(Co-post; response to this article)

It was 11 pm on a Thursday and Adon had spread his work out across the dinner table. A bit spilled over into the kitchen on the wet bar. The setup was not as conducive to work as it was at work, but Adon didn’t much feel like remaining at work for various reasons: first, it was well within ones rights to be able to wear jammas from 8 pm and, if possible, until 4 pm to the next day if possible and desired. Second, working at work was conspicuous. Adon was a fool if he did not suspect that he was being surveillanced – however well meaning – by those in the office. It was best to make progress as invisible, as easy as possible. The struggle, the "growing process" – Level Two leadership did not care about this any longer. They wanted clear results. And he could give them that. Just after some time. Time he’d spent at home. Third . . .

Adon had not had time to reason his way to number three – it was private – because the door flew open and Adon knew from the light step it was his brother. He sighed. Is this how it had felt when he had barged in on Dreogan all those times he had been working in Israel? He felt his brother come close but Adon refused to turn his head or acknowledge it.  Maybe he’d go away and he could just--

“Look!” Dreogan said, dropping what sounded like a stack of paper on the dining table before Adon. The Auror looked at it from over his own reading briefly – long enough to look at the title of the article Dreogan had turned to on today’s Daily Prophet.

“Hmn. Read it already,” he said quietly before going back to his work and underlining  with the tip of his wand something in orange.

“You know I've been talking to a student at Hogwarts on the same topic. A distressing situation. I’m glad someone’s taken this on. It must be done.” Adon knew that tone. Exuberance. Another one of Dreogan’s Ill-Fated, Well-Meaning Causes. Though, it seemed, one that Dreogan himself was not actively taking up at the moment. Good. Let others fight the good fight.

“Yeh; and Tulo’s got the fire for it,” Adon said passively.

Adon heard the grating of the wooden chair against their linoleum floor, but didn’t look up. He rather felt Dreogan sit across from him, look at him. His voice was still one of trembling excitement. “I’m going to write a letter to the editor of the Prophet, thanking them for publishing the article.”

Adon put down his reading. “That's pointless,” he said flatly. “It’s already published.”

“The world needs to know that she’s not alone in what she thinks.” The dreamy, euphoric glow was still spreading across Dreogan’s face as he dropped his briefcase down onto the floor and pulled out a chair to sit down. It made Adon grit his teeth and clench his wand.

“Our family doesn’t need to be dragged into this sort of thing again.”

“This sort of thing?” The progress to seat himself halted, the euphoria gone, replaced by an edge in the voice that Adon recognised. They were about to have a fight.

Adon was not about to back down. He looked at Dreogan with lifted brows and with his best condescending voice, replied, “The sort of cause that gets people kidnapped and killed, Dree. That sort of thing.”

“You think so little of my ability, then? I’ve spent years learning to keep myself safe. And others. You think I’d just throw caution to the wind?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I think you should take your own advice and, if possible, avoid situations where you need to use your creepy, live-preserving skill set. Alright? We don’t need to put mum through that again. Your last display of heroics against Tawse brought me across the world so I could look after her. She still hasn’t gotten over dad. And neither have you.”

“I brought you across the world so that you would talk to her! It'd been years, you know.” Adon noted Dreogan hadn’t said anything about his father. The man could still not bring himself to talk about it. Even when it was the topic of conversation. It was always the topic of conversation. Just a silent one.

Adon didn’t like meeting his brother’s eyes. They were blazing and accusatory. He shuffled his papers and crisply gathered them into a pile, tapping them against the tabletop to reorder them. “Whatever the case, Dree, putting yourself out there in writing is going to make you more enemies than friends. If you become vocal, so will they.”

Dreogan was quiet for a time. Adon looked away from his reading to gauge his expression: jaw set, eyes narrowed. Determined.

“I’m writing an article.” His brother’s nostrils flared.

Adon lifted his chin, raised his eyebrows. “No. Hell no.”

“It’s nearly completed. It may be a book eventually.” Dreogan was lifting his chin. Like an iguana. Some bizarre--almost comedic--assertion of power. Instinctively, Adon lifted his higher, putting his hands on the edge of the table.

“You publish those chapters and I swear on—“

“On what?” He was packing up his things angrily, jerking the paper back. “What cause can you possibly have? What have you got to swear upon? Name one thing in which you truly believe, Adon.”

Adon was silent as he rose to his feet, papers still in hand. “I swear on our father’s grave. Even you, Dreogan, cannot deny that he has one by now.” He went back to his reading the words but not their meaning, too consumed in listening for the sound of the door slamming.