The bear appeared quite suddenly. If the sheen of its composition were unmistakable, that telltale wan blue of a patronus, its lumbering form and sheer size supplied it a mirage of solidness that seemed to make Gwendolyn’s entire flat shrink in protest, like a cat defending its territory. The investigator looked up, quill in hand, unblinking. As if it were mildly curious but hardly the least surprising thing she’d seen all day. But then her expression morphed, subtly, into the falsely sleepy eyes and unreadable mouth of the unamused.

She was surprised, just a little.

Of all her many clients, all her friends, every wand-ordered creature of light that had intruded shamelessly over the years, for some reason, she knew: she knew that this one belonged to Adon Eleor before his voice issued forth. It mightn’t have fit through her door, but it had had few qualms barreling through her wall, overconfident even for a patronus.

Yes, it belonged to that business card she’d accepted, refused to return, memorized, and handed back with the cold easiness of a muggle swiping a metro card— and a vague, suggestive murmur. It fit him so perfectly that she almost wasn’t surprised to see it just shy of 24 hours after leaving him on the cafe sidewalk.

As it spoke, "… I need you to drop what you are doing," Gwen stupidly looked at the quill in her hand and stopped herself from literally dropping it. A girlish moment that was followed by a grimace. (It was not every day that a bear with that maddeningly tempting, already familiar voice materialized beside her umbrella rack, however well in demand she might be.) Her ears nevertheless were alert, soaking up the message, and by the time the word dangerous sounded in his voice, she had sprung to her feet.

The quill abandoned, she instead made her way across the room to snatch her little backpack from a separate chair and swing it over her shoulder— after double-checking for one or two things. Drawing her wand, she blinked at the window and thought of a sunnier moment— a good, sweet moment to which the disappearing bear needn’t be privy.

A smoke-raven spread its wings from wand tip, growing, unfolding like a scarf catching the wind.

“Adon, I’ll be there. Two minutes. I won’t approach him, but if he leaves, I’ll follow.” If he was an Eleor, she thought, she’d spot him eventually. Even with a beard. She had a feeling the genes ran strong. And then, after a pause, “Nice bear.”

A delicate flick and the bird was off, soaring through the window.

Gwen gave the view one more glance before Disapparating.

When she reappeared a half-second later, it was not at the steps of Gringotts, but around the corner. She gave the street one sweeping look before rounding the building at a natural saunter, a pace that let her take care, blend in, and still take advantage of any exit plan. Not that Gwen was planning to abandon the scene. She hadn’t even spotted who she’d come for.

And if Adon had spent as much time looking for the man— this other Eleor— as Gwen assumed… Well, maybe it was all wishful thinking. It happened, with clients. But the urgency in his voice, and, admittedly, the conviction with which he’d given his little speech the day before, made her trust his probably-annoyingly-competent auror's instincts somehow. (Even if she wasn’t about to give him a pass on plenty of other things.)

Gwen’s eyes roamed the bank’s entrance, and then moved back to the street.

Did he do anything small besides stacks of business cards?

As she studied beards of passing men, she doubted it.

People continued to pass in both directions for a couple of minutes, the usual chaotic hoards and then thinner rivulets, a natural cycle that seemed both random and preplanned in such an epicenter as Diagon Alley. Gwen’s eyes moved back and forth, darted to corners, shadows, bits of sunlight— despite the masses and many variables, no one matched the description.

Until one did.

He climbed the steps of the bank in a way that almost seemed to eschew magic or consciousness; that telltale, wakeful sleepwalking that meant he was trapped by both at someone else’s wand and hand. The Imperius Curse. Gwen was frozen in place (though hadn’t forgotten where she was) as she watched pass people as if they didn’t exist. And then stop, quite suddenly, with a mechanical sort of politeness. Playacting, but not his. She looked over her shoulder. Whomever controlled him was near.

Gwen rolled from the balls of her feet to toe tip, a casual start, and then quickened as he disappeared behind a column. She took the steps the way any busy, young witch might, with the vaguely eye-catching and easily dismissible air of impatience and procrastination. Youth. A young woman who had forgotten that she needed to visit her vault, or had waited until the last minute. Witches and wizards gave friendly, knowing looks, or guarded, disapproving ones. Gwen ignored them both and slipped into the bank, like a small animal dodging between blocks of marble.

She stopped in the huge foyer, if it could be called that. Cool air hit her, and so did the sight of the man. Even shrouded, bearded, cursed, and markedly different from his brother, she could tell he belonged to Adon with the same sense she’d known the bear had.

Despite appearing a careless young witch with no sense of planning, the plan in place meant that the investigator would have to walk a fine line between keeping tabs and keeping her distance. She knew that Adon didn’t want her getting close enough to be spotted— most clients didn’t, though it was weird, slightly, to consider him a client. And she could figure out without him saying it outright that he’d rather she drop the man’s trail than become a target. But, whatever tugged at her, the stubborn investigator side won. Gwen didn’t owe him anything beyond what she owed all of her clients: a successful outcome.

Strolling now, where before she’d looked hurried, she replaced the girl-on-a-mission with a dawdling sightseer. The goblins’ favorite, obviously. Gwendolyn smiled at one of them, who stared librarian-ishly over the rims of his glasses. Her wand stuck in the band of her shorts was hardly threatening. When the creature was satisfied-- or with the assumption that he was, because Gwen knew them well enough-- her eyes returned to the back of the bearded man’s head, which was conveniently in the same line of sight as a particularly interesting statue.

As far as was possible, Dreogan's exchange with the goblins was wordless. "My vault, please," he said, offering the familiar wand with an impassive blandness.

The Receiving Goblin extended knarled, slender fingers, which wrapped lightly around the shaft of the wand, eyeing the bank's patron warily.  For a moment, his fingers clutched tightly around the wand.  The patron's brother, Adon Eleor, had been coming in daily--sometimes more frequently, and had been all too clear--in a sort of veiled brutalistic way-- about his expectations on this situation.  The Goblins should report it to DMLE, or the Auror Eleor would come thrashing in with his ape-like grunts and fury and probably snap their necks. 

Unfortunately for the Auror, no overt crime was being committed at the moment--that they could acknowledge to perceive, at the very least.  And they were bound to confidentiality agreements with their patrons.  The moment they went turning patrons in to the authorities for showing up was the moment Gringotts lost its more affluent clientele.  One did not always come by money respectably, and besides.  Gringotts was no respecter of persons.

But, the Receiving Goblin reasoned, the bank would not make it out of this unscathed.  Dreogan Eleor, Jr. was a prominent kidnapping victim, would likely be recognized by someone, and Gringotts would have Adon Eleor and this Auror friends to deal with after this.  Significantly, he made eye contact with the supervisor on the floor who had already been watching him--or his patron--hawkishly with an unrelenting intentness.  A silent agreement was reached between the two goblins and sealed with a nod.  No bodies this time--like like with the father.  Better to get the patron off the premises before his captors decided to have their way with him.

"Of course," the Goblin said, teeth glinting in a partial grimace as the nib of his quill scratched a line across paper.  With his other hand, he tapped a long, curved nail upon the tip of the wand, hesitating only a moment before handing the wand back to numb hands. "I will escort you myself," he said, dropping down several unseen steps on the side, just hidden from view. 

From the back--or the front, depending on whose perspective truly mattered--a thin, lanky man in drab robes entered the marbled arches.  A woman with a fussing pre-Hogwarts child in tow gave the man a sour glance as he obstructed the entry.  Stepping silently aside, he scanned the patrons of the bank--the bustling businessmen, the banking goblins, a couple of sightseers, and yes, mothers with school-age children, going about last-minute errands before the year began.  His eyes lingered a moment on a young woman in black--an odd sort of sight-seer--before shifting to the bearded young man in front.  He smiled.  In his time with the younger Dreogan Eleor, he'd grown fond of the man.  He'd become something of his charge.  No, his right-hand.  Or perhaps: an accessory he could slip on when needed.  It was a neat, clean relationship.  He had only to think a thing up, and Dreogan would do it.  He might even miss him when they were done with him. Like a phantom limb.

After a slow amble to the front, the thin man stopped to settle beside Dreogan Jr, the second--and most unfortunate--to carry his name, he said to an assisting banker in a distinct, accented voice, "If it please, I would care for information about opening up an account."  His eyes, however, were on his charge.

In her effort to keep a distance, Gwen didn’t hear the initial exchange between the living ghost of Adon’s brother and the goblin, but the creature’s body language offered clues enough: his duty was forcing him to go along with whatever request had been presented. Dreogan Eleor had the proper identification and said the right things, however strained and unnatural the scene appeared. There was something glassy about him. Familiar.

Gwen slinked closer to the statue, leaning up to admire it artistry. “Is this all goblin-made?” She asked densely, purposefully loud, so as to attract attention. But her ears were skilled at multitasking. The answer, annoyed, went in one and out the other as she paid more mind to the captive’s exchange.

"I will escort you myself,”

They were going into the vaults.

Gwen looked around again, eyes sweeping with wide, wild curiosity— for which she could hardly be blamed. A nosy tourist.

They landed on another man as his gaze lingered on Dreogan… and as he caught her eye, Gwendolyn knew why seemingly rogue kidnapping victim was so dangerous.

“If you’re going down to the vaults anyway,” she said, jumping in, looking between the two men and the goblins, not knowing who in the party would actually be squeezing into the cart besides the man she was trailing, “I need to visit mine.”

The tourist had been become a regular like that. Gwen smiled, close-lipped and apologetic, almost, and whipped out her wand. “Irving,” she said. “We’ll have to go down pretty far, if you don’t mind.”

Far enough to break any wizarding magic. Like the Imperius Curse.

"Excuse me," cut in the thin, sharp voice of the man beside Dreogan Eleor.  His eyes were not on the British wizard anymore. They were hard, and boring holes directly into the small witch.  "Irving."  It was nearly a scoff, if not for the lingering resentment that hung in the air, heavy like incense.  [/i]"I was to be helped first--before you,"[/i] he looked towards the Goblin, who seemed to be weighing his options, looking up between the wizards and witch with a grimace of a smile. "I do not, believe," the man paused again, and it became apparent that the conversation in English was an uncomfortable one, "there to be room below? I too would like to see."

The goblin seemed to make up his mind.  His spindly fingers accepted the witch's hastily offered wand--thrust in front of him without ceremony. Remarkable after her ambling steps just moments before.  This bode ill.  "Irving," he repeated, nodding back to an attending goblin, who made a note in the books.  The wand was returned contemptuously.

"We will go down together--two carts. Rilbazeel! Nagnok!"  Two surly looking goblins towards the entrance--one of whom had been serving the Irving only moments before--shuffled across the floors, also stopping to blink up sneeringly at the congregated trio.  "And yo, sir?"

The man blinked back, hesitating.

"Your name?"

"Hakan Cumali."

"Hakan Cumali. You will go with my colleagues.  There will be no admittance to the guests' vaults;" the latter were grumbled instructions to the goblins.   He waited expectantly, but no one moved.  "Follow me," he snapped finally, turning and tottering towards the mine shafts. 

The air grew cool and dank, and as the goblins clambered into the rickety carts, the Receiving Goblin considered Gwendolyn Irving with a particular skepticism.

As the man confronted her— which, she knew, was to be expected— Gwendolyn turned to him with appropriately lifted brows, that innocent brand of curiosity so much less loaded than the investigator’s own innate one. If she was not the portrait of the most kindly witch, when she waded down the street on any given day (or confronted the auror who had asked her to be here, or near), Gwen wore many masks for work, and this one was as easy as the rest. It was nothing to be a girl of Irving fortune, a paper doll with a solid name; it required no energy to warm up and look appropriately melty. If she might not meet Adon’s inevitable fury with the same warmth, later, well… Gwen simply donned another smile for the dangerous man beside her, one that was reassuring, saccharine to the acid of his tone and doubt.

The goblin’s unpleasant air was met with similar kindness, and was no doubt at odds with his understanding of how many Irvings kept accounts or goods in the deepest family vault. Or, at least, it was at odds with his practicality. Gwendolyn could appreciate it, despite the situation— and if there was a tug of humor at her lips, she barely let it show.

Something in the way the man spoke his name would have taken it out of her, anyway.

Gwendolyn didn’t know if it was his real name, but there was foreboding there certainly. The trip to the vaults was not likely to end smoothly, least of all because of the twists and turns or hexbreaking.

The witch nodded with false obedience, like a hum, and followed, turning to eye Cumali under the guise of small, unwanted conversation. “I don’t know about the vaults where you’re from—” A pause, allowing him to fill it. “But you’re in for a ride with these.” Teeth bore, and she noticed the way he held his wand, looked for a belts, layers, sharp bits, pockets. Hints of weapons in robes. Men like this were like to have multiple wands, even.

Gwen held hers seemingly airily, but her grip was skilled. Her eyes, as they moved over marble and handsome curved architecture, took in the facade of Dreogan Eleor. The beard hid much of what might have happened to him, she thought. Adon had not elaborated beyond his disappearance, and Gwendolyn had been too indignant to ask. Which was just as well, because it was information likely to help her now. Not when he was in Imperiused and they were all half at the goblin’s mercy.

Gwendolyn tucked herself into a corner of the cart, and however small it was, she seemed at ease. She ignored the fleeting thought of Adon’s fury. He might have told her to keep distance, but how else would he keep track down there? She felt her pulse in her palm quicken a beat as eyes looked around for Cumali, adjusted to the dark. The colors at the caves’ great mouth reflected the colors’ of Gwen’s own gaze, gold varnished bits set against charcoal shadow, and the unknown beyond looking spooked and unblinking.

Just before the cart creaked into action, she leaned down, slipped a finger into her boot’s slim ankle. They were there, the vials of potion she often kept. And on her ring finger, a tiny jewel of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Her bag was loaded with other such things, Weasley Whiz-bangs and Decoy Detanators, fake wands ready to whip out, the notebook she'd hardly wanted someone like Adon to see. But the small essentials had been worn on her person, less conspicuous than the Patronus that could reach Adon, if also less honest in intention.

She scraped fingernails against her leg as she sat back up, and continued to itch at her arms. “Mold allergies,” she said, sounding ridiculous, but in that way where one mightn’t deny the statement. “The breakouts aren’t pretty.”

“I don’t know about the vaults where you’re from—” The witch paused with perhaps unwitting condescension, more probably fishing for information.  Cumali gave no such gesture of goodwill, looking at her with bland acerbity. “But you’re in for a ride with these.”

The Turkish wizard's response lost all of any prior civility.  His sneer was not in response to her friendly promise.  "You amaze me, Witch Irving," he said sourly, his lips pulling into a hard, straight line.  "You, it had seemed, have been at Gringotts before. But then one wonders why you asked the Goblins to give you a tour of the foyer."  Let her fret on that.  He turned dismissively back to the Goblin. "Well?" he asked impatiently. 

"This way," the Receiving Goblin stated, moving towards two wooden mining carts which, to Cumali's eyes, teetered precariously upon a thin, iron track that curved dangerously before dropping out from sight.  He already resented any and all present company, but less and less he was enjoying this venue.

With the venom behind Cumali's glance and the professional innocence behind Miss Irving's, it did not take long for the Receiving Goblin to deliberate seating assignments.  Cumali began to wonder if he ought to have played more into Witch Irving's display of simpering civility.  "Mister Cumali will receive a tour of the mines in front--" he gestured towards the front of the cart, "as we accompany our patrons Eleor and Irving to their vaults. Note that it is bank policy that only account holders be permitted into their vaults. Patrons may leave the cart for no other reason," he said with a sneering courtesy particularly to Cumali--though Cumali gained a grim satisfaction as the Goblin's gaze also  flickered a moment upon Gwen Irving who so urgently and suddenly had wanted to join their small party.

The terms laid out, Nagnok and Rilbazeel took a place of prominence at the head of the cart, sandwiching the thin Turkish wizard between them, while Witch Irving and Wizard Eleor were seated into the back of the adjoining cart, the Receiving Goblin seating himself between the witch and wizard.  The Goblins certainly had experience in diffusing tense situations.

By some magic, the cart began to move--quickly picking up speed.  Over the clattering of the carts, the Receiving Goblin could be heard continuing Gwen's requested tour, more for the benefit of filling space than to orient either the witch or Mr. Cumali.  "You will note that we have many diverse precautions to ensure the security of Gringotts accounts and their holders. Up ahead, please regard this waterfall, which is known to strip all enchantments to ensure all who enter are," he paused, "Unaltered."

As rattled onward, the air grew noticeably cooler--either from the great drop, or the mist in the air from the waterfall.  Cumali viewed its approach with growing dread and was immensely relieved when the indirect command came from the captain of their party: "It is standard to dispense with this precaution unless foul play is suspected."  There must have been an indication--a command or nod--because Rilbazeel, or Nagnok--one of them, extended a long, knarled finger, seeming to tear the air in half with an upward stroke.  The waters parted for a brief time, and the first cart parted through without incident.  By the time the second cart clattered through, the waters had rejoined and resumed their typical form.

---

The back of Dreogan Eleanor's head felt damp.  His back did, too--and cool.  Slowly, cautiously, he looked around, pressing his lips to suppress any fear as he processed.

This was Gringotts. And the ground--everything--was shaking dangerously.  His fingers curled around the edge of the wooden cart and he peered down.  One moment, the cart seemed likely to teeter over some great precipice and the next moment--everything began to run smoothly again.

At least Dreogan thought it was again.  Dreogan did not rightfully know how the ride up until this point had gone.  He could guess.  He did not know how he got here, but one glance at the black-headed man in the cart ahead of them, Cumali, and he could guess.  Dreogan's hand gripped strongly, angrily, around his wand. 

"Often times the track gets wet from the waterfall--temporarily impeding progress. Which you just experienced," a Goblin in his cart informed in a stern voice that sounded like a reprimand.  The Goblin looked back at him a moment, eyes sharp.  He felt as though the Goblin were waiting for something.

Wetting his lips, Dreogan spoke with all mustered determination, "If it would be alright, my vault is not far from here. Might we visit it first?"

If the wizard’s distaste had become overt suspicion, it was nothing Gwendolyn wasn’t used to. The investigator had more than once been challenged on the job. It caught her for half a second, caused a blinking pause, and then she switched gears. Or, rather, remained in character.

“Come on, you’ve never played tourist somewhere familiar?” She grinned wide, composing her face into the most annoyingly cheerful arrangement one could imagine on it. “But if you want to know the truth, I lose my mind a bit.” She stared at him plainly, as if she were not hyper aware that he was controlling someone else’s mind. "Mum always says I’ve got my head in a cloud full of charms. I suppose giving me a wand wasn’t the smartest thing Ollivander ever did.” She waved it at him. It might have been a threat, stupidly dangerous, if she didn’t seem so harmless— or absolutely ridiculous. “But I’ve been backpacking and just got back to England. I haven’t been in London in a while— the rent’s obscene. I’ve got enough in the bank for a shopping spree, though. I just couldn’t resist a little poking around, first.”

The TMI route usually repelled someone suspected her.

But if it hadn’t, at the least goblins had taken it upon themselves to act as buffers. Their suspicion was something Gwen was glad for— and might have actively been contributing toward. It was a fine line to dance.

As the tour began, she tilted her head back a little and let the breeze of the damp dark hit her face. Her eyes sized up the space between vaults, the heaviness of the doors, the narrowness of the tracks. She was listening to the important details, but paying more attention to the two wizards. She smiled and nodded every so often, even as her eyes latched to the back of Cumali’s head.

The word waterfall resonated, and rather than fear it, Gwen thought,let it rain.

But when Cumali went through without so much as a mist, she felt her heart drop.

It was a momentary thing. There wasn’t time enough to react. The splash caught her entirely by surprise, and Gwen had never been so glad to be doused with some chilly while she was wearing clothes she rather liked.

She didn’t care about Cumali being dry, after all. It was the stream's recipients who were most important to the equation— and Gwen wasn’t someone who had been wearing a magicked disguise. Her questionable persona was still in tact, and she was sure her behavior had helped earn the shower, too; the goblin’s tone was enough, but she didn’t mistake the creature’s look. Cold, suspicious. She smiled and remembered to shiver.

When she’d appeased him and he turned forward again, Gwen’s head whipped in the direction of Dreogan, who looked like someone thawing, coming awake.

“My friend Adon says he always brings a change of clothes, in case.” She caught Dreogan’s eye, and hers were full of meaning. “He’s a high maintenance man.”

She implored him to understand her.

Her eyes shot back to Cumali, who was still sitting stiffly in the cart in front of them. Gwen didn’t even mind the goblin sandwiched between herself and Dreogan by now; it was the two men who were important. Besides, she’d just proved to the goblins that she was more or less innocent.

A detour? So long as Dreogan had his senses. Gwen still had her tricks. “That’s fine by me. I’m enjoying the ride. I just wish it were a bit warmer…” She trailed off, humored. “That’s London, I suppose. Even in the summer, we manage to find a bit that’s cold and wet.” She poked her head around again, ignoring the goblin’s look as she bent round his head. "Do you live around here?” Again, there was meaning in her eyes. If he had a message he might not be able to deliver in person, now was the time to get it out.

Dreogan was still taking in the surety of his situations: the feeling in his hands, the cold of the damp air, the begrudging reality that Cumali lay just feet ahead of them.  Each realization was made over the backdrop of the witch's observations on clothes and London and weather.  From the momentary eyeroll Cumali had delivered expressly to the witch, Dreogan guessed that this had been happening for some time.  To Dreogan's mind, the witch was persistent but certainly not ignorant in her enthusiasm.  From the tension in the air, he supposed that he was not the only one who sensed it.  The Goblins were watching them closely.  Cumali was watching them closely.  Even the witch--yes, she, too was watching him closely.

Dreogan smiled weakly, instead taking a moment to look behind--wondering just how far they'd come. 

The word 'Adon' provided his second jolt in mere minutes and brought only a sick twist of his stomach. Dreogan turned forward sharply, visibly cringing.  Please, God, don't bring him into this.

Dreogan was glad of one thing: her back was turned to Cumali, and perhaps the man would dismiss the whole thing.  Please, God, don't bring her into this, either.  He gave a half-hearted nod and a wan smile to the witch who looked so hungry for a response from him.  He tried to be gracious.  Whatever she was doing, it was an offering of some kind.

Dreogan gave a cleansing breath, steeling himself against his next decision. Whatever the witch's offer, it was probably not one he ought to take, and he looked resolutely ahead.  To the vault--with her consent.  The smile came a bit more easily this time.  "Thank you," he mumbled weakly, feeling surprised by the sound of his own voice.  He'd heard it so seldom these days.

He didn't have much chance to use it for the next few moments--again, more from the witch about London.  Dreogan saw Cumali twist around fully in the cart ahead, teeth bared like a wolf.  Dreogan was distracted a moment, feeling the reassurance of the wand in his hand.  He pictured Cumali's face a moment--wondering when the moment would come, and what the man would do, now that it would be a fair fight.

Dreogan wondered a moment what he would do.  The litany of automatic curses and hexes that came into his head--some well-remembered, others more recent acquisitions--gave him an assurance at the very least, that he would not be without words when it came to it.

The witch had stopped talking, again, eyes keenly on him for some sort of response.  "Beg pardon?" he asked, eyebrows raised.  As she repeated the question--again with that inherent emphasis, Dreogan's throat grew tight.  "I did," he said at last. "L-live in London.  It has been some time."  Again he fell silent before one thought occurred to him: this was the first civil conversation, without co-ercion, that he'd had in nearly a year.  He was uncertain when it would come again.

He grew more animated, his voice more engaged: "I found the London summers to be quite nice," he said, countering her opinion of cold and damp.  The cart made a clattering turn to the right, a swooping drop, and Dreogan began to recognize the particular details approaching his vault.  The slightly crooked sconce from which a torch was hung.  The crack in the marble of Vault 306.  And then: "Vault 309." the Receiving Goblin in their cart stalled. Things came to a halt.  Though Dreogan's stomach gave another turn, he rose to his feet, eyes momentarily on Cumali, who also began to rise--but was instructed to remain seated by one of the Goblins. 

Cumali, begrudgingly, sat back down, hands fiddling anxiously over the wand laid across his lap.  Dreogan gave him a glance that, he hoped, communicated at least a portion of the rage and latent hatred he felt for the man--before adding over his shoulder to the witch, "Perhaps I'll move back to London some day."

The Receiving Goblin, who had gone before him, paused at the doors and, as was custom, drew a long, curled fingernail down the ironworks.  Within moments, Dreogan heard the series of clicks and turns as the interlocking cluster of locks and gears turned into place.  No one moved until the last echo of the lock gave way to silence.  Taking the cue, Dreogan pulled at the collar of his robe, retrieving a small, golden seal, suspended from his neck by a fine golden chain.  Breath tight, he pressed the smooth, coin-like seal into a small indentation on the knob.  Dragon's eyes searched the door anxiously, waiting for the gradual appearance of thin, whisp-like runes on both the iron doors and, harder to see, still, the handle.  The runes gained intensity, blazing a bright gold before one door swung heavily in on its hinges.

"Though already secure, we accept patron's modifications for additional precaution," the Goblin announced to the prospective client Cumali.

Dreogan was not sure what the Goblin discussed as he was away.  His mind was a blur and he worked quickly. Dreogan knew exactly where the desired object was--for he'd taken great pains to hide it, months ago.  Picking his way through haphazard mounds of gold and jewels, books and wooden boxes and trunks, rolled parchment and golden plates, Dreogan paused at a large ceramic amphora.  It scraped heavily as he pushed it aside to reveal a thin square of beaten gold, into which twelve stones were laid.  The workmanship was very fine--but the gold was weathered at best. 

Dreogan pulled a drop cloth from a painting, sending clouds of dust into the air.  Wrapping the cloth carefully around the metal plate, Dreogan held it to his chest.  His hands traced over various objects.  For all the time Dreogan had had to think, he had not fully considered what else he should take.

He passed over the dagger with a heavy, silver handle in the shape of a dragon--with garnets for its eyes.  Too obvious.  One thing, and one thing only.  He reached instead for a small silver mirror, which he pressed firmly into his palm before pocketing it away in his robes.  If only he had a candle...

Dreogan eyed a menorah hungrily, moving quickly and adding a candle to his pockets.  Two things, then.

Dreogan had nothing to leave in return--something that his family could receive and remember him by. They had taken everything--even his wedding ring--long ago.  Moving towards the door--desiring above everything else to bring this errand to an end--he halted, catching from the corner of his eye the sight of his warped and scorched silver bowl thatKatsaros had destroyed.  A long cherished item, Dreogan had tucked it away here, retired in a bookcase for safe keeping.  It would never be of use for scrying, but it would meet his needs now. Fingers skimming over the scarred  surface of the bowl, Dreogan took several moments to recall a memory.  A sad smile came to his face and with his wand, he extracted several silver whisps, depositing them in his bowl.  Satisfied, he tucked his wand away.
 
Dreogan held the bowl between his shaking hands, muttering a stream of words before letting go.  The bowl dipped a moment in the air before straightening midair and hanging, suspended .  Dreogan's lips turned softly upward.  No, they could not miss that.

---

By the time Dreogan emerged from his vault, the Goblin had long since finished whatever nominal orientation he'd been offering.  Cumali eyed him sharply, rising to his feet and shaking off the Goblins' protesting hands from his robes.  His eyes looked ready to bore through the cloth packaging that Dreogan held.   Dreogan only gave an icy stare in return.

Silently, he resumed his seat in the back of the cart.  "Irving. Vault 532," the Receiving Goblin called, as the cart resumed its rickety journey.

Gwendolyn watched him carefully but kept her own face neutral. The smile wasn't discouraging, and she knew that he had picked up on her use of his brother’s name. She had learned to read people in subtle interrogations that were often masked by friendly or chance conversations. She nodded very lightly at his thanks, offered a tiny smile that she would not have granted his overly-complementary, soap-box-balancing brother. (Not so easily.)

There was pain there, in his voice and face, in the way he used them, like something left to collect dust. It was its own sort of haunting, strangely more frightening than the man who was his watcher. The word London seemed so far away and so overwhelmingly bright at once, like stepping into the daylight after a long time in a dark theater. Gwen only smiled wider, not because she was playing a part– which she was– but because she thought he needed someone to listen.

As they came to a stop, her smile faded just a little, and Gwen’s hand tightened on her wand.

She looked over her shoulder toward Cumali, caught the goblin staring her down, but kept staring at the man. She was sure, for a moment, he was going to blow his cover and attack.

But the sternness of the Goblin’s seemed to persuade him. Or, rather, whatever task he had planned. Cumali had obviously intended his prisoner to get into the vault, it seemed, for the other wizard had the key.

"Perhaps I'll move back to London some day.”

The voice surprised her, all of the sudden, and Gwen tore her eyes away, looked up at Dreogan.

She stared at him, tried to decipher in a few seconds the scars of his captivity. “I think you have plenty of time to accomplish that,” she said softly, after a moment, her eyes following him as he moved toward the vault. And for a breath, she was able to resist the urge to look back at Cumali.

When she did, she was ready to counter any move he made, and her face almost said it, but it didn’t: Gwen had long since learned how to compose herself, even in front of the obviously suspicious. “Are you enjoying it so far?” She asked, forcing him into conversation, so that neither of them could pay full attention to the vault’s door. Or ponder, in too much detail, what Dreogan might be collecting.

---

The package in his hands caught her attention, but Gwen knew better than to ask about it. And then they were off, moving too quickly for the other wizard to reasonably make a move without falling off the tracks. Gwen shot him a smile— she seemed to be doing that a lot lately— and they whirled on a more familiar path to her family’s vault.

She was up and out of the cart before even the goblin’s could protest. She could feel eyes on her back, but didn’t turn around.

The key slipped out of nowhere, but she made a show of fumbling, and then slipped into the vault and closed the door behind her.

Immediately, she hauled her backpack onto a table, and pulled out quill and parchment. Ripping a piece unceremoniously, she scrawled:

My name is Gwendolyn Irving. I’m a friend of your brother’s. The sweet wrapper contains a strong, adhesive Shield Charm. If you plan to run, unwrap it and step on it. He won’t know.

Then, from a front pocket of the bag, she fished up a handful of little confectionaries, plucked the right one from her palm and pinched it under the dim light as if it were a shiny coin, then wrapped the parchment around it like a spool of string. Wrapped or unwrapped, the sweet looked like gum… and like gum, it was a bitch to scrape off.

She unwrapped a second, and stomped her own sole into it, now that they had made it past the waterfall. Gwen was adept with Shield Charms— as she was sure Dreogan was— but it helped not to have to use one’s energy for that if a duel broke out.

With that done, she swung the bag back over her shoulder, and looked around for the bulkiest thing she could find. Her family, luckily, did not disappoint where heirlooms were concerned.

Minutes later, Gwen came wobbling out of the vault with an ugly, bulky wizard’s bust squeezed between her upper arm and side, and a much rounder, smoother vase hugged between both arms. The heavy metal and ceramic of the two pieces clinked against one another unpleasantly. Her father might have thanked her for taking them off his hands. Gwen planned to return them to his custody before he could. Her fists were bunched at the front of the vase, as if to reinforce her hold. One held her wand at a clumsy angle.

“Think we can squeeze these between us?” She ignored the goblin and looked at Dreogan. “Actually, could you hold this for me for a moment while I climb in?” She leaned her chin down at the vase. “I don’t think anyone wants me attempting to levitate things in here after that waterfall,” she laughed. And before he could agree, Gwendolyn was bending over, setting the hefty vase on the man’s knees with practiced awkwardness. The note-wrapped sweet nestled safely in her seemingly free palm dropped into his lap behind the vase and out of Cumali’s view. “Thanks!” She added, as she sank in in front of him, using both hands to hold up the ugly bust, show it off to the prying eyes. “My Great Uncle. Do you think I have his cheekbones?”

And again, they were off.

Dreogan had never been as sorry to see a person go as to watch the young Irving witch slip into her vault.  Dreogan was left with the heavy gaze of Cumali, and the growing realization of how close to a head everything was coming.  He felt it as a train barreling towards him:

Before too long, Dreogan, Cumali--all of them--would leave the vaults and go back above ground.
Then, once above ground, Dreogan would need to keep Cumali at bay to prevent another Imperio.
This would  no doubt result in a duel; Dreogan would use what wards he could and break free.
Once free...Dreogan would return back to his captors.

Dreogan looked back behind him, gut wrenching and fingers curling around the edges of the wooden frame of the cart. Dreogan felt with a keen yearning the desire to Apparate home to his wife, to his child, and to the life he had just settled into before he was wrenched from it. But Topluluk--Cumali, Godze, and the others--would come back for him again.  And the pattern that his family had fallen into for the past 15 years would simply resume.  It didn't matter if Dreogan started a new family; it would not change.

By the time Dreogan had steeled his resolution, the young Irving witch had returned, awkwardly balancing various prizes.  One ended up in his lap by some trick or other.  Dreogan readjusted the ceramic vase in his lap with a weak, hollow laugh when he heard a light drop.  Feet scraping the worn wood of the cart, Dreogan managed to curl his fingers around a small roll of parchment.  He shifted the vase slightly to obstruct a view as he uncurled the fringed, roughly torn parchment. 

My name is Gwendolyn Irving. I’m a friend of your brother’s. The sweet wrapper contains a strong, adhesive Shield Charm. If you plan to run, unwrap it and step on it. He won’t know.

Oh, G-d.  Dreogan felt a lump in his throat.  He suspected as much, with her insistence in joining, intent conversation and watchful eye...

The cart began to move, with the thunderous clattering of iron rails on rickety wheels.  Dreogan's mind was far away--he was only cognizant of the damp air brushing against his face as they began to climb upwards.  Dreogan kept the "sweet" in his palm, having no better place to store it and wanting it on hand.  He was going to be sick.  He was not ready for any of this.

"Yes," he said--she had more practice at cracking jokes under pressure than he.  But this was not her gamble.  He preferred it that way.  As he leaned over the Receiving Goblin to speak directly to Gwen, he could see Cumali just ahead tense--the very image of rapt attention.  "I hope you have one, too," he whispered to her. All too soon, cart began to slow.  Cumali was the first to disembark, leaping lightly out before it had even come to a complete stop, wand already in his hand.  Dreogan rose, his stomach dropping further still, twisted in knots.

 "I'll give this back to you," he said, handing the vase delicately to the young woman. "Stay where you are--I'll help you get down with those. But first..." he said, trailing off. Dreogan paused in the cart as if to tie his shoelace.  With fumbling hands, he unwrapped the... gum? He looked up, nervously at Gwendolyn, unsure if this was what it was supposed to look like.  The Receiving Goblin, just a breath away was looking at him critically.  Without much further thought, Dreogan pressed the sole of his shoe firmly upon the unwrapped sweet, hoping it would offer him the things she'd promised.  When he looked up again, Cumali was being ushered from the mine shaft and back into the marbled walls of Gringotts.  Dreogan felt a temporary sense of relief, even smiling at the Receiving Goblin--an unexpected ally--as he hobbled out.  The goblin looked at him sourly, and the smile evaporated.

Dreogan let himself down from the carts gently, taking the time to set the wrapped plate on the ground carefully before extending a hand out to once more carry the vase and to help Gwen--his only ally at the moment, and unwanted one.  As she settled down, he put a hand on the small of her back, leaning in.  "Please stay by the  cart. Don't follow."  He did not want Adon's friends dragged into this any more than he wanted Adon to.  "Tell Adon to stay out of this. And--" he could think of messages to Akiva, to his mother--but really, all he could think of was the man waiting for him in the lobby of the bank.  'Thank you."

By the time Adon had Apparated onto the base steps of Gringotts' Bank, it had been several minutes since he had sent the Patronus.  And over an hour since they'd made contact with Dree.[1]  From the smooth, white marble step, he realized that there was a sort of inevitability to this.  He pivoted on his heel, facing outward to see the approaching throng--making last-minute Hogwarts errands--and taking it all in.

No sign of Gwen--she was probably inside.  It was for the best that she'd had some time to look around.  Gwen was free to wander about inconspicuously, an advantage that he, the scarred Auror-brother of Dreogan Eleor, did not exactly have at the moment.  Which was why he had been so grateful when that sooty raven had slid silently into the Katz-Eleor home.  It meant that he had one more person, one more insight, and one more set of eyes on this.  But it also meant--perhaps most significantly--that he was not alone at this juncture.  Gwendolyn Irving would make this considerably easier.

Adon had taken longer than he'd wanted saying goodbye to Akiva[2].  He'd hoped that Gabriel might have woken up--but Akiva was so numb and desensitized, he didn't have the heart to ask directly to see him.  And he didn't have the heart to make this about him.  It wasn't. It was about Dree.

But this did not erase the almost certain truth that that harrowing dream that was 3 years in coming was, quite possibly, only moments away. One-by-one, Adon was saying goodbye to things, family, friends... Just in case.  There was the chance, based on some pretty weighty assumptions, that this might not end how they'd anticipated.  If Dreogan was returning to London, and if Adon was able to keep him in London, rather than having to find him in Jerusalem--or if someone else could find him in Jerusalem--maybe he wouldn't need to bleed out on a limestone alley somewhere in the Old City. 

At the moment, though, Adon saw neither his white-robed brother nor the black-clad investigator, and he, haltingly, moved up the steps of the bank.

The last thing he had expected--though, upon consideration, likely the first thing he had hoped for--was to see Dreogan Eleor, his brother, just emerging from the vaults and running towards him. Fast.  Adon could not see from who, exactly, but he had his guesses as to what. 

People were already scattering, clearly panicking. There were a few astonished screams.  There'd been some sort of open fire, and Adon scanned the room--attempting to block the entry so that whoever it was could not escape.  A mother scrambled towards him, tugging her child by the arm and barreling  into Adon's chest with her shoulder, leaving him slightly winded.  Without so much of an apology, she--then four or five others--roughly pushed him aside, cramming themselves through the opening door of Gringotts. Others soon followed.

Adon kept his gaze above their heads, wand out. He could barely see his brother, who paused, ducking behind a smooth marble column.  "Dree!" he called, forcing his way through the throng. His brother looked up, eyes wild, and there was the sound of metal clattering as Dreogan dropped something.  Adon saw a small black candle--the sort his brother liked to use for self-defense--roll away across the slick, patterned floor. 

Spells in here would ricochet horribly, and limit his response in a crowded bank.

At the moment of the thought, Adon felt the great heat of a spell fill the entry as a pillar  blue flames came barreling towards his brother, now scrambling on all fours to retrieve the candle.  Adon's stomach turned--his heart dropped, and he yelled a warning. His brother clearly had some trick up his sleeve: fingers just wrapping around the candle, Dreogan was saved by a silvery shield, conjured out of nowhere.

But now, Adon had had time to trace the flames back towards the attacker.  A thin man in robes that were distinctly Middle Eastern.  "Everybody out!" Adon boomed, standing well clear of the door now.  The man--who had been closing in on his brother--now had his focus squarely on the Auror. Moving forward aggressively, Adon was able to deflect a jet of red sparks from the man at first.  He felt the spell bounce off of his shield charm--it rang like a dull, hollow gong.  Apparition was not possible on Gringotts grounds--so Adon continued onward, casting stupefy after stupefy.  Each, in turn, deflected.  One, bounding off a marble pillar, brought a scarlet-clad goblin of the bank to the ground.

Adon's opponent raised his wand, bringing it down sharply. A long, thin flame flew from the tip, cracking towards Adon.  With a slashing motion, Adon reduced the whip to ash, which rained lightly upon the floor.  The man grit his teeth, digging his heels in as he shot Adon a jet of orange which was only avoided by stepping quickly aside. 

Behind him, Adon heard a great clattering of metal.  The ground shook; Adon spun around to see the larger-than-life statue of Gorbruk the Grisly tromp heavily past him.  Adon had his shield prepared but the man's next spell--a burst of green--hit the statue's chest squarely, bouncing back and engulfing the man in a flash.  As the man crumpled to the ground, Adon could still hear the force of the spell reverberating in the statue's chest in the form of a ghostly, metallic echo.

Adon surveyed the scene:  The statue was still.  The man was, too.  Gringotts was emptied of its patrons.  The goblins began to peek out from their stronghold behind their counters, and the goblin on the floor began to stir.   Adon whirled around to look behind him, where he had last seen Dree, franticly gathering together his things.  It was empty there, too.

With ice in his stomach, Adon tore through the entrance, pitching himself through the doorframe.  He barely caught a glimpse of his brother, just at the base of the stairs, a mere breath away.  As soon as Dreogan's foot landed on the cobbled streets of Diagon, there was a loud crack, and he was gone.

1.	You Can't Turn Back the Clock
2.	Lost & Found

When Adon re-entered Gringotts, not much had changed.  Adon, however, was struck by the enormity of the place.  Usually crammed with people, Adon had never had the chance to notice how tall the vaulted ceilings were or just how quiet, how eerie a place could sound when it was empty.

A bit of moment to the right caught his attention.  A small figure in black was just making its way out of the mine shafts that lead down to the vaults. 

“Gwen!” Adon called, beginning to run towards her.  His feet pounded, and as he drew closer, he took the bust from her--immediately placing it on the Goblin's counter.  The message was clear: no time for art. 

“Where is he! Where did he go?” He heard his voice echo off the tiled floors and worm its way down the echoing mine shaft.  He ought to have phrased that more kindly, but there was no time.  Now caught up, Adon was beginning to realize how winded this whole trainwreck of events had made him.  “I need to find him now.”