Isaac had stayed back at school; Jacoba had returned to London.  The search for a trail had grown cold faster than was comfortable to admit but, in the absence of anything to do for the search, the young muggle had forced herself back to work.  She stuck to backroom, stocking activities as much and as often as she could - keeping busy and distracted by the record player while minimizing her time around customers.  Not that she felt a need to avoid them but, every time she was around someone new, she couldn't resist the temptation to inspect their face closely for scars or inquire about the appearance of the entrance hall to their residence. 

That Thursday started pretty much like the rest of the week had.  A quick cleaning of the storefront, a good stoking of the fire back to life and a touch up stocking of the bins and the shop was ready for business. 

With the holidays around the corner, there was no shortage of customers doing their Christmas shopping.  At times, Jacoba herself was leafing through albums in search of gift fodder for various individuals.  She was still getting her bearings in the magical world of music though, chances were, most of her gifts were more likely to be of the mundane variety.  Strictly magically speaking of course.  Now that most of her social companions were of the magical sort, they were perfectly capable of supplying themselves with their own magical paraphernalia.  She'd help enrich their muggle connections.

The owl had fluttered in through the front door an hour or so before closing.  The bird had, apparently, taken some offense to the haste with which Jacoba tugged the letter free as it had taken a good chunk out of her finger.  After wiping her hand clean and signaling to Tilly then need for a break, Jacoba had taken the letter in the back stockroom. 

The letter had only taken a few seconds to read through but Jacoba remained crouched on the shipping crate as the minutes ticked on.  She was well aware of the other letters - of the one Dreogan had received the day before.  Of the one Neely got.  Of the fact Jacoba seemed to have been the last to receive one.  And, her letter seemed to depict the same snide, frivolous gaiety that the others had.  By the time the end of her shift had come, the parchment had been crumpled into a loose ball and was getting tossed, rhythmically, in the air like a light baseball. 

Adon pushed open the door with a tinkling of a bell, squinting slightly. It was bright in here. Winter was not coming -- it was here, and the nights were getting darker more quickly. He waved casually to Tilly; he still hadn't spoken to her much, but they knew the sight of each other by now, or at least he, the sight of her. He probably had won her over some patrons from that tabloid article; gave the young ones a new date idea, or something. Adon had made it a point prior to Jacoba's employment there to stop coming, not wanting a follow-up article to read: "Auror gets dumped by famous singer and still longingly haunts their hangout places." However, since somewhere around the end of November -- was that only two weeks ago? -- he'd been picking Jacoba up from work and they'd walk home together. It wasn't far from here, though the most direct and public road was Old Broad. Jacoba didn't like walking there with her father still in town. And Adon didn't like her walking alone.

On the nights that Jacoba had a closing shift, Adon took the opportunity to utilise the exercise facilities at work. They didn't exactly match the Israeli ones by Adon's standard, but he supposed the Brits were on the whole less militant and therefore less likely to utilise it.  In fact, he'd about died of laughing after seeing Elder Tobias Strange make an over-angry attempt upon the punching bag last week. If Adon had not been there to keep the bag from swinging back in retaliation (or momentum), the bag would have won the match. Politicians. The man had probably been storing his rage at improper paperwork, uncouth rhetorical addresses from his opponents, slandering newspaper articles, and unpopular legislation for twenty-odd years in order to muster up that swing. Unfortunate.

Adon was not one to usually smile at the misfortunes of others, but the thought of Elder Strange again in his sweat pants, shrieking at the bag brought a momentary grin to his face as he made his way further into the store. It was a few moments before Adon was able to catch sight of Jacoba, tucked away in a corner between the Chants section and the Children's section. He smiled as he caught her eye -- the usual greeting -- but instantly wavered. She looked pissed. Frowning, he considered what he might have done wrong, aside from showing up sweaty from a work-out. But he'd done that many a time before, and his head, now that he was indoors, was not visibly steaming. Besides, she'd probably have gotten a kick out of that.

She was still on his couch. Still had drinks with him . . . Not him then. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shuffled down the aisle to where Jacoba stood. "So. . ." he said with a slight shrug, "do yiwant to get out of here?" He pry for information as they were walking. It was always nice to talk while walking; you were moving forward, which even if you were thinking in circles, gave at least some semblance of progress.

She was unaware of the passage of time as she sat on the shipping crate, the balled up piece of parchment tossed repeatedly in the air.  It was impossible to tell whether a minute had passed or a full hour until Adon's voice drew her attention away from the random point on the wall she'd been staring at.  The parchment fell to her hand and she closed her fingers around it. 

The first day Adon had offered to see her home after work, Jacoba had made a half-hearted attempt to insist it wasn't necessary.  And, yes, it had been officially half-hearted.  No one wanted to be more of an imposition than absolutely necessary and it was questionable how necessary this extra step was.  But, Adon had insisted and Jacoba had agreed rather readily.  And, by the second trip home, she'd come to quickly appreciate the escort, if that's what it was called, and even look forward to it.  If, for no other reason than it gave her a reason to be distracted from her own thoughts.  And, Adon could always be counted on for a distraction with his dry, quirky humor. 

"It's closing?" she asked, glancing around the shop.  Sure enough, the shadows had lengthened enough to engulf the street outside and other shops along the alley were closing down.  Towards the register, Jacoba could see most of the closing duties had been taken care of here, as well.  All while she'd managed to mentally check out completely.  She offered her coworker an appreciative, apologetic grimace and nod before pushing herself to her feet. 

There was no need to pry.  As soon as they cleared the door into Diagon, Jacoba shoved the ball of parchment in Adon's hand without missing a beat in her stride.  Most of it would prove old news; that letter could have been a copy of the previous few that had found their way to other people, with the occasional detail or pronoun changed.  "I don't know whether to be relieved, offended or pissed," she admitted, after giving him a few moments to read it.  "I mean, I know I've only seen him that one week and that was the first time in years but I didn't ... the kid I knew growing up would never be that - would be such a self-righteous prick."  The last cluster of words had been said with such volume and vehemence, a few random witches and wizards cast startled glances in her direction. 

Jacoba seemed only nominally present as she scrambled off her crate, dazedly looking about. Adon hesitated before approaching her, alarmed; for all the world, Jacoba looked like a soldier after a first fight. She was clearly experiencing a dissociative episode. The other sales clerk was closing up -- moving on without truly noticing that Jacoba was frozen.

His thoughts halting his steps, Adon followed, a pace behind Jacoba, closing the gap only once they were out the door and Jacoba handed over a small, wadded up piece of paper by way of wordless explanation.  Silently, trying not to take it too eagerly, Adon accepted the letter, smoothing it out as best he could to make out the words, some of which had vanished into  the wearing fibres of the parchment. He gave a "Hm," of disapproval as he concluded the letter. He'd strangle that little bastard for the trouble he was causing. If this proved to be true.

The words came to Jacoba soon enough -- Adon flattered himself to think that his presence was something of a verbal impetus; he'd like to think that she talked to him more than others. She said she was confused, uncertain what to feel; this wasn't a problem Adon usually had. He didn't decide what to feel; the emotion was usually just there and he went with it. Logic and emotion were separate entities altogether. You felt -- everything at once, if you had to. And then, when you were done feeling, you worked through the aftermath.

Thus far, this had not worked well for him. He felt distinctly unqualified to provide an answer. So, he offered a vaguely reassuring "You're alright. Why not pick all three?" Looping an arm around her shoulders, he gave her a light squeeze. They walked on and Adon's arm dropped, his hand settling in the pocket of his track pants; the other hand still holding that letter. A hug seemed the logical thing to give to calm a distressed woman. They were a hugg-y sort of breed. "I think everyone who has gotten those letters feels about the same," he added.

"Dree's certain that a month ago Sasha would not have been capable of writing those things, either," Adon said. As Adon had never met the kid, he couldn't be certain himself and half-suspected that Dreogan was using this technique to calm himself; assure him that he had not done wrong by or been mistaken in Sasha. But if it was what calmed Dree, perhaps it was worth applying to Jacoba as well.

"It may be possible that he didn't write those things alone . . ." Adon mused quietly, thinking of the case. It had been called off now that it appeared, well, that he was a fifteen year-old boy taking his suspension as cause for going on holiday. Tamis -- not just Dree -- had noted, however, the peculiar tone of the letter. If they could prove that Sasha had not written it, or had been forced to write it, the search would still be in full force. And they'd have more evidence. There had to be some sort of magical traces on these. He could take it to diagnostics later.

Adon once more attempted to smooth the paper, shaking his head. Might have been wrung out of this one, however. He didn't blame her. He'd use Dree's. It was true that this letter looked a fair bit like the others' -- well, Dree's first at the very least -- but not like the second letter to Dree. That had been custom-tailored to sting. But it had given some new hints and leads, even if they were spurious. "You should write back and see what kind of response you get. It could help."

Adon, of course, was in analyst-mode, thinking not of the "help" Jacoba might want at the moment -- no, the second letter would likely only upset more. Dreogan didn't even talk about that one. Adon was considering the sort of case-help that would give them a good, stout bucket of leads.

"Or," he said, trying to think of what might constitute Jacoba-help, "we could drop by the Cauldron for some butterbeer. Maybe cocoa." The stuff was frivolous -- really, rather silly -- but had the advantage of not being hard liquor and of warming one's self up. Considering the state he'd found her in, he knew that alcohol would only escalate the dissociation. Adon was not particularly wanting to deal with acute peritraumatic dissociation, here. "Switch it up a bit," he said, lightly. Their typical drinking routines consisted of hard liquor, and plenty of it.

He'd been trying to cut back, though. His counsellor had suggested it might help with that whole "thinking-first, feeling-later" bit. Who knew? Jacoba might be unfortunate enough to be the second-hand recipient of his counselor's words of wisdom tonight.

The vague 'you're alright, why not pick all three' was, admittedly, a little on the lame side but it was welcome, nonetheless.  The arm that looped over her shoulder was an entirely different story.  Taking the arm as a wordless invitation, she responded immediately, almost reflexively.  Jacoba stopped in her tracks and turned towards Adon.  Her expression still distant and a little too blank to reflect the variety of emotions she'd been describing, she leaned against him, her arms wrapping gently around him.  The moment of physical contact gave her mind a focal point and when she straightened up a moment later, her expression was more sullen but, also, much more in the moment. 

With only a nod to acknowledge the moment, she turned and continued walking.  "I'm willing to give the butterbeer another go," she said, quietly.  Perhaps, the use of 'beer' as a suffix had been too misleading and had tainted her expectations of the stuff but she didn't have fond memories of that first mug in Hogsmeade.  If not, cocoa sounded like an acceptable fall back plan. 

"I just don't know what to think.  About any of it.  And, I'm tired of sitting and waiting for him to decide to show up." 

She faltered a step, glancing at Adon.  "Why wouldn't he have written them ... that's not like him.  He - oh..."  With small, jerky movements, she shook her head.  Yeah, no.  She didn't like this thought.  Getting the letters had been the first sign of hope.  Frustratingly callous, infuriatingly annoying as they might have been, they were reassurance that her brother was alive and well.  And, more importantly, alright.  It had, really, been that weak vein of hope that Jacoba had managed to cling to during these last few weeks. 

As much as she would have liked a reason to believe the letters weren't written in earnest, this alternative meant he was still in trouble.  A level of trouble that just gave that vision of Dreogan's more credibility.  Again, she shook her head.  "Why would someone help him write those letters, though?  If he's being held somewhere ... a- against his will, why write them at all?  It doesn't make sense?" 

Again, she shook her head, this time with more determination.  "Besides, that's his handwriting.  And, it sounds like him, even if it doesn't sound ... scheiße ... you know what I mean."  The wording and syntax sounded like him even if the words, themselves, didn't make sense. 

She took the page back and peered down to read it, again.  Murmuring under her breath, she shook her head.  "Yeah, I should write back.  Give him a piece of my mind."  Though, if he was getting help reading it, "is someone reading them, then?  Do you think - could we ... Is there any sense in trying to ..."  Jacoba froze, looking at Adon, wide eyed.  Why hadn't she realized it before?  How could it have taken this long for her to have made the realization?  "He didn't write it alone," she said, with full determination.  "Zum teufel.  You read it.  It's in English.  He's never written me in English.  The owl he sent me in Amsterdam, the letter Dreogan couriered for us ... even since then.  If that's him, then he's not in his right mind.  Or something.  I ... it's not him."  Whether physically or mentally, the one behind this letter wasn't her brother.

Nodding silently, Adon moved their steps back towards the Leaky Cauldron. They'd already entered Muggle London. But butterbeer was important, after all. With a deliberate air, Adon tapped the bricks and waited for Jacoba to cross before him.

"Why would someone help him write those letters, though?  If he's being held somewhere ... a- against his will, why write them at all?  It doesn't make sense?" The uncertain wavering in that last, almost-question made Adon's expression soften and give her a sympathetic smile. Poor girl; she was not used to this, approaching tragedies like puzzle pieces.

"It does if they wanted us to stop looking for him," Adon asserted before pausing to look her sidelong and in the eye. "We won't," he said firmly. "We're not going to wait for him to show up. We're going to find him. Because we're going to look for him." These letters -- they were fortunate. They gave leads. With more, things could start falling into place by themselves, though Adon was not going to allow himself to become that complacent. He could only rely on these letters so far.

The English was striking cause for concern. He hadn't thought about it with Dreogan's letters -- that was their common language, after all. But this was enough to keep the investigation open, to redouble efforts. As Adon's mind began to work, he grew confident. This could fall into place. And soon.

The letter tampering escalated the severity of the case: it was predetermined, calculated; the snatch was meant to last. It was not a hostage situation. There were no demands. They wanted Sasha. Adon said none of this to Jacoba, however. What he did say was in a light tone. "You can be assured that Sasha is alive -- the handwriting's his. We've confirmed that much. And, soon," he added, now standing before the entrance of the Cauldron, "he'll be well. We'll dig our claws into this," he said, holding up the letter. "If you don't mind me taking this in?" he asked rather needlessly. She'd handed it to him already; even if she'd wanted to keep it from them, the case needed it.

"Next time, Joh, if you do get an owl with a letter . . . try to keep a handle on the owl, yeh?" A bit of indigenous soil, notable scars, build or even mannerisms could help narrow whose bird it was or where it had been.

"Yeah, I should write back.  Give him a piece of my mind. Is someone reading them, then?  Do you think - could we ... Is there any sense in trying to ..."

He held open the door for her, following her inside, shrugging his shoulders and puffing his breath out instinctively, ridding himself of the cold that he still felt in the folds of his clothing. He wondered why it was that one always felt colder just as one crossed the threshold into a warm room.

Adon looked about at the faces -- some dark and unknown, despite his time spent in the relatively small community -- others, familiar. Adon was not sure which he ought to avoid more. This was a sensitive conversation. "How about we get the butterbeer to go and talk more about that," he said, referencing her last questions, "back at home?" For a moment, the phrase struck him. With Jerusalem no longer a viable option for return, 'home' had become a penthouse in London. And Jacoba -- that was her home, too.

What a weird way of working out, life.

"What do you think, a 20 litre?" he teased as he approached the bar. "Or should we settle for a growler tonight?"

"But, everyone?  One or two letters I could see but-"  Once upon a time, the shuffling of bricks and stepping through what was once a solid brick wall would have captivated the majority of the muggle's attention.  Today, she hardly noticed them as she passed through.  Perhaps the letters didn't make sense - perhaps they did and she just preferred not to see it because, again, it implied something worse than just having a self-centered, teenager-y brother. 

Jacoba paused as she met his eye, listening to his reassurance and taking it to heart before nodding.  She believed him and she trusted him, without a doubt.  The Ministry, she was aware, had tabled the case but she was well aware of Adon's efforts to keep it at least fresh in people's minds if not active.  If he said they'd keep looking, she accepted that at face value.  And, took whatever comfort she could find in it.  Until doubt grew strong enough to require another patient reminder from the Auror. 

He was alive.  That was a comfort but just barely.  Whatever reassurance that thought might bring was balanced with the fact there was an actual need to say it.  "I don't want it.  If you can make some use of it, it's all yours."  Jacoba shook her head, waving her hand at the crumbled bit of parchment.  Chucking it in the fireplace was about the extent of her plans with it. 

"Keep the owl?"  Jacoba glanced over her shoulder as she stepped in the bar.  "Do you just bag it or something?  That one nearly took my finger off," she lifted her hand, picking at the scab on her finger before following him to the bar.  "And, I was just trying to get the thing off it's leg."  Owl wrangling.  Just one of many of the bizarre activities to have infiltrated her life in the last few months. 

Slowly she nodded, the idea of taking their drinks home proving to be a welcoming one.  This was, definitely, one of those times when being in the safety of familiarity was preferable to being exposed to whoever might see or hear.  "You can really drink ten liters of that stuff?" Jacoba asked, looking dubiously at Adon.  At least that had to be a good sign that the stuff could make a better second impression.  He had good taste in drinks; if he was willing to contemplate downing 10 liters of it, it couldn't be that bad.  And, it wasn't beer.  "I'm afraid three liters might be my limit but I wouldn't want you to limit yourself on my behalf." 

Adon nodded -- Yes, everyone. They would need to go for consistency. Make sure everyone was either satisfied with the excuses or angry enough with the boy that they wouldn't find reasons to go out of their way to find him. He didn't know how many bridges Sasha had to burn, but he was glad, at least, that Dreogan was big enough to not let his emotions get in the way of it. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to do the same if it was his little porchmonkey that had bit him like a viper.

"Thanks," he said, tucking the paper into an inner pocket on his jacket. He zipped it back up and shoved his hands in the pockets, trying to keep warm. Winter was always the worst season. Miserable. And miserable things had a way of happening then. Of course, recently all days seemed fair game.

"Bag it, box it. . . You're a clever girl. Surrounded by cardboard boxes all day. I'm sure you'll come up with something," Adon said with a bit of a smile. Every so often, he was reminded of how very, well, Muggle she was. Not culturally Muggle -- that came up fairly readily. But incapacitated Muggle. He'd just thought a simple petrifying spell ought to have done the trick. Maybe a stunning spell. Well, Muggles made computers. I'm sure they could figure out how to catch those filthy little vermin.

Of course, if they could get a trace on the owl and send it back -- now that would be ideal. Those peskies did have their purposes, he supposed. Didn't make him care for the interdepartmental courier owls any more, though. Stunning spells -- there was a thought.

As he moved forward to order, he turned to Jacoba. Though he'd been joking, he wasn't certain she'd been; the delivery was too perfectly flat. Either her performance was improving with time, or she was losing countenance. He put a hand on her shoulder, shaking it slightly. "It was a joke, Joh."

He settled for the smaller proportion, tucking it under an arm and paying the bartender with enough of a tip to still be considered generous. He liked that reputation but didn't want to be over-generous. He frequented this place enough that he didn't want it to become expected.

"Let's go," he said, tilting his head back towards the door they'd just entered through. He managed to open it with his free hand and pass through, keeping it for Jacoba. They were scarcely a step outside of the pub before he stopped and tugged a glove off with his teeth. Now having a better grip, pried off the lid, handing it to her. "First honours go to you. But quick, it's cold." He blew on his hand as he waited, noting how, in the lamplights of Diagon Alley, his breath seemed to glow a ghostly white. "Good thing about butterbeer," he added between puffs of air against his chilled skin, "is that it keeps you warm from the inside."

Peculiar as the topic might be, considering various methods of owl-wrangling was a fairly effective form of distraction.  Trying to bag an owl brought forth images of cartoons were the (always overly flexible) hero or heroine was flapping around the room in utter chaos, tossing butterfly nets or pillowcases in every which way trying to catch the bird.  Or butterfly.  Or arrogant, runaway mouse.  If push came to shove, she could always just close all the doors and windows and keep the bird contained. 

And then just whack it with a broom.  "Like whack-a-mole."  Somehow, that component of her internal monologue managed to breach her lips. 

That thought process and whatever weak entertainment it could provide only provided a few moments of distraction.  In its wake, her mind grew blank and hollow again.   Standing at the bar, she was only vaguely aware of Adon turning towards her or the delay in ordering.  She blinked, scowling slightly, her gaze refocusing on Adon before she glanced at the bartender.  "I - what?" she asked, looking back up at him.  She gave a slight nod before rubbing her face with both hands before drawing her hair back over her shoulders.  "Sorry, yes, I know."  Obviously, in retrospect, it had been.  "I just got distracted." 

The breadth of December air against her skin wakened her senses and sharpened her focus.  Once back out in the alley, she tilted her head back and drew deep, long breaths of icy early winter air into her lungs.  She followed Adon's lead and tugged her own gloves off, stuffing them in her pocket.  The ceramic was warm and heavy cradled between her fingers and the steam from the butterbeer curled gently up.  Jacoba lifted the drink to her lips, letting the rich, sweet steam drift up to her nostrils, warming her newly freshened lungs as she took a gingerly sip.  "Mmm," she hummed quietly as, indeed, the warmth from the liquid spread through her.

"It's not that cold," she said, though she hung on to the butterbeer for a second sip before handing it back.  "Unfortunately, it's not even cold enough to snow."  They probably weren't far from it - a few more degrees and they might manage a few flakes, at least.  But, it was definitely too dry; her hair was demonstrating it had no intentions of remaining where she smoothed it back in the cold, dry air.

Briskly, she rubbed the palms of her hands together before gently placing them on top of Adon's fingers.  "It's not quite Glühwein - mulled wine? - but it's not as bad as I first thought.  The Christkindlesmarkten are probably starting this weekend."  A strange, though logical thought.  Slowly, she shook her head, sighing.  She wasn't sure which was harder, dealing with all of the unknown or trying to constantly pretend like everything was normal.  "Let's go home."

"Like what?" Adon said, pursing his lips and knitting his brow. It could be the accent. The alcohol was not that strong. And it did not work that fast. In fact, she hadn't even had any butterbeer yet. Jacoba seemed -- understandably -- a little off today. He'd not tease her about it, but merely frowned and shrugged.

As she had her first taste, he listened to her analysis. "Butterbeer?" he asked, innocently enough. "I think it's mulled . . . beer, actually," he said, with a shrug, trying not to be too cheeky just now but finding it a bit difficult. "I'm not sure, however," he conceded, "that I have your depth of knowledge on alcohol."

He would, however, challenge her on matters of weather. "You're joking," Adon stated flatly. "It's too cold to snow," he said with the authority of a meteorologist and the whine of a schoolboy. It was cold; Adon didn't like it. That was all there was to know. He took the bottle back between his hands, trying to curl them around, even if they were an angry, numb red.

Jacoba offered a warming hand, which helped. The corners of his smile twitched upward and he lifted the bottle to his lips as well, relieving her of her handwarming duties. "Thanks," he muttered, brow knitting slightly as he  put the stopper back in. He tucked the growler under his arm and shoved his hands in the pockets, glancing sidelong at Jacoba, but saying nothing. It was a short walk home -- something he was grateful for in weather like this, though Jacoba's reassurance that this was not, comparatively, that cold hardly gave him hope for a temperature improvement.

Jacoba was talking more, which was good. He had every intention of keeping that up.

"The Christkindlesmarkten--"

"The what?" Adon pulled disgruntled expression. "The vak-ah-moll?" he repeated the previous unknown word in his best  attempt at her German accent, bumping her with his shoulder. Alright, maybe he'd tease just a little. "I don't speak Muggle." Hey, if she wanted to use the age-old "I don't speak Latin" excuse, he'd use this one. They were now at the entry of his building. He opened the door with his shoulder, catching it with his food for Jacoba to enter after him and moved to the lift. It was a tender mercy that some Muggle technologies crossed over into the Magical world. Though he supposed some purists might try to make the case that lifts originated with them. Escalators, he could see. Moving staircases were nothing new. And lifts?

His thoughts were broken-off as the bell rang to announce their arrival on the fifteenth floor. Adon stepped out, again dragging his foot along the door to keep it from closing on her. Now there, Adon stomped his feet on the doormat, as he always did, clearing the snow from his shoes and digging in his pocket with his free hand for the key. Sighing as he realised it was in the left pocket, the side which was occupied with the growler, Adon handed over the drink before digging into his pocket. Stooping over, he reached down into the little bucket of salt he kept at the side of the door, sprinkling it. Had the entry been outside, he might have used the excuse of keeping the area from icing over. As it was, he was only glad the landlords did not complain. Coarse kosher salt was good for protection. The doormat, with its coriander, bay leaves, heather, and garlic -- really, a vile combination when put together -- helped to make sure no one who was not wanted would get in.

Jacoba was now accustomed to Adon's rituals -- which were more or less standard in the Jewish magical community, but which, he was sure, appeared eccentricities to those outside. Dree, though? That was eccentric.  Over-the-top, even. But Adon didn't blame him.

As he fumbled with the lock and entered, he grinned. Nothing like coming home after a long, dark day. "Assume the positions," he said, pointing towards the couch and their now habitual sides. As was customary, Adon moved over to the bar to grab a couple of glasses before joining her on the couch. "Muggle-style, tonight," he said, teasingly. Usually, Jacoba insisted upon Adon's filling up her glass just so she could see a bit more of magic but Adon wanted to keep her as distracted as possible. "Beer me."

"Whack-a-mole?  It's a game," she started to explain, taking full advantage of the distraction.  What a shame - to be raised in a culture that deprived one of the opportunity to bash random leather rodent-like thingies with large mallets.  "It's this table with these holes and when the fake mole pops up you try to bash it with a big leather mallet before it pops down again.  It's great for venting anger or if you're -" she hesitated, glancing at Adon with a slight smirk.  Playing whack-a-mole when stoned or high was fun - especially if one was on something with some hallucinogenic effects, defending oneself with the mallet against those moles took on a whole new meaning.  However, he was law enforcement.  "- drunk."

Was he being serious about the mulled beer or was that another joke?  To be completely honest, she couldn't tell and she'd given up trying to predict what was realistic or outlandish in the wizarding world.  Adon was probably aware of her tendency to believe almost anything about the wizarding world without question - on a few occasions, she'd suspected he'd made good use of that knowledge.  Whatever it was, whatever it was made from, it seemed to be growing on her for whatever reason. 

The comment about her superior alcohol knowledge was much easier to identify as a joke.  That was a subject matter for which they were pretty well evenly matched.  Just as readily obvious was his efforts to go easy on her.   Content to let the mystery of the butterbeer be and grateful for the adapted-level of distraction, a small, awkward grin twitched at the corner of her mouth as she glanced over at Adon.

Fueled by static from the cold air, wisps of hair relentlessly plastered themselves against her face even after being repeated drawn back with her hands.  "It's not too cold to snow," she replied with a shake of her head as she folded her arms across her chest, resigning to the fact curls of dark hair were just going to stick to her cheeks.  "It's ..."  She glanced up overhead, exhaling slowly and watching the ice cloud before falling in step next to him.  "Alright.  Maybe it is.  It's still not that bad.  Back home, it's probably well below freezing." 

"I - Christkindlesmarkten," she repeated stepping through the door, as if hearing it a second time would offer clarification.  While waiting for the elevator, she bounced on the balls of her feet, encouraging the blood to move through her toes faster.  "It's-" vak-ah-moll?  She scowled sharply up at Adon, punching him lightly in the shoulder as she stepped onto the lift.  "It's not my fault you all say your vay's funny.  I never learned how to say your vwahs," she said, making a humble attempt at pronouncing an English 'w'.  "Translates to child Christ market or something like that.  It's a holiday market, basically.  I try to go the one in Munich, if I can.  But, it is cold." 

The growler in hand, Jacoba stepped over the line of salt without even blinking, shrugging her coat free from her shoulders one arm at a time, transferring the drink from one hand to the next.  She tugged her feet free from her boots before crossing the room to set the butterbeer on the counter.  It was exceptionally good to be home, she realized as she tugged her feet free of the day's socks and slipped them into a pair of thick woolen ones.  Fully expecting the transfer of beverage from container to glass to take place in it's usual (was it normal now?) fashion, she padded over towards the phonograph, sliding a record* into place and setting the needle.

"What?  Oh."  Briefly confused by the change of routine, Jacoba looked back, watching Adon set the glasses by the growler.  Moving back towards the counter, she filled both glasses, handing one to Adon before settling in her usual daytime spot on the couch.  "What do you want to eat."  Assuming they were eating.  On rare occasions, the drinking started early and fast enough that it seemed to usurp any thoughts of a meal.  Judging by the choice of beverage, though, that was less likely to happen this evening.  As important as the topic of the letter was to return to, her mind was proving quite ready and willing to follow any available distraction. 

*record

"Leather rodent thingies. Right." Adon frowned as he thought just how odd rituals sounded, once you were outside of the culture. He could imagine how Quidditch or even exploding snap might sound; they'd -- Muggles'd -- probably get a kick out of hearing about it. "Mmm," Adon said, giving a knowing, closed-lipped smile. "Drunk." The game sounded like it was probably thought-up when someone was . . . drunk.  He grinned at her, stating, "If we were at the house where I grew up, you could get your kicks de-gnoming the garden. They all go into hibernation this time of year," he gave her a pointed look before adding, "because it's too cold, but there's something cleansing about chucking an ugly little guy across the yard." He also felt the need to add, "Doesn't hurt them." A person could get a reputation from hurting animals as a child.

Adon had, as a child, actually set up a relatively successful de-gnoming business in his neighbourhood. He'd been good at it. And he'd been even better at spending the sickles. Unlike vah-ka-mole, it was work, not a game. Adon'd like to think he came out of that formative experience unscathed, but things like that, he had to admit, were useful in developing a work ethic.

"Back home," Adon countered, "it's probably only 10 degrees." He needed to stop thinking like that, like London wasn't his home now. Like he was going back. "Hey," he added, "maybe sometime we could go by my childhood house. . ." The request, to him, didn't seem that odd. Adon wanted to go and see it, and Jacoba was the person he went and saw things with. "Are you considering going back to your Oma's for, ah, Christmas?" To be honest, Adon had not the slightest idea if she observed Christmas or Hanukkah or nothing at all. Initially, Adon'd considered that perhaps, with Sasha missing, she'd return home. He wasn't sure why -- if anything, Sasha's absence created not ameliorated tensions and relationships in the family -- but the thought of being away from everyone, of having no roots or ties at a time like this, at a time of year like this . . .

Keep things light, Eleor, Adon reminded himself as he returned to the present, in which Jacoba was explaining whateverthehell Christkindlesmarkten was. Germans needed to learn to split up their words. "Do they sell Christ-babies there?" he asked deviously.

He paused, frowning as he listened to the music. ". . .Opera?" before hearing the undertones of metal. Ah, that seemed more like it. "It's nice." He watched Jacoba pour the drinks, shaking his head. "I thought you were going to use a pencil."

The mention of food -- something he hadn't truly considered until just now -- made him frown. "I don't really feel like cooking. You okay with something from Gil's? We could order some Indian or something." He shrugged. His friend Gil gave him good prices on the food, but sometimes it wasn't worth running the risk of occasional sabotage and "special" ingredients. Though it would liven up the evening.

He held the glass in his hand, contemplating the amber colour a moment before taking a sip. If he hadn't wanted to get off-his-broom drunk lately, he'd have enjoyed this more often. It had quite a pleasing flavour. There was an awkward moment in which Adon wanted to mention the letter again, knew he shouldn't, and almost said something anyhow. Instead, he said, "I haven't heard this record before; is it new? I know you're plotting a Muggle coup of Reducto Records. . ." He looked at the Halestorm poster. "This place has already been infiltrated," he said, pointing a finger at Lzzy. "Lzzy. Quite the gateway drug. Next it'll be. . ." He looked at Jacoba. "Who is this?"

Two dimples creased into Jacoba's cheeks, the most noticeable features of the muted grin.  Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Whack-a-mole was wiggling its way somewhere on the mental list of Activities To Do When Bored.  Chances were, it wouldn't be until then that Adon would fully understand the physical and psychological benefits of whacking mindlessly at things you knew you'd probably never hit. 

"Gnomes?"  Again, Jacoba was completely at Adon's mercy if he was making this up.  "As in, those short little men with the pointy red hats?"  Did they get confused when they came across the muggle variety made out of ceramics?  It sounded like they shared the same habitat.  "And-" Jacoba rolled her eyes.  Was he really complaining about the weather, again?  Ignoring it, she continued on the topic of gnomes.  "What does tossing them across the yard do, exactly?  They've got legs, don't they?  Something's got to go in those pants."  Presumably, they could walk right back to where they were. 

Another weather comment.  The grin that settled on her features was less strained, more relaxed this time as she shook her head.  She got to her feet, only just registering his outing proposal as she half-padded, half-slid on the thick socks over to the closet returning with a blanket in hand.  "What was that?" she asked, trying to hide her grin behind a serious scowl.  A freezing Auror, of course, was hardly a laughing matter.  Despite her best efforts, though, the smirk continued to flicker at the corner of her mouth as she attempted to drape the blanket over Adon, intent upon tucking it in along his sides - another welcomed and well-exploited distraction.  "Really?" Jacoba glanced up as the request finally fully processed in her mind. 

He seemed serious, as far as she could tell.  And, it was far too randomly generated to be effective as sarcasm.  She was touched.  Unless, of course, she reading too much into the offer.  Adon was definitely prone to being rather private and, while her perspective was likely skewed, she'd always viewed childhood as one of those things people were more likely to be private about.  "Yeah.  I'd like that.  Do you know who lives there now?  Or is this a clandestine, snooping-in-the-windows kind of thing?" 

She shook her head, taking a sip of her drink.  "Nah," she offered simply at first.  "Haven't been since I was fourteen.  Not for the holidays, at least.  Usually stayed with a friend or wherever."  She could have stayed at school but, somehow, that option always seemed to magnify the disconnect.  "My parents started going there after my father's parents died.  I tried going the next year, hoping I'd get to see Anna and Sasha but it was a disaster."  She shook her head, taking another long sip.  It had been the first time she'd seen them in two years and she hadn't seen them since.  "I just usually go with whatever opportunity arises, if one does.  If not, I just kind of do my own thing.  I guess - you probably spend the holiday with family?" 

"In fact, they do.  Though not of they fleshy sort."  That, of course, would be a sight to see.  Though a booth full of cold babies probably wasn't as amusing as it sounded.  "You could get more little Christ-baby-filled miniature cribs than you could fit on your mantel.  And, the cow and donkey to go with it.  Though, my brother would always steal the donkey and bring it back to his room." 

She turned her head, gazing out the window.  They were at the dark of the year and the overcast skies only hastened the onset of night.  Of course, with the abundance of streetlights it never got completely dark but the sky had turned an inky charcoal beyond the lights.  "Yeah - that's fine," she said, resting her chin in her hand as she continued to peer out through the darkness.  He spoke again and Jacoba blinked, sipping at the butterbeer before turning back towards Adon.  Her mind, immediately, latched on to the diversion and she grinned.  "It was released a few years ago.  And, a humble little corner hardly constitutes a Muggle coup.  I mean, there isn't enough room to separate Aerosmith from Louis Armstrong.  Hardly a coup."  But, yes, the Muggle was making her mark.  Thanks to an awesome squib.  But, then her muggleborn boyfriend baby daddy did covers of Bruce Springsteen.

She followed his finger to the poster and chuckled before looking back.  "And, I had nothing to do with that.  The muggle invasion predates me.  Nightwish.  They're Finnish, obviously." she answered, nodding towards the record player.  "The lead singer left after this album, though.  Shame.  And, Rammstein's already made an appearance both in music and apparel.  We could always go explore the local scene."

"Gnomes," he repeated, emphatically. At her description, he frowned, however. "No. I mean the sort with heads like yams," he explained. "What other kind is there?" He was quiet a moment. He remembered seeing an advert on the cooking channel with his mother . . . "The ones you're talking about are made out of glass and travel places. Though they are also annoying as hell." He sighed, "And before you get all animal rights on me, they destroy plenty of plants and are all-around pests. You swing them around a bit, toss them out of the yard and then," he shrugged. "You know. They're disoriented and stupid enough that they usually don't come crawling back." He laughed, shaking his head as though this were one big joke. "And the others -- when they start hearing noise above ground . . . they actually leave their holes to see what's going on. . ."

Adon looked up, seeing Jacoba approach with an unfolded blanket. Lifting an eyebrow, Adon's first thought was that maybe she'd throw it on him. It didn't make much sense, but neither did what she attempted to do next -- tuck him in. Adon swatted her hands away in playful annoyance, tossing the blanket on the floor. "I'm fine now. Moloch, I'm inside," he said slightly peevishly as he fished out his wand and waved it at the fireplace. Crackling flames erupted and Adon gave a satisfied, smug smile. He leaned forward to gather up the blanket and drop it on the couch between them, trying to walk the line between permitting himself to be babied and allowing himself to be rude.

Her surprise at the house idea -- pleasant surprise, he noted with some relief -- made him give an open, light laugh. "Sure; why not. Not an idea who the people are, but no, I can't see why we couldn't drop by. . . we could swing around a couple of gnomes to ingratiate ourselves to them; they could hardly say no." Well, of course they could. Being in law enforcement, Adon also knew that they could get any number of charges on them. Including trespassing and unauthorised tampering of property. Maybe some gnome-baiting -- nah, what was he thinking. It wasn't like they had rights. Adon wasn't going to get caught in that trap; no. Not even with a cat. First you get a little beast, then you name it, then you start talking to it. Then it becomes your significant other . . . Then you become Dree and then you're completely screwed because that cat -- beast, whatever -- starts thinking its boss, and you let it. Pathetic.

"I see right through you, Schlagenweit. You are just hoping it will be clandestine so you can see me in action. Break down a couple of doors, slip in a couple of windows . . . right?" he asked, arching an eyebrow, grinning. He shook his head, trying to school his features and keep the smile from surfacing, but the muscles hurt from overuse. He returned to thinking about Penley Street, "Maybe sometime next week or something. There's a place nearby, if I recollect, that sells a good apple cider, too." Hot beverages were sounding more and more enticing. Then again, so was hot food. "One sec," he said, holding his hand up to pause the conversation on holidays. He moved to the fireplace, digging in a pot -- not the floo -- to Summon. He sprinkled four pinches of powder over the flames as they turned green, as with the floo. "Mehak Indian Cuisine?" he called, waiting several minutes until a turbaned man appeared in the fireplace. He glanced back at Jacoba, uncertain if she'd seen this bit of magic before. She'd used the floo; she oughtn't be too alarmed. "Know what you want?" he called before placing his own order.  The man frowned impatiently as Adon looked up at the ceiling, considering. "A . . . lamb masala, bottomless naan, mango chutney . . ." He looked back at Jacoba.

Once the order was placed, Adon sauntered back to the couch, dropping down onto it comfortably. "So the holidays. Yeh, I've usually come here for Hanukkah. Usually was a big ordeal, getting time off, traveling, mum crying and all that, but since I live here now," he shrugged. "A bit anti-climactic. You're more than welcome to come along, though. I mean, if you're wanting to celebrate Hanukkah. Might be better than wandering around freezing-cold baby-markets, though. . . What are they made out of?" He had to be sure. He was hoping something like wood and not . . . something edible. But you never knew. Germans.

He smiled fondly at her recollection of Sasha. Adon knew nothing about the kid, really, but people seemed to talk about him fondly. And Adon was picking up that he had a thing for horses. Probably named them and let them call all the shots, too. Probably why he got on with Dree so well. The fondness of the memory was curbed by the distant look in Jacoba's face as she glanced away. Adon wanted to give her another hug - it had seemed to work last time - but, as she was already seated and he already seated, he didn't quite know how to navigate that one without any awkwardness. He picked up the blanket from the couch and tossed it towards her, tugging up a corner for her. "You look cold," he stated, knowing, from her quick shift in conversation, that she was wanting to talk about anything but donkeys and the elephant.

He listened to her explanation of Muggle Music. "Where does the Beatles fall into that?" he mused. He'd heard a fair bit of Muggle music. "I don't know Louis Armstrong. Wait." He snapped his fingers, nodding. That was right. "Didn't he walk on the moon?" Talented man.

So they were Finnish. Obviously. Adon wasn't sure he could have picked that language out from, say, Swedish. Or, well, Norwegian. . . maybe even Russian. "It's a shame when a band switches things up. Seldom do they ever recover." The offer to explore caught him slightly off-guard, but he nodded. "Yeh. There's this group I like. Muse. You know them? They're playing at . . . oh, I don't remember. I heard something about it somewhere." He had no idea, really. "I'm sure we could go wherever they're playing anyhow. Or," he remembered her initial suggestion. "Local works, too. . ."

Adon looked at the fireplace expectantly.

For a few seconds, the frown on Jacoba's face matched Adon's as she looked at him.  Given the right yam, she supposed a gnome's head might resemble it but the same thing could be said about a cabbage.  "Travel places?" Her frown deepened a moment and she shook her head.  "They sit in people's yards and look welcoming.  Or something.  But, yeah - they're made out of glass or plastic usually now.  I promise you, though, my Oma's gnome hasn't left her back door in thirty years."  Poor faded Hans.  She couldn't remember who named the thing.  "In other words, you hope they go in someone else's yard?" How neighborly.  The fruitcakes of the wizarding world.  Her eyes closed, she tried to imagine the scene.  Adon, standing in a yard, holding poor Hans (who was, by necessity, filling in for the yam-headed originals) by the hands like some twirl-addicted toddler and, finally, tossing them off into the oblivion of the neighbor's hedges.  She laughed, opening her eyes to take a sip of butterbeer.  "Sounds like it could be fun."

Jacoba turned her head in Adon's direction, regarding him in much the same manner a school marm would watch a fussy student.  "Whatever," she said, dismissively as the fire sprang to life.  It was nice, though, and the warmth radiated through the room quickly enough.  Despite the added warmth, she shifted in the corner of the couch, drawing her feet up and sliding her sock-covered toes under a corner of the blanket. 

The sarcasm faded from her features and she nodded with a more sincere grin.  "We could bring them some cookies, too.  Try to seem less creepy.  Or," her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to picture strangers walking up to her family home with cookies and gnomes.  "It'll make us more creepy.  Probably more creepy." 

I see right through you, Schlagenweit. You are just hoping it will be clandestine so you can see me in action. Break down a couple of doors, slip in a couple of windows . . . right?

The comment...accusation...whatever...caught Jacoba just enough off guard for a pinch of color to rise, unwillingly, in her cheeks.  She took a quick, hearty gulp of her butterbeer to camouflage the reaction and buy her a moment to recover enough for a suitably tart comeback.  Hoping the offhanded humor was convincing enough to be taken at face value, she smirked down the couch at Adon.  "You've seen right through me, Auror Eleor.  You've uncovered my dastardly plan.  I'm sure I'm not the only one."  Woman, at least.  Though she wouldn't write off on the possibility the occasional wizard shared it.  "I like that idea," she offered, again with more sincerity.  Speaking of women, he'd never mentioned how that blind date had gone.

That line of thought was interrupted as Adon pushed himself off the couch and went over to the fireplace.  Yes, she'd seen the process of floo-takeout before but that hardly meant it was old hat.  Twisting on the couch, she peered over the back of it, watching as the disembodied (or so it appeared) head rose in the flames.  "Just add on some sheekh kebab," she said when cued. 

"Crying?"  The picture of the holiday that Adon was painting seemed pretty close to what Jacoba had always perceived as the idyllic. Hallmark - the Jewish version.  All except for that one phrase and, as it flittered by, it was impossible to tell if it referred to a good or bad crying.  "Is anti-climatic bad in this instance?"  If so, it sounded like it could be rectified.  Making things more complicated had never, really, been the challenge in life, after all.  The second pleasant surprise of the evening seemed to come in the form of a holiday invitation.  "I'd love that," she said, again, obviously touched by the offer.  "I mean - if no one else will mind.  I don't want to intrude."  Any more than she already had - which was a fair bit. "Well, luckily, the Markten run for almost a month.  I'll probably head down there to freeze my bottom off at some point.  Not sure I could go a year without gingerbread or those chocolate covered fruit kebabs.  Or the Alpenhorn players. I'd offer to drag you along but I know not everyone's tough enough for the cold.  I've seen them made out of most anything - ceramics, stone, when I was young, ivory."

Once again, as her eyes lingered on the window, her thoughts slowed to a stop.  She barely registered the blanket as it first settled against her, only turning back as she felt it getting tugged up.  She looked at Adon, briefly, a soft smile on her features.  She wanted to thank him - for this, for the gesture, for everything but, somehow, a simple 'thanks' seemed too trite.  She knew the topic needed to return to the letter and everything it entailed but her mind was remaining reluctant to make that transition.  Freeing her hand from under the blanket, she took his hand in hers and held it, briefly, giving it a gently squeeze before letting it go, again. 

"Well, it's all alphabetical.  So, Beatles might be stuck after the Beach Boys."  Tragedy.  "Louis Armstrong never ... "  Jacoba shifted, settling comfortably under the blanket as her mind leafed through what she knew of Armstrong's music.  She couldn't think of any songs about being on the moon.  Or moonwalking.  Or astronauts.  Oh.  "Lance Armstrong walked on the moon.  Louis Armstrong played the trumpet and has a voice that can make you melt."  Given the nature of the music that usually made it into the flat, Armstrong was nowhere in close reach.  There probably wasn't anyone at the shop to do the floo-order from.  She'd have to remember to bring some home tomorrow.  Yes - in the meantime, though, Jacoba closed her eyes, humming and murmuring a few lines of the record* she was already planning on borrowing from work tomorrow. 

"Yeah, I know Muse.  Been listening to them since I was a kid."  Of course, when one could just pop and end up anywhere, getting to shows wasn't really a concern.  "Either works."  Or, she supposed, both.  She followed his gaze towards the fireplace and, in the moment of distraction, offhandedly asked, after a sip of butterbeer, "speaking of which, you never mentioned how that date your mum sent you on was." 

Chances were, she wasn't supposed to ask.  But, she was curious and, if he answered, it would prove an effective distraction.  If she'd misgauged it, it'd prove effective conversational suicide and force the conversation in the direction it needed to go.  Self sabotage for her own, ultimate good.  It could only work in her favor. 

*Ella & Louis