This is the way the world ends.

He sat alone in the darkness, cross-legged, while flickering candles sent shadows dancing across the dry cellar.  Shape without form, shade without color, each fiery wick fought valiantly against the overwhelming odds of the encroaching night, but their heartened battle merely gave breath to the darkness.  Shades and shadows twisted over hallowed features, entwining him in their twilight kingdom as he sat, and watched, and waited. 

The battle had begun weeks ago, but he had not known it.  Years ago, possibly - he did not know how long Bünyamin had nursed his grudge.  Even here in the darkness, he could picture the lines of the younger man's face.  Bünyamin, who had stood against him once and then faltered and fled.  Dreogan, the man who stood against him now.  A name matched to letters sent and received, attached to a boy he once knew.

But even after knowing what he thought was the man's true name, Tiresias couldn't help thinking of the man as the child he had once been.  And so it was Bünyamin who lit a candle against him.  Bünyamin, who tried to See.  The Jewish mage had made his skills clear during their confrontation, and Terry, in turn, had taken what precautions he could.  There were no more eyes here, not in this broken jaw of a lost kingdom.  He had done what he would to cast them out, fortifying the Old Man's fortress so that no one could See inside. 

It was only now that he would invite the eyes in once more.

He had no doubt that Bünyamin had continued his scrying.  The mage was determined; desperate to find him again.  Whatever wrong the younger man thought that his old enemy had done, it was clear that he wouldn't forgive.  If this was all over the boy, Tiresias couldn't help but think disgustedly what a waste it would be.  The Jewish mage could keep the brat until the worlds crumbled, for all the good that it would do him and for all that anyone besides the Old Man cared.

But the scrying couldn't continue.  That was a danger that he was not willing to risk.  And so he had readied his precautions.  Black candles ringed around him, wax dripping in the darkness.  In front of him, he had set a bowl of water.  Terry stared at it intently, watchful and waiting, as if the two small droplets of oil that floated on its surface could reveal far more than anyone knew.

There was, of course, the chance that Bünyamin would not Look.  Even so, this was the first time that Terry had dropped his defenses in days.  He could wait out the night.  He could wait out dying stars.  His opponent was a man, and a man who felt frightened and cornered.  He would not wait as long as that.

Wax dripped.  He exhaled.  And slowly, ever so slowly, the two droplets of oil, barely visible in a darkness only offset by flickering candlelight, began to move.  He stared hard at them as they came together, merged and became one.

It was as if the breath had been sucked from the room.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled.  He gripped his wand; the candles went out, bits of flame dying against the wick.  The water in the bowl trembled and sloshed.  Closing one hand around the charm that hung about his neck, he whispered the spell and plunged into the eyes that he knew were on him in the darkness.

They were down to three. Three Katzans. Dreogan had not thought there would be so many of them, but the surname was close enough to Katsaros to warrant an individual check.  One by one, he had examined their lives and faces. Some of them had the same heavy lids, the same sneers, but none were Katsaros.

As usual, Dreogan waited until he was alone to scry. The ability made Akiva uncomfortable, he knew, ever since the overdose. But it had been helpful in finding Sasha; well, in finding Katsaros, too. Perhaps it would be so again. Dreogan examined the name towards the bottom of the list, his hand splayed across the parchment as he tried to keep it from curling. It was always the last person you checked. Tiresias Katzan. Beit Gaddol, Mevin, 1987.

Dreogan filled the silver basin with chilled water from their refrigerator, smiling as he did so. It felt so reassuringly mundane. Comical, even. Pouring divining instruments from plastic pitchers. He felt Tabitha circle around his legs, butting her head against his calf and mewling. He  looked down, flicking a bit of water from his fingertips at her nose, just to tease.

He was in a good mood today. Things were progressing with the Reid case; he'd be meeting with Adon and Jonas for what he hoped was the last time before the actual arrest. Then he'd head into work. Things were going well with Akiva, and Sasha was back off to school. He'd seen him off just the day before. The holidays -- some of the most trying of his life, which was considerable -- were at an end, and real life could resume.

He took a cleansing breath as he closed his eyes and laid his palms flat against the tabletop. Bowing his head over the bowl, he waited until the clear water began to shimmer with an internal light. The edges rippled and Dreogan, settling his mind, waited until it was smooth as glass. The image appeared -- light fringing darkness. A silhouette. A seance perhaps -- black candles to ward. . . Dreogan leaned in further, attempting to See more clearly.

The brightness and the clarity of the image, despite the dark, was the first indicator that things were not right. He did not have time for a second. He had never Seen anything so clearly. Perception penetrated beyond the fine lines upon Katsaros' face to the intentions of his heart. What Dreogan saw made him tremble. The room grew rapidly dark and he connected eyes with the vision. He Saw, yes, Katsaros. He heard Tabitha hiss and yowl angrily. And he felt the rushing of an ancient wind, sucking him into the bowl, then drawing him out. . . Dreogan dashed his hand against the water to dispel the Vision, hearing the silver basin clatter off the table's surface.

The feeling of oppressive, blue-black hate made it difficult to breathe. He'd never come that close to another person before. Never in scrying. He stumbled two steps back, very much shaken, feeling nauseous and queer. He couldn't have put words to it. He was about to call for Akiva--he wanted her there, now--when he felt his legs buckle involuntarily before righting themselves. He found he couldn't put words to it. He couldn't do anything. He felt his breathing grow erratic. Felt everything about himself--his heart, his throat--but did not prompt the hands, the knees, the tongue to do what they were doing. In the space of his body, he realised he was not alone. A panicked cry was all he was capable of before that, too, was silenced. Dreogan stumbled. He felt a sharp, thread-like pain as Tabitha's claws dug in to his shin. And he felt the sick contact as his leg lashed out against the soft body, kicking her across the room.

"Please!" Dreogan tried to say, pushing against the presence, feeling the space he occupied growing smaller and smaller. He felt his soul flutter like a butterfly against a glass cage. Beating and beating its wings. Circling and tiring fast. This was wrong. This was so wrong. All wrong. He couldn't--this couldn't-- He shouldn't have. Oh, God why had he--"Stop! Please, stop!"

But it didn't stop.  His back straightened, his knees locked, and he opened his eyes and blinked slowly at the room, a cool sense of satisfaction spreading through him that made Dreogan panic.  It was like seeing through a thick pane of glass, indistinct and blurry.  His eyes took a moment to focus.  The details of the room, at once familiar and brand new, carefully solidified into shapes and solid lines. 

A unfamiliar smirk tugged at his lips.  His eyes blinked again, and then slowly shifted over the room, as if searching for something that he had forgotten.  The silver bowl, still wet, lay where it had fallen, the floor damp around it from where he had knocked it off the table.

His smirk grew, and a sense of smug satisfaction spread through him.  He stepped forward, unsteadily at first, keeping one hand on the table as he bent to pick it up.  His reflection looked the same as ever, stretched and distorted against the concave silver.  His mirrored features seemed to be an object of great interest.  He examined them for a long moment, openly and greedily.  If it wasn't for the dead look in his eyes, it could have been any other day.

His hands moved to tuck the bowl under one arm.  As if betraying him, his left hand began to check his pockets, searching for something that wasn't there.  A wave of sudden irritation washed over him.  His mouth twisted into a frown, and his eyes began to move across the room once more. 

Playing the Judas again, his left hand reached out for it, fingers closing around the normally-familiar wood that now seemed so unfriendly in his grip.  His legs moved--there was a momentary scuffle as feet turned in every direction--but finally the legs guided, turning his body toward the fireplace as he raised his wand and pointed it directly at the stone hearth.

"Incendio!"

The voice, though his, sounded hard and sharp.  It took him several tries to get the fire to start, but once the flames had begun to crackle, he smirked and stepped forward, setting the silver bowl easily within them.  He felt coolly satisfied as he lowered himself on the floor to watch it, sitting cross-legged as the heat began to distort the color of the bowl.

He was jolted from his thoughts several minutes later as his blazer pocket suddenly began to vibrate as if he were under attack.  He batted at it, and then stopped, gaze locked suspiciously on the offending bit of fabric as the vibration ceased and then began anew.  Slowly, cautiously, his left hand ventured inside.  Fingers closed around cool plastic, and his hand pulled out a small cellular phone, still shaking with all undue fury.

He examined it for a moment, turning it over in his hands, and then carefully tugged one side from the other.  It snapped into an open position.  He unconsciously jerked back, and then cautiously lifted it up again, looking it over for a moment before raising it to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Hey, mate."  The voice coming through the device was small, tinny, but he could feel a slow sense of recognition spread through him.  He knew that voice.  All of him knew it.  "Sorry to bother you, but it's two minutes past now.  Not far away, are you?"

He stayed silent.  His throat constricted as he swallowed.  "No," he replied.  "I'm...still at my house.  Something came up."

"Oh."  There was a pause on the other end of the phone.  "Well, d'you want me to give you the address again, then?  Reckon we can wait a bit longer.  I can show your brother the Pocket -"  There was a muffled oof on the other end of the phone, as if the speaker had just been hit.  "I mean, the incredibly advanced Muggle theological simulation feature," the voice concluded smoothly.

Jonas -- he could had no idea that this. . . Oh, God. He tried to bury, in his mind, all the knowledge of Jonas, of his brother -- particularly his brother from the usurper. The dream. The way his brother looked. His vocation. Their progress on the Reid case. And Sasha! He imagined a place, deep inside his mind, dark and deep, where he put all the information. He hoped that in thinking of it, he did not bring it more to the surface. Oh, God. This man was -- they were going to see Adon. He was taking him right to him.

The smirk that tugged at his lips was quickly becoming more familiar, though no less sinister.  "Yes," he spoke at the phone, staring down at it.  "Give me the address again."

It was obviously a Muggle location.  He repeated it several times over, fixing it into his mind, and then looked down at the phone.  "Thanks," his voice said shortly.  "I'll be there soon."

The phone was snapped shut and returned to his pocket.  His wand joined it there a moment later.  In the fireplace, the silver bowl was just beginning to wilt.  He favored it with a smile as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

"A brother," he said, and Dreogan shriveled within himself.  "How quaint."

Leaving the fire burning, he left the room.

"The incredibly advanced Muggle theological simulation feature?" Adon repeated with a scoff the moment Jonas had hung up. He shook his head in disgust and looked down at the menu, regardless of the fact that he had looked at it so many times over the past month that he was sick of it. He was not like Dreogan. He could not get the same thing every time. Unfortunately, however, here everything tasted the same, regardless. "Next time, do us a favour. Leave the lying to me. You're shite at it. You could have just said pocket book." He smirked a little as he read the menu, watching Jonas tinker with his new mobile out of the corner of his eye.

"Remind me why you are not an Auror, exactly?" Adon asked, smirking sidelong at his companion. He smirked. "Oh. No. I think I answered that one for you this time."

Finally, putting the menu down, he looked at the paper tablecloth on their table -- that hadn't been drawn on by the waiters. "And you don't need to fill me in on that entire conversation; the volume on that thing is so high I heard it all." He opened up his coat to reach into the inside pocket and retrieved a pen. Clicking the end--smirking at Jonas, because this was a particularly Muggle sort of thing and he was learning--he shifted himself on the uncomfortable bench. He hunched over slightly in order to doodle, glancing up occasionally as he spoke.

"Dree's late because he's scrying. He told me he would be this morning. It's the only time he ever lets time slip away." He put the pen down with a sigh, having made only a passing attempt at drawing Jonas. Stopping at his nose. Which was a dot in the middle of a circle.

Because he knew the question would be coming, Adon decided to be forthright with his answers. "It's not for the case, entirely. More related to Sasha Schlagenweit's abduction. He's been looking into the abductor; you know, the one he dueled," Adon said off-handedly. Almost everyone knew of the duel now. It was sensational enough to be romanticised, and out of character enough to be remarkable. And it had to do with a Schlagenweit. Good God, the press was in thrall with that family. They were probably at 9 3/4 yesterday, salivating over the boy. Dree'd be in the tabloids now. Adon himself, too, for all he knew, what with being The Muggle's boyfriend. Is that what he was?

He resumed his portrait, squinting at Jonas and making a performance of concentrating. "Quit moving," he quipped before turning down and drawing the long, vertical line that was to serve as the long, gangly torso of the stick figure. "So. He'll be along. I hope he's got good news to report. Did he sound happy on the phone to you? Irritated?"

Because, for all Adon had complained about the volume of Jonas' iphone, he'd not actually heard Dreogan on the other side of the phone; he'd simply deduced the likely comments from Jonas's responses.

"Do I look like I carry around a pocket book, mate?" Jonas asked patiently, not looking up from where he was prodding with his new phone.  "It's an honest answer, innit?  And I'm not an Auror because I'm too polite to slug someone in the middle of a mobile conversation; obviously you blokes have started hiring for brutality."

In retrospect, if he'd known that their lunch companion was going to be two minutes late, Jonas would have considered breaking the trend and going to somewhere with more comfortable seating.  With the elder Eleor's propensity for arriving everywhere early, a two-minute delay was really more like seventeen minutes, which was quite the length of unnecessary time to spend on the uncomfortable wooden benches when his knee was already hurting.

He frowned at Adon's comment about the volume.  The new phone had been a Christmas gift from the kids - from Anna, really, which meant it was less of a 'gift' and more of a message not to go disappearing for two months again.  But as useful as it had already proven to be, he was still getting used to it.  His forehead creasing, he studied the menu for a moment and then tapped the symbol that he thought ought to bring up the volume.  It was one thing for Eleor-Two to overhear part of his conversation with his brother; it would be quite another if his ex-wife called at an inconvenient time.

Jonas was only half listening as Adon talked - the volume controls proved to be easier to adjust than he'd thought, so he'd brought up the map so that he could see how long it would theoretically take Dreogan to get here if he decided to walk instead of apparate - but the mention of a duel caught his ear.  Frowning, he glanced up at the other man, watching him carefully as Adon explained.

He paused, considering the final question.  "He sounded...curt, actually," he said thoughtfully, looking back down at the map.  Seventeen minutes by car, over an hour by walking, and nearly that long by light rail, which involved traveling to the nearest Dockland station and then back again.  "Distracted.  But you heard that, of course," he concluded smoothly, turning off the phone.  "Glad to hear you appreciate me observation skills enough to ask, mate.  Remind me why I'm not an Auror again?" he asked cheerfully, looking up long enough to flash Adon a crooked grin.

Glancing at the door, he slipped the phone carefully into his pocket.  Seventeen minutes by car should be half a second by apparition, give or take a minute to walk over from the nearest secluded alley.  "Think I missed hearing about a duel, though," he remarked, settling down so that he could keep a careful eye on the door.  "Dreogan came off alright?  What happened to the bloke he was fighting?"

Brutality. Adon gave a wolfish smile at this, doing his best to appear menacing. He had a feeling, after years of commanding new recruits, that it was effective at least upon that crowd. "I do appreciate your observations. That's why people have partners," Adon retorted. "They can collaborate with each other's impressions."Adon and his partners -- Adnan, then Spence -- had never picked up on the same things. But together, they'd been good at piecing perceptions together.

"Because you're full of it, brother," Adon responded casually with a certain fondness in the epithet. "And," he added, picking up the pen again and clicking it, "your nose is too long." He drew a curved, slanting L to add to the dot. And a scratching scribble atop his head for hair. An arrow and the word "RED."

He shrugged casually. "You missed it?" Adon asked, a skeptical smile. "And here I thought you were a private investigator. . ." He shook his head. "No matter. Little use investigating us." Jonas probably wouldn't like what he dug up about him. Then again, he ought to have at least done that much for the people he was working for. Adon hardly wanted to see Jonas wash up face-down in the Thames someday. Jonas Trevelyan was on the short list of "people who I can tease their fashion sense," a select crowd of companionable individuals ranging to about . . . four. It had been five before Pratt had made that awful misstep and retaliated by mocking Adon's "hideous mask" of a face.

"Sure, Dree came off just fine. You've met with him what, three or four times since? That was . . ." He tried to remember the day. He'd had to break away from his work on researching Kabir's supervisor that day. It was the day he met with both Raynor and Adnan -- "the 17th." He was silent a moment before adding, "I know he doesn't look it, but Dreogan's really -- he's a talented mage; doesn't fight like an Auror," he gave a bit of a smile up to Jonas at this, "but he's got to have the most advanced defensive abilities I've seen in a mage--of any calibre. He ever tell you about the time he was security supervisor at Kibbutz Erez?"

He was realising just how soft, how diplomatic Dreogan might appear to London's wizarding society.  And he was. He was, to be sure. But the duel had not surprised Adon in the least. He knew Dree. And he knew his little crusader tendencies. Like a protective momma-bear, Dree was.

Particularly with Sasha, nowadays. Dreogan had not been willing to talk about the circumstances leading to the fight, but Adon had surmised. There must have been some taunt about Sasha. Dreogan was emotional like that. Guess he was an Eleor after all.

"The bloke he was fighting," Adon repeated, now drawing an arm with a black square attacked to a skeletal stick-figured hand; another arrow and "I <3 ipod!" written. Adon clicked the pen shut and put it down. He'd best not be distracted with this. "--was a man on the Ministry's wanted list. So this is hardly idle investigating. He kidnapped my brother's ward, Sasha Schlagenweit, late November. My brother had been scrying for Sasha for a while and saw Katsaros was the one who'd taken him." He shook his head. "My brother'd already been Seeing the man, Katsaros, in dreams in differing contexts, and so, it was a bit surprising when he popped up in Hogsmeade. Man seems ubiquitous." He sighed. "Not surprising, Katsaros isn't his real name. We know he went to school with us; he's training in our style of magecraft. So we think we've got it down to a few likely candidates. Dree was Looking into them today."

He fretted, nudging the fork along the paper tablecloth as he considered, the metal of the fork making a tinny, ting-ing noise as he flicked it with his nail. "If he sounded curt. . . couldn't be good news." He wondered what that might mean for him. With a bit of a desperation, Adon also glanced towards the door. He wanted to know. Now. He hated waiting. Particularly when he felt it was his life on the line, here.

"Oh, Katsaros scarp--" he shook his head. He shouldn't be that British yet, to use a word like "scarpered." "He took off after the duel." Adon considered mentioning that Katsaros was in the employ of Kronos -- to show that Dree could hold his own even against a man like that -- but really, sharing that sort of information wasn't strictly necessary. Even if it would soon be out in the papers. "We haven't seen him since. Well, I assume. Depends on what Dree's got to say about it when he gets here." He glanced at Jonas' iphone. "So, how long do you think it'll be?"

Jonas eyed his hand-drawn portrait from across the table, but didn't comment on it.  It was helpful to know that his hair (and the size of his nose, apparently) was really his only memorable characteristic.  If he ever needed to go incognito anywhere, he'd just ask Lexus to turn it yellow.  It was good that she'd been getting plenty of practice at that.

As Adon left his own addition on the paper table covering, Jonas carefully tore a rough square of paper free.  He began straightening the edges, folding a sharp crease along each side and then ripping the excess off as he listened to the younger man's words.  The fact that he was still lacking an assigned partner obviously bothered the Israeli Auror.  Ever since the unscheduled visit with Santa, Jonas had been working closely with him, and it had been all too easy to slip into an unofficial role.  He liked Eleor a good deal; the man reminded him somewhat of a much drier version of Tait Aldridge, and if the last eleven years had gone differently, Jonas could imagine working with him quite well.

It seemed like all of Level Two was trying to remind him of his ties recently.  Archer, his original partner, had stopped by to caution him and to tip him off about the brewing trouble.  Tamis had taken it upon herself to personally armageddon-proof his office - and Jonas knew quite well how much effort had to have gone into that project, even if he was still certain she'd done it just to capture an image of his face when the alarm went off.  For Tamis Raynor to have gone out of her way to contract with a Muggle security company, she obviously cared a great deal.

The bonds were all there.  He still cared about the people he'd worked with a lifetime ago.  And some more besides, although he was being extremely careful not to acknowledge the partner mess to Eleor's face.  But the world was very different now.  Unless Level Two was willing to pay out all of his paycheck - and whatever the running joke about why he wasn't an Auror, Jonas was not willing to rejoin the Ministry anytime soon - then he couldn't put their interests consistently first.  There were plenty of jobs that he had his hand in that Raynor would have been furious with him for: the favor to Tawse to track down his son, the whole mess with Malvivicus, probably even the, ah, incident at the museum the other day, which Jonas was planning to try very hard to gloss over with the Eleors.  Partners didn't withhold crucial bits of information from each other.

He glanced up slightly from his paper project as Adon mentioned that his brother had a knack for defensive magics.  That was something that he had certainly been thinking about; now that his office boasted more defenses than Westminster, Anna's home was the place most likely to run the risk of danger.

"No, he hadn't mentioned it," he replied, frowning as he carefully lined up each corner, and then creased the middle so that they lay on top of each other.  With any luck, he'd have the paper bird finished by the time Eleor-One finally arrived.  Maybe he could trade it to Dreogan in return for some non-obvious protections for his family's house.

Jonas only half-listened as Eleor started to give him a brief run-down of what had led up to his older brother's duel.  He knew vaguely of the circumstances surrounding the kidnapping; the situation had been resolved a few days after he'd started meeting with Adon.  Still, he mentally filed the information away, more intent on perfectly folding the appendages of his crane, until a single name caught his ear.

Katsaros.

His hand slipped, and he nearly stabbed his finger with the sharp corner of the wing.

Carefully, Jonas kept his attention on the paper bird, not looking up and keeping his movements sure and under control.  That was interesting.  If Katsaros was involved in the kidnapping, then Malvivicus likely was as well.  Judging by his own dealings with the eccentric old wizard, he knew that he wasn't the type to let a bloke have two employers if he could help it.  So Katsaros had kidnapped a boy, and Katsaros had dueled Dreogan, and Malvivicus had Jonas surveilling a woman in Knockturn.  It was probably not much of a jump to conclude that this wasn't going to end well.

He folded the crane's head over on itself, tested it to make sure its wings flapped, and then tossed it across the table at Eleor.  Jonas knew with a precise clarity that this was exactly the sort of information that partners would share with each other without even thinking about it.  But they weren't partners.  Eleor knew he was in the business of keeping secrets.  He had no reason to feel guilty over this.

"Can't say.  There's no apparition option on the mapping tool." He flashed the other man a crooked smile, just as a movement along the window caught his eye.  "But I'd venture that if you give him another ten -"  He was hurrying.  "Seven," Jonas rectified with a confident grin, "seconds, that he'll be right here."

The outside door opened, and then the inner, and Dreogan stepped inside.  Jonas was sitting so that he was facing the door, and he couldn't help noticing that the other man looked awful - gray, nauseous, as if he had just been ill.  The mage waved off the hostess and scanned the room, his eyes fixing on Jonas's red hair, and then started stiffly towards them, muttering an apology as he nearly knocked into a man on the way.

"Head's up," Jonas murmured to Adon, straightening on the bloody awful bench to give Dreogan a warm smile as he approached.

"Don't bother rushing, mate.  We like to wait," he greeted him cheerfully, flashing him a crooked smile.  As much as he liked Eleor-Two, he appreciated Eleor-One as well.  The older of the two brothers was warmer, friendlier, but he had just as keen of a sense of justice.  "Alright then?"

It took Dreogan a moment to smile;  at first, he just stared at Jonas, and then his mouth twitched into an uncertain gesture.  "Sorry," he said shortly.  His eyes were locked on the bench, as if trying to decipher where he wanted to sit on it.  He jerked one leg over, using his hand to guide it into place, and then followed with the other, grimacing as he lowered himself slowly onto the seat as if bending at all were a hard-fought battle.

"Something came up," he said, his gaze shifting to Adon.  "What did I miss?"

Considering the news being shared, Trevelyan didn't have much to say on it. In fact, he had nothing to say on it. Adon lowered his brows. That was far from satisfying. He gave a soft, low chuckle at the offering of the crane, but would have much rathered something else. Like his thoughts. Adon was almost tempted to fish into his pocket for a knut or two as payment for them.

Adon hoped that the silence might make Jonas crack. The man hated quiet. Adon felt like a reasonable amount of silence had stretched before Jonas, like a man clinging at a lifesaver, looked towards the door and used Dreogan's appearance as an excuse.

But Dreogan's appearance was even distracting to him. His face was ashen, which made Adon's stomach turn. Whatever Dreogan had Seen had not been good, and Adon had little doubt it had to do with the Death Dream. He was as grim as death as he entered, seeming detached and distracted as he settled down stiffly on the bench beside him.

Trying to communicate an unspoken question to Dreogan -- something he had grown accustomed to through years of close companionship -- was, today, like trying to communicate silently to a pigeon. The dark eyes were hard and glassy. Unintelligent and confused; angry one moment, panicked another.

But his brother managed to ask a question. It was clear and lucid enough. Adon nodded slightly, trying to ignore the gaze.

"I was explaining to Trevelyan about why you were scrying this morning." He hoped Dreogan wouldn't be cross at him for that; he was still staring at him with a pointedness that was unnerving. "And a bit about the duel." He was quiet a moment, hoping Dreogan might offer some glib comment or other to clear the air of the tension his arrival had brought. When there was only silence, when the tension had reached an unbearable height, he said, "I suppose, though, we should get back to the Reid situation."

He halted in his comments as he felt Dreogan lurch on the bench. Adon reached out a steady hand and noted the beads of perspiration gathering on his brother's forehead.

"Dree," Adon began hesitantly, "let's just--" he shot his glance over to Jonas, "--reschedule this. I'm sure tomorrow works just as well. Tomorrow?" he turned the question towards Trevelyan.

There were probably fifteen things that he'd been planning to do tomorrow.  Spend some time running down Wiedman; get the rest of his most recent records processed and digitized so that he could get rid of the paper copies; see what other neat trinkets he could discover for his new phone that would top the best find he'd made so far, which was a digital lighter that he unfortunately hadn't come up with enough excuses to use in public just yet. 

But one look at Adon's expression, and Jonas gave a shrug of agreement.  "Yeah, I didn't have any plans," he agreed good-naturedly.  "Works better for me, actually.  I promised Anna that I'd pick up the kids." 

Dreogan's eyes had snapped over to him.  The mage was usually warm, open, and friendly, but he had a cold, hard look on his face as he stared at Jonas, pressing his hands flat against the table.

"No," he said curtly, and then seemed to stop.  "I mean, we shouldn't let this stop us.  The Reid situation can't wait.  What did he tell you about the duel?" he asked flatly.

Being stared at like that was unsettling.  Jonas blinked, deliberately keeping himself from glancing at Adon.  Was this the effect that scrying normally had on his usually-likable brother?  The private investigator couldn't help feeling grateful that that was one magical talent that he'd never had a knack for.

"Oh, you know," he said cheerfully.  He looked down at the menu, running a finger down it, which was a good excuse for avoiding eye contact.  "Just that it was you and some bloke whose name I couldn't pronounce.  Didn't sound like there was much to say otherwise.  Well, if we are talking today, maybe we should order?" he offered in an amiable tone, glancing back over his shoulder for a server.  "You lot know what you want, yeah?  Don't rush yourself deciding, Houdini."

Adon's relief was apparent as Jonas made the necessary concession; he'd need to thank him later for that. But he was worried about Dree. He looked sick. Might even need to go see a Healer. "Alright; so tomorrow--"

"No."

Adon tensed visibly, back rigid, without looking at his brother. That did not sound like the voice of a sick man. He sounded angry. Pushy. Adon's jaw tensed as he listened to Dreogan's tone, not appreciating it one bit. This was his investigation, and if Dreogan was going to push on about it, he was not going to then distract by talking about the duel. Something was wrong and Adon needed to hear it. But he didn't want Jonas there.

"Dree," Adon said in a tone of chilling calm, his fingers running along the papered edge of the table, "can I talk to you for a minute?" It wasn't a request -- a fact which was made apparent the moment Adon stood up and used his superior height and strength to jerk Dreogan away from the table by the back of his blazer. Dreogan was still dragging his feet, and Adon tried to be careful, keeping in mind that Dree did, after all, seem sick.

They stood by the door which was, as usual, the most vacant spot of the restaurant. "What," he said, folding his arms across his chest, waiting.

Dreogan stared at him, his face expressionless, his gaze shifting first to Adon's own eyes and then down to the Auror's folded arms.  "Is that a question?" he asked flatly.

The response was off-putting. But it was also infuriating. Adon broke his stance, as though to grab Dreogan before halting, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and letting his arms fall to his side and settle in his pockets. "Yes, evol!" he hissed. "What is wrong today? What did you See?"   

For a moment, something flickered through his brother's eyes.  His right hand twitched, fingers extending, until he forced them closed into a fist.  "Nothing," he replied, meeting Adon's eyes with an even gaze.  "Nothing at all, brother.  What do you think I saw?"

Adon sneered. He expected this from Pratt, maybe. Deen, perhaps. Even Jonas, but not Dree. This callous sass. "Damn it, Dree, don't be like this! If you saw nothing then you saw nothing, but you wouldn't be acting like a total . . ." Adon decided it was time for another breath before he punched his brother. "Dree, did you see him?"

Dreogan hesitated.  "Yes," he said at last, dropping his voice.  "I saw him."

Adon leaned in further, glancing around a bit before also dropping his voice. "And? Could you figure out anything more? About the dream? How it--" he shook his head. "Why it might happen?"

His brother's eyes flickered to him, taking him in almost greedily, and then he shook his head, keeping his gaze still on Adon from behind lowered lashes.  "Not any more than I've Seen already," he said gruffly.  "It was the same as last time."  He paused, and then regarded Adon with a somber expression.  "Do you think it could happen?"

Adon grit his teeth and looked away from the unsettling glare. He'd hoped that that news would feel reassuring. As it was, his temper was ready and his patience tried. "Lovely," he said, shaking his head. The immediate concern set aside -- that there was more information regarding Katsaros to consider -- he glanced back at Trevelyan. "You're impossible to talk to today. We'll discuss this later. Let's get back to Jonas."

For a moment, a smirk seemed to flicker over his brother's face, but he shook his head, his expression clearing again.  "Of course," he replied, and then hesitated.  "But...are you sure you trust him?  I thought I --"  He broke off, and then dropped his gaze again.  "Never mind," he said, starting back to the table.

"You should know," Adon responded tightly, "I'm finding it hard to trust anyone these days." He shrugged. "Who knows. It might be the only thing keeping me alive these days." Adon led the way quickly back to the table, glancing back over his shoulder once or twice to Dreogan, noting that despite his bravado, he was still struggling with tasks as simple as walking. It looked stiff and jerky. Almost robotic.  He exchanged a concerned glance with Trevelyan as he settled onto the bench. "Sorry," he muttered, leaning in quickly to mutter, "--still think tomorrow's better." He needed time to think about this. To reevaluate what Dreogan had just said. And to give Dree time to . . . get whatever this was out of his system. As Dreogan drew within earshot, he tried his best to smile. "Jonas' got to go pick up the kids, isn't that right? Half day?"

Jonas watched the brothers leave the table, his forehead creasing as Adon dragged his older sibling over to the door.  There was obviously something not right here.  Dreogan had been uncharacteristically late.  He wasn't acting like himself.  He'd apparently forgotten about their meeting until Jonas had called.  In the back of the private investigator's mind, an old thought process was kicking in.  Pamphlets from the Ministry.  Warnings to be alert.  Code words.  Little known questions.  As Aurors, they'd had to be even more alert to the possibility of polyjuice than the average wizard, but even this seemed extreme.  Dreogan was acting nothing like himself, not even trying to act like himself, and it wasn't difficult to tell that Adon was worried.

Jonas considered his options as he let his gaze flicker briefly to Dreogan's back.  Obviously, something was wrong.  The mage had looked pale, clammy, more clumsy than usual.  Imperioused?  That seemed more likely than polyjuice.  Which meant that someone had sent him in here with the intent of gathering information from them.  It wasn't a far jump to guess who the culprit could be - the Runespoor smugglers had made even more drastic moves in the past.

And that thought made a chill run through him.  They could be ambushed walking out of here.  Their opponents could have already ambushed Dreogan and his fiancee.  Jonas's family.  Adon's...well, the younger Auror hated owls, but at least he probably had a cat.  Adon's cat, then.  Jonas's fingers itched with a sudden desire to call Anna, to make sure she was all right.

But he couldn't think about that right now.  The red-haired man took a slow, deep breath as he watched the two men by the door.  Premise: Eleor-One was Imperioused or otherwise enchanted.  Given: Jonas couldn't use magic to stop him.  But he had other tools.  His cellular phone.  His wand - well, a stick of wood that might be taken for a working wand.  A whole restaurant full of Muggles.  There had to be a way to isolate Dreogan and get him somewhere out of sight where his younger brother could stun him.

The Eleors were both returning to the table now.  Jonas pulled out his phone, opened up a new text message, and began typing as quickly as the bloody impossible device would let him.

"Jonas' got to go pick up the kids, isn't that right? Half day?"

"Yeah, sorry, you lot," Jonas replied, glancing up to flash them both a lopsided smile as he hit send.  They'd know about his kids.  He couldn't think about that.  "I should probably just get the food to go.  I've got a couple of files in the car that I want to pass on to you though, mate," he told Dreogan cheerfully.  "You mind running outside with me once we order?  Reckon Houdini can hold the table for a minute."

Adon pressed his lips together tightly at Jonas' quick compliance. It had been what he had wanted. . . except that messaging. And except that excuse to see Dreogan. Alone. Damned if he was going to let anyone else near his brother when he was in this. . . this state.

Dreogan stumbled over the bench, looking at neither of them as he sat down. He was still a moment before, in a burst of energy, he surged forward, fingers knocking the salt shaker over on the table. Adon heard the grains of salt scatter upon the paper; Dreogan continued to desperately reach for the cylindrical shaker, which was rolling towards Jonas. Adon glanced quickly at the investigator before locking eyes onto his brother and reaching his hand into his coat pocket for his wand; it was a honed response, even if Adon did not know how he was going to use it.

"D-donnie!" Dreogan rasped desperately, throwing his hand carelessly out in his direction. Adon blanched, feeling a knife's blade of fear stab through him, chill as ice and black as pitch. Adon rose quickly to his feet and the bench pitched over, clattering onto the concrete floor. Dreogan was down with it; he seemed to crumple from the inside, writhing and curling as his body spasmed and trembled.

His eyes were rolling, the whites showing obscenely; his legs kicked out weakly and at random, fighting against the floor, the table legs, Adon's shins -- anything within range. Adon wanted to stop it, he wanted to stun and to stop it, but in this place full of Muggles, and with someone else possessing his brother -- there was no doubt in his mind that the voice who had called to him was not, could not be the same that had just insolently called him "brother" only moments before -- what was he to do?

Adon knelt down at his side, trying to keep Dreogan from doing himself any serious harm, but there were so many arms and legs; he noticed that somehow, Dreogan must have knocked his head upon something; a welt was forming on his forehead. Adon could only hear the inarticulate half-words his brother was blurting out. The sight was a nightmare. His brother, flailing and struggling--God, he could not be out of control! This was Dreogan!

People were watching. He'd learned from Heathrow that soon, some hero Doctor would step in and make help impossible. He looked to the salt. He knew something about . . .  salt, yes. And saliva. Yes, that was good. A fasting man's saliva. He'd not yet eaten. Good! But, Adon didn't know the words or the markings he was to make.

"Jonas," Adon said, not sure if his voice was a shout or a whisper. "I don't want to stun him!" He wasn't sure what that might do, with two beings inside him. Stunning would not stop the struggle. It would merely confine it an internal battlefield. Would that give Dreogan the disadvantage? The advantage? Who was winning? Damn it! He was an Auror! He should not be powerless!

Old habits died hard.  The private investigator was on his feet nearly as soon as Dreogan had lunged across the table.  Pain jolted through his bad leg, and he gritted his teeth, grabbing the edge to steady himself as his knee gave. 

Dreogan had collapsed to the floor.  The people in the restaurant were already responding; they were standing, voices were raising, and one of the servers, after standing stunned for a moment, turned to race back to the desk where the phone had to be.

Muggle paramedics.  That wouldn't help.

"Wait!" Jonas barked, holding a hand out to her.  She froze and looked back at him, uncertain, and he gave her a quick shake of the head.  "It's under control," he said firmly, putting all the certainty of a law enforcement officer into the statement.

They had a few seconds.  The first handful of moments were the worst in any emergency; that was when the layman stared, didn't respond, until their thoughts caught up with the circumstances and someone realized that they had to act.  Sometimes, even that didn't happen; ringing emergency services was drilled into children from such a young age that it became a tremendous mental block.  Everyone expected someone else to make the call.

He limped around the table as quickly as he could.  Adon shouted at him; Jonas shot him a sharp look, remembered to breath, and then shook his head.  "He'll be all right," he said, lowering himself gingerly to the floor next to the fallen man.  Dreogan had stopped moving, was lying still, breathing in sharp, rasping breaths, his eyelids fluttering.  Keeping an eye on the rise and fall of his chest, Jonas quickly checked his pockets.  Except for the mage's wand and his phone, they were empty.  He took both.

"Let's get 'im outside," he said to Adon quietly, reaching up to pass the Auror his brother's wand.  "Me car's around the corner.  Be a lot less suspicious if he moves under his own power, yeah?"

"You don't know that!" Adon snapped back, angrily before gritting his teeth. That had been the wrong thing to say, hadn't it. Yes. That wouldn't help them any with this crowd, even if it was entirely true. Adon accepted the offered wand from across Dreogan's body. Dreogan's wand. It felt odd in his hand, so he tucked it away, nodding.

"Get the car and bring it around front. I will stay here with him until then," Adon said, as much a command as a visualisation of his moves for his own benefit. He would enter through Trevelyan's back door. He looked down at Dreogan in breathless anticipation.

Someone in there had won the fight. Adon had no notion, yet, of who it might be but he knew who he wanted it to be.  He knew what Jonas thought; the seizure had stopped, so Dreogan was alright. But the seizure had not stopped. They were both still in there! Did no one else realise how terrifying. . . how absolutely terrifying that prospect was? How could Jonas just--

But no. To act like Jonas--even if it was to delude himself into thinking it was alright--would be getting him out of here. "Okay," he repeated, nodding. "Go!" he added unnecessarily. Watching Jonas leave, however, was terrifying. Jonas was the only other person from his world in this one.

That couldn't be helped now. Dree had to be, however. He slowly rolled him onto his side into the recovery position, knee bent, arm out straight across the floor. The other hand cradled his head. The breathing was slowing, deepening. Adon dreaded Dree's voice as much as he waited for it.

The server was edging closer, growing bolder. "Is he. . .?"

"It's okay," Adon said, trying to mimic Jonas's ton. "I'm his brother."

"It's a seizure, right? Should we--"

"No, he'll be alright. Just got to get him home to rest; he's coming around."

Adon wished it were that easy. It sounded simple, in those words. He considered the best route to Mungo's from here. But would they be equipped to deal with this situation? It was hardly a medical condition in the conventional sense. It was much more likely. . . Surely Alberic would be willing to help.

Adon shifted in his crouch as he noted Dreogan's eyes open. His brother craned his neck, locking eyes with him.

"Dree?" he ventured quietly.

Eleor was cracking.  Jonas cast a look up at the other man as he barked out orders, considering the words for a moment as he straightened up again.  He didn't like the idea of leaving the two brothers alone with two wands in a room full of Muggles, nor did he particularly trust the younger man to make the right call in this situation.  This, again, was why their interaction wasn't a partnership; if it had been Radley or Raynor telling him what to do in a semi-crisis, Jonas didn't think he would hesitate for a second.

They couldn't stay here.  Arguing with each other would give up any control over the situation that they might have; someone else would see that as a reason to step in.  And even with his bad leg, he could get to the car quicker on his own than they could if they were hauling Dreogan.  He could move less conspicuously, too - take the back door, just in case someone was waiting to ambush the front.

Jonas tossed the other man his new cellular phone, keeping Dreogan's, and roughly gathered the pile of papers and his cap from off the table. 

"I'll make the phone buzz when I'm out front," he informed Adon matter-of-factly, pulling the cap down low to cover his hair.  Tucking the pile of folders under one arm, he headed back towards the kitchen, already using his thumb to page through the recent calls on Dreogan's phone.

(Briefly continued here.)

****

Dreogan was stirring slowly.  His head resting on his hand, body on its side, he began to slowly move, his eyelids fluttering.  As Adon leaned over to catch his gaze, his older brother stared back dazedly at him for a moment, but recognition slowly registered in his eyes.  A slow, cynical smile spread across his face, and he turned his head to the side, catching himself with one hand as he began to hack out an awful, wheezing sound.  It took several moments for it to solidify into anything resembling a laugh.

"The brother," he managed to croak, and then started to shakily laugh again.  "Worried about a dream?" he asked Adon, his expression twisting into a smirk.

Adon numbly wrapped his fingers around the iphone he'd been jokingly trying to commandeer all lunch; now that he had it, he rather wished he didn't. There was something oddly disturbing, oddly weighty about holding a device before that he'd simply equated with playing Pocket God. Right now, they were trying to save Dree.

Having shifted Dreogan properly, Adon rose to his feet a moment to gather his things. Adon placed the phone temporarily upon the table but refused to move the wand from his right hand. He worked singlehandedly as he dropped the pen into his bag. Then his notes and papers. Zipped it shut. He seemed to contemplate a moment before tearing away the piece of papered tablecloth that held the portrait of Jonas on it. He crumpled it and shoved it to the bottom of the pocket of his trousers before crouching down and checking for Dreogan's pulse. It was still erratic -- Adon realised he'd actually not checked earlier, but rather had assumed from the breathing -- but seemed to be slowing to a more steady rhythm.

Dreogan began to stir. Adon fidgeted with his fingers around his wand, still out in the open, though at his side, as he waited. The first realisation after the hacking cough was the horror that Dreogan had lost. It seemed impossible, but his brother had lost.

The second was that he could not, as he would have liked, attack the bastard inhabiting his brother's body. For one, it was his brother's body. For two, there were others watching. For three, he needed to get out of here and get information from this bastard.

Adon attempted to school his features, though his jaw was as tight as a steel trap and his face as red as hate. "We'll talk about this later," he stated tersely, "let's get you into the car." With less ceremony, perhaps, than was prudent or discrete, Adon took a firm grasp of Dreogan's elbow and was about to jerk up before realising that Jonas had not, in fact, rung for him. It wouldn't do any good to be accused of brutal treatment by onlookers only to have to wait awkwardly at the door for Jonas to pick them up.

He sighed and, with a slight jostling movement, released Dreogan or whoever's arm before running a hand over his face and glancing up at some of the Muggle patrons. Bad idea. One of them seemed about to speak, but Adon looked back down, eyes intently examining the person. He was beginning to narrow the list from three to one. It was a chilling prospect, to be looking through his brother's eyes into the gaze of his murderer.

His perhaps-murderer, he reasoned. That was, if the man inhabiting Dreogan's body had been the man Dreogan had been looking for this morning. The odds were too probable to be disregarded. Adon didn't have anything he could say to this man in present company. And there was nothing he could do to him while occupying Dree's body. Except stun. Petrify.

Damn Muggles. Best to bide his time. Adon looked down at the phone in his palm impatiently.