Dreogan had thought that, with the article already submitted, things had been set into motion. That it would be safe for him to tell Adon. Adon knew that had been his thought, telling him almost in the eleventh hour -- at 10:15 pm the night before it was to be published.

Dreogan, he also knew, anticipated his anger. Adon'd been furious. He'd thrown a book, breaking the vase for the third time that week, and left their home right then.

What Dreogan didn't know was that Adon had connections. To one of the freelancers. Who had connections to the editor. And so, just as Adon slammed the door, he Apparated in order to pound on another's: Margaret Groust's and Colette Wheaton's. He didn't mean to pound -- Maggie had been a bit skittish last time they'd met, and though it had been a month, he didn't know -- he'd wanted to avoid that.

But he didn't. And in the silence of the neighbourhood that followed, Adon frowned and put his hands in his pockets, feeling his panic and anger subside into a dull pain in the pit of his stomach.

Dree was, sometimes, just an idiot. Brilliant, but stupid as hell. This was one of those instances. Though Adon, looking at the wood of Groust's -- no, Maggie's -- door, felt a bit of an idiot himself.

It was Friday night, around 10:30 p.m., and where was Maggie Groust?  Happily curled up on the couch with a good book. Kia had a date and Colette was out with an old friend, which meant Maggie had the whole apartment to herself.

Well, if she didn't count the pig munching on her slipper whenever she let her foot rest for more than a moment.

"Stop it, Skeeter," she warned, glaring over the top of the book at the creature. "Or else I'll turn you back into an ottoman." It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. Maggie shook her head, lifted up her cup of tea to her lips, and was about to take a sip, when there was a sudden pounding on the door.

And there went her tea, all over her sweatshirt.

Cursing like a sailor, Maggie jumped up and swatted at her sweatshirt. This startled the pig, who ran oinking to the door. She cast a quick drying spell on herself, then glanced at the door suspiciously.

It wasn't as if she could pretend she wasn't home. The lights were on, the pig was oinking, and she was pretty sure her swears had been as loud as they were colorful. Wand still in hand, she crept towards the door, told the pig to shut up, and peeked out of the peephole.

Maggie drew back in surprise. Adon Eleor?! What the hell...

The last (and first) time she'd seen him was when he'd asked her questions and checked up on her after the Runespoor explosion. Of course, their one and only meeting hadn't stopped Colette from teasing her about the 'hot auror' ever since, but he was the last person she expected to see standing outside her door late at night.

Maggie unlocked and opened the door and stared at him for a second. He had his hands in his pockets and a frown on his face. She pocketed her wand and opened the door a little further to let him in.

"What's wrong," she said bluntly, nudging the pig aside with her foot. Maggie wondered if it was something with the Runespoor case, and if he was back on that, because as far as she knew, Chris Colburn had taken charge of it when Adon had left the country.

As Maggie stood there she realized she was, yet again, greeting him in her pajamas. She wore long flannel pajama pants and her old 'Hufflepuff Beater' sweatshirt from Hogwarts. Now complete with a tea stain.

But at least she didn't look like she'd just been through hell. No more singed hair or bandages on her arms, so Maggie supposed it was an improvement.

She looked worried already. Shite; of course she did! "You're fine," Adon reassured abruptly after her inquiry. "I'm not here about the case. . ." He ran his teeth over the edge of his bottom lip, thinking and taking in her attire. He'd obviously -- once more caught her unawares. Unless this was her customary attire. There was really little way of knowing; the clothes she had been wearing in the alleyway the night of the explosion had been almost unrecognisable. But if she was a schlub, it didn't really matter. "I'm actually here about the Prophet. . ." Again he bit his lip. "Can I come in? It's not . . . something I like to discuss out-of-doors."

He wondered just what she might think about him. They had left, he had thought, on better terms than he'd come on last time, but that did not guarantee entry. Adon, silently, considered what his next course of action would be if this did not go through. Perhaps owl Colette. It was even less likely to work, but . . . Adon was desperate. And he was fairly certain his usual frustration tactic of punching someone/something wouldn't get him far on this one.

"Yeah, you can come in," Maggie said, a bit confused, since she thought that holding open the door for him was enough of an invitation. Though perhaps 'what's wrong' wasn't much of a greeting, either.

"The Prophet?" She repeated, closing the door behind him and locking it. "Ah, hold on just a sec," she told him a moment later, dashing halfway up the stairs and then glancing at him over her shoulder. "Spilled tea on myself. Take a seat, if you want," she gestured towards the living area.

When Maggie returned to the living room, she wore a non-stained sweater, and had thrown on a pair of jeans while she was at it. She wasn't sure why exactly she cared so much, though perhaps it was because Adon himself looked sharp. And maybe she wanted to prove she owned something other than PJs.

"So the Prophet," Maggie prompted him, then frowned. "Is Skeeter being obnoxious?" She wondered, then looked at the pig, who had followed them in and was studying Adon's shoes intently.

"Not you," she told her pet. The pig looked up at her and snorted.

Adon shuffled in the door, unable to explain the prickling at the back of his neck, the anxious feeling in the air, and the sudden unwillingness to discuss this with another person when, only moments ago, he'd been boiling over with anger about it. But involving someone else -- exposing him to someone in the hopes that they could, then, cover it up . . . it was necessary, but it made him anxious. Maggie quickly darted upstairs and Adon waited in the entryway, hands in his pocket, and glancing over his shoulder at the closed door. He was not sure who he was checking for. Dree, perhaps? Certainly Dree had the capability, he knew, to locate Adon if he had the desire or presence of mind to; Adon only hoped that he was not, at present, looking for him or that he could tell what he was up to. This all felt so covert; underhanded. Cheating against his brother. He checked the door again, cringing.

That was the feeling in his stomach. He didn't like resorting to this sort of thing. Some Aurors prided themselves on their secresy. Their ability to infiltrate. To gain the very trust of their enemies. Adon had never cared for that. But he'd had to, now. Surely -- he had no other choice? He'd tried to confront Dreogan directly, but the man wouldn't be reasoned with. --That a thrown book might not be the optimum medium of communication currently eluded Adon, something he would return to later in his contemplations. But at least it had been honest; Dreogan had known exactly how Adon felt.

And Dreogan hadn't cared, even then.

Adon's rising indignation was waylaid, bound to resurface later, but momentarily buried, as Maggie returned. Adon didn't even notice the new attire, his mind elsewhere. But he noticed her move to the living room and he followed, gaving a wry smile at her first assumption: Skeeter. Yes; she'd wreaked havoc on Jacoba's brother's reputation and had indirectly implicated him in it, as well as Dree. That had not been much appreciated, but it was nothing to this. The bitter smile shifted subtly into a grimace.

"Ah . . . good guess, but no. It's not about anything that's been published; it's about something that's going to be published."

Finally, he settled himself  down in the seat he had formerly taken on his first (and last) visit to Maggie's apartment. It had been the only place he'd really travelled to in the apartment and therefore felt somewhat like his seat. Not a sense of entitlement, really, as not being able to imagine anyone else who would occupy it when he was in the room.

"So. . ." he said, dispelling his breath through his nose a moment before looking up at her. "I'm guessing if you've studied either journalism or Muggle Studies, you've probably heard about my dad . . ." This felt odd. He never talked about this. "He's. . . I think at Hogwarts, at least, you read his articles in Muggle Studies -- if you took that. I know at least Beit Gaddol and Beaubaxtons does. . . And for a while, his . . ." what to call it. . . "disappearance was sensationalist fodder for speculative journalists. . ."

He wasn't being the least bit clear; something he'd prided himself on. Another breath, a light sigh, and he launched into it. "It's no secret that his publications made him quite a few notable enemies -- which eventually caught up to him. And . . . for some time my brother seemed to be running down the same path. I thought he'd be alright, once he was out of academia and not publishing anymore, but he, ah. . . still seems to be following the same route against my advice. I don't want that, you know?" Another, more pleading glance at Maggie. He didn't really want to say more about this than he had to. "He submitted an op ed -- opinion editorial -- to the Prophet yesterday, and has been told it will be published tonight, for circulation tomorrow." A Saturday publication -- the news' biggest reading day. Disastrous.

Adon appeared distracted and on edge. For an Auror who caught details, Maggie wasn't sure he even noticed her change in outfit.

She sat down in the same spot she'd sat the last time they'd talked, when Adon had visited her after the Runespoor explosion and asked her questions. He also took the same chair. Now, however, it felt like their roles were reversed. Maggie was relieved that Rita Skeeter had given the Eleors a break for once, but it made her even more curious about why he was here.

He was here about something that's going to be published.

Maggie frowned. That statement sounded strangely cryptic. She waited for him to explain, listening as he started talking about his father. She hadn't taken Muggle Studies, mostly because with her muggle mother, she hadn't needed to. But she nodded, trying to remember if she'd read any of his father's work. She'd thought the name 'Eleor' had sounded familiar, even before she'd heard about Akiva dating Dreogan.

What this had to do with an upcoming article, she couldn't understand.

After a sigh, he went on, telling her that his brother planned on publishing again and that he was worried he'd meet the same end as their father. Her first instinct was to dismiss his concerns and say that his brother was an adult and he should do what he wanted to do, but then he gave her a pleading look, and she glanced away for a moment. Maggie had only talked to Adon once before, so she felt like she was intruding, somehow. Though for once, she wasn't pressing for answers. He was telling her all this freely.

"Okay," Maggie said, trying to sort through everything in her mind. "You don't want the Prophet to publish the article," she assumed, voice neutral.

Rather than wonder about the relationship between the brothers, or if she was even willing and able to help him, she asked for more information.

"What exactly is this article about?" He had to know, Maggie thought. Otherwise he wouldn't be so worried.

"You don't want the Prophet to publish the article." From the tone, Adon felt -- not patronised, per se. More that she'd guessed his meaning, but the meaning itself was not convincing enough.

"Yes," he said with as little emotion. "Though I'd have rathered it never have been written at all." It wasn't that Adon disagreed with Dreogan's thoughts -- though he did often in the extent to which they should be implemented. It was that he felt it was neither the place or the time to discuss such things. Maybe in the safe, insular environment of academia, where the worst fear might be a particularly vindictive opponent sitting in the back row at a conference, desiring to squabble over source usage or theoretical implications. But the Prophet, to the public domain -- that was more real: readers would be politicians, teenagers, professors, housewives, foreign dignitaries, leisure readers -- everyone read the Prophet.

It was bad enough that it had been written; the only thing worse was it being read. And so, when Maggie asked what it was about, Adon compressed his lips, dispelling air once more from his nose. "Well," he began. If the plan did not go through -- which is what would happen if he did not meet this term -- she'd know in the morning, because she would have read it herself.

"I wasn't able to read all of it." Which was to say, Adon had put it down angrily half way. But he wouldn't say this just now. He took a deep breath before elaborating, "I do know he is pushing for the repeal of the Statute of Secresy."

This might not sound as dangerous as it seemed, he realised. After all, not all liberal theories killed their creators or adherents. But this one did. His dad, at least. And maybe others. "It's in response to another editorial you published. The one -- the anonymous one. A Call to Action, I think is what it called itself." He grimaced, recalling his emotions upon first reading it and the more recent conversation -- only an hour before -- in which he'd talked to his brother on the same topic. Anger, frustration, and, well, fear. He looked at Maggie candidly, willing her to understand the predicament, feeling with his confiding in her on the matter a certain level of release. He could not go so far as to say relief or comfort. "My brother, of course, decides to confront the organisation pleading to take action. You see the dilemma? And what's worse. . ."

He stopped. He was getting far too comfortable talking to her. Venting to her. Opening up like this. He couldn't reveal Auror business. . .

But it might be the only thing to convince her. . . And he'd already begun. She was a journalist. She'd press. He frowned again. "He's my brother, you know? You always try to keep your brother from doing stupid things. You always try to keep them alive. You have siblings, yeh?"

Maggie could see that he was reluctant to divulge what the article was about, but that only made her more curious. She raised her eyebrows at him and reached out for the teacup she'd left on the coffee table earlier, raising it to her lips and then realising it was empty. Oh, right. Empty because she'd spilled the tea all over herself.

She stood up and headed to the adjoining kitchen area, keeping her eyes on his face as he told her that Dreogan was pushing for a repeal of the Statute of Secrecy. Now that was interesting! Maggie lifted up the teapot, silently offering him some, and refilled her own cup. When she turned she nearly tripped over the pig and risked spilling her tea for the second time that night.

"Honestly, Skeeter," she muttered at the pig on her heels. "This is not for you," Maggie made it back to her seat in one piece and caught the grimace on his face as he mentioned the Call to Action editorial. She felt like she understood where he was coming from, and she understood his frustration. Nodding, she set her tea down and curled her legs underneath her on the chair.

What's worse? Maggie glanced at him sharply, waiting for him to go on. Ah, so it was the sibling thing. Dreogan was family. Of course Adon was worried about him.

"I get it," she said simply, with a shrug and a slight smile. "And yeah, I have siblings. Lexie's wrecking havoc at Hogwarts - her first year. Brandon will be joining her in a year or two." Yup, she was a bad older sister. She never remembered their exact ages. "If I'm lucky, the Forbidden Forest will swallow them both up," she smiled evilly over her teacup, then focused on Adon. This was about him. His brother. He probably didn't appreciate her joking around.

And he probably wouldn't appreciate what she had to say next.

"That Call to Action article was a load of rubbish," she stated, shaking her head. "Whoever wrote it is missing a few screws up here," she tapped her finger to her temple.

Maggie hesitated for just a second. He wanted her help, not a lecture.

"But Adon," There was always a but. "Your brother's a smart guy, as far as Akiva's told me." The many times Akiva reminded her that she was not interested in Frank. "He has his head on straight. He'll get his ideas across well.

"If the article is published, a lot of people will read what he's written and at least consider his viewpoint. His name has weight, respectability... it'll count more than the anonymous drivel in Call to Action. He'll be putting a face to his opinion rather than hiding behind extremist propaganda. What he has to say could make an impact. A good impact."

Before he could accuse her of not caring, Maggie barreled on, "I'm not saying there's no risk, because there is. I can't count the number of times I've written something that has pissed someone else off. But Dreogan has sense and he's not going to go traipsing about Knockturn Alley at three in the morning with a 'hex me' sign on his back," she said wryly. That was her job. "Give him some credit."

She picked up her teacup, then set it down again as another thought came to her. "You stop him, and he could just get the article published at another paper. It won't be the Prophet, obviously, but if he wants to get his ideas out there, he'll find a way. And he probably won't tell you about it at all the next time."

Maggie looked at him, unsure of what to expect. She'd thrown a lot of counterpoints at him at once, and though she'd tried, actually tried, to be somewhat tactful, he could still be discouraged or frustrated and regret ever coming here.

"Honestly, Skeeter--" She quipped and Adon, having caught the nickname before, still found it amusing -- had simmered down slightly so that he could even give a brief, light laugh.

He'd have named the pig "bacon," but it was a personal choice.

He held his hand out for the tea as she returned, giving a quiet "thanks" as she settled herself. She hadn't added anything to it -- sugar or cream -- for which he was grateful.

"I get it," she assured, but as she bantered easily and lightly about the Forbidden Forest and shenanigans, it was clear she didn't. He felt a sickening sinking in his stomach. He was going to have to say all of this. He set the tea down, because he recalled very well what had happened last time he had gotten angry when holding a drink in his hand -- the glass had shattered magically. There had been enough spilled tea for the evening.

"Well, if you get it. . ." he said slowly, "you'd see the exigency in this situation . . . The author of the Call -- it's. . ." He wet his lips. That was the "what was worse" from before. "Maggie, this is tied to a very confidential case; can I trust you to respect the privacy that is needed to keep the victims of it safe? To keep this to yourself?"

At this, Maggie straightened considerably -- perhaps a reporter's instinct at sensing an exclusive insight -- and replied, "Sure. You can trust me."* Adon hesitated slightly, brow knitting. He'd get hell for this at work if they found out. But they might fire him, so perhaps it was worth it.

"There is reason to believe -- compelling reason, in my own opinion -- that the author of the Call to Action is affiliated with an organisation that may be responsible for Akiva Katz's -- soon to be Akiva Eleor's --kidnapping and torture." He wanted to make the association inescapably clear. "If I were to have told Dreogan this, I'm sure his response might have been less . . . metered than is customary for him. You are right -- he's smart. He's got book smarts and a good deal of street smarts, too." Dreogan didn't look it, but he was tough; he had been in charge of the security for a community with many enemies and while he did not do a perfect job while there, he'd put up with hell.  "He'll put it as mildly as he can, but it's unclear why Akiva was targeted. If it was because of an affiliation with Dreogan. . ." he paused, wondering if he needed to say any more, "it wouldn't take much offense on his part for retaliation to be called for."

Yes, Dree was smart; but sometimes not enough. Sometimes he was stupid as hell. "I'm sure my brother hopes for what you say; God knows I hope for it, too. I mean -- what use is there in the world if you can't make a change for the better? But Maggie," he began with a pleading tone. He didn't want to have to talk about this. Twice. He took a breath to prepare himself, but let it out with a disgruntled sigh. " . . . Remember that time I told you about how I got my scar? About how Eldwynn Penn was murdered and Dree was lucky to make it out alive? That was what happened the last time he tried to research for an article." What Dreogan had done was much, much worse than Maggie's misstep in the Alley. He'd brought in, knowingly, an innocent and unsuspecting student. He'd known what the risks could be of the work. He'd witnessed his own father's abduction! He knew how people responded to revolutionary concepts! Adon shook his head angrily. Stupid. as. hell.

He looked back up at Maggie, his face pale and worried. If she didn't get the point yet, there was no hope. "And . . . what if I'm not there next time? Or what if me being there isn't enough? We're not talking about pissing someone off in an editorial. We're talking about the risks in confronting people with total and absolute change in lifestyle -- people who are already fighting for an opposite cause and have made their cause known -- perhaps already with violence."

He picked up the teacup, hoping somehow it would make him look a little less helpless as he asked, "Maggie, I don't care if he submits it to other places -- I'll do the same thing with any periodical he approaches. I'll do what it takes to keep him safe; I'd just like your help."

*God-moding approved by Elle.

Maggie sat up very straight, teacup sitting forgotten on the coffee table, completely ignoring her pet pig making noises in the kitchen. Adon had just dangled 'confidential' and 'case' in front of her, and her reporter sense was tingling.

She'd told him that he could trust her, and she meant it, but that didn't mean she would just let the information sit there and collect dust. Maggie didn't have to print it to get something out of it.

The intent look on her face softened slightly as Adon mentioned Akiva's kidnapping. The last time Maggie had seen Akiva was at Frank's place, and she hadn't been very kind to her when she'd first walked into his flat. Blame it on misplaced jealousy, perhaps. When Adon dropped the 'Akiva Eleor' bomb, Maggie's eyes widened in surprise. And when he suggested that her kidnapping might be tied to the Call to Action article and Dreogan, a flicker of worry crossed her features.

Then Adon went on to explain that the last time Dreogan had done research for an article, it had blown up in his face - literally, and that was how Adon had gotten his burn scars.

Maggie had told him she'd understood earlier, but actually, she'd never lost family like he had before, and certainly not because of their revolutionary views. She'd been too young to fear for her own parents when they had taken in muggleborns and tried to protect their muggle neighbors during the war, and luckily, nothing had ever happened to her family because of it, besides her father losing his job for a short time.

He finished by saying he just wanted to keep his brother safe, and that sealed the deal. Maggie felt uncomfortable interfering, and she knew if she were Dreogan she'd want to commit fratricide when this was all said and done, but she couldn't argue with his need to protect his family.

Maggie let out a sigh. "Fine, fine," she grumbled, running a hand through her hair. "I'm not condoning this, you know. Going behind his back. But..." she sighed, gave him a look. "I'll talk to Colette, alright? I should be able to convince her to omit his name, at least," Maggie offered, hoping that would work as a compromise. She didn't want to risk her job or Colette's by telling her not to run it at all.

The request was granted begrudgingly, almost surlily, but Adon did not care. He did not beam -- because this was not, necessarily, cause for celebration -- but a sincere smile graced his face. He had never felt so relieved; the monster which had licked its chops as it crouched upon his chest, making it hard to breathe, seemed to leap off of him and trot off with those two words: "Fine, fine."

Adon was feeling fine, now.

"Maggie, that's --" he shook his head, smiling more broadly. "I've not done anything to deserve this, but thank you. I don't think you realise just how much this means . . ." Adon was certain she didn't. But he thought she was beginning to understand. He gave a light, nervous laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck, not sure what to do with the feeling of immense light he felt now; such a contrast to the oppressive dark he had felt while standing on her doorstep. "So . . . tomorrow it'll run, but. . . yes, but if the name isn't there. . . I hope that's enough."

It would need to be. It was the best he could do. And if it wasn't good enough -- if Dreogan gave away private details of himself in the article, well . . . he'd murder him himself.

"Tell Colette, too," he said before realising he'd told Maggie a good deal -- things he didn't want her to tell anyone. Best to specify. "I mean, how grateful I am." He'd offer something in return, only they'd take him up on it and perhaps ask for insider information, and that was a breach of his work contract that he would not violate. It was too dangerous. He might ask Colette and Maggie to withhold information, but that was very different from asking Adon to reveal it.

Now that his emotions were settling, Adon found himself restless -- uncertain what to do. Last time he had sat here, he had tried to make Maggie laugh and had nearly succeeded. They'd talked about her case. Adon didn't have much new to report and didn't very well want her to know this. But he couldn't just leave. Not after asking a favour like this.

"How are you, by the way?" he asked, a welling of sincerity apparent in his voice, residual from their previous conversation. "You look good," he said, looking at her arms. "Scars almost healed." He looked down to where Skeeter the pig was snuffling along the edge of the rug, looking for, presumably, some dropped crumbs. "Your roommates' pet project is still here. . ."

Maggie was a bit surprised by Adon's smile and the sudden boyish look of relief on his face. His shoulders even seemed to straighten up, as if a weight had been taken off. She returned his smile and gave a little shrug, a bit uncomfortable with the gratitude. He'd explained his side of the story very convincingly, and though he probably hadn't wanted to, given her valuable information on the case. He'd also acted considerately towards her during the follow-up questioning in October, so she supposed she felt like she owed him one.

Merlin, but Colette... Colette would just add this favor to the list of things to tease her about, Maggie was sure.

"I'll let her know," she reassured him with a smirk. Pain in the arse or not, they'd both be indebted to Colette if this worked out. Maggie hoped it would.

"I'm good," she answered honestly, fiddling with her sleeve for a moment when he glanced at her arms and complimented her. At least she'd changed into 'real' clothes, though she still felt self-conscious about her burn scars and was secretly thankful that winter would give her an excuse to cover up for a while until she got used to it. Call it vanity, but the scars bothered her.

On him, however, it didn't detract from his appearance at all. Maybe because she'd never seen him without the burn scar. It seemed to just be a part of who he was.

"Yup," she chuckled at the mention of Skeeter the pig, and inched the rug away from the pig's snout with her foot. "Colette and Kia have grown attached to him, what can I say," she glanced away for a second and raised her eyebrows, then pursed her lips slightly to avoid snickering. It wasn't just them and she knew it. The little bugger had grown on her. Especially now that he was house trained.

"But yeah, everything's going pretty well. I've published a few more articles in the Prophet lately," Maggie was happy about that, especially the recent Magical Epidemic article. "And I'm working on one for that SAWS group at Hogwarts. Students have been sending letters in since September, so I thought I'd pick that up."

Work was easy to talk about. Maggie wasn't entirely sure if he was just being polite, or if he wanted to hear other things going on in her life too, so she took a sip of tea and shrugged again. "I went to a sleepover party last weekend," Maggie smirked, just now realizing how lame that sounded. "Margo invited me." She'd blame it on her. "I haven't seen her in ages. Tilly and Jacoba were there, too," she told him, knowing he'd recognize Jacoba's name.

Maggie studied his face, wondering how he'd been. She'd heard rumors, but she didn't know much beyond the fact that he'd left the country.

"How are you, though? I heard you got back... what was it, early this week?" Yeah, she'd been paying attention.

"Mmm, but you named him, I presume? That's the first sign of attachment." Adon challenged, raising an eyebrow. He supposed that Colette might have also named the pig Skeeter due to her as sociation with the Prophet, but Adon suspected she still was hiding behind the cover of her friends rather conveniently.

"Yes," he said in response to her comment on writing more, "I saw that." Aurors kept up with the news -- surely she knew that. But reporting was not always an accurate reflection of occurring. Adon knew that better than most. He read with different eyes: he did read in order to know, yes, but he also read to see how much was known. And what was not.

"SAWS. That's that werewolf organisation," he said, recalling. And recalling the vague and rather confusing tie-in to werewolves in the Call to Action submission. "Good of you to give the students some attention; got to be frustrating for kids to feel like they don't have a say in things which concern them." Which of course was a mounting grievance against the government. But that was just it -- government worked on a proxy-system of representation. You chose individuals who represented your concerns because not every citizen could sit in on meetings, weigh in on discussions . . . it would be chaos. It would result in anarchy. Of course, one of the only problems was that in England, representation didn't seem to be as strong. . .

Another thought for another time. She was asking him questions and he'd oblige and answer her.

"Yeh; well, actually," he said, shifting a bit into a more comfortable position, "I got back last Friday night. But," he shrugged. "That's right!" he said, recollecting easily, "Jacoba was out that night. . . You enjoy the sleepover?" he smirked. "Painting toenails and pillow throwing and all that?" Adon couldn't help but recall what he assumed must have happened in girls' dormitories at Gaddol. He smirked a bit more broadly at that.

Maggie smirked when he picked up on her attachment to the pig. "I named him Skeeter, sure, but that's not exactly a compliment. And Colette named him Dinner, which is even worse." She was an expert on pig names now, didn't he know?

He mentioned that it was good of her to write an article about the SAWS members, and Maggie nodded, telling him that a few of the kids had written very well-thought out letters. She was also curious to know what the group planned on doing next, after they got some fairly positive attention from the media. Most of the other articles she'd seen only mentioned SAWS briefly, and then as pyromaniacs.

She tilted her head and looked at him when he only told her what day he'd gotten back, but not anything about why he'd left or where he'd gone. Or how he was. That was a bit worrisome. But for now, he seemed to want to stick to lighter topics, and seeing as they were just getting to know each other, Maggie thought it best to let him.

She could always pry later.

The look he got on his face when she mentioned the sleepover was classic. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." Or she should have said smirk it up. Maggie shook her head and grinned. "For your information, we sat around drinking beer and eating crisps and listening to whatever was on the wireless. Not too exciting." She paused. "Okay, there might have been nail polish and pillow fights involved at some point, but I can't say for sure. We had a lot of alcohol," she informed him in her defense, then realized that probably didn't change the impression he had of typical sleepovers.

"Dinner?" He looked down at Skeeter, who, human-like, returned the gaze. Adon shuddered. "Not my dinner." Not that he was particularly strict in observing Kosher law, but he wouldn't eat anything that looked at him like that. "Your roommate have trouble chewing on the furniture often?" he asked, looking down at the armrests to check for any unnatural wear-and-tear.

Alright, so he didn't really know the girl he was mocking -- a bit of a groundrule for him -- but it was in light-hearted fun. It wouldn't be something he'd deny saying or wouldn't have said to her face. "Uh-huh," Adon said with a broad grin. "A little alcohol, everything gets a bit cloudy . . .I understand. Keep your secrets," he said with a dismissive wave. This wasn't an interrogation.

Adon'd already ducked out of one of those earlier this conversation. But Adon had to admit -- he didn't have too many conversations with people anymore. Not that weren't with his family or work-related. "These friends of yours . . . you know them mostly from school? You meet them doing your work?" He was curious. Just what, exactly, was the holy grail to making friends in this place? Adon had had little trouble in Israel making friends; he was the sort that people would ask what he was doing on the weekends, ask him if he was going out for drinks or happy hour . . . Now he was the person doing the asking, and he didn't have too many recurring happy hours with the same people. With Archer now involved in a relationship, his time was more scarce than before.

And here Adon was, chatting it up with one of the victims of his case; that was not kosher. But . . . he didn't really have anyone else to talk to. And, he insisted to himself, finding some consolation, she was the sort he would have sought out anyways: sarcastic. Witty. A bit of an edge. . . . Pretty. Blonde. Well, that was pretty much the same thing anyhow.