The door of Adon Eleor's flat was ripped open with some violence; the sound of shuddering glass panes was accompanied by a resounding "La'azazel!"

Adon Eleor entered, swinging the door back in behind him with equal vigour, freezing only once he saw a young woman on his couch. Dree's friend. The one with the Rammstein shirt from yesterday's . . . fiasco.

He cringed as he heard the door slam. More rattling glass in its frames. Thea'd often talked to him about that; anger was not only unbecoming in a man his age; it could be frightening in a mage with as much unbridled magic as he had.

"I. . .'m sorry," he said, slightly delayed as he looked at her a moment, trying to remember her n--Jacoba. That was right. Jacoba. . .Schlsomething. Jewish, he thought. "I didn't mean to startle you. I forgot." They'd only decided last night that it would be best after, well, after the previous night that Jacoba not stay with Dreogan anymore. It was clear the strain and the need to sleep, and the fear of disturbing Jacoba from crying out in his sleep, had become too much for his elder brother.

And Adon had suspected that, after all, he wouldn't be in his flat for some time. Because, well, he would be moving back to Israel. Or just -- somewhere that wasn't Level Two. Away from all those Godawful people and most of all that Godawful cupcake boss-lady. He clenched his teeth and shook his head. Damn it; made him mad just thinking about it.

Recalling once more Jacoba's presence, and not wanting her to think this facial expression had anything to do with her being there, he added, ". . . Long day at work. Uh. . . the move over went alright?" he asked lamely, awkwardly, looking down at the base of the couch, seeing her things there, taking a breath to release some of the tension in his chest. "Uh. . . have a good day?"

Too many questions, ahabal! he thought, inwardly.

Pjs

A well-read copy of Annette von Droste-Hülshoff's Die Judenbuche slipped from Jacoba's hand as she jumped in her seat.  Her eyes flew up to the door as flew open with a loud shout and slammed shut again. She remained perfectly still on the couch, watching Adon a little warily until he seemed to suddenly realize she was there.  The delayed apology was enough to reassure her that she wasn't the cause nor the source of his current mood and she offered a half-grin and a dismissive shrug.  "Forgot your home was being invaded?" It was one of the unavoidable hazards of squatting in other people's homes - especially when the home in question was the flat of a fellow you'd met the previous evening for the first time only because his brother had tried to settle himself into a never-ending sleep on her watch. 

Yesterday hadn't been a pleasant afternoon.  It had marked the (hopefully temporary) end to a five month cigarette abstinence streak.  But, that was yesterday.  This was today.  New day, new flat, same edgy brother but for completely new reasons.  Brand new opportunity to try to convince herself she didn't need the nicotine.  Gott sei dank!

"You're an-" What had they called it?  It sounded like it should have something to do with ears but it didn't.  "Like a cop?"  Or something.  "I suppose your long days are actually long days.  My long days usually just entailed lots of annoyed hang ups."  There were those in Amnesty who dealt with high stakes situations; the phone solicitors just weren't among them.  Direct action events were the closest she ever got to being in the actual trenches.  Chances were it was going to be years before she had managed to get there, too. 

A casual nod towards the backpack propped against couch summarized the results of her move.  "I'm used to moving.  Got it down to a fine art."  She shrugged her shoulders casually and passively.  He'd asked.  She'd answer but she was fairly certain the questions had more to do with finding something to say.  "About the same.  Dropped my short, highly exaggerated resume off at a dozen more places and got more 'thanks, we'll give you a calls'"  In comparison, her day was easy. 

"Look, I'm more than used to the routine. If you need time to decompress or whatever, I won't be offended if you ask me to take a walk.  For however long you need." 

"Sometimes I forget to remember things, yeh," Adon said with a bit of a sheepish smile. "Before this gets embarrassing, I'll confirm. Your name is Jacoba Schl--." He paused a moment. No, he'd not even try. Getting one name was hard enough. "Jacoba. Right?"

He felt pretty sure that was right and so he moved on. "And yes -- I'm an Auror. In Israel, they make the distinction between analyst and law enforcement officer, but that distinction is less pronounced here, so an Auror's one in the same." In Israel, he'd been a Lucient most of the time -- an analyst, for while he had a good deal of magic, it was unwieldy, forcible, and his temper unpredictable. Best keep him out of the field. "Long days are long days. Same human emotions accompany all shitty things, I've found," he replied with particular elegance.

He took another breath -- the tension kept seeping from his guts; it felt good to be home, though. This was the only place he could really release it.

Except now he had company; releasing his anger sometimes resulted in yelled obscenities and a lot of drinking. Not typically suitable behaviour for company. But . . . she didn't have to be there. Even she said it. Adon regarded Jacoba for a considerable period of time, weighing her offer. It might be nice to be alone. But then, it might be nice to have someone to talk to. He hadn't had that in a while.

"Do what you like," Adon finally said with an attempt at an indifferent shrug. "I'm just gonna have a drink."

Jacoba leaned, hooking the spine of the book with a finger before straightening back up and slipping it inside the top flap of her backpack.  A slight grin tugged at the corner of mouth and she nodded in confirmation.  "Yes. I suppose it depends on who you talk to.  It's still Johanna to my family but they're the only ones at this point."  They could work on the last name over time.  It wasn't like she was liable to assume people were talking to someone else when they shouted the name 'Jacoba' in the street.

An Auror.  She needed to remember that.  All this new terminology - she really should make flashcards.  "So - basically.  When someone commits a crime, you do all the investigations, arrest them and ... what then?  And, what happens when someone like me commits a crime in ... say ... Diagon?  Do we get tried as a wizard?  Like - Oh, sorry."  She cut herself off and offered an apologetic grin.  Poor fellow.  Bad day at work and here she was interviewing him on the very topic.  "Now's not the time, I know."  She nodded her head slowly in muted, nonverbal agreement - it still seemed the intensity of bad days was still rather relative but it was hardly a topic worth debating. 

Everyone benefited from a little venting - no matter the gravity of the need.  She remained where she was on the couch, considering her options. 

Chances were, this man - who amounted to a stranger - wanted his space.  But, apparently not enough to send her on her merry way.  "Well, I don't really want to get dressed.  If it really is all the same, that is.  If the situation changes, please - feel free to say something.  I really won't be offended."  Jacoba tucked her feet up underneath her as she sat up on the couch, her feet tucked underneath her. 

"I picked up some beer.  That might not be quite what you're looking for but it's all I have to offer."  On the alcoholic scale of affordability, beer was definitely on the 'unemployed, university dropout' end.  She pointed a hand across the room towards the kitchen but kept her seat, fairly certain the day hadn't been a beer type of day.  Of course, it was hardly her business and she probably shouldn't be asking.  For better or worse, though, she'd never been among the elite in her etiquette classes.  "Was it someone?  Something?  Just the nature of the day?" 

"It's still Johanna to my family but they're the only ones at this point."

"Johanna. . ." Adon repeated, trying to make sense of this. Of course the name had to be complicated. Johanna must be her given name. Jacoba then was a nickname or a name she'd chosen herself. "What, you're wanting to supplant God's grace, then?*" He hoped she knew enough obscure, archaic Hebrew for that to be funny. Though perhaps not a good choice to mock names. Moving on . . .

She was curious about their legal system. Adon'd been looking into the legal side a bit more recently, as he contemplated leaving the law enforcement aspect behind. As she apologised, thinking he'd not want to talk about it, he shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said with a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but carried in it something of a grimace. "What follows is due process, trial by a counsel of elders -- we're still working on the peers thing; things are a bit back-ward in our world at times. Even though the Statute of Secrecy did not come about until the late seventeenth-century, we still don't seem to have all the rights of the Magna Carta." Adon realised with some astonishment, that he sounded considerably like his brother or father in this moment and moved on. "If they're convicted, they go to prison, pay a fine, serve public hours, probation -- whathaveyou. It's not a totally different world, you know. Our prison's even on an isolated island in shark-infested waters, like that one you guys have in America -- Alcatraz? Ours is Azkaban." He thought a moment. "They even sound similar." He thought for a moment about what might happen to Jacoba should she commit a crime. "You have plans or something?" he asked, raising a brow. "I suppose it would be a process similar to those observed with foreign offenders. You are tried in the country in which the crime was committed, subject to the laws of the land. As Diagon is Wizarding territory, you would be tried according to those laws. If a person was only subject to his community's laws, even whilst traveling, there wouldn't be much point in regional jurisdiction, would there? Pros and cons to that -- an International and Universal law -- I suppose."

Really, it was interesting when you thought about it. Adon would have to look into that. When he had time. Perhaps Dreogan was right. Perhaps the law was in store for him. If only he could quit his job in law enforcement.

"That's really a matter more for lawyers, however. Aurors focus primarily on criminal apprehension--" a slight, private smile here as he thought of the other definitions of 'apprehension,' imagining Aurors dealing with criminal anxiety . . . Recalling himself, he stammered out "--and, ah, sorry. Criminal detention and, yes, reintegration. Though no one seems to care as much about that." Again, a slight tone of frustration crept into his voice. "So that's my job," he said with a sudden, dark tone. "Chase the guys down, throw them in prison, and try not to get blown up in the meantime." It was not, of course, all that simple. What happened, for instance, if one of the criminals -- say a murderer -- happened to be compelled innocently to do it? Say, an Auror. And what if, for instance, the Auror's partner was the first person on the scene, the one to detain the murderer-Auror, and the primary witness to the crime? And what if they still had not caught who had compelled the Auror to kill in the first place? And what if that Auror's partner was now having to press on, pretending that was not an issue, that he was fully confident in his abilities to both protect and act with discretion and promptly?

And what if that Auror's partner wanted nothing to do with this anymore? What if he hated this?

He moved over to the bar, just to the side of the kitchen, shaking his head at her offer of beer. Not a beer kind of day. Arak. Every day, though, was an arak kind of day. "Thanks, but no beer tonight," he said, returning in his mind to his conversation with Raynor. Somehow, in his time in England, he'd forgotten his interest in the job, his excitement for it that he'd just displayed in talking to Jacoba. He laid out one glass with a clatter emphasised by anger, then, without so much as a comment, another before reaching below the bar again and coming back up with a bottle of a clear liquid. He began to pour. It was amazing, as he thought about it, the change in his work attitude since coming to England. The environment was ennervating, sapping the very life out of him until he felt like this: angry, supine, worthless. . . It didn't need to be like that, damnit! If they would just--

Adon's thoughts came to a halt as the second glass he had been filling shattered in his hand. He looked down at it grimly before letting loose some of the feeling he had been trying but apparently unable to bridle in. "Shhhit," he hissed. He inspected the palm of his hand. He'd not been holding it tightly, so there was no mark., just the odd sliver of glass glinting upon his skin like a fine dust. Merciful; he didn't need any more scars. He blew on it, then ran his hand under the water before wiping it on his trousers. Adon made an elegant hand gesture, as if he had crumpled the mess of glass and liquid into a ball in his hand and thrown it away. And, indeed, this was, in effect, what happened: the shards of glass floated and hovered up from their resting places on the floor and countertop, moving their way towards the bin behind him. A good deal of the glass, however, fell just short of or just beyond their marks and clattered once more to the ground, sending fresh slivers across the floor. Adon sighed and grit his teeth as he pulled out his wand and summoned the broom over with a faint and defeated "Accio broom" As he began to sweep, he glanced over at Jacoba.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, knowing that if she had been Thea, she would have gotten up and left at the burst of unbridled magic. Or if she had been his mother, he would have been forced to leave the room until he'd cooled down. Adon usually, in the aftermath of such outbursts, felt shamed to silence; neither woman had stayed around long enough to know that their disciplining acts were usually not necessary. "Sometimes I let my thoughts get the better of me . . ." he tried to explain.

It wasn't the thoughts, of course. It was the emotions. The emotions of anger and powerlessness that children felt when things did not go how they wanted. It as the urge to do something when all avenues were blocked to them. Those with magic did do something. Just not what many understood or expected, usually the child least of all. A young mage would look upon a broken glass, a face turned blue, a locked door against an angry parent, a supper on fire, shocked, intrigued, and appalled that that was what they had inside them; that was what had broken free.

That Adon had not yet mastered his magic was owing in fact to his inability to school his emotions. It was frustrating -- and so Adon did not often like to think about it -- how his emotions deprived him of his potential: several of his teachers had commented on his remarkable strength of magic. Unparalleled except in the greatest of wizards, one had said. And yet he nearly failed out of his first through fourth years of transfiguration and potions.  Subtlety -- fine, intricate and elegant magic -- was beyond him. Turn a wall to dust, dry up a river, part a crowd, summon torrents of rain, rend a tree -- Adon could do it. But a mouse to a teacup? Impossible.

"Do you," he said in a quieter tone as he swept, eyes to the ground, wondering what she must think of him, "still want to try some arak?"

*In Hebrew, Johanna means "God is gracious." Jacoba means "supplanter."

"Johanna Clarice, officially," she offered, with a slight shrug, though chances were he was just looking for a simply confirmation.  But, since, the topic of her name was already prone to being a little confusing, seemed there was no better time than the present to toss it all out there.  For some strange reason.  "I - what?"  She stared, confused for a moment before, with a slight smirk and a shake of her head, her mind finally made the connection.  "You're giving my twelve year old self far too much credit.  Came across it in a name book; made my father furious enough I thought it was worth remembering." 

Chances were, if the old man had ignored it, the phase would have slipped past and the name would have never stuck.  As it was, Jacoba had been her legal name and Germany had been her official home country since she turned eighteen. 

He didn't sound convincing and Jacoba couldn't exactly blame him.  But, despite the grimace that seemed in stark contrast to his reassurance, he launched in to a far more detailed answer than one would expect at the end a long work day.  Surprisingly enough, Jacoba found herself able to follow the conversation, though it took more concentration than it probably would have, if the audience had been slightly different.  A more ... magically inclined audience would have likely felt less compelled to close one eye in thought when the odd phrase like Statute of Secrecy flittered by.  "Germany doesn't have jury of your peers, either.  Most criminal trials are ruled on by one or three judges."  Which sounded a lot like what Adon was describing.  "Like we have in America?" Jacoba repeated with an amused smirk and a shake of her head.  Presumably, he knew she wasn't and had never been American.  Did he really ... did 'you guys' really refer to her as a muggle?  She and her fellow muggles, be they American, German, South African or whatever?  If that was the case, Jacoba belonged to quite a big group of 'you guys.'  "Our isolated island prison's been closed for quite some time.  Though there are others."

Shaking her head, Jacoba chuckled.  "No.  But, I've never been good at making plans.  That makes sense, theoretically," Jacoba said, slowly.  Especially as it would violate more laws (those aforementioned secrecy laws) to make the muggle law enforcement aware of any crimes committed in the wizarding world.  "I just - given what I've seen, it seems impossible for someone like me to get a fair trial in the wizarding world.  Unless, your elders are more tolerant than many I come across." 

"So, you catch the bad guys?"  Jacoba concluded with a smirk.  That sounded exciting if nothing else.  Jacoba shifted on the couch, curling into the corner, pulling her legs up to her chest.  It was clear, soon enough, that Adon didn't find the idea as amusing as she'd assumed it would be.  The reality of the day had finally caught up with the theoretics of the topic, so it would seem.  The smirk eased smoothly, but promptly, from her features, replaced with a curious and concerned scowl.  Was she supposed to ask?  Probably not.  Theoretics were one thing but ... she was a stranger.  An interloper.  It wasn't her place and, chances were, there were many who were more qualified - on a personal, professional and magical level - to be asking. 

She hadn't left to talk a walk but, of course, she could give him his space by finding something to do other than stare at him.  As the first glass was set on the counter, Jacoba turned back to her book though actually getting any reading done, of course, was unlikely.  Distracted, she'd just glanced up again from the book when the glass in his hand seemed to explode.  Assuming the glass had imploded simply from an unfortunate hairline crack in the glass under the force of the man's hand, Jacoba quickly got to her feet to help with what she assumed would be a bloody, painful, glass-filled mess.  She'd only made it a step towards Adon when she froze, watching wide-eyed as glass floated to the rubbage bin.  She was still standing, in the same place, when the broom darted across the room to the man's hand.  This was the second time in as many days that Jacoba had watched Adon perform real, true magic. 

She shook off the apology - it seemed, largely, unnecessary.  "When thoughts get the better of you ... things explode?"  That had to be ... Actually, Jacoba had no idea.  It simply wasn't something she could fathom.  "Is that typical?"  She didn't recall anything exploding around Dreogan but, then, it was already seeming clear Dreogan was much less prone to runaway thoughts.  "Is there some way I can help?"  Obviously, not with the magic - or with magic at all - but ... it was better than being useless.  Even as she asked, she'd moved towards the dustpan that was still near where the broom had, previously, resided. 

"I'd love some, if you're offering," she agreed, stepping into the kitchen with the dustpan in hand.

"Johanna Clarice," he repeated, liking how it sounded on his tongue. "It's a beautiful name," he confessed, though he suspected she might not personally be fond of it. "Jacoba," for reasons he could begin to fathom, was her assertion of individual self-hood. Breaking free from the patriarchal rule.

She wasn't Jewish. Adon frowned, feeling the divide between them deepen. It wasn't a good feeling. He knew nothing about this girl. This would take work; at least she seemed curious about his lifestyle: both magical and Jewish.

He gave a mute shrug to her unspoken question regarding the jury. "Difficult to say; I've never been to a trial here in the United Kingdom." She mentioned their own system of judgment and their own prisons. Some shut down, others still open. Perhaps it was simply her previous discussion about her family and his own surmises, but his mind envisioned dark, cold, starving places where those like him were held to die . . . Yes, Germany had its fair share of prisons. . .

Considerations and contemplations on this fact were cut short with the shattering of glass. Adon began sweeping, surprised, when he glanced up, to see her coming over with an air of concern that Adon found unexpected but welcome. He was beginning to feel like a teacher, or some great sage with all these questions, and he wasn't quite sure he felt comfortable with that. As he swept the glass into a small, wet pile, he tried his best to phrase his answers to her questions comprehensibly. "Well, it's not always an explosion. Kind of depends on what is happening. Magic is, you know, linked to emotions and needs and such -- you've probably heard a similar impulse even in Muggles, who access all their resources -- their strength, adrenaline, energy, concentration -- to do unheard of things. A mother lifting an automobile, a man trapped in the mountains climbing . . ." he couldn't remember the rest of that one. He shook his head. "You know. At any rate, mages --" he paused. That was not the term they used here. "--witches and wizards--have more resources available to them. So, in such times of need -- emotional or physical distress -- they tend to tap into those sources of power."

He halted again, frowning slightly and adding, "Not that I was in emotional distress. It's just been a long day, as I said. Not a very good one." He looked at the pile; normally, when Adon got around to the uncommon task of cleaning, he felt a sense of accomplishment. This time, he saw only £2 of drink and glass on the floor. And Jacoba was asking him if this was typical. If he was abnormal. Great. He set the broom aside and leaned his back against the countertop of the bar. "Bursts of magic aren't very . . . typical in adults, I'd say. No. But it's much more prevalent in children. Maybe Sasha had some incidents? In a bit of a rough patch, something magically . . . happened? I remember one time I didn't want to do my homework. My mum kept insisting, but I wouldn't listen. I was seven. And so, I just . . . made the pages go blank." He gave a devious grin. "Unfortunately, mothers have this way of making things right again. I don't think I even had the presence of mind to try the trick consciously when I was sent to Gaddol."

"Is there some way I can help?" she asked, and Adon's brows knit, looking at her in some surprise as he moved the glasses towards the counter. "No. . . I mean. . . it's not like it's going to change at this point. If I haven't managed to master it now-- Ah . . ." he said, trailing off as she reached for the dust pan. It was an odd feeling, the heat in his cheeks, the need to look down which, unfortunately, was exactly where Jacoba was as she stooped over to gather up the glass he'd missed. "Sorry. I thought you meant -- Well, you know." Idiot.

He retrieved the broom and used it to carefully direct the glass into the dustpan. "There," he said, indicating it was good enough. "Good job; that deserves a drink." As he moved towards the counter, Adon began to pour a second -- well, third, if one was of a mind to split hairs -- glass of arak. He filled it a third of the way, as he had the first, and moved both to the sink. "So, arak's a Middle Eastern drink. I'd be surprised if you've come by it before. Let me show you a bit of alcoholic magic, hmm?" He held the first glass up for her to see. "Clear liquid, right? Buuut," he said, turning on the tap and moving the glass beneath it, filling it near to the top, moving aside so she could also see," now see." He held the glass up again, not noting -- or not caring -- that some water dripped down the side from his inefficient pouring methods. The water had taken on a cloudy, milky shade of white. "Made from aniseed. Pretty good. Very strong, so drink slow if you're not accustomed to anything beyond your beer." He reached across the bar for a towel and wiped the glass' side before offering it to her.

"I suppose?"  She offered an awkward half-grin before shrugging.  "I think I do dislike it less now than I once did.  At some point, though, you hear 'you're a lady, Johanna Clarice.  Act it' one too many times and you just can't wait to get away from it."  It didn't help that her mother had always meant it literally and figuratively.  But, time and distance had helped lessen that influence and her old name was starting to sound more and more like just a name. 

She noticed the frown that settled on the man's face and arched an eyebrow but the conversation had moved on to answering her question before she had an opportunity to inquire.  "I've never really been to one anywhere," she admitted with a shrug.  "Just studied them in history and civics classes."  And, yes, had visited a fair number of prisons which had long been closed.  "I know it's not really the same." 

He offered an explanation for the exploding glass and Jacoba really was trying to fully wrap her head around it.  The human body was capable of some remarkable feats when the need arose.  She did understand it, at least on an academic level.  And the slow, easy nod of her head revealed as much.  She understood but she didn't quite fully understand.  "So - at the end of a bad day, we throw things against the wall to vent and you do the same.  Without, really, needing the wall."  She shrugged off the assurance he wasn't in emotional distress - if there were judgments one could make on the loss of control, Jacoba was still far too naive in the realm of magic to even be aware of it. 

Until, again, he offered a further clarification.  "Oh." She glanced curiously at Adon before nodding.  So, the inexplicable exploding glass was something most mages - wizards, whatever, outgrew.  "Well-"  She pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders, unsure what to say to such a comment.  "That's got to be annoying," she finally offered, mostly in the absence of anything better to say.  Again, maybe it was her magical naivity but it just didn't seem to be that big of a deal.  He thought she was offering to help with the ... turbo magic reflex or whatever it was?  The last of the glass gathered from the floor, Jacoba leaned against the counter with an amused grin.  "Don't worry about it."  Jacoba shrugged her shoulders casually, clearly unperturbed by the misunderstanding.  "I ... yeah, no.  I'm fairly certain I can't be of much help there.  Not unless breathing exercises would work.  Or, assuming it doesn't make you twitchy, you could -"  She hesitated, reconsidering how well the recommendation of a joint to smooth the nerves would go over.  "Nevermind." That was a way to improve on the fantastic first impression she had started to foster the day before.

"I don't know - I really wasn't around my brother that much growing up.  They'd sent him off to Queen Ethelburga's as soon as he was old enough and he was eight when I was kicked out so ... the week here or there we were together at my oma's, I don't remember anything.  They tried to keep us separated as much as possible.  So I couldn't spoil him."  She offered an indifferent shrug before countering his devious grin with a slight chuckle.  "Yeah - mine never did.  But, I sometimes would borrow friends' mothers when things needed to be made right.  Nothing ever as spectacular as making writing appear, though."

Jacoba shook her head paying dutiful attention the glass of clear liquid.  No, she hadn't come across that particular beverage or its 'alcoholic magic.'  Her grin deepened into a highly amused smirk.  It was hard to tell which was more amusing: the trick itself or the performance.  "Oooo," she whispered quietly under her breath in exaggerated amazement.  "It's like magic."  Pausing in her feigned exaggeration, she glanced from the glass to Adon.  "It isn't though, right?"  Once upon a time, she could have simply left such statements as they were - now she was well aware that, for all she knew, that very well could be magic.  "So, it's like Ouzo?"  Ouzo without the cloud, at least.  "Anything beyond my beer," she scoffed.  "Stroh seems to make regular appearances at the get togethers I end up at.  Beer's just cheap."  For the most part. 

"So, should I ask what made today so shitty or would you rather find a different topic?"  Some preferred to vent after a long day.  Others preferred to ignore it.  Sometimes, there was a preference for a combination of the two.  Avoidance was generally her tactic of choice whenever she could manage it. 

"Yeh, well, I have been scolded a fair bit, too. But I actually quite like my name. Could be worse. I could be named Dreogan Melchizedek Eleor." He pulled a face. Adon meant kingly, handsome -- in both Anglo-Saxon and Hebrew, so he fit in. Dreogan meant . . . well, to serve in the military or to suffer (which, in Adon's opinion and experience, were sometimes the same thing). The name didn't fit anywhere: not in Israel, not in England, not in the wizarding community. Though, granted, the magical-folk tended to accept it better than most.

Adon shrugged. "You don't need to have been to prison; frankly, it's better that way anyhow," he stated simply. There were few reasons to visit them and unless it was humanitarian work, most of them were pretty dismal anyhow.

He shrugged sheepishly to her questions about his magic. They weren't really questions; she seemed to get the grasp of it. "One of my professors described my magic like a waterfall," he paused here to grin and shake his head. "No, not like a picturesque waterfall. Like the sort you harness for dams. . . only it's trying to pass through a narrow funnel. Channeling it into a wand is sometimes difficult. It's easier -- for me at least, but not most others -- to just . . . let the magic happen." He smirked a moment, realising how that sounded. A euphemism for something -- sex, no doubt. "But that way, you never really know what the magic will do. . ." He gave a surprised, bright laugh at her suggestion of breathing exercises. "I've heard that one before. Really," he said. His mum was all into that kind of crap. Getting him to even consider breathing when in the heat of his anger usually required him to . . . settle down. He'd need to deep breathe in order to remember to practise breathing exercises. Impossible.

Twitchy . . . Adon lowered his brows and pressed his lips together. He shook his head. "You're off the record here, kid, but. . . really. . ." his smirk returned, "you should remember I'm in law enforcement." And while Adon didn't bother with investigating substance abuse, he'd been involved in investigating drug trafficking. Both Muggle (with the IDF) and Magical (with the Israeli office). The IDF didn't even allow the use of nargilas on the premises anymore -- nargilas!, known as hookah's to tourists and Arabs.

"Ethelburga," he repeated in his accent of pronounced, soft f's and t's and k's. There was some distaste in contemplating an 'Ethelburga' as he screwed up his face and hovered over his glass of arak. "That sounds like an old grandma. With a paddle." He took a sip, releasing his breath from his nose as he frowned. "You left home young," he observed needlessly. "Kicked out? What dit you do?" he asked, only slightly sensitive of the fact that he was prying. "Not the name, surely."

Adon was no longer as interested in talking about the theoretics and explanations of developmental magic. He was curious about Jacoba. Johanna. He was curious why Johanna became Jacoba. It was clear, at least to him, that she wanted to become a separate person from her upbringing. Adon found that that separation and isolation was nearly impossible to accomplish completely.

And while Adon would usually happily discuss alcohol -- particularly to such an enraptured (albeit teasingly) audience -- he wanted to return to discussing her. So he simply shrugged. "Very much like Ouzo," he said, impressed. "Try it. You'll like it. I think. And no, no real charms or potions went into this. Just my charm." He smiled as a demonstration.

"So, should I ask what made today so shitty or would you rather find a different topic?"

"When you answer my questions, I'll answer yours," he retorted. "Me first." He was being selfish. Nosy. And he didn't care. It was fun, and he was actually enjoying this a little.

"Seriously?  And they claim my last name's a mouthful."  Jacoba grinned and half-nodded.  She wasn't surprised she was oblivious to the ... abundant nature ... of Dreogan's middle name.  Middle names weren't a usual topic of casual conversation despite the discussion currently taking place between the two of them. Though, at least, in the muggle world, one could get through most official situations with simply a middle initial.  Jacoba had never given much thought to the meaning of names.  It wasn't like everyone with the same name was destined to be similar.  Take her brother, for example.  His name meant 'defender of man' and, as much as she loved him, that name hardly fit. 

She was glad when the magic theory lecture managed to find a humorous avenue.  It was fascinating - of course it was - and she was curious about it. She wanted to learn more and figured she would, over time.  But, she wasn't looking to be a full time student and she suspected Adon wasn't looking to be a full time teacher, either.  Not in addition to housing a couch squatter.  Approaching the topic with a little humor was quite welcoming.  "I'm sure it is easier for you," she mused half to herself with a slight smirk.  Leaning against the counter edge, Jacoba pinched the glass between two fingers, balancing it between them.  "Perhaps you just didn't have the right teacher."  There was enough of a humorous ring to her voice to make the sarcasm quite evident. She'd never bought the breathing stuff much herself but her old coworker had sworn by it. 

She'd just been about to mention that what one was breathing was probably just as important as the breathing itself when she was given a friendly reminder of his occupation.  And, the obvious implications.  "Well, then," she added, a bit more humbly trying not to take obvious offense of the use of 'kid,' "both on and off the record, I've been clean for over six months."  Well, mostly clean.  She had been living in Amsterdam.  But, with Erwin's urging, she'd cleaned up a fair bit.  And, she was proud of that fact. 

"Yeah - Queen Ethelburga.  It's some totally posh and prestigious boarding school.  Livery facilities, single rooms with plasma tvs and gaming systems - It's the place for rich, spoiled brats."  Which was just what they were trying to make her brother into.  Perhaps, had they had the opportunity to start her out the same way, she would have turned out differently.  His inquiry gave her reason for pause and she took the opportunity to take a sip of the drink.  With an approving nod, she took the drink and returned to the couch, curling into the corner with it, her feet tucked beneath her.  "Lots of little things over the years.  I wasn't exactly the good little girl they were hoping.  My father and I never got along."  She shrugged, dismissively, taking another sip. "We got in an argument over dinner - can't remember what about.  But, I really wanted to get at him and I told him his prized son wasn't his son.  He accused me to slander and when my mother confessed I was right, he accused me of trying to ruin the family's reputation.  So, he chucked me out."   

She shrugged again, followed by another sip before she shook her head.  "Nah.  The name came a couple months after when I started studying to convert.  Which kind of ruined any hope of making any amends."  Once more, here shoulders lifted in a shrug as she cradled her glass in her hand. 

"It is good," she admitted with a nod towards the glass.  "It seems ... I don't know ... denser than Ouzo?  But, I don't know if that's the cloudiness playing tricks on my head."  She smirked, again, across the room at him at the humor.  Taking it as an invitation to be just as coy, she countered, "well, that's some impressive charm if it turns water to milk."  Alright.  It hadn't been water and it certainly wasn't milk.  But, clear to cloudy sounded far less impressive.  "Alright, Officer Eleor.  I'll answer your questions."

"Breathing's always been an unnecessary chore," Adon furthered the sarcasm with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Who needs it, right?"

He sobered up, figuratively, at her confession of being clean. Not an easy feat. Adon had never really struggled with substance abuse -- well, alcohol was another matter entirely and utterly forgivable -- but he'd had friends who had. "Congrats," he said, lifting his glass before adding, "Mazel tov. That's not easy." So he'd heard. "Another drink to celebrate," he added, grinning as he topped her glass off again.

"You know, Queen Ethelburga sounds like quite the woman. I bet you that she had a neck thick as an ox's." He followed her to the couch, taking the other corner and tipping his head back as he inspected the ceiling, evening his breath, not noting the ironic juxtaposition to their previous conversation. Smoking would be good. He could use a smoke. Except she was clean. And he didn't do that. Right.

He pulled his head back up to listen to her account, brows knit in concern. "Seems like some misguided aggression, if you were to ask me." The fault really lay with the mother. But, Adon had noticed with no little degree of sadness, that often times fathers turned their anger towards their children. Their spouses were often chosen out of love or advantageous circumstances; they did not want to spoil that. The children -- they were there simply because they were. And they were smaller; defenseless. . .

But not this one. She had bite. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, though," he said, voice a bit thicker from the drink as he took another sip. "Where did you go after that?" Adon felt a knawing emptiness as he thought about it. He'd always had the support of his family excepting three years: the past three years, in which he'd cut off ties with them, kept a polite and sterile distance from them so they wouldn't suspect he was dating a Palestinian girl. They wouldn't have minded, of course, but it hardly seemed right that if Thea couldn't tell her family, he could tell his. Now that he was here, though, he was actually present. The closeness to them -- that was the one thing he had.

When he wasn't fighting with Dree, of course. That man was stupid as hell; Adon just couldn't help it sometimes. If Dree wasn't going to look out for himself, Adon would. Now that he was around to do it. He'd always done it before. "I'm sure your brother appreciates you being closer; coming all this way," he said a bit abruptly. He'd forgotten she'd not been thinking his thoughts the past minute or so.

"Alright, Officer Eleor.  I'll answer your questions."

"Auror Eleor," Adon corrected lightly, a slight smile as he tilted his head. "Those actually were my questions." He took a sip of the arak before brightening falsely. "I can think up others, though. Uh, what is the meaning of. . ." he began facetiously before shaking his head. "But really -- you mentioned something about studying to convert. Let's go back to that." This intrigued him; maybe she was Jewish. She'd have a lot in common with his mother, were that the case. Well, alright; maybe they'd just both be converts and the similarities would end there.

Jacoba smirked, nodding her head.  "Seems a waste of breath if you ask me."  She lifted the glass to her upper lip, sniffing the licorice-y aroma, watching the milkiness shimmer like a cloud.  "'Course, us mere muggle mortals have yet to figure out how to live without it." 

A pinch of color blossomed at her cheeks and she offered a slight shrug along with a nod at the congratulations.  Not everyone took such confessions the same way.  Many, like Adon, were able to focus on the 'being clean' portion and saw the success in that.  There were still quite a few that couldn't see passed the 'got addicted in the first place.'  "Thanks.  No - it wasn't easy.  Haven't even had a cigarette.  Until last night, at least."  But, she'd put out that one pretty quick.  And, that was much easier and better than the alternative. 

"But, I had help.  My friend - the one that got me the job at Amnesty helped a lot."  She chuckled with a shrug.  "Ja, using the job as a guilt trip.  A lot of pointing at pamphlets and comments about who doesn't have food while I spend money on stuff."  Of course, she'd been Amsterdam and Erwin had enjoyed the regular joint.  Joints had, decidedly, were part of the cleaning up process, not on the list of what to be clean from. 

Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head at the image of an old, thick-necked crone.  "Wonder if there was a painting."  Jacoba hadn't shown much interest in her brother's school at the time.  "The million pound new equestrian was blessed by the queen, though.  So, it's got a healthy dose of royal nonsense.  Probably was part of the draw.  They probably hoped it'd rub off more on Sasha than it did me." 

"Yeah, well, misguided aggression - that was kind of my father's specialty."  She snorted and scowled, taking a sip of her drink.  "I didn't care, though.  I was glad to be rid of them."  The shrug and the dismissive answer came too quickly and obviously well rehearsed.  She'd convinced herself of the perspective well enough years ago that whether it was a lie or not was irrelevant.  It had become truth.  "I made my way for a couple years.  Crashing at friends' houses or meeting people and crashing there.  After my grandfather died, my grandma helped me get back to boarding school in Germany.  Went to the University of Munich to study history and dropped out to go to Amsterdam."  That was, essentially, it.  Her life story in a nutshell.  Until an owl came and pecked her.  Then she left that job, too.

She tilted her head to peer at Adon, pursing her lips before taking another sip.  "I know he is.  I can't imagine what he's got ahead of him.  I got what I got for being 'delinquent' - this ... he's got to be terrified.  All depends on how they look at all of this."  She shook her head, belatedly following his lead and looking up at the ceiling.  "I wasn't thrilled about coming back here - my father works a couple blocks from here, you know.  Deutschebank on Winchester?  Between London Wall and Old Broad?"  As muggle as she was, in many ways the wizarding world had been her own refuge. If she had had to stay in muggle London and do business there, chances were slim she would have been able to do it.  She'd have left weeks ago.

"Excuse me.  Auror Eleor."  She smirked, watching him, her mind already churning to find a smart answer to whatever it was she was supposed to deduce the meaning of.  When in doubt, Douglas Adams quotes always worked.  Or, Monty Python song lyrics. 

But, the conversation made a quick turn from the frivolous back to the soul-searching serious.  "Yeah," she answered vaguely at first with a shrug.  "I'd started exploring almost a year before I got kicked out but, I guess, I got more serious after.  I was pretty serious for a couple years.  After a couple years, I guess the whole God issue got a bit too confusing and I stopped for a while.  I went back to it at the University but, when I left Munich, it all got confusing again," she offered with an apologetic tone.

"'Course, us mere muggle mortals have yet to figure out how to live without it." 

"Well, don't hold your breath," he said, shaking his head and dropping it. If you ever needed to know at what point to end punning, it was when it reached this point: unbearably adorable now. He smirked slightly at her description of working at Amnesty. That seemed about right. Adon placed himself squarely above guilt-trips. He was unconcerned. Which, more than once, he had been accused of crossing over to apathy.  Dreogan had even called him Laodicean. Living with Dree sometimes did more for his personal lexicon than all his years in school -- certainly more than his time in the military and law enforcement. But it was true -- it didn't concern him because he didn't allow himself to become concerned. That was how you kept sanity. It didn't always work of course -- one could only remain self-enclosed, neatly encapsulated for so long. Today had been the tipping point . . .

Adon felt the tension build in his throat like a knife. Time for another breath.

At the mention of the cigarette, Adon had the opportunity to leave breathing far behind. Nevertheless, he expelled his breath, shaking his head again -- this time wistfully. "I'm sorry you were there for that." He looked up, pausing. "Which is to say, I'm glad, for our sake, that you were. But . . . realise that that isn't usually what one expects. Sorry."

Dree was stupid as hell. He didn't really need to revisit that, though, just now. Jacoba, it seemed, had other stupid-as-hell relatives, perhaps with fewer redeeming qualities than Dree. Frowning, Adon shrugged at the statement of the father, not certain exactly what response was expected. A conversation for another time, perhaps. He didn't buy her little speech; too even. It was practised. Something she'd told herself before she told others. Adon had learned to look for that tone in questioning sessions. One didn't tell themselves something unless they needed to convince themselves first. He nodded in recognition of where her father now looked. "Old Broad. Yes; I remember that place because of the name. Struck me as funny. 'Old broad'," he repeated with a light, private sort of laugh as he took another sip. "Also sounds like a bitch with a thick neck." He paused and looked up at her. "Sorry. . ."

"So it's back to crashing at the friends' houses, hmm?" Adon said, taking another sip before smirking. "If Dree or I qualify for that. Is it true he picked you up at a coffee shop? Or a park?" The story had gotten confused. And, frankly, Adon hadn't been interested in hearing it when he was told it. Because it didn't concern him. Until she was there yesterday. And was on his couch today. . .

Perhaps apathy had its pragmatic difficulties.

"You like school?" he asked, wondering why she'd left. Dree'd left; he loved school. One never knew. "Why'd you stop?" He frowned as she mentioned she also stopped studying Judaism. "I know what's wrong with you," he said, a superior glint in his eye as he finished his drink off, placing it on the coffee table that his feet rested upon. "You're Laodicean." He shimmied back a bit into the pillows, finding a comfortable nook. "I'm the same way. Apparently, it's a fault," he shrugged lightly, closing his eyes. Whether the day or the alcohol, he was feeling sleepy. And disgruntled. "Better than caring sometimes, I guess."

Lifting the glass to her lips, Jacoba peered over the upper rim as she considered him a moment, a slight smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.  After pausing a beat, she shook her head.  "I won't."  Another sip of her drink and she set it down on the coffee table.  She was going to play it smart and heed his warning.  Her first impression hadn't been that great; getting plastered now was probably not the way to win a solid second impression.  This arak was the far from the strongest stuff she'd had but that didn't necessarily mean anything.  Tequila wasn't exactly strong but it also didn't sit very well with her; she could easily handle twice as much vodka as she could tequila. 

She looked up just in time to see the measured, calming lungful of breath, an eyebrow lifting with concerned curiosity.  Despite the obvious relation, the breathing puns were an unlikely cause.  As far as she could tell, none of them could have a hidden second meaning.  It had to be related to something else - the day replaying in his head as a result of triggers as of yet unidentified. 

Her mind still on the emotional shift, she was slightly detached when she first nodded.  Last night.  Yeah.  That had been unpleasant.  For everyone involved though, at least, the outcome had been pretty good.  "I wasn't ... I didn't do a whole lot of good."  In fact, she'd been pretty much useless.  "And, I'm sure my freaking wasn't a lot of help.  I'm usually better at handling stress.  That though-"  She shook her head, taking another sip of her drink.  "I'm glad he's okay."  It wasn't usually what one expects from what?  From their first dose of the magical world?  From finding a strange twenty-year-old crashing at their brother's apartment?  From a quiet Friday evening?  But, in all honesty, what would one expect?  "Don't worry about it.  I'm not sure what one could fairly expect." 

"Can't say I've ever met a young broad.  Or a new one."  A young broad - how unfortunate would one have to be to qualify for that description?  Amusingly enough, though, if there were young broads, some of the office buildings along Old Broad seemed likely places to find them.  "What?" she asked with a bemused grin, when he looked her way and apologized.  "Why would I care?  Unless you're insinuating something about my neck.  Like I should be offended in solidarity." 

Jacoba shrugged, vaguely, unsure if it was 'back to crashing at friends' houses' or 'still crashing at friends' houses'.  She supposed, she'd managed to break that habit the last few months she was in Amsterdam.  She'd, legitimately, been paying rent on that room in Tietze's farmhouse but that had been a novel experience.  And she wasn't sure she'd liked it.  "If it's entirely up to me, I'd qualify you both."  Friends, of course, always seemed to be one of those things best mutually agreed upon.  A lot of confusion could be avoided if one refrained from deciding, alone, if two people were friends.  A lesson she'd learned through experience.  "'Course, I wouldn't let it go to your head.  I've been told I'm not the most discriminating in that area."  You'd call a street performer your friend because he smiled at you.  And, you'd ignore the fact he smiled at you as a ploy to get paid.  "Yeah - coffee shop near the train station.  I was on my way to rescue my brother from whatever cult he got dragged into.  The park came after the coffee shop - a convenient place to stash travelers while they wait for written confirmation no cult is involved."  It was amusing, in retrospect, how wrongly Jacoba had pegged Dreogan on first meeting.

"Not really," she admitted.  School hadn't been her thing; Sasha was the academic.  Jacoba didn't know Anna well enough to know which of her older siblings she'd taken after.  "Things were different then," she admitted as an explanation.  In reality, that had also been the reason she'd put the Judaism studies on hold.  "I got impatient and probably a little bitter and it was just me so there was nothing to keep me where I was.  The excuse I gave my professor was I tired of waiting for things start.  Like I said, things were different then."  There had been a lot of transitions in the last year - the most recent one being one of the more significant.  Moving.  Paying for her own apartment.  Getting a job.  Getting clean. 

"What did you call me?  Us?"  Whatever?  Jacoba chuckled slightly.  Perhaps it was the arak but something about that, currently, uninterpretable accusation was amusing.  "English isn't my first language, just so you know.  Nor my second."  Hardly the actual reason for this lack of comprehension.  She'd grown up in the UK - her English was, obviously, just fine.  But, it was a convenient scapegoat.  His last comment helped add some context clues though Jacoba only met with a curious arching of her eyebrow.

There really wasn't much more Adon wanted to say on what had happened last night. He'd said it all to Dree anyhow. Bastard. Stupid bastard. And Jacoba's comment summed it all up: what could one expect? Whatever he had, he hadn't expected that. Though he'd expected worse. He ought to be thankful.

"What?" she asked with a bemused grin, when he looked her way and apologized.  "Why would I care?  Unless you're insinuating something about my neck.  Like I should be offended in solidarity."

Adon blinked, surprised for a moment. Didn't all women frown at cursing? He wasn't allowed to curse around his mother. Around Thea. Around his female-coworkers. Hell, Heck, even some of the women in the IDF hadn't stood for his language. He gave a roguish smile, shaking his head. Well, he wasn't about to tell her; she might get ideas and then he'd have to keep standards. Besides, she looked genuinely confused. He'd play that to his favour. "Nothing," he dismissed with another shake of his head. "Nothing wrong with your neck," he added for clarity; he didn't want to be accused of that one, either. He leaned forward and waved his wand, directing it towards the glass as a clear liquid filled it. The bottle on the bar counter lowered. He sipped a bit and grimaced. Pure arak -- not a good idea. . . No, wait. It was perfect. He'd be wasted in no time. At 70% ABV, one couldn't help but be. Particularly since these weren't his first drinks of the evening. He took another sip.

"If it's entirely up to me, I'd qualify you both. 'Course, I wouldn't let it go to your head.  I've been told I'm not the most discriminating in that area."

Adon took the glass in hand and shifted back in his seat, resuming his view of the ceiling.

"Well, Jacoba," he stated drily, tilting his head down and forward in order to take a sip, "that's quite the back-handed compliment. . . Glad to know I'm a particularly favoured person in your acquaintance. Just like everyone else." He smirked and drank again. Well, she had to be female somehow. Like when Thea complimented him on his haircut -- saying it was much better than that horrid one he'd been sporting for at least a year prior. Or when his mother said that he'd been so pleasant lately. She really enjoyed having him around now.

"So what line did my brother use on you to pick you up?" he asked cheekily, looking across the couch at her. "I'm curious to hear how nerds do it. Though I have to say, pretty smooth. Picks up a girl at a coffee shop, a brief walk to the park, a nice chat, takes her back to his place . . . " He looked her up and down, smile growing even more devilish. Of course, Dreogan had explained it all -- the relationship, the association to Sasha Schlagenweit, his pet project, the plans for her to be there very temporarily -- but that Jacoba didn't now what Adon knew.

As Jacoba explained her scholastic views, Adon helped himself to more arak, determined to make himself as oblivious about everything he was thinking as possible in . . . twenty or so minutes.

"I hate waiting," Adon said, his voice a bit husky. "Sounds reasonable to me. Bureaucracies, you know? They keep as much as they can from you. You just end up feeling totally powerless." He sighed and put the arak down on the table before dropping his head onto the back cushions again.

"What did you call me?  Us? English isn't my first language, just so you know.  Nor my second."

"You heard me, fraulein. Laodicean. And the word's Latin, so you've no excuse." Everyone knew a little Latin.
As he took another sip, he thought. Mostly about the fact that the drink was taking effect and that things couldn't be better for that reason. "Well." He'd actually forgotten where he was going with that. Or that he was trying to withhold the definition from her. "Laodicean," he said in as prim a voice as he could muster, "means half-hearted, particularly regarding religion or politics. Now, half-hearted's an interesting term, too. I've always wondered . . . does it mean that you've only got half a heart and so are callous and embittered? Or does it imply a division, being torn between two options? One half wanting the one thing, the other the other?"