4:45pm

The sun was hanging heavy in the sky, and it was Adon’s designated hour to dine in the dining hall—before the children had gotten their grubby hands on the food, and in enough time that he could slip in and out without disrupting the functions of the school. Snark had been supportive of Aurorly presence here, but had her own domain, after all. And it would not be encroached upon.

So Adon had an hour.

Adon had arrived at the kitchen to be met with a hero’s welcome. Apparently his father had been some sort of elf-hero as well. No surprises, there.  Though he had his pick of food—ranging from roast turkey to cold cuts to egg salad—Adon had opted to keep it simple. He made his selection of a baguette, some grapes, and a pumpkin juice, which, apparently, was served year-round in England regardless of season. This done, the house elves with their shining, bulbous eyes had suggested he eat there, with them. He still couldn’t bear the sight of their stooped figures, padding lightly towards him. Creepy-as-hell. He politely declined. They, with equal politeness, insisted. To which he had to refuse a bit more fervently. Wringing their hands, they again, exuberantly insisted. Adon cited his unannounced appointment which he was, nevertheless, late to meet. One of the elves rent open his pillowcase of a dress and began to beat his leathery chest. At this point, Adon had no choice but to risk future meal sabotage, and say he would really rather not, and left, handfuls of grapes and bread in hand.

This was an experience he would not rather repeat, but more than likely would encounter tomorrow, as he had the previous days here at Hogwarts.

Eating as he walked, Adon, for all his lack of exposure to the castle, made a direct route to the second floor, tred lightly past Headmistress Snark's door, and approached a door upon which the words “PROFESSOR REID, RUNES,” was emblazoned in gold. He cleared his throat as a warning. Finished his last grape. And lightly rapped his fist upon the wood.

The crack in the doorway—presumably a semi-open invite for office hours—widened at the contact. “Professor Reid?” he asked, edging in around the door. Adon Eleor knew already that anything he said would be viewed in the poorest light possible. He’d had enough conversations with Jonas to know this; he'd had enough contacts with suspects' families to know this. He looked about the office, finally catching sight of her, beside a bookshelf. She appeared to be researching something. Unlike Jonas, she would not assume that she was game for small-talk. Scratch any passing comments about what she was reading. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I realize you’re doubtless busy this time of the day, but it’s the only time I could afford to break away from my own duties. I'd like to talk to you briefly.” He suspected that she had a fair few. Adon fleetingly, almost imperceptibly eyed the upholstered seats--two--by the door.

Classes were over for the day, and Aileen was in her office, flipping through one of the few library books that had any information on how magical maladies affected squibs. Yesterday's visit to Healer Foley had helped calm her worries somewhat, but she always felt better when she did research for herself, and she wanted to fix Abby's curious 'cold' as fast as possible.

A letter from Abby rested on top of the pile of papers gathered neatly on her desk, telling her in her bubbly scrawl that because she was so very ill, she needed a 'cell fone' so she could send special quill messages to Sasha and avoid scaring off the owls with her coughing and sneezing. Aileen was not getting her that muggle contraption. If Abby wanted one, she was going to have to find one and figure out how to pay for it herself. Later, when she was through feeling sick.

Aileen let out a sigh and tapped her quill against the cover of the book, standing by the window, and then moving to stand by the bookcase again. She was not happy about the book's vague, ominous medical warnings that told her nothing she didn't already know. 'Magical illnesses react in unpredictable ways with squibs'. 'Squibs might suffer more than wizards'. 'Some similarities exist between how a muggle and a squib would react'.

Whoever had written this needed their credentials checked, Aileen decided, glancing up when a knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," she called out, expecting to see a third-year asking for help with the project that was due next week, or Figaro Sellaphix hoping (futilely) to turn in a late assignment.

But the man who walked in was not a student. Aileen froze, looking as if the new arrival had just spit in her face, turned over her desk, and insulted her reading material.

Last she'd heard, Adon Eleor had been recovering at St. Mungo's. She wasn't aware that he'd recently been assigned to security at Hogwarts, and didn't believe for a second that he merely wanted her opinion. This must be a trap. He was fishing for information about Trevor. Or her.

Her expression slowly changed to a wary and guarded look as she set the book on a random shelf, sat down in front of her desk, and gestured towards one of the seats across from her. The fact that they were in her office, in a familiar place, didn't make her feel any better. Her older brother had been arrested on his own turf as well. And this was really Snark's domain.

"I have a few minutes, Auror Eleor. What do you need?" She managed to keep her voice calm, if a bit strained while her thoughts were occupied by the worst assumptions.