Dreogan Eleor, Head of Middle Eastern Affairs, could only say this for four or five times in his life and never, in this career: he'd been angry.

It was an unpleasant feeling. Adon had to curb the rising feeling of resentment and foreboding. He had to remind himself, before he felt betrayed and cornered, that this was not how it had to be. Anger was only the feeling you took up when you'd resolved to do something contrary.

That was not, he decided, a feeling or an action he was willing to take.

So Dreogan had sat down. He'd written to Jonas Trevelyan, asking to speak with him. Dreogan had heard that Tamis Raynor had given the go-ahead for Jonas' harebrained imprudent scheme to position Azize Mulogo as a hit for the assassin who had very nearly murdered Kabir Ahmed. Who they still had no more information on.

Dreogan had requested to speak to Jonas more specifically about the plan. He had suggested it be held in his office, where they would have the privacy to discuss without listeners. Most notably Adon. Dreogan had a word or two to say on the budding friendship between his younger brother and his new partner. Jonas was an agreeable man, and it was easy to be taken in by his charisma and good intentions. But his confidence was disconcerting, as was his lack of credentials. His inability to perform magic, his precarious situation with the Ministry, and his own stubbornness to admit these weaknesses had jeopardised Dreogan when he'd been in need of medical and magical assistance. Still, Dreogan would not begrudge him that. The man had been frightened, cornered, and had clearly panicked. And he'd apologised -- at least to Adon -- for it. But he needed to learn from it, before it was Azize -- or himself -- that wound up prone on the floor, helpless.

He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Not even Jonas deserved to be the victim of his confidence.

Dreogan cleared his throat and once more straightened the quills lined up on his desk, waiting for Jonas to show. In his head, he once more ran through the words he wanted to say. "Ah, Jonas. I'm glad you could spare the time. Thank you so much. . ."

He'd known what he was getting himself into as soon as the summons had arrived.  Jonas had been lounging at his new desk - Adon's desk, really, since the only attempt that the former private investigator had made at showing ownership was attaching his 'I Read Witch Weekly' ribbon to the wall - reading over a casefile that he really had no right to look inside, trying to determine why Manfred Ashford would have been put under the Imperius Curse.

The note had been short.  Direct and to the point.  Polite.  Almost abrupt even, in a way that he wouldn't have expected of the mage who had so warmly welcomed him when he'd first been brought into the Runespoor investigation several months back.  Dreogan Eleor was a good man, at least as good as his younger brother, and Jonas still appreciated the hand of friendship that the diplomat had extended to him.  He liked Dreogan.  Liked Dreogan's fiancee.  He felt sorry for what they had both gone through and were about to go through, and he really did wish them the best.

But he wasn't about to get pushed around.

Even without saying a lot, the note had said enough.  Dreogan had summoned him to his office; he wanted Jonas on his turf.  He'd requested the red-haired Auror alone, without his partner.  Whatever he was about to say, he wanted to do it without Adon there.  That was not the premise for a friendly conversation.

Jonas had taken the lift down to Level Five.  He'd brought a notebook and a pen; he might as well pretend that this had something to do with anything other than Dreogan's own trepidation.  Getting possessed had curtailed the mage.  It was as if his wings had been clipped; he didn't trust anyone now, and he was determined to make decisions for the people he cared about because of it.  Jonas had seen it in how Dreogan was treating his younger brother.  He appreciated the need to protect friends and family - maybe appreciated it better than anyone - but that was only part of his job now.  Or rather, they were only part of the people that he was responsible to protect.

"Nice to know that at least you lot can afford to have doors down here," Jonas quipped lightly, pausing in the doorway as he peered into Dreogan's office.  The cubicles on Level Two were one of the things that needled him the most about returning to the Ministry; that and the fact that he couldn't even turn on his cell phone, which did not do well with magical interference.  He missed privacy; he missed having a door.  (He also missed tormenting digital islanders whenever he got bored, but at least he could still manage that by going into London for his lunch breaks.)

"You want it open or closed, mate?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Dreogan.  If this exchange was going to get unfriendly, it wasn't going to start with him.  "This is just you and me, yeah?"

Jonas had started with a light tone. Dreogan had anticipated that. He did it usually, when they met. Some quip about Wagamama, Adon's choice of footwear -- he did it most particularly in tense situations, but it was, regardless, characteristic.

Dreogan gave a silent laugh, nodding. "We do alright," he conceded as he rose to greet the man before gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Chairs, too. More than you have down there. I hear you've kicked Adon out of his more than once. . ." he said as he crossed in front of the seat. "Closed, if you will. The others can join us later, if you'd like," he said as he settled himself in one of the three upholstered chairs in front of the desk.

Right now, Jonas needed to feel like an equal. And he was. "Did you know that that was how Adon met his former fianceé?" he asked. "He kept stealing her chair. Guess it works for some Aurors." He paused a moment before grinning. "Not that you're a wizard or anything." He held his hands up in a display of non-hostility, waiting for the newly reestablished Auror to situate himself satisfactorily. "Tea or water?"

It was the first time he'd been in the elder Eleor's office.  Jonas had expected something mild; nothing like the heavy, foreboding feel that permeated the private study where Dreogan did his scrying, but still not quite something like this.  It was brightly lit, nearly overly so, and seemed perfectly designed to keep visitors at ease.  There was a neat and meticulous feel to the room; almost everything in a row, save for some dog-eared, clearly well-worn books that occupied a low shelf behind the desk. 

A set of quills had been perfectly lined up on the desk's surface.  Exerting order, then; that was what Dreogan must have been trying to do with them, whether consciously or unconsciously.  He wanted things to feel as if they were under his control.

Dreogan greeted him warmly enough, and Jonas flashed him a smile, shutting the door and then extending his hand in an offered shake.  Interesting that the other man didn't stay behind his desk; he was trying to set him at ease.  He could roll along with it for now.

Despite the underlying tension, Jonas couldn't help bursting into laughter at the wizard remark, flashing Dreogan an appreciative grin.  "Tea'd be grand, thanks," he replied, looking quite bemused as he glanced between the chairs and then picked one.  "I was going to say, maybe I ought to be more careful about taking his chair, then.  I wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea."

"How're you and Akiva holding up?" he asked with amiable concern as he eased himself carefully to sit.  "The kid's been alright, yeah?  That's got to be tough, mate," he said sincerely, glancing over at the neatly-aligned bookshelf against the wall.  Two pictures stood on it: one of Dreogan and Adon and Hestia, and the other of a man who looked enough like the Eleor brothers that he had to be their father.  Family was important.  "I remember what it was like when we first had Gwen.  That was starting from the beginning, and I was still terrified as hell.  Being responsible for a kid can be a lot on your shoulders."

Dreogan clasped Jonas' hand with the same, familiar warmth that it usually did, but briefer. Dreogan's countenance -- his eye contact -- was not as penetrating as it usually was. Dreogan did not usually run through a planned dialogue in his head as he spoke. At least not with Jonas. To those he dealt with daily at work, in a business capacity, this was a typical expression.  But those he dealt daily with at work didn't know better unless they caught him away from the board table; something that was increasingly difficult to do as Dreogan embarked upon plans for a Muggle Affairs agency. His time and attention was no longer focussed on socialising and water cooler discussions, if it ever had been.

"We're holding up," he said with an appreciative smile. Dreogan and Akiva were very much in love. That seemed to increase every day. His appreciation for her, he had felt, was nearly infinite. He though himself a simpleton for thinking he truly loved her when he'd proposed, months ago. That had been a simple infatuation and appreciation. This? This was love. Looking back, he suspected in two year's time, he'd feel the same way about the extent of his emotions.

But they were still getting to know each other. It was difficult, especially as they attempted to not only get to know but in fact raise and care for a new child of fifteen years in their lives. Dreogan still did not know if Sasha was what he would call a son, or if he was a kindred spirit they were helping to make his way in the world. Dreogan liked to see it like that, but it was all very new. Dreogan would have liked something to have been established -- besides Sasha's timid, apologetic nature and inbred anxieties. But they were working on that, too. "We're happy to help." He nodded graciously at the hint of sympathy, if not a vague gesture towards the offer of advice.

"How are Gwenna and Artie? And Anna?" He asked, eyebrows raised as he summoned over the teapot, which had been boiling over the fireplace tucked away in the corner. "How hot do you like it? Do you take cream or lemon?" he input quickly as he gestured with his wand for the tea to begin pouring itself into, plain white teacups, fashioned in an octagonal shape. He didn't really want to talk about tea. "Are the wards and precautions holding up? I looked into the prayer bowl, and I think they'll work in the homes of non-practising Jews," he said before giving an affable, slightly flustered smile, "I mean non-practising, non-Jews, of course. Though I've thought about it, and Anna's New Age practises would be beneficial to the strength of the spell." The prayer bowls thrived on faith -- any sort of belief and conviction at all. Anna was  a woman of conviction. Though Dreogan himself didn't know exactly what Jonas believed in, but it wasn't God or anything like it. "I'd be happy to bring one by later and install it," he said.

Later was particularly important to mention right now. And Dreogan meant it. Regardless of how this conversation went, how he viewed Jonas, or how he felt, he wouldn't stop helping the Trevelyans protect themselves. Everyone deserved that much. And he had grown fond of Anna and the kids in their short stay at his mother's. He liked to see the Trevelyan's familial dynamic healing itself. There had been too much pain intermingled with the very apparent love. Dreogan gave a slightly heavy sigh, despite himself. There were so many things to fix in this world. So many. And few people took the time to do what they could. He hoped Jonas was taking the steps needed to make himself happy.

It was impossible to keep his smile from becoming slightly forced at the mention of his family.  Old habits died hard, especially when they had been ground into him over a decade.  Even though Jonas knew logically that there was no threat here, that he'd accepted that no one at the Ministry posed a risk, it was hard not to tense at the question, especially when he'd come to the diplomat's office prepared for a fight.

"Just plain's fine.  Fifty-eight degrees," he rattled off, with only a hint of a dry smile.  Let Dreogan determine whether or not he was joking.

The mage was, he knew, an extremely compassionate individual.  He cared; there was no doubting it.  Likely his inquiry about Jonas's family and his offer to continue helping with the protections came from sincere concern for the Trevelyans' well being.  There was no reason to suspect him of having an ulterior motive - which made Jonas feel slightly guilty for having his own in mind.

But he could guess what Dreogan wanted to talk about.  The conversation was coming; the other man had already expressed his severe disapproval for their exercise when it at first come up at the luncheon.  If the argument was inevitable, Jonas had better lay the groundwork for his first salvo.

"Seems like the defenses are working alright," he replied amiably, peering over at the mage's desk.  A photograph of Dreogan and Akiva, laughing and smiling.  It was odd to think that anyone could be so carelessly open about their family; even when he'd been a private investigator, Jonas had avoided putting any pictures on his desk.  "I'm not really the best one to ask, though.  I know we appreciate anything you can do," he added earnestly.  That was true.  All of the Eleors had gone above and beyond to provide shelter and protection.

Jonas smiled crookedly, glancing to Dreogan.  "And they're doing alright, too.  Gwenna's been a bit of a handful," he admitted with a bemused smile.  "But she's getting to the age where we need to hold off a little, start trusting her to figure out the little things for herself so that she can make the right decisions later.  That's always been the hardest part of being a parent for me," he confessed with honest sincerity.  "Anna's a hell of a lot better at knowing when to let go."

He glanced at the photographs on the bookshelves again, focusing his attention on the one of Dreogan, Hestia, and Adon.  "You must know something about that though, yeah?" he asked Dreogan curiously.  "Your brother's said how much he looked up to you as a kid; reckon you must've been as close then as you are now.  It must be tough letting go sometimes, trusting him to decide what risks to take.  What was the moment when you finally knew he was an adult?"

"Fifty-eight," he repeated with a bit of a surprised chuckle. The mirth was gone. Dreogan's heart sank. This was not promising. And what was more, it hurt.

"April 19th, 2005," Dreogan stated, matter-of-factly. "Going in alone and risking everything for me and my assistant was a very brave, selfless, and adult thing to do. He didn't have to do it, and he exercised his own agency in taking that risk. I didn't ask it of him." His lips twitched. "Which is why I feel so terrible about it. Watching him take the risk for me, to take accountability for me -- I've never felt so childish, so irresponsible in my life. I ought to have done more."

"I know what you are getting at," Dreogan said, nodding. "I do," he repeated sincerely. He set the teacup down.

"I'm about to be presumptuous, here. . ." he said with a light sigh before regarding the man before him. "I'm presuming you think I've asked you here to talk you out of your plan." He waited a moment before giving an affable, sad sort of smile. "But I haven't."

"I could not help but notice at lunch earlier this month that it was primarily yourself and I that were at odds about this. If I did anything that was other than respectful of your ideas, I apologise. But you must understand that I didn't appreciate the way in which it was done. The way things were said -- and I'm as much to blame in this as anyone -- made it very clear that Azize and Adon were to choose between us. I've put more thought into it, and I've come to the decision that there does not need to be a choice here. We're on the same sides and want the same things."

He took a deep breath before picking the tea up again, taking a sip. It was hot, and burned as it went down. It gave him something to focus on. "If we can come to at least a better understanding of the particulars of the plan, and our objectives and reasons for our opinions, I think we can come up with a viable plan that we can all agree on." He looked at Trevelyan, trying to quell the knot in his stomach, which he did by swallowing another sip of hot tea.

Jonas had taken one sip of the tea, more for habit's sake than for anything else, before abandoning it on the desk.  That wasn't why he was here.  He didn't need to deal with distractions.  As much as Dreogan might want to maintain civilized appearances or make him feel at home, he didn't have the patience to put up with pretenses.

It was a relief when Dreogan got straight to the point.

The other man was, if nothing else, obviously a diplomat.  He switched approaches, opened with a concession and an apology - giving ground to make it more likely that Jonas would cede his own position.  But that wasn't how this worked.  He wasn't going to simply smile and accept the proffered handshake.  Dreogan was the one who had turned this into a battle.  Now that he was on the verge of losing, he was willing to negotiate and compromise.  It was too late; Jonas wasn't.

"I'm sure we could come to an agreement," he said easily, crossing his arms as he leaned back in the chair.  "And if you've got any suggestions, I'm happy to hear 'em and pass 'em on, but we've already come to an understanding, Dreogan.  We came up with objectives," he said, simply and directly.  "Raynor approved 'em.  The plan's already set."

"And I'm not even the lead Auror on this investigation," he added, eyebrows raising.  "If you're really intending to try and push your way into an MLE operation, you should be talking to your brother, mate, not me.  He's the one in charge."

Jonas was done talking. But Dreogan wasn't. And Jonas would listen, because he was in his office, and it would be a new brand of bold to leave now.

"I'm sure we could come to an agreement," Jonas said with a finality in his tone and posture that made Dreogan smile with an odd, pursed-lip expression: utter disbelief.

"I understand that," Dreogan said, his soft voice smooth and calm. "And you can be assured I will talk to Adon about this. He's in charge, after all. But this is your plan." He accusation in the tone came in unwittingly. "But then, I have a part in it too, don't I?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"I don't like Azize Mulogo's involvement in this. Particularly for doing something he never did. I did it, and if I was ashamed at myself for letting Adon take a risk in 2005 for me that he oughtn't have, I won't let it happen again." He waited a moment before saying, "I want you to run the article. But I want it to be the truth. I'm an adult, too. And I can take accountability for it without hiding behind some scheme. This is my risk to take, not Azize's."

The red-haired man blinked, raising his eyebrows even higher as he studied Dreogan for a moment.  That wasn't where he had expected the conversation to go; in all the discussions of the possibilities and iterations of their plan, they had never once considered swapping Dreogan into the role of target.  Rook to King's four.

"It's a little late to be changing things so dramatically," he said, feeling along on the words as he spoke.  It was a possibility worth considering, but his snap judgement of the situation told him that this wouldn't work.  There was too much that wouldn't fit.  "The nice thing about Mulogo is that he hasn't got any other enemies.  If someone goes after him, we know it's likely to be Runespoor related."  Not the WBA.  Not Katsaros.  Dreogan had too many who already stood against him.

Jonas stayed silent for a long moment, visibly mulling over the possibility.  Finally, he glanced at Dreogan, watching him for a moment before shaking his head.

"You've already been compromised once, Dreogan," he said quietly.  There was a note of apology in his tone that hadn't been there in the moments before.  "I appreciate you wanting to take the risk yourself - I do.  And I can pass it along to Houdini.  But if he asks me opinion on it, I'd tell him no.  We can deal with an assassin.  If things take a bad turn, I don't know how to fight someone who's already shown he can get inside your head."

The physiological response was immediate, and Dreogan could do nothing to conceal it. His eyes stung and his nostrils flared. His throat was tight. He took another sip and felt the muscles release. "This was not a nice gesture, Jonas." There was a hard edge to his voice that did not dissipate, not matter how much hot tea he swallowed. "This was me telling you that I will not allow Azize to take this risk for what I've done. I am willing to go with your plan." He knew this argument was unravelling. He couldn't argue against the possession -- if he did not feel the rising anger and emotions, perhaps he could have. But the blow was so wholly base and despicable that not even the most simpering apologetic look on Jonas Trevelyan's face could have excused it.

"I've taken precautions against future breaches," Dreogan said, jaw set. "And there is a possibility that Katsaros is linked to the Runespoor trade." Left field. And it wouldn't work. But he couldn't -- this couldn't end like this. He would fight this to the last. "Jonas, it is dangerous; what precautions are you going to take to deal with an assassin that you know nothing about? Last time didn't go very well." Kabir had nearly wound up dead.

He couldn't miss the change in Dreogan.  Ten years ago, Jonas would have risen to the bait, matched defensive stance with a stinging retort. He took a deep breath and let it out again, keeping his expression even as he met the other man's gaze.

It was obvious that he had struck a nerve.  Dreogan's response very nearly struck one as well.  Jonas had no idea if the intended meaning of the cut was Tait Aldridge or not.  It didn't matter; seeing his best mate get viciously struck down in the prime of his life was still fresh enough that any thought of it hurt.

But seeing what had been inflicted on Tamis Raynor had hurt worse.  That was the point of all this.  They weren't letting that happen to anyone, not ever again.

"Yeah, I'm sure it didn't."  He kept his voice even, but it was impossible to prevent the hard edge from creeping into his tone.  "But there wasn't a plan the last time it happened, Dreogan.  They murder people; that's what they do."  Jonas let out another breath, tried to keep the tension from showing in his posture.  All he needed to do was explain this logically.  It wasn't personal.

"Whether or not we set this up, they're going to come after someone eventually," he continued levelly, despite the harsh undertones.  "Probably Adon.  Maybe you or me.  And if they jump us when we're not expecting it, we're not going to stand a chance.  Because that's what they do.  They isolate."  He spoke each word sharply, his eyes locked on Dreogan's.  "They'd wait until he was alone.  Maybe when he was walking home with Jacoba.  They'd attack him and kill him and get away, and then this whole bloody cycle would start all over again."

The images were vivid, but Dreogan had seen worse. But he'd heard enough. "Jonas," Dreogan cut in sharply, shattering Jonas' incendiary, doomsday narratives, "I think I've witnessed enough would-be scenarios of my brother's death to know that it is the last thing in the world that I want. We can both be absolutely clear on that." His voice was hard and his grip on his teacup was deathly. His scare tactics were unnecessary. Dreogan was scared witless.

"I am not disagreeing. I am asking you what precautions you are taking to make sure these things do not happen. To Azize. To Adon. To you. What do you know about this assassin? What factors are you taking into account, and how are your techniques accommodating your knowledge?" Jonas Trevelyan had a plan. It was full of holes. Jonas Trevelyan had not been on this case for long. He had not been an Auror in years. He could not perform magic. He could not see beyond his own, myopic view, which was tinged by the golden glow of past successes and laden with the resolve of emotional baggage.

But what knowledge did they even have? And how would it help them?

"I want assurance that this plot will not result in the very thing you are trying to prevent. Everyone involved deserves that much."

The red-haired man took a deep breath and let it out again, staring past Dreogan across the room.

There was no doubt in his mind that this exercise was necessary.  Time and time again, the Runespoor ring had followed an extremely specific pattern.  Someone got close to breaking it; whenever they did, it attacked.  The impending threat was found dead, and the hazy band of smugglers retreated into the mist once more, laying low until the investigation had died down for long enough that they could rise again.  The entire thing was like fighting some sort of legendary monster, though this one had far more than three heads.  They struck; it struck back, faster and harder.  The law couldn't win against that.

But they could use it.  And that was what they were intending to do this time.  He and Adon knew the pattern; they knew there would be some sort of assassination attempt coming.  If they could use it, direct it, they'd stand a chance of catching the assassin.  It might not be even odds.  It probably wasn't.  But it was still better than the chance they would face if it caught either of them alone.

So they'd planned.  They'd seen how the attack on Tait had happened now.  The hired men had learned his patterns, waited until he was isolated and alone before striking.  That was one reason why using Azize Mulogo was so perfect; the Runespoor smugglers had had no reason to be watching him before.  When the article naming him as the source on Trevor's arrest was published, he'd become of interest to them, but by then he'd be following a carefully scripted routine.  He, Jonas, and Adon had put their heads together.  There would be only a few moments every day when Mulogo would be isolated and vulnerable to an attack.  And when those moments happened, Jonas and Adon would be there.

If they got lucky, it wouldn't even come to that.  There was a good chance they might spot the assassins following Azize before they even seized an opportunity to strike at him.  But even if the worst happened, all three of them understood the risk.  It was worth it to put an end to all this.

Jonas swallowed and looked back at Dreogan, studying his expression.  The diplomat did, to an extent, deserve to be involved in this.  He'd taken risks for them already; he had earned the right to be included, and even aside from that, Jonas valued his judgement.  But he had already been compromised once.  Dreogan was right:  Katsaros could well be involved with the Runespoor smugglers; Jonas knew that Malvivicus did trade in illegal potions.  If Katsaros got into his head again, they couldn't risk Dreogan knowing the details of how meticulously this was planned. 

"Yeah, I reckon they do."  His voice was even, steady.  "I'm sorry, mate.  You'll have to trust me."

"That's just it, Jonas," Dreogan said, looking at the man across from him for a long time. In the silence that stretched out several seconds, he considered how much to state the extent of his emotions. His forebodings. His feelings. His presentiments, which he had, through his Eye, learned to trust.

Really, there was only one thing Jonas needed to know: "I don't."

He would speak to Adon about this, as he'd promised. He knew he would lose. But there were other things he could do. He would not let this happen. He would not let this man jeopardise his friend's, his family's security. He would protect his own. And this man was threatening them in encouraging others to do so.

Rising to his feet, he pushed the chair out from underneath him. He held his hand out for Jonas' teacup. The gesture was final and left no room for alternative interpretations.