“FINE! I’LL GET IT!” Colette huffed as the door was pounded upon for the third time. She had been working on a small transfiguration project in her room for her Halloween costume. The ottoman was in the centre of her bedroom, twitching slightly. She stomped across the room and skipped quickly down the steps, growling, “I said I’m coming!” as the door was pounded a third time.

She threw the latch open and jerked at the handle, scowl fixed. If it was that no-good Simon . . . well, she didn’t know what she’d do. She gasped, slightly, her fantasies of either kissing the boy senseless or punching him across the face coming to a halt as she noticed the man upon the doorstep was certainly very attractive, but also most definitely not Simon.

But certainly very attractive.

“Hello,” she drawled, wishing she knew what she looked like right now. She hadn’t looked in the mirror since that morning, and it was at least six now. And after Maggie’s incident, she hadn’t gotten much sleep, either.

“Hello,” the man returned and Colette’s stomach fluttered. Good voice. “I’m looking for Margaret Groust.” Foreign. He was attractive and foreign! This was going to be hard to turn him away, but it was necessary. Maggie had been recovering and had been released from Mungo’s, but she was still quite shaken up. She did not need male visitors.

“I’m sorry. Maggie’s not able to see visitors just now,” Colette said.

The man produced a badge. Colette didn’t need to look at it for more than a second to know exactly what it was. “Damn,” she muttered appreciatively. Hot, foreign Auror. For Maggie. That deserved a 'damn' of a whole different sort.
 
“What?” the man asked, leaning his head inas though he'd not properly heard her. He had. She just hadn't meant to be heard.

“Nothing. Just remembered something," she lied with a blasé sort of ease that she hoped was convincing. She'd practised lying enough; it ought to be made perfect by now. "Come inside. I’ll get her. She’s been taking it easy, you know?” she said, moving towards the stairs and waving to their sofa in the front room. “Take a seat. I’ll just. . .” she said, stumbling a bit on the first step and cringing. Why the hell – but the man didn’t seem to notice. Or was only pretending not to notice.

“Mags!” she called up the stairs, picking her way up carefully. “There’s uh, a –“ “Hot Auror” couldn’t quite be yelled up the stairs with decorum.

“Auror Eleor,” the man provided in a crisp, foreign accent that made her smile broadly. She looked back at him, noticing he still hadn’t taken a seat but was standing just near the door, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared – the toe of Colette’s shoe thudded against a stair and she returned her gaze to her feet.

“There’s an Or-ro-rel-ror . .” She cleared her throat as she heard the man guffaw below, clearing his throat slightly afterwards. Great, he had only been pretending not to see her trip, no doubt. “Aur-or El-ee-or,” she repeated under her breath before calling back, “You’re a damned tongue-tier.” This time, he didn’t mask his laugh, but chuckled and responded with a brief, “That’s what she said.”

Now at the top of the stairs, Colette stopped and stood stock-still. “. . .What?”

The Auror rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat again. “Couldn’t resist. You’ll send Maggie down, yeh?”

Colette nodded quickly, knuckle rapping on Maggie’s door. “Mags,” she muttered into the door, knowing from experience that the sound didn’t carry down from this location in the flat. “There is a hot foreign Auror-man to see you. Auror . . El. . eor. Hot” she added for clarification, rather excited for her friend that at least something good was coming from last night’s events.

“If it’s my mother, tell her I don’t need her to keep bringing me meals!” Maggie hollered through the walls, hearing Colette stomp down the stairs to answer the door.

Maggie stayed in bed and sighed. The instant something went wrong in her life, her mum came over with food. Maggie loved her, really, but yesterday and today had been crazy enough. Her parents kept stopping by, worrying over her and acting guilty, like it was their fault she’d been attacked. Word had gotten out to her younger sister, who had sent her a scared letter that Maggie didn’t know how to respond to yet. Reading it made her break down all over again. Even worse, her little brother looked at her as if she was a stranger… no joking, no teasing, and no cracks about her hair, which she would have actually appreciated coming from him.

At least her friends were being reasonable and trying to give her some space. Colette was the guard of the house, and Niobe chattered about everything and anything to keep Maggie distracted.

Some soup and crackers sat on her bedside table. The food her mum brought over remained stuffed into their fridge. With all the potions she was on, she couldn’t keep much down. So she’d had to stick to bland chicken broth and crackers.

Maggie leaned forward slightly, trying to make out what Colette was saying. As her friend bounded up the stairs Maggie glared at the door, already set to be stubborn and miserable and refuse to come down. Colette wasn’t doing her job! She was supposed to make people leave her alone.

But then, Colette told her who it was.

A hot Auror? Maggie straightened, staring at the door blankly. She didn’t recognize the name, and to be honest, she couldn’t remember much about the law officials who had helped save her life on the fourteenth. She’d been in too much pain, been too disoriented, and blacked out for some time at St. Mungo’s. Since then, of course, she’d been doped up on potions.

“Fecking hell,” Maggie looked down at her clothes, scowled, and wiped the cracker crumbs off her shirt. Well, this was a grand time for an Auror to show up. She didn’t feel like answering more questions, damn it, and if he was hot, that was even worse, because she’d be worrying about what she looked like. He just had to stop by while she was dressed in sweats and an old Tutshill Tornadoes tee. Maggie set down her book and reluctantly eased out of bed, her head pounding at the movement. Though she didn’t realize it, her eyes were a little red from the random crying jags she’d had the past few days. It didn’t even make sense, she thought. She’d been reading comedic, fluffy novels on purpose, and had tried her damndest not to think about things that would upset her.

Maggie ran a hand through her hair, the one thing she could always count on to look nice, only to be reminded of how short it was. Her mum had done her best, cutting off the burnt and ragged ends, but Maggie would need a real haircut at some point so she wouldn’t frighten herself when she looked in the mirror. Quickly, wincing when she moved too fast, Maggie scooped up her hair into a messy bun. It would have to do.

She opened her door and moved past Colette, giving her the death glare when a slight frown tugged at the corner of her friend’s mouth. “Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t know!” She hissed at her, assuming the frown was because of her less than glamorous outfit. Maggie slowly made her way down the stairs, pausing for a second when she spotted him.

Colette wasn’t lying- he was cute. But the first thing that ran through her mind was the memory of Tawse holding her at knife point. She glanced away for a moment and back at him, pushing the thought away. Maggie remembered him, the Auror with a gun, the one Tawse had shouted some ridiculous Western line at. He’d also accidentally stunned her. She was too angry at Tawse, Briggs, and herself to be pissed about it, though.

“Hey,” she greeted him in a subdued tone, standing on the bottom step. “Auror Eleor. It’s not that difficult to say,” she projected her voice and glanced up the stairs with a smirk, just to catch a glimpse of her friend disappearing into her room.

Maggie walked into the living area and gestured him towards a seat.

“So, follow up questions?” she ventured, sitting down and resting her bandaged arms on the arms of the chair. Maggie figured the quicker she got this over with, the quicker she could go back to moping, so she wasn’t going to bother with small talk. If only Colette could hear her now, she’d be sighing at her and shaking her head.

Colette heard the muffled mutterings of her friend through the door and felt that maternal pang -- which she called overprotectiveness, because that sounded better. Less. . . mushy. As her friend appeared at the door, groggy and, well, she would have said slightly tipsy had she known better, she could not help but frown.

“Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t know!”

She had hoped the visit might improve rather than sully Maggie's moods, but she couldn't blame her. That aside, Colette deduced that now was also not the prefect time to ask if Maggie at least had a bra on. She shook her head as Maggie descended the stairs, sending a quip about Colette's elocutionary problems her way before she went into her own room to return to the twitching ottoman.

________________________

The girl appeared at the top of the steps and Adon glanced up.
“Hey,” she greeted him in a subdued tone.

"Hey," he returned, deciding as he saw her face that the real goal of this would be to get her to laugh. It seemed Herculean, but that made it worthwhile. He watched, a bit anxiously, as she worked her way down the stairs, surprisingly steady on her feet considering what she must be going through.

"Auror Eleor. It’s not that difficult to say."

Adon gave a soft, single guffaw. "That's not what she said," Adon replied, pointing back up to the stairs where the other girl had retreated to. "Roommate?" he asked, curious to see who was taking care of her. She'd need looking after for the first little bit. Mostly so that she wasn't alone.

She didn't seem the sort to want any smothering, though. Adon got that; were he in her situation -- and he had been --  he'd probably have not even encouraged him to sit, wanting to send him out as soon as possible. He'd make it a point not to stay as long as the Aurors had for him. Then again, her case was rather easier than his had been; she'd not killed anyone in the scuffle. "Though if it's too hard," he said, continuing the previous thought almost tangentially, "Adon Eleor serves just as well. My brother's name's even worse, if you can imagine."

“So, follow up questions?” she asked curtly, making herself comfortable, and Adon seated himself across from her, taking a breath before he began. To business -- she didn't want to talk about the Tutshill Tornadoes. Just as well. She probably wouldn't have liked what he had to say about the team.

"Yes, actually," he said. "Just a few questions, but critical. I'll need as complete and truthful an answer as you can give." He pulled out a pad of paper from the beat leather satchel he'd been carrying and began to write a couple of lines upon it with his wand.

One misplaced quills. Or they snapped in your bag. Or they leaked. A wand? You always had it with you. And none of that dipping into inkwells. Of course, if you had to cast spells and write at the same time, it was impossible. But that had never happened.

"Okay, so, first question, Miss Groust." He put the pad down and looked, a subtle softening of his features as he regarded her. "How're you doing?"

Unfortunately, Maggie missed the whole ‘that’s what she said’ conversation between Adon and Colette. If she’d heard it, she would have found his reply much more amusing.

“Yup,” she answered. “Colette. One of the few people who will put up with me,” she glanced back at him. It was a joke, sort of. Somehow they all got along well enough to live with each other.

When Maggie was seated, she nodded at him, filing away the name Adon in case they ever talked again. Eleor sounded familiar, and then it clicked. Akiva was dating Dreogan, who must be his brother. Mentioning it, however, would go against her no small talk rule, so she moved on to business.

Luckily, there was no dilly-dallying. He told her that he had a few critical questions to ask her, and a line of concern appeared between her brows. She’d thought they were done with those.  He got out a pad of paper and his wand, writing a few lines down. A wand used to write? That was new and different. Maggie sighed, mentally preparing herself for a difficult conversation. She put on a blank mask and watched him carefully.

It was odd, to watch someone take notes on what she said. She pressed for information all the time in her job, so the situation wasn’t new to her, but Maggie realized she was much less comfortable being on the receiving end of questions.

As his face softened and the first question registered in her mind, Maggie’s composure faltered. She gave him a confused, surprised look, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, wincing at the movement. She kept forgetting to move slowly. In an instant though, her guard was back up.

“Fine,” she said, a note of wariness creeping into her voice.

“You can call me Maggie,” she told him with a shrug. “And I’m doing alright. My friends and family are falling over themselves to make sure I’m okay. Colette and Kia are here, and my mum brought over a whole month’s worth of food,” she rolled her eyes and smirked. “I’ve got a stack of books and bad TV to keep me occupied. I’d say I’m set.”

Quirking an eyebrow at him, she wondered how much of that ‘critical’ information he’d write down. Maggie was curious if he even knew what a TV was, imagining him writing it out: ‘tee-vee?’ She might have chuckled at the thought if she’d been in a better mood.

She didn’t mention anything about how she was feeling, emotionally or physically. The potions helped take away the physical pain, though they left her feeling groggy and sluggish. As for her emotions, they were completely out of whack. She assumed that the Auror was asking to be polite and sociable, not because he really wanted to know. She doubted she’d be comfortable confiding in someone she barely knew, anyway.

Her eyes flicked to the curious burn on the side of his face, wondering about it, and then back to look in his eyes again.

"Alright, Maggie," Adon said, using the suggested name, nodding and listening as she catalogued her various visitants and callers. She seemed taken care of -- temporally, at least. "Ah, the food," he said, nodding. When he'd been hospitalised -- well, the one time it had been critical care -- she'd fought the staff to have her food served. Which she had brought. From England. To Israel. "Mothers are good at that."

He looked at her a moment, dispelling air from his nose as he considered. "You're set," he repeated with a dubious flatness, dark brows lowering as he noted her eyes flicker -- as everyone's did upon a first meeting -- to his scars. It always emanated differently with the person. It made them awkward. More quiet. More careful. Or more curious. Sometimes, more flirtatious. But this girl had prefected the dead-inside look. Adon had, too. He put it on whenever he was getting too angry to deal with the situation. Or too scared. He'd put it on in the alley the previous night.

He breathed in through his nose again, shaking his head slowly as he did so. "I think I gave a slight caveat on my no bullshit policy, yeh?" He tapped the paper absently with his wand as he thought.

It was prying; and she wasn't going to like it, but the answer mattered. No one'd ever asked him these things after his incident, and if there was possible PTS (post-traumatic syndrome), the duty fell to him to report that possibility and suggest follow-up. There were support groups. Self-defence courses offered. And, in him, a listening ear at least. If you opened up to family, they looked at you in that soft way that made you feel like you were some invalid, dribbling spittle down your chin. Of course, if you opened up to an authority figure, you ran the risk of them suggesting treatment, making plans . . . She didn't need to know that, though. And if she did . . . well, it didn't really matter. In the end, the support needed to come from somewhere. And the cooking channel -- what little he knew of TV -- couldn't give you that. And mothers would, as they stuffed concoctions down your throat. Concoctions they'd learned on the cooking channel. But he?

Adon flipped the pad closed and set it aside, frowning slightly as he thought. Well, he was just Adon Eleor. The way things were going, he wasn't entirely certain he'd be in a position of authority for much longer anyhow.

"I heard the burns will heal," Adon said, nodding to the bandages, "but that you might have scarring. . ." He gave a slow, subtle smile at this, but not a happy one. There was a long silence. "Worse things could have happened. It's, ah. . ." he paused and shifted in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. He shouldn't bullshit this, either. "To be frank, you'll always be reminded of this incident. You can't forget it. Which," he said, filling his lungs with air before breathing out in order to release the tension in his throat, "is why it's important how you choose to remember it."

A momentary pause before: "Have you slept at all? Or well?"

Maggie’s expression turned surprised, then mulish and annoyed when he threw her own words back at her. You’re set. It made her sound like she didn’t know her own state of mind. She was just telling him that she was taken care of, thank you very much. Pouring out her heart and soul to near strangers was not on her agenda for the day.

Then he called it bullshit! Maggie tensed in her seat and scowled at him.

“Excuse me?” She interjected. “I’m answering your questions, aren’t I? I told you I’m fine,” she repeated, gritting her teeth at the end of her statement.

She was the one who pried into people’s lives, not the other way around. Maggie had given him perfectly civil, reasonable responses… something she hadn’t even tried to do for friends and family, and he was calling it BS? No way.

Maggie felt some satisfaction when he flipped the writing pad closed, thinking she’d won and he’d be on his merry way. But then he went on to mention the burns, and Maggie’s eyebrows rose higher and higher in disbelief. What the fecking… the smile he gave her was just too much. It wasn’t sugary sweet, or mocking. He knew. He knew what those scars would feel like and that scared her right now. She didn’t want anyone to understand. She just wanted everyone to leave her alone. Didn’t she?

She opened her mouth, about to tell him where he could stick his show of concern, when he rubbed his hand over his face in an almost vulnerable gesture. Maggie was speechless. Fuming again, but speechless, as he explained that she’d always remember what happened and that it was important to choose how.

She glanced away, shook her head, and let out an aggravated sigh.

There was a pause. Blissful silence. Then another intrusive question. Blast!

Maggie turned her head to glare at him, the glare of all glares that usually shut people up and made them go away. Not him, though. Maggie continued the futile staring contest for a few more moments, then threw her hands in the air and rose suddenly.

“What, are you my mother?” she snapped at him over her shoulder, pacing towards the kitchen area and then back. It hurt to move, but she needed some way to vent her frustration.

“Who do you think you are?” she finally picked a spot to stand, voice rising. “You come in here, claim you have all these ‘official’ questions, and then you throw this psychobabble at me. If I needed to hear ‘how to remember things’, I’d go to a Healer. You think it’s your business to know how well I’m sleeping?… Now that’s bullshit. I’ve got friends, I’ve got family if I need to talk- which I don’t feel like doing right now, but thanks. So yeah, I’m set.”

She remained standing and gave him a cold stare. “Anything else that doesn’t involve how I’m feeling?” Maggie said, trying to sound icy but coming across as sullen. A pout formed on her mouth. Not only was she angry, but uncomfortably aware of how childish she was behaving. She could only blame the potions so much. Her head pounded, her face felt too hot, and her palms were uncomfortably warm. All she wanted to do was kick him out and bitch about him to Colette.

Nevermind that she’d been sleeping in fits and starts. Nevermind that every sudden noise made her heart race. He was full of it.

“Excuse me?” She interjected. “I’m answering your questions, aren’t I? I told you I’m fine."

"Yes, you are; and you told me, but I don't believe you," he said, tapping the side of his nose, indicating intuition. "I am glad to hear that there are people in your life who are there for you, though. That's--"

The girl rose hastily to her feet now and Adon stopped to observe.

“What, are you my mother?”

Adon pressed his lips tightly together at the string of questions she didn't want answered. He watched her wave and gesture, pace and snarl in a behaviour that resembled something of the caged tigers he'd seen with Robin and Deen at the zoo. Tigers could learn a trick or two from that stare. For himself, Adon was not much intimidated, but he felt his irritation rising as the accusations were thrown.

His jaw tensed. Dead inside, Eleor, he told himself once more. You are dead inside. Adon sighed and regained some of his composure, allowing his face to vacate the emotion and tension held there, just listening.

Fine. She didn't want him to care? He wouldn't care. It made it much easier to keep his temper that way.

"No," he responded to her first question slowly. In a better mood, he might have joked about how he ought to have brought food -- food made everything better. But he shifted, allowing his muscles to relax. He wouldn't care. "Nor am I a Healer; but I have a list of capable ones, if you would like them. I am the handler of your case. And these are official questions. I had thought you would have wanted someone who has been on the receiving end of them to ask. To make sure the questions meant something."

It was true. They did mean something. Probably more to Adon than whoever wrote up the suggested routine for victim visitation. Adon had only gotten past suggested step 2 of 12. Step 1: Greeting. Name exchange. Step 2: Touch base. Step 3: Personal connection. Step 4: Outline services provided . . . etc. etc. They hadn't even gotten to talking about the progress of the investigation yet and they were already fighting. This was promising, he thought snidely.

But Adon didn't feel like skipping ahead. That was cheating. And, in the end, wouldn't be productive for either of them.

“Anything else that doesn’t involve how I’m feeling?" she asked in a sullen tone.

"Sure," Adon said, leaning back somewhat more in the seat. This wasn't going to make him uncomfortable. He wouldn't let it. "How about some questions about how I feel, hm? You seem to not want to talk much about yourself, so maybe that's a better place to start. How would you think I felt, hearing I'd need to come visit a girl who's been a bit roughed up, a bit shaken up, when I'd gone through a similar thing four years ago? How'd you think I'd feel, being the person to ask the questions, when last time, I was the person to throw the Aurors out?" He looked at her. He'd bet she wished she could right about now. "Do you think I'd care if things went any better for her than they did for me?"

He shook his head. "To be honest, Maggie, I'd have rathered if this visit wasn't necessary; if this hadn't happened, if I didn't have a checklist to carry out; if you were fine. I could have sent someone else, but I know that I can help. And that's what I do. Now, you can help me do a nominally good job about this and let me write the answers on my paper or you can help yourself and let me actually do my job."

Maggie was starting to feel like a fool. Her hissy fit was not accomplishing what she wanted it to. He wasn’t getting angry at her- maybe slightly irritated, but not angry. He wasn’t apologetic. And most importantly, he wasn’t rushing for the door. It just wasn’t fair. If she had to be in a horrible mood, so should he!

Instead, he sat there, refuting her rant logically. Worse yet, he began talking about how he must feel, making her realize that she hadn’t considered him beyond her initial curiosity about the scars on his face. Okay, so she was self-absorbed. But as he asked those tough questions, questions that made her actually think about him as a human being rather than a pesky Auror bent on ruining her day, some of the tension seeped out of her shoulders and her breathing became more even.

She watched him, very quiet and still now, listening without verbally acknowledging what he said. Maggie glanced down for a moment, guilt creeping up on her.

She sat down with a sigh as he said that she could actually help him do his job. Merlin, he was a stubborn ass. He wouldn’t leave until they got somewhere, so it was better to accept it now.

“Alright, fine,” she grumbled, shooting him a weak glare that lacked the venom of her earlier glares. ‘Sorry’, a little voice popped up in her head, one that she quickly squashed.

There was a long silence as she struggled to find the words to explain. A part of her wanted to know more about what he went through, and another part of her just wanted to get this over with. Why was talking about her feelings so hard? She hated feeling vulnerable, and she hated admitting to problems in any area.

“I guess I haven’t been sleeping all that well,” she admitted with a shrug, glancing at him. “Because if I don’t keep my mind busy, I start thinking about the damn explosion,” she rolled her eyes, pissed at herself. “It’s ridiculous,” she shook her head. “I already know what happened, I don’t need to dwell on it anymore, but my mind won’t let it go.”

Maggie paused. “And if I manage to fall asleep, I wake up two minutes later for no good reason.”

She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable, and gave him a searching look. “Tell me that’ll get better,” she said quietly. “I’m a pain in the ass without sleep.”

As he could probably tell.

The change was more than Adon could have hoped for -- and yet he had expected it. He was pleased, though, though he tried not to let the smile show. The most noticeable indicator was a confident nod. All these Brits needed to learn to open up. Adon, though, had felt of late that he had a skeleton key. People'd come to trust him. It was an ability he was beginning to enjoy. He listened thoughtfully to her conclusion.

"It’s ridiculous."

Adon couldn't agree there. "Mm, maybe illogical, but I don't think anyone would ridicule you for this. Our emotions don't answer to logic, most the time anyhow." He paused. She seemed ashamed to admit this -- he knew the feeling. For the most part, he had become shameless; to his detriment at times. But he felt the need to clarify something. "You know, you've got quite a gift in me: opening up to your family is good and a necessary thing to do, when you're ready," he said heavily, "but opening up to me?" he shrugged. "Easy. Because, after a couple of visits, you won't need to talk to me again if you don't want; so any impression doesn't need to matter."

His customary smirk returned at this, and he tapped his chin, considering if he had any particular advice on sleep. It had been, primarily, a matter of time. Dreogan spending time living with him had helped. A good relationship with Thea, too. A job he'd been in love with . . .

"Sleep comes eventually, when life reaches a natural pattern again. But, ah, some lingering anxieties might always be there. It all depends. I'm still not comfortable around fire -- don't Floo," he substantiated. "But I sleep just fine. You're probably on too many potions right now to consider it, and I would only recommend getting this through Mungo's with the approval of qualified Healers," he added, an agitated expression crossing his face a moment before he sighed, "but have you considered Draught of Peace?"

Damn it, he'd kill Dreogan.

"Here," he said, reaching for the pad again and pulling a loose leaf of parchment from it. "I'm supposed to give you this." Attached was a list of names and contacts. Services and addresses for support groups, Healers, counselors. "I'd actually personally recommend the second one down," he said, referring to one of the Healer's at Mungo's over Mental Health. "If you want the Draught of Peace," he clarified, not wanting her to think he was recommending anything more ambitious; she might refuse outright. However, maybe once she was in the door . . .

"As for the pain in the ass," well, silence would only confirm. And denial would be a lie. Best to reroute with a bit of humour. "Just make sure you keep moving around; it'll avoid you getting bedsores. Pacing works," he said, pointing to where she had been prowling not too long ago.

She didn’t want to admit it, but talking to him really wasn’t so bad. He didn’t pity or coddle her, or look at her any differently, which were all things she couldn’t stand. Maggie nodded at him, thinking he had a point when he suggested that opening up to him didn’t matter because she didn’t have to see him more than a few times. Unless she wanted to, she supposed.

That knowledge still didn’t make talking easy, though. It was a miracle she’d been able to calm down and tell him what little she had so far.

She also felt relieved when he told her that he slept just fine, now. Maggie expected to be jumpy, twitchy, and grumpy for a few weeks (it was like a seven dwarves reunion in her head), but she hoped it would go away after some time. He mentioned lingering anxieties and avoiding the floo. Maggie could think of more than a few things she’d avoid from now on: The Black Chimaera, for obvious reasons. Overly affectionate mastiffs? Nah. She still liked dogs. Knives- too obvious. The real danger was the Ex-Azzie who had wielded the knife. Oh, and a little thing called Runespoor venom. That was number one on her ‘to avoid’ list.

Maggie frowned and gave him a skeptical look. “Drought of what now?” she chimed in, not recognizing the name. Depending on a potion to help her sleep would be her last resort. She’d give it a few weeks first. 

She skimmed the list he handed her, expecting to put it somewhere and forget about it when he left. However, she did take a moment to glance at the name he mentioned, just in case. Nodding, she set the piece of parchment on the coffee table.

Then he surprised her with the pain in the ass comment. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face as she shook her head. She had set herself up for that one.

“Gee, thanks Adon, I’ll keep your expert advice in mind,” she retorted, smirking at him. “Do you have a cure for smart ass, too?” He wouldn’t take it even if he did.

"Draught of Peace. It's an anxiety reducer. It's not like Dreamless Sleep -- it's not meant to actually induce sleep, but it can eliminate some of the causes of sleeplessness. It's been known to be very helpful in the past for those who suffer from vivid dreams." Seemed to have worked for Dree. "But if you are already on a variety of potions, there might be conflicts, it might decrease in effectiveness--" he waved his hand dismissively. "Not my place to prescribe, but something to consider, at least."

As she smiled, he couldn't help but smirk. There it was -- he had her. He was halfway to his goal by now.

“Do you have a cure for smart ass, too?”

Adon feigned shock at this before shaking his head. "Why, no. I don't. My mother has taught me well: never comment on a woman's ass . . . ets." His smirk shifted shape into a cheeky smile. "But, since you ask my opinion . . ." he leaned in somewhat, as though about to let her in on a secret. "I don't think you need to cure smart asses.  You cure a person of the smarts and it could be much worse -- could be a dumb ass. You cure a person of their ass and, well," he shrugged. "Some people would be losing their better halves. Anyways, I don't recommend diets, if that's what you're implying," he said, leaning back now and folding his arms across his chest. He, of course, knew that was nowhere even close to her implications. But that was how one distracted. You led them off the straight and narrow, got them lost in the woods. They'd never return to their original point, and you'd never need to give a real answer.

Besides, it was so much more amusing this way. If it had been a sincere inquiry, he might have done differently.

"At any rate, asses aside," he flipped through the pad to find a few more embedded leaves of parchment. "I have here a few forms I'd like you to fill out. They're for VIN and PIN registration." He nudged the paper over across the surface of the coffee table. The top of the sheets read  "Victim Identification Number" and "Personal Identification Number."

"What these numbers will do will allow us to keep information on file and keep you notified on the progress of the investigation." He looked levelly at her. "If you wish." He had wanted to first make sure she seemed composed enough. The thought of hearing about Tawse might cause her more sleepless nights, or it might help her rest at ease. But it was her choice, in the end.

He looked about the apartment, back to the door. It wasn't the most secure of lock systems and despite the dragon-ish watch of The Roommate, it wasn't sufficient for a victim of a suspect still at large. These visits helped, but it didn't feel enough. "Additionally," he said, deviating from the talking points assigned to him, "I wanted you to know I'll be setting up some basic wards. There's an Auror nearby, should you need anything. . ." he leaned forward, pulling back the contacts list and using his wand to write Chris Colburn's information down.

He didn't ask if she wanted these services. That was non-negotiable. He did, however, inform her of them. He didn't need to and she might raise hell about this, but then again it might make her feel safer. And maybe she'd even appreciate his candour. Besides, he could deal with hell -- he'd grown accustomed to it, in fact. So long as there was a chance it helped . . .

"We are here," he repeated, eyebrows raised as he looked back up at her, handing her the sheet of parchemnt again, "if you do need anything." He was quiet a moment before adding, "but really, please leave the cooking to your mother. You don't want to even drink Colburn's coffee. Trust me." He was a trainee. So of course, the rite of passage had been to make a cup of coffee. Unlike Adon, who had intentionally sabotaged the cup which Radley had been drinking, the drink had been passable, but not up to Adon's standards.

But then again, only Colombia, Portugal, and Kenya were. "So," he said, looking at her, "what are your plans for this weekend?"

He expected her to scoff. He didn't expect her plans were any bit ambitious -- he dearly hoped not. It would make Chris traipse about London if they were and would likely wear her out. But it helped to have plans. Structured plans. Goals. Small decisions to make that helped one regain control and self-autonomy. Rather than merely sitting and thinking. "You need a quill to fill that out?" he asked, leaning forward to reach for his leather satchel.

Maggie would keep the Draught of Peace in mind as a last resort. From what little sleep she’d been able to get, she hadn’t had disturbing dreams, which was a good sign. Pushing away intrusive thoughts before she slept was the problem. She hoped time would be the remedy.

The Auror's reaction to her retort was surprising. Maggie stared at him, her eyebrows rising into her hair as he leaned forward and dived into his theory on… asses. Oh, excuse me, assets. If Colette was listening, she’d never hear the end of it. Mags glanced at the stairs, as if expecting to see her cracking up by the banister, but no. A thud from above sounded and Maggie rolled her eyes at the ceiling- Colette was trying to transform the ottoman into a pig again. Her roommate was occupied, thank Merlin.

Maggie cleared her throat, trying not to grin because it would just feed his ego. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you,” she stated, feeling somewhat discombobulated as he shifted gears again and produced the – oh joy – paperwork.

Taking the forms reluctantly, she gave him a look, and then scowled down at the papers. If her own sense of self-preservation wasn’t enough to make her avoid trouble again, the paperwork was. Victim identification number? Maggie didn’t like the sound of that. She viewed herself as less of a victim and more as an unlucky reporter.

However, if it helped her and kept her notified about the investigation, she’d suck it up and fill it out. Maggie nodded, considering his offer. “I’d rather know what’s going on than be in the dark, so yeah, that works.”

He told her about the wards and the nearby Auror. At first Maggie felt defensive. She and her mates (save Niobe, perhaps) were good about locking doors and windows, and they lived in a fairly safe neighborhood. However, the extra measures did make her feel better. “Alright,” she agreed.

She glanced away for a moment, feeling awkward when Adon said that they were there if she needed anything. Maggie wasn’t used to people going out of their way to check up on her or take care of her. She normally didn’t allow it.

“I’ll be-” fine, she’d started to say, then cut herself off, sighing. “Thanks,” she added, so quickly and quietly that he might have missed it.

“That bad, huh?” she wondered about Colburn’s coffee making skills. Maggie wasn’t nearly as picky about caffeine as Adon was, as long as it got into her system somehow. She didn’t order complicated concoctions from cafes. As long as her drink could pass as coffee and had a bit of sugar in it, she was good to go.

Just when she was letting her guard down enough to joke with him here and there, his next question threw her for a complete loop.

"So," he said, looking at her, "what are your plans for this weekend?"

“Wait, what?” her eyes widened, then narrowed at him in confusion. Maggie mentally went through their conversation, wondering if she’d missed something. If he was asking- but that didn’t make any sense. For one thing, she looked like hell, and for another, dating was the last thing on her mind.

Shit, Maggie thought as he casually dug in his satchel for a quill. She rubbed a hand over her forehead, realizing after another embarrassed moment that he asked because he probably wanted to know if she could stop by the Ministry and fill out more paperwork. Or, he wanted to make sure that she wasn’t enough of a dumbass (ha!), to run around Knockturn alley and set off another explosion.

Maybe it was all the talk about asses that had made her jump to conclusions. Still, she wished she could crawl into a hole right now, and took the offered quill speechlessly. With any luck, he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

“Not much,” she answered, skimming the first line of the form instead of looking at him. “I’ll probably visit my parents at some point so they don’t keep invading the apartment.”

She lifted the quill, saw it was one of those self-inking ones, and started to fill out the information, pausing every once in a while to give her arm a break.

“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you," she stated with an amusing blandness that made him grin, feigning surprise, and shake his head.

"Dieting? No, no. I'm lucky. I've been blessed with a very trim physique. Eat anything I want, really. Except anything Colburn cooks," he added thoughtfully.

She thanked him for the promise of protection -- or the forms -- Adon wasn't sure which. Adon nodded slightly in response, not thinking much else was expected from him.

As she filled out the forms, noting her desire to be kept in the know, Adon nodded, now genuinely contemplative. "Yeh; we'll keep you informed. I would ask," he said cautiously, not wishing this to rustle feathers, "that any information or stories you provide to the press be prudent. We are happy to comply with the media, in the right circumstances." Recently, for Adon, however, there had been about five too-many wrong circumstances. First Trina. Then Heathrow -- covered twice. Then the October 1st "exclusive" interview (that hadn't been an interview). Then that bizarre Schlagenweit situation he was hardly involved in. All of it had embarrassed his mother, endangered their progress on the cases, sullied his reputation, and upset his ex-girlfriend. He was still getting howlers from Thea about Trina. Oh, the irony. (Adon did smirk slightly, realising that this was, in fact, an appropriate application of the word. He wondered why it was that everyone seemed to misuse the English word: Things were "ironic." Really, people ought to say that it simply . . . sucked.)

"I also," he said, returning to the matter at hand, "wanted to thank you or your paper for the limited coverage of the incident. It has made things easier from our end. I hope yours as well." It almost made Adon hate reporters a little less.

Listening to her plans, he once more nodded, keeping, for the most part, the grin elicited from her surprise in check. "I'm sure they'll be glad to have you out and about -- might be nice to leave the apartment for a short while, too. . ." he said, looking up at the ceiling as he heard a second dull thud and a curse from above. "Is everything alright?" he asked, some concern apparent on his face.

The press. Maggie stifled a snort at his comment about prudence. Half her friends were involved in the press, but they knew when to back off, and she wasn’t about to fling details around like confetti. She was in no mood to do any interviews or write about her experience, that was for sure.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful around the big bad media sharks,” she shot him an amused glance. He must know she was a journalist, so she had to give him some grief.

“Thank Niobe,” she said more seriously. “She kept pestering me until I talked to her- remind you of anyone?” Maggie smirked at him, then went on. “She wouldn’t reveal anything that she thought might put me in danger, and she is capable of holding back when necessary.”

Niobe also had bigger fish to fry- getting to the bottom of the Runespoor smuggling, and finding some way to land Tawse in real trouble. All that aside, it wasn’t Niobe’s goal to irritate Aurors, just like it hadn’t been Adon’s goal to piss off Maggie earlier, but reporters and Aurors tended to butt heads more than they worked together.

She understood a little bit better now that offering too much information to the public could do more harm than good. And personally, she didn’t want a dramatic story written about her. However, people also had the right to be aware of what was going on around them, to take steps to protect themselves, and in some cases offer information in return. It was all about balance, respect. She could write a good article without resorting to melodrama or putting someone in harm’s way (including herself- she was still learning that, obviously).

It was just such a rush chasing after stories. She and Niobe were adrenaline junkies. They also had hearts and Maggie knew she could trust her.

Maggie bit back a chuckle at the look on Adon’s face when Colette’s curse sounded from upstairs. She waved her hand and instantly regretted the movement.

“My roommate. She’s fine, if a little mental,” Maggie informed him dryly. “She’s planning on going as Circe for Halloween, and figures a pig will make a good accessory,” she raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The ottoman upstairs has suffered its fair share of abuse as she’s tried freshening up on Transfiguration spells. I’d help her, but it’s just too amusing to watch. Plus, I bet she’ll make me dress up with her and I want to stall that as long as possible.”

She wrinkled her nose. The torture that was ‘dressing up’ was not something she wanted to think about when she looked like she’d been hit by the Nightbus.

“Thank Niobe,” she said more seriously. “She kept pestering me until I talked to her- remind you of anyone?” Maggie smirked at him, but Adon wasn't smiling. There was a significant, crucial, and ethical difference between what Niobe did and what he did. It was something he could not get beyond when considering the media. Adon only hoped she had acted, in this ferreting of Maggie, as a friend. Not a reporter.

“She wouldn’t reveal anything that she thought might put me in danger, and she is capable of holding back when necessary.” Adon nodded silently to this, showing none of the pleasure or approval that Maggie doubtless had hoped for.

"She didn't give herself the same courtesy; wish she had," he said with a quiet gravity made the more striking by the stark contrast from his usual comportment. His lips compressed, jaw set, and he felt the burn in his stomach that came as he considered the trouble that had befallen Niobe of the nine fingers, getting too close to the Runespoor -- the emotion was different from the flares of frustration that manifested themselves on a daily basis in the Auror's expressions and words. This was mettled with conviction and tinged with a moral conscience: indignation.

Investigative reporters had no place in the schema. They ought to become, if anything, investigative Aurors -- Zosimos knew they were short-staffed as it was. And, as it was -- and always had been -- The Prophet could provide no protection to its reporters. The Aurors could, but Aurors could only step in on atrocities and travesties once they had been made known to them and reported. The media had a long history of withholding information, letting the story unfold and settle until it became crystalised. Reportable. Acknowledgeable. Pride and ambition: it was a far-felt emotion in the Eleor family and Adon could not sit well with it. He could not understand the thrill of a byline, the glory of a promotion -- even within his own field -- when it cost too much: the ability to act quickly, to resolve conflict, to act. The media had no place in the schema of interrogation and investigation, if they did, they ought not to.

The Media had only the power to tell. Aurors to act. You could tell a family as much as you wanted about the loved one they had lost. Memorialise. That did something, but that would never bring them back. Media's calls to action often came too late; information was not shared openly between investigators (even legal investigators) and for what? So that the media could be acknowledged. The legal investigators could cash in their payment. Detestable, all of it. What was worse, the glory-seekers might get hurt. It was no secret that Niobe had lost a finger. There were other victims, unaffiliated with the press, but it was her hunger for the story, the intrepid nature, that had led her to pursue it irrationally. It was the price paid for her glory and pride and byline. When the investigators -- those seeking to end the evils of the world -- ended up being the victims of it, it was time to reevaluate the system. It cost too much; Adon could not stand by a system which allowed the systematic endangering of those wishing to save. And what it came down to, really, was who they worked for. Reporters might try to serve justice, but justice could only be administered through the State. And the State had no face. There ought not to be any glory there. No bylines.

Adon would not delude himself into thinking there was not corruption and self-interest in the Mininstry; he was combating transnational corruption on a multi-Ministerial level at present. But it was not built into the system. It was aberrant. And transgressive. With the media, self-interest was simply how it was done. Niobe seemed, genuinely interested in the wellfare of those she sought to inform. However, for the field, she was aberrant. Transgressive.

"Sometimes pestering isn't all it's cracked up to be," Adon said simply. Maggie, too, had been investigating. And now she was a victim. She'd even insisted on it, in a report earlier. She was an investigative journalist, not a victim. It was frightening, how transient the two terms were. "Sometimes it's a very bad idea."

He hoped both of them -- Niobe and Maggie -- had learned from it. But it wouldn't end things. Maybe with them, but there would be other reporters. Debelius, Skeeter, Al-Jazeera. . . he'd had his fair share of investigators in his life.

He broke from the sombre mood to look back up to the ceiling, heaving a sigh to disspell that burning he felt in his stomach. It abetted somewhat and Adon gave a more familiar smirk. "All men are pigs, huh?" he asked, raising a brow. "I wish her luck with that. She'd do better to turn Circe and turn an ex into a pig, I think. That ottoman's done nothing wrong. . ." he looked at Maggie. "At least I wouldn't suspect it has." Exes almost always, always had.

The thoughts of the media and his recent encounters with it, bringing back memories of Spencer and now the bizarre link Skeeter had made to that kid he'd never met--the one who fancied horses over girls, it seemed--brought to his face a careworn expression that Adon only allowed to surface when alone.  It was his usual expression when drinking now. And becoming more common; Adon, realising how he must look, realising how he had slipped into this mood, made a redoubled effort to smile. If it slipped in without bidding, if he became involuntarily the Mr Hyde, then there was nothing left, really.

"So," he said, looking for Maggie's progress on the forms, "do we need to get the ottoman upstairs to fill out one of these? Victim of abuse?"