried him.  He seemed at least somewhat more at ease with himself.  Although not any more reverent.

"Glad not."

As with any poorly-planned, instant evacuation of a country, Adon seemed to have forgotten to pack a few things.  It had taken Adon several weeks to realize the total lack of dress robes. Adon could preen like the best of  them, the trip to Diagon had been a bit of a reward for ... everything.  But first, a trip to Gringotts was in order.  For a proper withdrawal.  His mission of the evening was brought to a halt temporarily with a pointed cry.  Adon turned, expecting the start of an adolescent fight he might be beholden to break up, and smirked when he took in the form of one Figaro Sellaphix loping towards him.

"Mate, figured you died."  There was a pause, and then: "Glad not."

From the lukewarm reception back at the office, it was nice to see, at least, that someone cared.  As far as greetings went from the Brits, this was practically effusive.  As warm as the day was--and the new, grown-up equivalent of macaroni necklaces, as far as affectionate tokens went.

Adon did little at first to acknowledge the kid except to slow his pace to an amble to allow him to catch up.  "Well," he said, glancing up at an overhead sign.  Casually, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes.  "It was what you were supposed to think."  He supposed, after Dree had disappeared, that he himself had figured he'd be dead by now. 

"I had to flee the country quickly." This was, basically, where the facts ended, but the clipped, matter-of-fact tone continnued.  "The mob was closing in on me.  Faked my death in a grim carpet accident in Burma and have been on the run ever since."  He smirked as he shrugged.  It was a bit easier now to joke about his own death--or in this case, faking it--because, in light of his prophesied demise, and his brother's abrupt and rather violent abduction, Adon had fully thought, like Figaro, to have been dead by now.  He wasn't living on borrowed time.  He was living on time that, by some trick or other, had slipped through Fate's hands and gone unnoticed.  Best not to cause a ruckus, or some cosmic force might take note and recover lost time.

Adon's expression clouded momentarily before, catching himself, he persisted: "...Or ," he quietly proceeded, "Come December, I could not stand for any more of this  frozen island business and camped out in Israel, waiting for it to thaw..."  No one wanted to be the eccentric prone to broody flashbacks. "Can't resist the Mediterranean, after all."

With a determined optimism, he paused on the corner of Diagon's great juncture--just in front of Gringotts--to get a proper look at the kid.  He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but the gained height, bulk, and confidence--while of course perfectly natural, came as an unexpected surprise, which helped melt the forced smile into a genuine one.  With a little direction, a bit of training, and a bit of flirting, this kid could turn out alright.  Attempting to keep his approval  to a level befitting restrained, British mannerisms, he jutted his jaw and gave an approving nod. 

"You're nearly halfway through your holidays by now," he mused.  "I hope you've at least made the time to burn something down or make some trouble." He frowned as he asked, "You are of age now, yes?"  With a wand, Figaro Sellaphix would be trouble and a half.  He regarded the kid again.  Make that double trouble.

"Lucky," Figaro said deadpan while chewing. Adon  had explained his absence with an equally deadpan tale of international intrigue and carpets. Figaro hadn't expected a postcard or anything - frankly, with the hustle of Hogwarts, holiday, Tournaments, dementors, and Zel and Eli bothering him all summer he'd nearly forgotten the Auror existed.  He felt a little bad realizing that.  Adon Eleor had been there for him in a way that no one else had.

They squared up to each other on the cobbles. Fig absently dusted the salt and grease from his fingers and then broke out in a grin.  "Since November," he said proudly.  He'd turned 17 and was now legally permitted to do magic whenever he pleased.  His dad had written to say, "Magic's a good servant but a horrible master." His mum had relayed to her husband that Figaro had been Apparating up and down the stairs.

Fig drew his wand and spun it between his fingers.  He had always been a fidgety lad and had learned this little trick by second year.  "I'm stuck in the shop mostly.  A couple of mates come around, though. But yea, no arson yet."

He was still being prepared by his parents to take over once he left Hogwarts.  He rather wondered when they were going to let go of that. But then, he rather wondered when he'd come up with a better idea.

A shocking lack of adolescence with that one.  Adon knew, in a way, how that was.  When his father disappeared, and his family up and left.. Adon'd...

Well, Adon wouldn't really known how that felt.  Adon'd managed to cope through selective, well-thought out strategies involving copious amounts of fireworks, fist fights, and petty mischief.  Not a respectable gig as a mini-adult.

But the shenanigans had worked.  At least, he'd turned out alright.   Adon shuffled slightly, glancing at him sidelong, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.  "...We could fix that, you know."  He shrugged.  "I mean, last time I took you sparring--I mean, what good is krav maga anyhow if you can't put your magic to good use?"

Figaro sighed deeply with a depth of emotion more genuine than he'd had in him since he and Sophie had broken up. He glanced skyward and closed his eyes.

He breathed, "thank you."

The sincere veneer formed a crack, a turned corner of a smile.  "Thank you, yes. Yes, please. With all haste, Auror Eleor, let's go break something." Each word was louder than the previous one.  He felt like he'd been released from a cupboard.  The air seemed sweeter? He remembered that day with Adon Eleor in the gym, abjectly terrified and wholly alive. 

"And MacDonald's." He trotted a few steps backwards towards the Leaky Cauldron, light on his feet, youthful lad in summer time.

"Sure," Adon said obligingly.  "I just so happen to have Muggle money with me."  A good deal of it, as a matter of fact.  After discovering the approximate price of a cellular mobile iPhone  telephone, which he planned to procure later this week.  The goblins had not been happy to change that money over, but when in their lives had the goblins ever been happy?  Adon had seen them enough already this month to know. Never.

"Let's blow this popsickle stand," he drawled--not quite sure where he'd picked that phrase up from.  Still, he looked inordinately pleased when he said it, and the duo shuffled out of Diagon and into the wide, wide world of Muggle possibilities and trans fats.

This visit seemed to have gone more smoothly, and Adon pocketed large amounts of individually packaged ketchup, muttering only that it would be "useful."  The bag--already darkening on the bottom from dripping grease--was rolled up and held in hand.  "We'll eat these when we get there," he said--not giving any indication as to his plans yet.

The small fact of the matter was that Adon hadn't quite figured out where to go.  Taking him to the Level 2 training rooms was out of the question.  Pratt would never let him hear the end of it.  But one couldn't exactly practice magic in the martial arts studio, either.

Time to stall.  The power of the Muggle pound finally mastered, Adon got a bit ahead of himself, then swinging in to a store that was either owned by Mark or Spencer[1]--he couldn't tell--to grab an assortment of sweets.  Gummies, chocolate bars that were--expressly--not for girls, and a dozen various canned sodas. 

Today would be full of bad decisions.  It was his duty to young Figaro Sellaphix.

After checking out at their second stop--Adon refused to use the self-check out, its blank and green screens flashing ominously--he had finally settled upon a destination that even Muggle-worthy Excuses could not complain of...

So long as they didn't know, at least.

"Alright," he said, looking at the lad appraisingly.  "How comfortable are you with Side-Along Apparation?"

1.	Marks & Spencer

The streets of Muggle London were far bigger, louder, and breezier than the relatively tight and narrow paths magic folk had cozied for themselves.  Figaro always remembered his parents deliberate, stoic aloofness when the family had cause to go between, how tightly they held their hands until Figaro was old enough to be trusted around cars.  Now, he strolled alongside Adon Eleor, both of them in passing fashions, as if these streets were as much theirs.  Figaro had found what many cosmopolitan magical youth do - muggles weren't on the hunt.  They were as self-concerned and busy as anyone else.  Fig had decided, personally, that a great deal of this fuss about secrecy was overblown.

But he was soon humbled by the light and sound and size of Marks & Spencer. It was all so much more modern than anything in Diagon and there was so much of it.  He kept his cool, of course.  But he did stare a bit at the cashier who tapped rapidly on the point of sale screen.  She looked his age.

On the trip, Figaro managed to update him on all the Quidditch Adon Eleor had missed (and some he hadn't), as well as his breakup with Sophie, his dating of Zia Piselli, and his break-up with Zia Piselli.  And he'd begun to tell him about how his (new) best mate Zelig Trumble (who was a werewolf, you know) had a part time job at the Apothecary which was making things almost nearly bearable 10-15 hours per week.

But Fig was happy to let that drop now that Adon Eleor had finally seemed to decide where they were going.

"Never done it before.  But you don't look that big - I could manage you.  What are you - twelve stone? You'd have to tell me where we were going though.  Why? Can't you Apparate yourself?"

Cheeky git.

Adon had forgotten how much he missed this kid rattling off facts, thoughts, observations.  It was his unrelenting talkativeness that had first even thrown them together. Adon smiled--finding for once conversation on his end was not needed, and his input was not fully expected beyond mumbles of appreciation, exclamations of surprise, or low rumbles of agreement.  He did, however, give the boy a slow, teasing smile at the mention of the past ladyloves.  They'd get to that later.

But right now, he had his dignity to preserve.  "Twelve stone?"  Adon shook his head in disgust.  What did he  take him for, a lightweight? "That's it," he said, hand wrapping around the back collar of the kid's shirt.  "You lose your driving privileges."  And with a crack--

ohwaitohn--

Adon locked eyes with a startled Muggle woman, and had only a split-second of panic to realize that the seemingly inconspicuous side-street was not as thinly populated as he'd thought-

Four sets of feet landed roughly on what appeared a barren wasteland, the decaying form of a stadium silhouetted a ways off.  Frankly, the place looked a bit like hell.  But not even the bleak landscape dampened Adon's enthusiasm and self-pride.  "Ta daa!" Adon gestured broadly to what was quite obviously the abandoned stadium from the Quidditch World Cup.  The kid ought to be impressed, but just for good measure, he laid out his thinking.  "So.  I figure the best place for target practice is a place that's already fire-proofed, open, and Muggle-proofed." Adon reached into the plastic bag from their previous conquest and handed Figaro a beefy-looking, oversized candy bar.  With the toe of his boot, Adon nudged a few rocks out of the caked-on dirt, which ranged from fist-sized to the size of a mere knut. He hunched over to inspect them, tossing one into the air and catching it.   

There was a momentary pause--unexpected with this kid--and he added quickly... "I don't really think she saw us, do you?" Last thing he needed was a tete-a-tete with Glass over this.