2pm
Saturday

They'd been there for weeks now, since Ava was found dead in the woods, and Sasha was sent away, and since the werewolf had attacked their poop-detention during the daytime.  Aurors.  At the gates, once or twice in the castle proper with Professor Ó Móráin or Headmistress Snark.  Aurors in red robes and heavy boots.  Gloves.  Serious faces.  They seemed mythical, somehow.  And they stuck out at the school like a sore thumb.  Glaringly out of place.

Aurors were not a common sight for Figaro Sellaphix.  He'd seen them around Diagon Ally before, walking in pairs.  He'd seen them when he'd visited the Ministry of Magic a couple years ago as well.  But they were up close now, right here at Hogwarts.  Even though Figaro hadn't seen much Auror Corps in his life, their history books spoke about them frequently, and the topic came up in Defense class often.  And since his dad's arrest in October, they'd been constantly on his mind.  The vignette played out like a dream in his head, Aurors behaving like characters in books, or in the movies, like a combination of cavalier paladins and horrible, snatching villains.  All of them giant and flawless.

Figaro squinted in the afternoon sun, through the gates at the single Auror who had been standing there all day.

Figaro could have been blown to his position by the craggy old gates by the wind, so in-deliberate had been his arrival, so seemingly random and meandering.  Figaro hadn't really decided to go out this afternoon to find an Auror, but that's what had happened.  He'd wandered down the steep, cobbled pathway, kicking stones and tapping his wand against his leg to the tune of some Three Owl Standard.

Arriving near the gate, his pace had slowed sharply, aware of the scarlet-robed sentry standing bored and still.  Figaro hadn't said anything, or made his presence known.  He'd just sort of quietly arrived.  He shuffled in the dirt and moss until he stopped with his back against the large stone pillar that held one of the gates and the boar gargoyle at the top; he slid down the pillar to balance against it on his haunches.

He traced his name into the ground with his wand tip and turned his head to stare at the Auror again.  Dark-haired.  Tall.  He looked Middle Eastern, or something like that.  And the side of his face was gnarled with scars - he hadn't seen them until he'd gotten closer.

"Is that from a fight?"  he asked plainly, as are all of Figaro's questions.  He was mellower than he usually was, but no less curious, and certainly not afraid or intimidated.   "Your face, I mean."

The boredom was comforting in its familiarity. Adon seldom been anything but bored while panoptically trolling the grounds in the week he’d been here at Hogwarts.  Prior to that, Adon had indulged in a week long of waiting in St. Mungo’s. Waiting for medication to kick in. Waiting for medication to be replaced once it wore out. Waiting for visitors. Waiting to be released.

But really, what this was most similar to, this particular brand of tedium he had come to know as well as any other prevailing emotion, was his time in the IDF. As an intelligence surveillance officer, the best days – the ones that gave you the least amount of headache and kept the most of you alive – were the days spent just like this: waiting. Looking, listening, and watching for something that never came.

Something was coming – the crunching of gravel underfoot – but from the careless and easy way the footsteps fell, Adon knew it was not what he’d been waiting for. Upon hearing the sounds come to an abrupt halt, Adon bothered to turn his gaze slightly right-ward. A sandy-haired student, ambling and, probably, like him: bored. The boy shuffled over to the opposite column of the gate, crouching comfortably against it.

Well, a visitor then. Adon cracked a bit of a smile. Company was usually welcome, but always distracting. Adon recollected the cautionary tale he’d been told once in training for the Israeli Defense Forces, 10 years ago.

It will happen like this: a young Palestinian child would come towards you. Charming, timid, and uncertain. He’d ask for a bit of candy. Or money. Or food. You’d fall into conversation, reach into your pocket for a treat. Then, you’d be dead. The Palestinian child had taken a bribe to distract the soldier, while enemies could approach.

The heavy-handed lesson hadn’t settled as well with Adon as many young recruits. Sometimes, children needed to be fed. Sometimes charity was a risk worth taking.

Looking at the boy, Adon decided instantly there was no charity needed, here.  This kid, he suspected, would not come up asking for gum, or water. He could be a pampered governor’s son, wanting a photograph. Or a teased and taunted student, looking for a moment away. And, he doubted very much that he was a distraction to let in an army of resistance. Still, there was always room for caution.

Adon considered the boy, quietly.  “My face?” he asked, pushing his back off of the pillar to come to a fully standing position. Coming from someone older, more certain, or smug, Adon’d have given a biting response. But the boy hadn’t delivered a value assessment with the comment. He hadn’t asked what was wrong with his face. And he hadn’t asked if it had come from losing a fight. Adon dropped back the four inches to rest his shoulder blades on the opposite pillar, leaning casually. “Yeh – it was a fight,” he said in his crisp, sharp accent. “How about you?” he furthered with a bit of a smirk. “What’s your excuse?”

Figaro expected the Auror to tell him to bugger off, and his suspicions were nearly confirmed when the tall wizard stood up off the pillar as if he was about to get on Figaro for asking personal questions and interfering in Ministry business or something.  Figaro didn't flinch or budge or anything, but he wasn't expecting any favors.

So when the Auror said what he said, Fig was gobsmacked. For a stammering moment or two, Figaro was speechless.  A couple of "Uh what -? I -?"  It was as if the Auror took off all the masks in Figaro's imagination, and suddenly it was a real person standing there, taking the piss!  A smile pushed away the momentary brain spasm, and Figaro pointed at the Auror with a sudden laugh!

"Ho no! What now? It talks! It's a clever one, too!"  So pleased he was to have had his piss taken so unexpectedly, and so gracefully, Figaro was happy in his own blithe comeback.  Throwing a ball not to peg him in the face, but rather to initiate a game of catch, so to speak.

Figaro shook his head and clicked his tongue.  "Cheeky.  Didn't think you'd say anything, if I'm honest.  Against the rules maybe, but no? You can mess about and everything, just so long as you keep the murderers out?"

Fig had not stood up when the conversation began, instead remaining crouched beneath to stonework boar and tapping his wand into the dirt in front of him.

Adon watched with amused -- if not overtly self-indulgent -- smugness as the boy stumbled over himself to recover. It didn't take much to impress boys this age. Unless you were Hills. Then you probably went about comparing the world to your Infallible Mother. Who you were suspiciously and altogether way too fond of. Still, that had made Adon's "Your Mom" jokes not only that much easier, but also that much more satisfying.

"Ho no! It talks!"

"You better hope I'm just talk," Adon said with too much of a smile for it to be a credible threat. "Silent guards are too much ceremony to bother with. I should just break this to you soft: you students are no Queens of England."

The boy seemed full of questions. To which, Adon was certain he could produce at least as many. He decided to respond in kind.

"Against the rules maybe, but no? You can mess about and everything, just so long as you keep the murderers out?"

"But who says I'm messing about?" Adon countered. "Who says you -- coming up out of nowhere -- aren't supposed to be questioned?" He arched an eyebrow lazily.

Two questions for two. Things still seemed pretty fair.

Figaro was in awe, but trying not to show it.  The Auror was cool, confident, well-spoken.  Figaro, without really thinking to, was mirroring Eleor's posture and non-chalance as much as he could.  He had the Auror's undivided attention, or so it seemed, and this was not an opportunity to be wasted.  He got up from the wall and stuck one hand in the pocket of his trousers, and with the other twirled his wand like a drumstick in the manner that most wizarding lads figured out in the first couple months of owning a wand.  ("You'll shoot your eye out!")

Equally as smug, Figaro shrugged in an open gesture, inviting the Auror's playful threats.

"Oh yea? So question me!" he challenged, wand a-spinning.  "I could be dangerous.  Could be Cinaed Tawse Most Wanted in disguise."

Figaro had met Cinaed Tawse before and it was the best secret he'd ever had to keep - it wrenched his guts when he thought of it and he had to mentally bite his lip.  He still couldn't believe it.  Back then, Tawse hadn't been a Wanted Criminal.  He'd just been an ex-con running a pub - just a wandless bartender who'd got him back to Hogsmeade.  But now the Black Chimaera was as good as a crime scene and Cinaed Tawse was on the run. 

"You dunno," he said, stroking an imaginary beard.

"Tawse?"Adon smirked and shook his head. "Oh, no. If you were, you would have caved in and given some lame-ass joke in a bad American accent." He thought a moment. "Or threatened someone's mom. You wouldn't be here -- talking face to face with me." Adon made a show of scrutinizing through narrowed eyes. "And who says I'm not a Legilimens--and do know?"


He let the question hang in the air for no more than three seconds before shaking his head, smiling. No, the reason he knew the kid wasn't Cináed Tawse was that that had been an incredibly foolish suggestion -- and unbearably loaded.


Well, that wouldn't have been so unlike Tawse anyhow.


"S'your name?" He asked, shoving his hands back into the arms of his cloak to keep them warm. It was almost April, but Scotland was even colder--if possible--than England. "No. Wait. Hard-hitting questions first," he said officiously. "Your age, house, last time you peeled a potato, and your whereabouts on the night of February 29."


Adon never said they had to be logical. "And then," he said, raising his eyebrows teasingly, "I'll guess your name." And call him by it for the rest of the kid's life, whether he'd been right or not.

Legilimens?  Wait... that was the mind-reading one!  Figaro had to take a moment to recall the Defense Against the Dark Arts vocabulary word, and by the time he did he realized he'd been holding eye contact with the Auror for multiple seconds!  More than enough for a proper Legilmens to see right through him and into his brains.  Fig coughed loudly into his hand as he turned sharply away from the Auror.

Figaro almost forgot that he was playing Cops and Robbers with the Auror and nearly blurted out his name before the Auror had a chance to divert to a different line of questioning - and frankly, a much more interesting discussion.  Figaro squinted his eyes and examined the older wizard sidelong. 

"Alright... but I get to ask you questions, as well." 

"Sixteen... Hufflepuff... last Christmas holiday... and..." he paused, trying to retrace the last few weeks to the 29th of Febru- "You blighter!   Yea, yea, alright, my turn," he said dismissing with a wave of his hand what the thought was a trick question about a day that had not occurred since 2008. 

He took a few steps across the span between the large stone pillars, closer to the Auror.

"Your age, who gave you that scar, and your favorite Quidditch team." 

Figaro's eyebrows said, en guarde.

The boy darted his glance away sharply, and Adon grinned. Who knew the little ones could be so amusing? He'd been worried this place would be full of Schlagenweits and fledging Colburns. Eager little fellows, trying to please beauracracy.

Adon folded his arms as the kid rattled off his answers and threw several careless questions of his own.

"The number of years I am is equal to the number of days of this month minus the number of houses at Hogwarts, plus the number of moons that Mars has." He grinned smugly.

"Also, I don't know his name, and I don't have a favourite Quidditch team. Only I know I don't like the Cannons." Their fans were entirely too enthusiastic. "Maybe the Harpies." Because young women on brooms going at it. . . well, not too shabby.

He doubted the boy had a traditional Anglo name. He seemed too ambling, too interesting to be a Jonathan. Or a Thomas. And not pompous enough for some Greco-Roman, "Draco" business. He considered for a moment, the possibilities.

Finding he couldn't really decide between Tavi and Raziel -- and deciding the boy was probably neither, because really, those were Israeli sorts of names, he decided that framing this as intentional withholding would be best. "Favorite book, last time you kissed a girl, and what you're supposed to be doing right now."

Figaro's worst two subjects.  Bollocks.  Figaro wandered over to the closed gates, and leaned chest-first against its wide bars, adorned in cobwebby spandrels and iron-work leaves and vines.  He let his arms rest in the ironworks and looked through it.  He was inching ever closer to the Auror as their conversation went on. 

Up close, he could see more detail on his robes, the knotwork on the sleeves.  The worn black boots.

His mind half-heartedly attempted the maths (and Arithmancy and Astronomy) of this sphinx's riddle.  Thirty-one or thirty minus 4 so twenty-something plus Mars's moons... He was too distracted to pay the sums proper attention (Figaro was a show-your-work kind of learner anyhow).

But maths aside, Figaro was fairly confident that the Auror'd never guess his name.  His mum was wierd.

So he wasn't into sport? Figaro'd have to forgive him for that.  He seemed foreign so perhaps it was a British thing to be a Quidditch supporter.  Ask any real witch or wizard that question and there'd be no maybes.  But he at least knew enough to know the Chudley rotters were insane. 

Figaro would have considered the next line of questions more carefully if we measured by the first one - he wouldn't really thought about that one.  But it was followed with two stupefiers. 

He laughed harshly, again surprised by the Auror.  "What now? Last time I kissed a girl?" That wasn't a question adults asked youths.  It wasn't a question Aurors asked at all.  Figaro didn't know to be prideful or embarassed that the answer was as recent (or as long ago) as two weeks.

"Two weeks ago.  Seventh year,"  he said, not mentioning that it had been an ambush.[1]

But the second question was much more Aurorly.

"Certainly not bothering the Auror," he said without apology, perfectly comfortable to be up to mischeif.  "Everyone's all in a fit about you being here, you know that? Owls are flying.  I dunno though," he said thoughtfully.

"It looks like your job's dead important..."  dry sarcasm was rare for Figaro, but clearly this Auror'd faced harsher stuff.

1.	Figaro, as a joke, planted a big sloppy kiss in Fauna's face, after joking about his new bachelor status link

"Seventh year?" Adon asked, grinning. It had probably been a dare on the girl's part. Still, congratulations were in order; the boy seemed an audacious sort. Adon liked that. "Nice," he said nodding and folding his arms across his chest in a general sign of affirmation.

The boy didn't seem to be much of a studier--took much more quickly to discussion on girls and scars and had a general romanticized version of what an Auror should or should not be that he'd probably learned from some droning, silver-haired Defensive Magic professor with spectacles. That would account for the boy's look of perpetual surprise.

Though, perhaps, the Aurors were more generally discussed than he'd thought.  He'd have thought they'd have had the time to grow accustomed to their presence.  Though, typically, they were, unlike children, meant to be neither seen nor heard. He wondered if Snark'd blow a gasket at this conversation. Corrupting the youth.

"Owls are flying--"

"Yeh," Adon said in the same, light manner, "they're known to do that."

"Dunno, though. It looks like your job's dead important."

Adon's brow furrowed at the unfortunate word choice. The only reason it had been considered important enough was because someone'd died. "Thing about jobs like these, amit," he said, looking both this way and that, before leaning forwards, about to divulge an unknown truth: "it takes days and days of nothing, of hoping for nothing, but waiting for something--and only two minutes to make a situation. You understand me, yeh?" He shrugged and leaned back against the entrance column. "And so I have hours and hours of waiting. You never know when--or if--those two minutes will come, but if they do," another shrug. "We are there."

He grinned. "Are you surprised? Those crime-fighters from stories--if things were actually as eventful as they appeared to be, it would mean someone'd make holy shit of the situation and screwed up big time." That probably wasn't appropriate language for the kid.  But he was what, sixteen? Adon considered him before smirking. "We like boring." Though Jonas probably would have eaten his own hand by now, out of a lack of people to talk to or reception on his Eye-Phone. Adon didn't mind. Surveillancing  borders was, on the whole, uneventful. Except when it was not. Then, you'd end up ambushed and blown to pieces and dragged across the border. He preferred this.

And, actually, he preferred talking to this kid.

"So. You must be all out of questions. Does this mean I win?"

Figaro watched as his words seemed to take more effect than indifferent humor on the Auror - the Auror nearly frowned when Figaro pressed about he and the Corps' presence at the school.  If Figaro had the notion, he could have repeated a few of his mother's choice rhetoric concerning Aurors.  Afterall, they had taken their dad away this winter, ruined the family business, made a man of the house out of a teenage lad not nearly ready to be that grown up.

Figaro listened with too-cool-for-school attention, rapt even if he was trying to hide it, when the Auror leaned in and gave him the true-as-true break down of life behind a wand and a badge. 

It sounded... Well, it sounded like the Auror believed what he was saying.  That boring is the status quo that they were all striving for.  That action meant that someone hadn't done their job properly.  Figaro didn't buy it though.

"No, you don't win," Figaro scoffed, straightening up.  "You haven't figured out my name yet." 

With a name like he had, Fig reckoned he had space to be cocky in this gamble.  It wasn't a name you guessed.  But frankly, he'd almost forgotten about the Auror's little game. 

But he pressed on.  "I think that's bullshit, by the way," he suggested, bolder than ever.  Maybe bold because of the gate between them, or bold because of how friendly they'd seemed to become. 

"Sometimes it's Aurors that mess up what's been fine and perfectly boring for years.  It's not all like you say - waiting for something to happen, is it.  Sometimes it's going in and ruining things that were working just fine."

He tried to keep a smile on, but he was getting in over his head.  He'd heard his mum rant about what had happened to their family loads, and Figaro'd had his own time to mull things over.  But now, he had an Auror right there...  So you've caught a dragon by the tail - do you even know what to do with it?

"A fair point," Adon acknowledged with a proud smile. Kid had spunk.That spunk, however, quickly converted into something he could identify in an instant: anger.

Well, this was personal.

Adon took a deep, cleansing breath as he thought. "No, not really," he said. "If we're going to discuss  investigations," he began, "then here's the deal there: nothing runs just fine. You can poke your nose into just about anything, and you'll see the inefficiencies, the downright lies, and the dysfunctionality of it all. Aurors included. Nothing works just fine. It's always a matter of deciding which dysfunctionalities you can live with, really."

Adon cracked his jaw as he let the boy consider. "Now, I can't speak for everyone, but really, the only things I think that are worth investigating are the ones that will really hurt people. It's my job to make sure that doesn't happen."

This kid had had contact with Aurors--not directly, though. Adon hadn't really heard of many kids brought to Level Two besides Schlagenweit after Grosvenor's murder. He filtered through some possibilities. Sixteen.

He didn't like these possibilities. Adon could only think of one. From one of his cases. "Figaro Sellaphix."

Figaro's bold grin, his performed non-chalance, dropped like a rock when he heard his own name in that foreign accent.  He'd said too much (as he so often did) and not only given away the game, but had situated himself in opposition to a bonafide Auror.  And now, more than ever, the connection between wand and badge was palpable.  Aurors had the authority to do whatever they wanted.   They raised their wand and their badge gave them permission to fire at will.  The vulnerability struck him hard, and he had to hold his body perfectly still to keep it from running off back to the castle.  And now the Auror knew his name and that seemed to make all of this even more real.  Not ships just passing in the night.

He stared at the cracked cobbles and clenched his jaw, still leaning into the gate.  For some reason, he felt like he was in trouble even though he knew he hadn't done anything against the rules. 

He'd gone over and over and over in his head what had got his dad arrested.  A freak accident jostled all the little skeletons out of the closet.   Every time he thought about it, it just made his head hurt.  He couldn't work himself out of the brambles. 

Figaro stayed quiet and still for a few long moments.  And when he finally broke his silence it was with the crack of a grin and a chuckle.

"Shit...Yea, guilty," he straightened up and shrugged.  "So you know all about it, then.  Just a load of bad luck and a whole family of perfectly honest sellers of fine wares and contraband gets hung out to dry by a gang of bored Aurors."

Had an old friend been watching the scene, right now'd the time they would tell you that we were finally seeing the true Figaro come out.  Fast-talking, blithe rather than access uncomfortable feelings, honest.  It's as if by saying Rumplestiltskin, Figaro was loosed.

"S'all right by me though, I mean, whatever! The world's not black and white, and who am I to say that you're out of line.  My dad was doing his job and you're doing yours - looks like you just got one up on the old man.  I should thank you, probably.  Now I can fail Herbology like I've planned."

"So what's your name, then?"

He leaned back against the gate, more relaxed then ever, and genuinely curious.

In the silence that followed, Adon kept his eyes continually on the boy, watching the muscles move in his jaw, the fidgeting fingers. Adon felt a momentary guilt and gave a soft, melancholy smile.

Game over.

"Shit. . . yea, guilty."

"Naw," Adon said lightly. While colloquial enough, the word "guilty," in context, rung out like a gong with uncomfortable resonance. "You've just got one of those names. My brother, too. Read it once and you never forget. Dreogan." He gave a snort as he pronounced the name. He was sure Dree cursed his immigrant, country-loving grandparents daily for afflicting him with the name.[1] He gave a comfortable shrug, mirroring the boy's body language. "I read into it a bit, yeh. But not out of boredom."

The kid's earnestness, his desire to rationalise failure--perhaps through sabotage. . . Adon felt an unidentifiable twinge in the pit of his stomach. Remorse? Guilt? Pity? Sympathy?

The kid was without a father. At fifteen. Adon wondered how many fights Figaro Sellaphix had gotten in since his father was incarcerated. Five months after his father disappeared--the count had been somewhere around. . . four?

"I'm glad we got him before something worse happened." Adon admitted candidly. "Your father was doing what was he thought would serve him best. But he was getting increased pressure to do worse and worse things. Things were accelerating; if we had caught up with him in two years from now, things would have been harder--for everyone involved." As it was, it was a petty charge. Rafe Sellaphix had not been an accessory in murder, nor had he been killed himself. From the way the Runespoor case seemed to go, it was a gamble which way he'd end up. You were made complaint and complacent: through incentive, intimidation, or death.

"Bah. Herbology's--" he blew air through pursed lips, shaking his head. He couldn't say what he wanted to: Herbology's like whatever. "Grades and school are important, of course. But I think the important thing is to make sure this situation doesn't win over you." He looked up at the sky, thinking as he spoke. His words came out slower, "And really. . . if you lie down under its weight and let it win now, I'm not sure you'd ever be able to get back up again."

Which was why he'd fought. He'd fought his way through social situations. He'd fought his way through classes; the teachers hadn't understood. Adon's grades peaked and came to a head, even as his number of detentions and nosebleeds increased.

The air was filled with the silent thoughts until Adon cut through--"My name is Adon Eleor. It is nice to meet you, Figaro Sellaphix."

1.

"Dreogan" means "to give service to one's country." When the Eleor's grandparents immigrated from Egypt to Britain, their child was given an Anglo-Saxon name to show their dedication to their new home.  Dreogan Sr. is Adon and Dreogan Jr's father. Adon will also point out from time to time that "Dreogan" also means "to suffer."

For the moment, Figaro wasn't looking over at the tall Auror much.  No one had seemed interested in speaking candidly about what had happened with his dad, and whenever the topic came up, adults always went on about how it made total sense and was inevitable and just and all that crap.  What Figaro wanted was for someone to agree with him - that it was all just total bullshit and that it sucked ass.  He didn't need to hear over and over again that his dad, and apparently his whole family, had it coming all along.

So when the Auror started talking about it, Figaro rolled his eyes and fitted the toe of his shoe into a notch in the metal gate.  He took hold with his hands and pulled himself up a few inches off the ground, balancing on the ironworks.  He found a higher foot hold and climbed up another three feet.  The gate creaked and groaned, but held totally firm.  Up there, he realized the Auror wasn't feeding him the usual line.

He was saying that it could have been worse.  That maybe his dad had been under some pressure he couldn't handle.  It was the first time someone had said that maybe his Old Man didn't deserve everything he got - that it was more complicated than a greedy shopkeeper.   The Auror let on there was more to all this than anyone had been telling him.

Figaro looked over at the Auror, his expression more curious than doubtful. 

Then, when the Auror looked about as defeated about Plant Class as Figaro always had been, Figaro cracked a smile again, from his perch on the giant gate.  He mumbled a conclusion to the sentence the Auror left hanging, something about 'rotting' and 'useless'.

Then, more serious talk about getting back on the broom and all that.  He furrowed his brow and got busy rubbing some chipped paint from an iron vine with his thumb. 

"Adon Eleor."  Figaro tried it out with an approving look.  It fit.

"But I'm fine, you know, Adon Eleor" he said firmly enough to show that he was talking about this 'situation' and its 'weight' and not his wierd name. 

He stood up as straight as he could on the fence, and even then, there was a whole 'nother Figaro could stand on his shoulders and still not be at the top of the gate.  He sank back down again into his foot hold and dropped to the ground. 

"Really.  I mean, I can't do anything about it, can I.  Bunch greasy git Aurors and fat old men all had a meeting without me, our name gets in the paper and I suddenly my mum's telling me I better get a summer job.  The world turns, shit happens.  "  He wiped his hands on his jeans, flecks of rust and paint coming off into the air.

"I'm not freaking out about it," he seemed to insist as casually as he could,  but he was feeling a little indignant and moody - he felt like he was being examined by the Auror and his Head of House and his friends. He spoke quickly as he normally did, thoughts becoming words without much proofreading. 

"I mean, the way I see it, it had nothing to do with me anyway.  Everyone can sort of shove it wherever the feel like shoving it, but I can't really be bothered.  What else is there to do?  Send a bloody macaroni collage?"

Figaro, despite the tension, nearly grinned as he laid out the proposed artwork with a wave of his hand.  "Dear Dad - made this in school.  It's a goddamn unicorn."