The last minute scramble of children and their parents to acquire everything on the demanding school list was a brew of annoying detours and convenient cover. The contortions it took to avoid outstretched, sticky fingers, the pointy corners of books barely softened by shopping bags, and the domino effect that brought no-nonsense business wizards to a grumbling halt every several meters were an art learned only in a city like London. And that those hazards were multiplied by that gift of magic meant that the subtler turns of Gwendolyn Irving could be learned only here, in Diagon Alley.

The middle of the cobbled road thinned suddenly, at a pop-up of shop stalls stuffed violently with bewitched bobbles of every unnecessary kind. Pedestrians, however busy, had parted like a fork in the road to examine the offerings. The precarious ledge that was the sudden lack of cover was masked, a half second later, as Gwen made a choice without blinking and slipped to the left side.

Her fingers ran over a Rememberball, slow and gentle, but the witch's attention was over her shoulder.  If she weren't on the job, she might have actually stopped to rummage through the stalls instead of just pretending to. She never knew what useless treasure might be a sweet addition to her investigator's bag.

The mauve velvet-- in August-- was visible on the other side of the street, some two shops up. The cloak of the man who had lied to her, repeatedly, it seemed.

While stalking wasn't in the cards, keeping tabs on a subject who had handed her evidence (directly or otherwise)... or obviously withheld it... was fair game. They were in a public space, and if the man didn't want to see Gwen, it was the was the price he paid for wearing such a catchy material in the crowded summer swell. And for wasting her time. He was begging to be watched. But Gwen was sure, with a confidence that bordered on Laney's, that he would not see her.

The cousin of the disappeared was far too enamored with his own reflection, she knew.

As he stepped into a robes shop known for its brow-raising price tags, Gwendolyn decided it was time for a break. Whatever this man was, he wasn't hard up for money, as he'd claimed. (Though she knew more than one person who would choose a high end cloak over paying rent.)

She spared the window one more glance before slowing her pace and ambling up to the cafe across the street. She offered the waiter a nonchalant nod of her chin and soon claimed a table out front beneath a shallow pavillion. Coffee and shade were the break she had needed for an hour.

But Gwen wanted this job to be over. She had dragged her feet all week, had kept busy on other, seemingly more important projects for various clients. This one she had had for longer than she liked for a disappeared person. But evidence was a generous word for what she had been given, and leads were few and far between. The more she investigated, the more she was annoyed to find that she was coming to the same conclusion the auror force had. The missing wizard's mother was a conspiracy theorist in rose colored glasses. He had likely skipped town with Mummy and Daddy's money, and skipped out on all of those pesky pureblood obligations, too. No one had done him harm more than his mother, however much she hounded on Gwen's door with new, ever less relevant evidence. But the job paid better than most, and since Gwen had agreed to take it, she was loathe to drop it. Even dormant cases, the unsolved, remained open.

The cousin was a new lead.

The investigator looked up again as she took a sip of her coffee, eyes heavy as they lingered. After a moment, she pulled out a notebook and began to make formal records of what she had already committed to memory.

The moment she paused in running her hands over that Rememberall  was the moment she wasn't just a pretty brunette he was watching.  She became a pretty brunette he was watching who was watching someone.

And not in the sort of casual, flirtatious way.  Not that she'd really know what that looked like, anyhow, he thought, begrudgingly.

He had noticed her noticing someone, though.  It was hard to miss, once you saw it.  The rigid back, scanning the crowd, locking eyes, and bolting towards--

Crap. There she went.

Adon was curious, and kept the distance, too.  Falling into the same, deliberately non-hurried pace.  Stiff-backed, crowd-dodging.  She halted, and Adon casually slowed his pace.

He was being so obvious, he hoped she'd noticed by now.

But she was in too much of a hurry to slow down.  She was shuffling into a cafe, settling in at a table.  Was she planning on wearing sunglasses and a trench coat, the lapel confidently popped, like some noir --

Oh, God.  He knew what this was.  He'd seen it done before (though better, he though, with a self-aware bias).  She was a private eye.  A little Trevelyanite.  Well, he'd turned one towards the light of the Corps...

His face split into a grin as he was settled at a table a couple of seats over.pulling out a notebook.  She was fiercely watching the man in the velvet cloak--which betrayed her at once--but also belied that something serious seemed to be afoot. 

And then she pulled out the notebook.

With a grin, and in a bit of a race, Adon searched the pockets of his robes before fishing out a shopping list.  Absently, he began adding to it, taking his own notes.

He was curious just how long it would take her.

If her stare was a little intense, Gwendolyn had not expected anyone to interpret it too thoroughly. London wasn’t a cozy village— even if Diagon had its characters and familiar faces.

But then she had also not expected to be followed while she was following a suspect.

For the young investigator, the art of following was comprised of equal parts acting casual and acting quick. If she was too obvious about looking over her shoulder or putting on a face, she would draw attention; too slow and she might be seen. Apparently neither of these methods were good news for shaking an auror’s scrutiny— which Gwendolyn annoyingly failed to notice in the midst sleuthing.

Limbs now loosened by coffee and lazing about the prime Diagon Alley real estate that was a cafe chair, the witch unhurriedly scribed her timeline, glancing up only occasionally to watch the door across the way. She looked like anyone else on a lunch break, going over their daily planners. Minus the tailored uniform, briefcase, or business partner. (And ignoring the fact, too, that this was technically a late breakfast. Nine to five was usually only optional.)

A few more lines in and she began to feel it. Or see it. Just barely. That familiar pattern in her peripheral, someone else writing. The sort of thing she was paid to see and interpret .

Jaw turned minutely, and hazel eyes follow a half second later, sliding to the side, skipping past the mundane pair of tables between them.

He was definitely writing. As she turned her face further in his direction, that much became apparent. His was not an anonymous mug.

Nor an innocent one.

He looked a little too pleased with himself, and not simply because he had that face.

He was watching her.

Gwen’s lips parted in a tiny scowl of discontent as she made eye contact and refused to drop it. Her hand had long since come to a stop. Rather than panicking and slipping toward her wand, however, her fingers remained lax above the notebook.

Until the waiter floated up to the table between them, tray hovering obstructively at his side. Gwen suddenly stretched to see around him, deciding without pause to tilt her chair back onto its hind legs. She caught sight of the man again and narrowed her eyes.

The waiter shot her a nervous, friendly look, which Gwen met with another now-rather-dismissive nod before letting the chair fall back into place. Popping up, she shouldered her back, closed her notebook over her quill, and grabbed it with one hand while grabbing her coffee with the other. She slipped past the waiter— only now offering him a small smile— and beelined for the stranger and his scribbles.

She set her coffee down across from him before letting her bag fall with an easy thump atop the now-closed notebook. Gwen dropped into the chair opposite his, eyes on the man. “School crowd, mind if we share?” She asked, without sounding as if she were asking a question.

The tables around them were as empty as they’d been a moment ago, including the one she’d abandoned to the confusion of the waiter.

Gwen sat up a little, eyeing the stranger as she flicked hair from her cheek with a quick head tilt. “What’s your game?” This time there was none of the friendliness. There were a whole host of questions on the tip of her tongue, none of them honey-sweet, but that one needed to be answered first. She gestured to the slip of paper, but barely let her eyes leave his. If he’d been watching her for Merlin knew how long, she couldn’t risk it. The job was still at the back of her mind (ever the professional, Gwendolyn), but it was remarkably harder to lose a man in mauve than a man who could watch her without her knowing— however pretty his face.

Well.  It actually hadn't taken her very long.  Within moments, the woman was practically sitting on his lap.

This was a very favorable response, if that had been his aim.  But it did make the more objective observations a bit more difficult at close range.

"School crowd, mind if we share?"

There was an unceremonious thwump and clatter of the cutlery on his table, as they responded to the heavy bag. 

"I think minding is not an option," Adon said, looking up at her with a saccharine smile.  She was glowering.  If she'd really wanted to get away, she may as well have.  He'd not have pursued her.

... Well, not further than the cafe, at any rate.

With a slight twinge of guilt, Adon realized he might have given her a scare--but she seemed so damn professional now, that that sympathy was extinguished.  She was a big girl.  He was certain she could hold her own against him--or whoever she was following--or just leave.

For once, it felt nice to not have to worry about someone.

He thought about her next accusation. Or question.  It was a colloquialism that Adon wasn't particularly familiar with, but he wasn't dunder-headed enough to have totally missed its meaning.  Rather than venture an incoherent response, he held up the shopping list.

"Errands. Or rather, ingredients."

She'd want to know why he was following her.  To which he had no real reason to offer her except that he'd been interested and it had been a diverting distraction--and those razor-sharp eyes would fix their glare and not believe that for an instant.  So an offering.

"For a spell," he elaborated.  And then added: "I'm also trying to find someone, but it seems that you and I have slightly different methods."

At his answer, Gwen merely continued to stare. Any desire to respond letting him know he was a quick one seemed unnecessary. He wasn’t meant to have an option, anyway, not if he was tracking Gwen on the job. And not if she had only just noticed. Another surge of annoyance raced through her veins, more dependable than the caffeine, even. She wasn’t used to being followed. She wasn’t used to not noticing.

It seemed her game had been slipping.

Ingredients. Her eyes narrowed now, boring into him, more of a storm than a fire, but she held her tongue. Letting him continue to talk was her best bet. It almost always was. It wasn’t just an investigator’s trick, either. It was just how humans worked. Eventually, they talked themselves into a hole…

And Gwen would be lying if she weren’t a bit curious about why a man looking for ingredients also seemed intent on watching her. She wasn’t going to be in anyone’s brew.

“A spell? Or a potion?” She cocked her head a bit, wondering whether he couldn’t make up his mind, or if it was the sort of spell that required more than a wand. He didn’t look like was lying, strangely. But she didn’t trust him, either. Her tone said as much, daring him, almost nonchalantly, to slip up.

It was only now her eyes flickered down to the piece of paper and back up.

There was something about him, about his confidence, the way he spoke, that tugged at her where the average creep mightn’t. He was… capable. Not a basement dweller out in the sun. But a capable stranger.

“Why were you watching me?” She asked, more a demand than a question. And a momentary way of ignoring the insult in his easy words. If he’d known it was coming, well, that was his problem.

Maybe he’d been trying to track the man in mauve, too. He could even be working for him. (The wizard she’d been watching had a pretty galleon to throw around, whatever he said.) As she looked him over— what she could see of him across the table— the idea that he was a professional and not some random creep became more reasonable. But Gwen also felt some deviation. He didn’t have quite the usual air. He wasn’t a thug. Nor did he appear to have her slipperiness, or the solitary stubbornness of an older, self-employed type. And not quite the insufferable, heavy handed authority of the average auror. Gwen knew most of them by face.

This one was harder to pin down.

And yet…

Under the handsomeness and edge of humor she'd detected (ha), he looked as if he’d been through… something.

Even Gwen, who had mastered professional detachment, couldn’t permanently ignore his words. He clearly seemed to be implying that his way of finding people was superior.

“If you’re trying to find someone and you’re watching me, you’re going to be disappointed,” she said quietly, some of the storminess having ebbed from her tone, replaced by cool assertiveness. Gwen seemed to sit up and lean in at the same. And relax, somehow, too. "Coffee and paperwork.” She gestured. They both knew that wasn’t why she’d been perched at the table, but she had few qualms with bold-faced lying or the omitting of information. Slipping in a surface truth made it all the easier. “But let me know how the shopping list method works out for you.” She didn’t look down at the slip paper again, but continued to stare at the man.

She resisted the urge to look back toward the shop; it would be a mistake now.

"No. A spell," he repeated, brows knit.  Perhaps the precise language was eluding him--his magical education did take place predominantly in Hebrew.  He wet his lips as he thought.  "Not an incantation.  Perhaps... ritual is a better word."  That was what they would have called it at Beit Gaddol, but Adon had taken the pulse well enough of British mages to realize that they did not seem comfortable with any terminologies that might tie them to the Muggle fear of pagan traditions that had caused them so much grief in days past--before the Statute had intervened.

Ritual, sacrifice, offering--those words were not shied away from at Gaddol. 

She was shrewdly eying him, now.  Adon felt the weight of the stare, and realized that this was probably how the back of the mauve man's head had felt.  But now all attention was on him.  If she lost her quarry due to his distraction, he'd be sorry for it.  Either he had startled her--but she didn't seem the startling type--or she was just as intrigued by him as he was in her.  Or she was annoyed and couldn't let a thing drop.  Either way.

She seemed to have gotten the wrong idea--or proposed the wrong idea to get the right one.  Offering a motive, it was called.  She was good. Subtle in a way that seemed natural.  Even if it did feel a bit prickly.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head emphatically.  "I am afraid you will be disappointed, here.  You are not at all a part of my search." He shifted his head, as though contemplating alternate ways to word this.  "You are a distraction from it." He gave a half smile.  "I come frequently to Diagon--on one thing of business or another--and it can get discouraging after many visits with no success."  Like visiting the family vault Gringotts every day in search of--he didn't even know what.  To make sure the Seer Stones were still here, he supposed. And that his brother wasn't.

"You--if you let me observe--are pleasant to look at.  So I was just looking for a moment." The pacing of his words quickened. "Then, I saw you looking at him, I interfered with my curiosity, you interfered with your bag," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, noting the still-heavy, slouchy bag at the center of their table.  "And so--I think I've distracted my initial distraction."  He straightened, cracking his back with a satisfying series of clicks, before stretching his legs. 

"So." he said. "You probably cannot afford to lose more time to me." He tilted his head subtly down the Alley.  "He seemed important. And one can hardly argue with a good surveillance method.  It's more direct than mine."  He held up the worn parchment strip.  "And," he added, "less esoteric."

He cracked a slight smile, recalling her quip at his shopping method.  He was rather uncertain of what the results would be himself, but thought he'd tracked down a knowledgeable enough Seer who could be trusted to pull it off.  But he didn't know the woman in front of him, and however pretty, he was not going to disclose that piece of information.  Even if he did have her contact information to 'let her know' how it went.

Adon shifted in his seat, clearly preparing to depart--he hadn't even been served a drink yet.  Perhaps the brunette in front of him had distracted the waiter, too.  "But," he began, a soft hesitation in the voice, "while I know it is not my place, I just want to make sure that you are not in any sort of trouble.  That you don't need any help." He paused before once more nudging his head in the direction of the clothes shop. "With him."

With the amount of latent and stern indignation in the woman, a favorable response to any offer from him was unlikely.  He reached into his robes--stuffing the list and pencil away--and pulled out a neat pack of embossed cards. 


"In case you need it. Oh--" he quickly pulled out his pencil once more, "and I have a cellular mobile telephone now. And..." he flipped the card over once more, drawing a line through the address, "I'm at the London office--at least for a time."

These amendments made, Adon slid the card pointedly around her bag, across the table, as a peace offering. 

Gwen had obviously picked up on the accent by now. But there was a distinct Britishness about him, too. That mark of someone thoroughly global, multilingual. 'Well traveled,' a dour, near-primeval aunt might say (and you could never quite tell if she meant it favorably or not). But it was his confirmation— a spell— that solidified it. And she certainly would have remembered that mug at Hogwarts.

Gwendolyn had a solid memory. And he had a solid face.

“Ritualistic magic.” It was an amused hum, nearly, but a careful one— accompanied by eyes darting back and forth across his face, and Gwen continuing to decide (and demand, if not with her words) what this man was after.

If he was shopping for sacrifices, he was probably far from home. Not that Diagon Alley wasn’t accommodating.

“They might be a little wary of it in the sunlight.” Her eyes might have flickered to the crowded cobbled road, a gesture, if she weren’t so intent on keeping him in her line of vision. “Have you tried Knockturn?” A brow, delicate for all its darkness, lifted subtly.

But it didn’t mean Gwen was going on soft on him.

And that didn’t mean that she didn’t believe him— annoyingly. Even as he began to assure her that she was wrong, Gwen knew it was looking less and less like this stranger had anything to do with her suspect or his missing cousin. Ingredient-heavy spells didn’t mesh with any of the theories, anyway.

And Mr. Mauve would never hire someone like this. For all his (highly subjective) taste in clothing, anyone that man put on her tail would be all brawn, no wand. Certainly not shopping for spells.  Or smoothly informing Gwen of her distractive nature.

This had taken a turn.

Outwardly, the witch still glared, eyes all mistrustful and rebuffing. The rest of her face blustery and cool. But on the inside, she could feel it a bit, that rash-like warmth of a strong shot. The sort of thing that caught someone off guard and loosened them up at once. Her mouth opened, barely, the tiniest indicator of someone thawing, but Gwen said nothing before the man was carrying on.

Pleasant to look at? This was the sort of conversation she usually had in a bar, not on the job. Most people hadn’t the chance to look before she was gone— or they looked and decided she wasn’t up for a chat. Not this man. He’d caught her spying and had decided to stick around. The set on this one. The words seemed written on her face.

But Gwen couldn’t tell him that he was right, or that might lead to telling him what he’d distracted her from. (Even if it was plain that he had nothing to do with her case. And plainer that he knew what she was doing.) She still hadn’t confessed to being an investigator. Instead she let her mouth slacken; her expression became unimpressed. She glanced toward her notebook. The one they both knew wasn’t full of some imaginary boss’ daily meetings. “At this rate, I might actually have to pay for another coffee.” She’d been planning on a second round, anyway, but he didn’t need to know that.

Her mouth slipped a bit toward a smile, or the notion of one. Even Gwendolyn was flesh and blood enough to take a compliment. The right kind. Out of some sudden resolve, she offered a silent validation— a rare gift from the investigator, a truce— and looked from the man to the shop across the way, let her eyes linger there for a moment. (And felt some tension relax.) No sign of cloak. He would still be inside; he would have been easy to spot even at a distance otherwise.

Gwen looked back.

Then he had to turn into a chivalrous thing. (He had the sort of ridiculously nice hair for it.) Gwen’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I can take care of myself. And that—” She pointed, without looking back. “Without getting up from this chair.” And then, catching herself quite suddenly, she settled into said chair and spoke more softly: “Tailors have never frightened me.”

Business cards, though. Maybe he was looking to hire—

But Gwen took in the first word and let out a single-syllable choke of a laugh. An auror. Of course.

“A what—” For every invention Gwendolyn had taken it upon herself to test out for Claire McByrne (because she was a generous little investigator), this man might as well have been speaking Mermish when he mentioned cellular mobile phones. For a wild moment, Gwen’s face suggested that she thought he was making it up to further distract her. (And since she now knew his profession, she’d hardly put it past him.) But she did recognize the one word, phone… and, well, mobile was self explanatory. Another eye’s blink and Gwen put the name to the slim, rectangular, brightly-lit things that one could not miss walking around London. Muggles had finally found a way to communicate without tying themselves to the wall, then.

“Don’t worry your—” She looked him up and down again, this time more bluntly. “—Devil-may-care head.” Eyes seemed to close as lashes swept down to the card. “Adon Eleor.” Gwen looked back up, pegging him with a stare. “I usually don’t need your type unless I’m solving one of your cold cases.” She nipped the card up between two fingers and tapped it a couple of time's on the table's surface, like cards or a pack of cigarettes. It then quickly disappeared beneath the table.

She recalled what he’d said, about finding no success. But it had also sounded like the bulk of his work was finding one person. Rituals and all. Gwen could see the sun hitting the tailor’s window at the edge of her vision; she didn’t look back. She was curious now— from a purely investigatory standpoint, obviously. “Is that why you’re here? A cold case?”

"Well..." Adon sighed, emphatically.  His next word that came to mind, shit, went unsaid.  Leaning his chair onto its back legs, he took her in.  Yes, she was pretty.  And the resting bitch face was strong with this one.  Adon had seen it before.  Hell, Adon had dated it before. Multiple times.

"I hardly think that I need to turn to Knockturn for--" he pulled out the rumpled parchment again, "clary sage... and sickles," he put it back into his pocket, where the clatter of coins was audible.  He gave a slight chuckle.  "Unfortunately, as far as true rituals go, there is a shocking lack of baby thestral blood required for this one."  Adon had seen the phenomenon with the various people he'd grown close to here in London--particularly Jonas.  Middle Eastern magic, due to its strangeness, its perceived mystery, was often viewed more often than as sinister.  It was ancient--that much was true--and more mingled with emotions, belief, and religion, but no more strange than the structured-and-stiff magic he found here.  But that was a sermon for another time.  He already had enough to work out with the woman across from him.
 
She--cool and impassive--made an observation about needing more coffee. Adon felt instinctively--as any man would--that this was a test of some sort.  Was she trying to see if he would buy something for her? Or was she, an independent woman, planning on buying him one?  Or perhaps she was observing that he'd hung around so long, that she was stuck here, and he'd do well to move along, or else she'd be obliged to order another--and not waste the waiter's time. Mercifully, Adon had the gift of selective hearing and willful disregard--he'd ignore it and steer clear of this coffee business altogether.  The coffee was probably poor here, anyhow. 

He may have been on to something about the independent woman hypothesis--or the "why-can't-he-leave-me-alone" postulation. After asserting that she could take care of herself, the coffee offer/not-offer was followed by with this boast:

“Don’t worry your devil-may-care head.  Adon Eleor. I usually don’t need your type unless I’m solving one of your cold cases.”

Adon's eyes went wide and the grin that spread across his face was baffled.  "Ah," he summed up with a slight chuckle and a shake of his head.  Slowly, he slid his hand across the table, palm upward.  "It sounds like I can have my card back, then."  After a moment, he curled his fingers, indicating a playful impatience.  "I would not wish to compromise your independence."  He paused. "You were wrong about my head, though.  The Devil does care."  It was an odd turn of phrase... did this make him the devil? Because he rather felt as though he were playing one, with those glares he was getting.

She was asking more about one of his leading comments--wanting to know about the cold case--but not in the way he'd wanted.  Showing vulnerability to someone--what he'd just bothered to do--was always a risk when trying to get information.  Most of the time, Adon found that people were more willing to show more of themselves if he laid the groundwork for a sort of openness.  But not with this one.  He'd left the door open a crack to the attic, and she was preparing to move in without so much of a by-your-leave, or reciprocating gesture.  It was time to shift tactics.  "Not entirely a cold case--but a personal one," he dismissed.

She'd given away something, which he'd felt was quite plain from the moment he took real notice of her. As she seemed deliberate in every movement and word she chose, he could only assume that she'd let her vocation slip.  If not, it was low-hanging fruit. And too tempting.

"Since you are so useful with the cold cases, you can give me your card. Who knows if I'll need a private eye?"  He looked at her slyly, sidelong.

If he was in over his head— she suspected he wasn’t— that swift assessment, the well, was enough for Gwendolyn to feel easy. Mostly. Occasionally men thought one thing about her and quickly learned another when they started to talk. It was not as if she made a habit of turning the invasion of personal space on the other person. He’d brought it upon himself. (And he didn’t seem to mind, as far as she could tell, not that that was the most important thing. Gwen would be lying if ritual magic didn’t pique her interest.)

“Sage?” She asked, almost deadpan. “Cooking sage?” Was there any other kind? The wise, sage investigator with the good memory knew better. She just wasn’t much of a cook. “Are you disappearing money in these rituals?” That would have been the case of a century. If Gwen were interested… "Good luck with the goblins.”

Thus far, it sounded like a vaguely fragrant, rather metallic spell. Gwen let out a little breath through closed teeth and parted lips. Baby thestrals. He had an imagination, this one.

It was a little harder to have the same attitude toward chivalry as Gwen saved for the sparing of imaginary thestral foals. There was still wryness, sure, just more headstrong, more reactionary. It could be a pitfall for Gwen, the idea that someone besides herself might take care of things.

Gwen blinked at his request, waited for him to get the words out this time, then turned her head, the would-be beginning of a shake. That kind of disbelieving angling of one’s jaw, with furrowed brows. “You can’t take back a business card. You networked with me.” Her eyes seemed to say your loss.

Well, yeah, the devil here obviously cared about his head. His hair. The grooming situation. And business cards. “Sounds like a personal problem.” Not the worst one to have. "There’s a reason those cards aren’t etched in gold, by the way.” But then he might try to use them in a ritual.

As her face eased up, it was obvious by now that she was starting to find this amusing. Gwen was alright with letting him know this. She was the one with the card.

But he didn’t seem too eager to divulge, and Gwen knew when and when not to push. Unlike some people. She simply stared a bit longer, more thawed, a little understanding, and let it fall away for the moment. Even an auror was entitled to his personal cases.

Gwen’s lips parted, and she gave another discernible exhale, this time less acerbic. More a sigh of relenting. “Does this usually work for you?” Of course it did.

"Mine isn’t as impressive,” she warned, as she fished it blindly from her bag. She handed him the card, plain but not unpleasant, a stylish, no-nonsense typeface. She knew a case probably wasn’t why he wanted her address, but then that knowledge was why she was probably giving it to him. Nevertheless... “I’m not adept at ritual magic, but everything else is on the table. If you need discretion, well, now you know where I live.” There was a bit of daring in her tone, a suggestion he should just try to follow her again. She took up her coffee again, leaned back a little, her legs crossed. She looked him over once more before taking a sip. “No discounts for aurors, sorry.”

“Are you disappearing money in these rituals?"

Adon gave a bark of laughter before sobering and giving a grave shake of his head.  "Oh, no.  You will find... most people don't need rituals to do that." 

Her off-handed comment about goblins was off-putting--as almost all reference to goblins was.  For a moment, he thought he'd betrayed a bit more about his investigation, this personal matter than he'd meant to.  His expression clouded, then eased, realizing that this had instead been some quip on her part about disappearing money.  "I'm not a creatures expert, but that sounds more leprechaun business, personally," he corrected playfully.

"I absolutely can take a business card back," he said in his crisp, staccato accent--emphatic, but still smiling.  "It is my business and my card. 

And then--Adon did the unthinkable.  Fingers splayed and wiggling, they hovered over her purse, menacing before he paused, looked at her, and let the hand drop softly back to the table in front of him.  "That is right." He said, looking at her from across the table with narrowed eyes.  "You've got it somewhere under that table.  Stored in a secret bag, I don't doubt."  Women and their secrets and their mysterious bottomless bags.  She probably had a purse inside that purse.[1]

She was already delving into that bag--the not-secret bag--for her own card.  Graciously, he accepted. 

"A suitable alternative," he said, in a magnanimous tone.  Holding the card between his fingers, he made eye contact with her.  With a flick of his wrist, the card was tucked away--out of sight.  Muggles might have called that sleight of hand magic.  And they'd have been right.

"I don't need a discount," he said, shaking his head matter-of-factly.  Adon was probably the sort of person who could make money disappear magically (he did enough of the non-magical sort) without it very much impacting him.  The blessings of old, pureblooded families.  His finger tapped the tabletop, considering.  "I may need your discretion though... someday."  No doubt about it--after being cut off from the Jerusalem Auror's office resources, he'd had a difficult time tracking down several bits of information that would be helpful to finding his brother.  And he didn't exactly want to raise any eyebrows here, either.  If he managed to get himself kicked out of both Ministries, he wasn't quite sure where he'd go.

But he'd see where things went with this Seer, first. 

But, it was true.  He did know where she lived.  And damned if he didn't sense a sort of... invitation in the edge of her voice.  You could cut glass on this woman's stares alone.  Sharp and to-the-point, like her words.  No nonsense at all.

Adon was almost all nonesense when he wanted to be--when he was in a good enough mood to be.  But she hadn't exactly sent him packing.

Somehow, the thought of making a comment--a pass or innuendo--seemed crass.  Or... pedestrian.

But the next words that came out of Adon's mouth were so very much at cross-purposes that he surprised even himself.  "So.  As a prospective client, then.  Sell me on this.  Do you usually let strange men heckle you on the job? Because, you see, if I were your client," he tapped his finger on the table for emphasis, "I'm not sure I'd stand for it." 

Real smooth, Eleor.  What was he even saying?  Besides trying to buy some more time to unravel this riddle of a woman... Adon wasn't quite sure what the strategy was.  With a self-deprecating air, he added, "Especially if he was being an ass."

1.	Reference to this bizarre comedy sketch

Gwen found her cheeks tugging up. (She wasn’t opposed to smiling, but for something that has started as why are you stalking me, the quick turn of events were giving her expressions a workout.) Whatever it had been, it was now a casual sidewalk conversation on ritualistic magic and people’s terrible money habits. Over coffee. And spy work.

Gwen tilted her head back, stretching her neck and shoulders a bit, letting the smirk relax. “Leprechauns, goblins,” she said, raking fingers through her hair and staring up at the underbelly of the awning. “They like us about the same.” Which was not very much. Her head fell back down to eye level. (It had been a good, quick way to check for figures in the window across the way, too.) Nimble digits combed down past her jaw, framing a strand of hair behind her ear as she studied Adon Eleor’s face again, unabashedly judging his character.

He was right, though. Goblins weren’t friendly, but they stuck to a strict code. Leprechauns… Gwen had been hired once or twice as a third party… on either side… to settle leprechaun disputes. They were more slippery than green.

“No,” she said simply. She needn’t shake her head. It was there in her voice, not heavy or forceful. Because it didn’t need to be. He wasn’t getting his business card back. “It was a gift from a man with the quaffles to follow me.” On a job. Those words stayed on her tongue. “It isn’t yours any more.”

Eyes stayed large but unimpressed. Almost as if she were daring him to dive into her purse, and see what happened. It wouldn’t be the finger-biting spy traps of wizarding mystery novels he needed to worry about. No, Gwen had a wand for those situations. Truth be told, she only had one bag and a few brilliant pockets. And finger to make a leprechaun jealous. “I wouldn’t advise finding out. A piece of card stock really isn’t worth it.” If trust was still a hurtle with this random pair of strangers, Gwen’s voice hinted— heavily this time— that he could trust her on that one.

That he was so diplomatically pacified by her own offering had Gwen torn a little… between a tiny warmth and a desire to goad him into going for her bag (or her imaginary secret second bag) after all. It was a sense of playfulness the spy possessed but rarely spent on randoms.

He was distracting, she realized.

Not straightening up visibly, she nevertheless let her eyes move lightly toward their post again. But the street had thinned, with many a shopper heading indoors from the booths for lunch, or crowding around windows to read menus. The tailor shop was still too plain in Gwen’s sightline for her to miss the bright set of robes, even with Mr. Business Card taking more than half her attention.

And investigators couldn’t be too premature in following leads, even if they also had to be quick on their toes. There were plenty of times when Gwen purposefully withdrew from a post or let a suspect slide back into the night. Or sunshine. (This man in mauve did seem to love his shopping sprees, though.)

“Oh, well, a paying customer. That’s a different story.” Gwen looked back to him, giving him her full attention— though not for the mere fact that he didn’t need discounts. “I’ve never had a client disappointed with my discretion,” she offered, lifting her coffee cup toward her lips. “Once is usually enough that they don’t bother going back to the aurors.” Yeah, she knew what she was doing with those words. (And yes, she was also admitting that many of her customers were the repeat kind who might need her sensitive services on the regular.)

For a moment, Gwen thought he was being sincere. Perhaps he would set her on the trail he was on. But the scenario made her purse her lips in amusement again. “I don’t. As a prospective client, you’re guaranteed that I’m willing to land myself in prison staving off strange heckling men. Unless they become paying clients.” Then again… “And don’t worry, I also know how to avoid prison.”

An ass? How self aware. Gwen settled back in her chair, titling her head a little. “I’ve got it all under control, but if you do want to hex yourself for me, I might let the chivalry slide this time.” Suddenly, the auror's card reappeared in Gwen's hand, pinched between two knuckles. “But what would really impress me is if you could arrest yourself." For now, she'd settle with him taking up her offer for discretion, and its many meanings. The ones she'd let him figure for himself, obviously.

"You know how to avoid prison?"  He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head.  Unbelievable.  "That is hardly an accomplishment," he recalled the card, "Gwendolyn Irving.  Everyone is taught how to avoid prison.  And if you mean by means other than a strict obedience to the law and a hearty moral compass--I'm hoping you also don't mean by charming law enforcement officers." He tilted his head, challengingly.  "You've not managed to charm me out of my senses just yet, you know--so it is best not to push it."

And here she was, recommending he turn himself in.  She was used to commanding a siren's powers, here, no doubt about it.  "You see, for me to turn myself in, I'd have to believe I'd really done something truly, horribly wrong."  He gave a shrug, implying a blasé attitude.  "The problem is, I'm damn near incorruptible."  It was a joke, and Adon was making light of it, but his mind tacked back to what she'd mentioned only moments before.

She was so good at her job that clients didn't bother going back to the Aurors.

His expression clouded as he thought that over, fingernail absently digging into his thumb as he thought.  That may be, one considered, all fine and well from a client's perspective.  Adon's mind went almost instantly to Johann Storm and--presumably--the hundreds of other witnesses or accomplices out there who were too scared, or just plain too cowardly to trust that an Auror might genuinely want to put things right.  The end result, of course, was that while the client might feel soothed--their dispute might be resolved, they might be spared the discomfort of being called in for questioning, they might avoid being held accountable for their role--the larger problem still remained, undetected, unresolved, and likely to hurt someone--or someones even more as time went on.

He'd been silent for some time, that impassive investigator's gaze boring into him the whole time.  He'd spent enough time with Jonas to know that this was likely the way she learned things.  A silent treatment of sorts--not hostile, but a method employed in order to get the other to divulge. 

Adon didn't particularly mind divulging this bit of information.

"So. I will tell you what I think about this little feud between investigators and Aurors: your craft and mine are not at odds--and each have their place.  Which I think is more than you allow.  And I have used investigators, I will have you know.  My partner, when I first started working with him, was an investigator."  He shook his head, tapping a finger on the table .  "Respectfully, though, I think it is a double standard of society to withhold information, hoping to be spared the discomfort of having a government know about their business--and then to somehow expect the government to be able to reach out to others for their own good to preserve their businesses--their wellbeing, their," his hand flitted the concept away.  "I know of almost no Aurors in my acquaintance who are Seers--and they should not be expected to be.  They cannot intuit crime and wrongdoing.  They cannot surveillance an entire country, and they'd make themselves contemptible if they tried. So, they do what they can: they rely--to a very real degree--upon public trust.  Not just informants and anonymous tips, but victims being forthcoming, witnesses being honest and earnest in providing information." His tone was becoming more impassioned.

"It is simply at cross-purposes when the public, withholding their trust, then lambasts their law enforcement for failing to perform.  It is a coward's reasoning to refuse trust, then use the ultimate failure of a mutually-beneficial relationship as a justification for continuing to withhold that trust."

He puffed air from his cheeks.  Upon consideration, almost all of these comments concerned Johann Storm and that whole case--and very little to do wit the private eye in front of him.  His tone backpedalled slightly.  "Which is to say--there are certainly very legitimate reasons for investigators, who do very important work.  As I have said--I may very well call on you.  But to use a private investigator to avoid the law--that does not sit right with me."

It was best to get that all out in the open, anyhow.  If they were to have a ... working relationship.

"And this is coming from an Auror who has perhaps resorted to more vigilanteism than most."  He gave a bit of a lopsided smile.  This was why Adon's investigation into his brother's disappearance had to be covert.  If Jerusalem was doing a sufficient job investigating it, well, Adon didn't know.  Because they were withholding information, and that was a violation of that trust, as well.  So Adon had to work outside any sort of official capacity.  He shook his head.

"So." He began again.  "Apologies.  I come from a family of... conviction." He laughed.  "You should imagine our dinner conversations. 'Down with the patriarchy' and all that."

“You’re high and mighty for someone who took a detour out of his day to follow a stranger.” Her tone was casual, but Gwen was starting to feel like a smoke would be a nice accompaniment to the coffee, a replacement for the card she still tapped like a tiny instrument. “For reasons unrelated to work,” she clarified, already anticipating another sweet source of friendly argument. She was on the clock; his motives were questionable at best, even if he’d revealed them. Gwen didn’t necessarily mind questionable, she just didn’t trust it.

Other means of avoiding prison was obviously what she had meant. A slight deadpan look confirmed as much. The witch was by no slip of the tongue admitting to having employed them in the past, but a loose, hazy sort of law-interpreting didn’t get her knickers in a twist, either. It could be justified in certain situations, even if it was distasteful to a faithful bureaucrat. Which she didn’t think this wizard was, whatever else he happened to be.

The word ridiculous sprung to mind.

“That’s on the auror, if he lets himself be charmed,” she pointed out. Gwen would surely feel no guilt over that feat. But… "It’s possible that I could both charm you and trick you out of arresting me, without one having anything to do with the other.” Her eyes promised it as the card disappeared again. Compartmentalizing was a life skill.

But as sure as Gwendolyn was in her ability to slip out of tight corners without having to resort to flirting, a good investigator used every asset. She might not have been the warmest person in London, but she could put on a good face when she needed to.

Putting on a displeased one for Tall, Dark, and Overly Confident was too tempting, though.

“You’re damn near something,” she agreed.

As he stepped on to some invisible pedestal, Gwen’s face relaxed in monetary curiosity— and then she had to bite her tongue, hard, even as her mouth opened in tiny protest. Many of her expressions were muted versions of things other people wore more animatedly.

The bit about his partner was fine— there were certainly personality traits that most investigators had. But the spiel on society… Adon Eleor's head of hair was nothing compared to his mouth.

At some point, her amazement with his ability to argue and, in the process, assume, kept Gwen perfectly quiet. She let him carry on, let her annoyance mount.

That he acknowledged the importance of her job was a small comfort. His pretty finish and prettier smile wouldn’t save him.

“I don’t know what your partner did to you, but that complex sounds like something you should get checked out,” she began, after a moment’s thunderous silence. Her tone was cold, but the acid underneath was audible. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my relationships with any of your colleagues, or any of my clients. I didn’t say I was doing anything illegal, only avoiding inconvenience. Honestly, I don’t care what your department does if they’re not blocking my investigations, but let’s not pretend that you didn’t choose your job and your role with the public.” Here she let the weight of her gaze sink in.

"I’m entitled to think half of your coworkers are full of it based on my experiences. My clients are entitled to feel dissatisfied with the government based on their experiences. I’m not breaking the law offering them alternative services and avoiding the judgement of your department in the process.” She jabbed her coffee cup in his direction, a match for his use of his hands. “Your attitude is exactly why I skipped the auror training.” Not exactly, exactly. She tilted her head back a bit, chin ever defiant. “That, and the uniform.” Which luckily he wasn’t wearing now, or Gwen’s approach might have been different from the start.

She pushed back her chair and gripped her coffee easily. Taking her time, as if he wasn’t even there. Once she stood, she didn’t bother to adjust her top or smooth any wrinkles. Wrinkles were part of life, and Gwen only smoothed them when she felt like it— or if it was for work, in which case, she was far more meticulous. Across the way, her target had finally made his meandering exit— arms full of bags that would slow him down because he hadn’t thought to minimize their notice with magic. That would spoil his fun.

Shouldering her bag, she looked up at Adon. “You should polish up on your teardown of the patriarchy.” As she slipped around him, she pushed his card into his palm. "I’ve got it," she murmured, leaning in toward his shoulder even as her eyes scanned the street ahead. Hair spilled back into place, unbothered, as she moved on.

The woman was displeased.  Adon couldn't say he was particularly surprised--she'd shown only glimmers of other emotions besides a bland stoicism and a mild disdain.  He knew he was running his mouth off, but it had a nice cathartic effect.  He felt much better now, even with the attractive brunette up and leaving like that which was, he decided, actually a disappointment.  But not a surprising one.

But he'd gotten his card back--like he said he would.

After all, Adon told himself, it wasn't as though he was particularly alarmed.  She probably had one of those eidetic memories, if she was an investigator.  And their conversation would have come to an end at this point anyhow--with her quarry now in full pageantry, and she, in full pursuit after him.

"Thanks," Adon said distractedly, looking his own card over, as if examining it for traces of the Sound and the Fury.  He doubted she'd heard the thanks--or cared is she had.  He flicked the card between his finger and back beneath this sleeve with a practiced hand.  Magic, Muggles called it. 

Adon now looked around, from side to side, before leaning back in the iron patio chair, trying to get the waiter's attention.  "I'd like that coffee now," he said, quite audibly.  God--the service here was horrible.  Women such as her, of course, got served much more promptly--and rightfully so, but it wasn't as though he was totally unwilling to throw sickles at this place.

Between the card and the coffee, Adon'd forgotten to scan the crowd for the little black bundle of smoldering indignation that had just been his lack-of-coffee mate.  By the time he'd look back towards the dress shop, all was quiet.

Remembering something, Adon quickly jotted down another item onto his shopping list.