It had been a long series of days. Dreogan was nearly repenting his willingness to remain in England for some time, taking what he had thought was a much needed break from perpetual traveling, constant mediation, and frequent all-nighters.

That was, of course, when he had thought it would be a break.

As it turned out, desk work was as trying and time-consuming as some of his other jobs--and Dreogan had had many--but did have the added benefit of some continuity in his life. And right now, it had felt as though he was continually working. Because he, in fact, was.

Perhaps sensing this, though Dreogan rather suspected she saw it in the slightly haggard appearance, Gabrielle Murray-Harker had invited him to dinner to carry on a discussion which had begun in the office.

With a bit of a smile as the two walked to the café, Dreogan realised that perhaps the purpose of the meal had been to ensure that he, in fact, ate. He had been reminded only yesterday by a co-worker that Harker's policy of selecting your own lunch time presupposed that her employees would take a lunch break. And that having a private office in no way allowed him to stay overnight working as he had done a couple of times. The comments had come up teasingly in conversation but caused Dreogan to wonder if perhaps the coworker was acting under the banner of emissary.

At any rate, he was glad to be surrounded in a place that smelled of rich food and even more happy to be seated. As they chose a table, Dreogan pulled out Gabrielle's chair as he passed and sat down himself. Now sitting across from Gabrielle, Dreogan smiled . . . somewhat awkwardly. Rather unsure if this was strictly social or if his superior might have something on the agenda. . .

"This is less crowded than the Leaky Cauldron," he noted with some satisfaction. "And noisy. Good choice."

It was clearly one thing when workers simply grabbed a meal and another thing when they worked when told. However, such instances were not defined when it came to Gabrielle Murray-Harker nor Dreogan Eleor. The two were inseperable workaholics, driven by motivation that wasn't too often seen within the Ministry. Well, aside a few others. Their co-workers had evidently had taken enough of their bitter attitudes and snarky remarks of late, so they officially had called reservations for the two. No, not a date, at least in Gabrielle's standards.

The Sword and Chant had been the pick though. Hm. Good food, good vibrations and what not, but still. Was this really necessary? Apparently so as she had tried to avert the attempt but all to no avail. The utterings of a 'thank you' to Droegan was spoken as he allowed her to sit first. The first time in a long time to actually be around a male to treat her such highly. The arrogance stayed within instead of approaching outside with words and blushes.

"Less noisy, I hope you mean," she said, grinning at her employee, feeling horribly at ease with him. "I still find it quite peculiar that they did this to us, Eleor. It's almost as if I'm twenty and looking for a strapping young lad to court. I mean, date." A laugh escaped her lips from saying 'court' - how quaint. She was already fumbling over her own words.

"Right. Less noisy," Dreogan said with an impish smile. He could bear with correction of his grammar. It was something his mother was constantly doing to his brother and he. The effect, however, was to make him feel about four feet tall and he laughed quietly to himself at this as he unfolded his serviette. Cloth. Well, this was a nicer place than he was used to eating at least.

Harker's sudden use of "they" was unnerving. Who were 'they?' The restaurant? Someone at the Ministry? Dreogan hadn't expected dinner to become a bureaucratic move, though if such at thing were to happen, he figured it would be in their department.

The mention of dating was even a bit more unexpected and Dreogan decided to put one of his most valuable lessons learned on the job to good use: if you don't act like a comment was a big deal, it wasn't.
For this reason, he  responded cordially. "Ah, well, if you were looking for such a thing," Dreogan said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "it would have been better to have gone to a club or somewhere with some more people, I think. For more selection. For myself, I think this is a good place for tonight's purpose. . . " He paused here and picked up his fork idly moving it between his fingers. "What was the purpose, Miss Murray-Harker?"

A club? Hm. She hadn't really danced in a club in a while. Such a suggestion caused her to grin about it before clearing her throat, watching him play with the fork. Was he nervous? Apparently and rightly so. She was his elder in work and age - it was for this reason that Gabrielle felt annoyed within her own thoughts.

'The purpose? Let's see. Our fellow comrades in our office chose to put us on this little meeting since the two of us never take time off for ourselves. Don't worry, Dregoan," she stated, smiling warmly as she did say his first name instead of his last. "If I offended you in saying 'date,' don't be. I just think it's the existance of me feeling bitter at times when I see others happily with another."

Truth stung her heart terribly and with that, she smiled more at her colleague. "You know, I hardly know you, I fear. What interests you in life? Have you any hobbies?"

"Is that the case? Well." Dreogan leaned back in his chair, looking both ways behind him. "I sense a conspiracy, Harker," he said.

It felt odd. . . using her last name. Well, only half of it. He had never really known how to call her, but they had not talked much. He was confident that, considering their past conversations, she would correct him if it was not acceptable. But he was Eleor to her. It was clean, it was business. Which was comfortable.

To her confession of bitterness, Dreogan smiled gratefully at the approaching waiter, who brought water. He took a sip. By this time, she had moved on to her next point, making any response on his side unnecessary.

Water really could be merciful, he thought.

"Now, what about me? Well, I think you know most of what I do," he said with a light, uneasy laugh. Dreogan was teased for the length of his reports. He could not help that he wrote in long, fluid sentences that seemed to take up rolls of parchment. To be honest, Dreogan's past affiliations and history while in Israel, he had been stated in no uncertain terms, had nearly jeopardised his eligibility for his position. For this reason, he was most meticulous in outlining who he spoke to, stayed with, saw, and worked with during his time in the Middle East. He did not want anyone to suspect. He wanted no doubts. In this business dealings, he laid everything bare.

This was not so with his personal dealings. Of these, Dreogan was cautious, guarding personal associations and histories like a dragon would his hoard. But the truth was, Dreogan at present had little personal life to risk discovery. He worked near 80 hours a week, travelled extensively, and slept when he could.

Some might call it a sorry existence, but it provided Dreogan the luxury of keeping busy.

"I am fortunate, I suppose, to have a job which I find so interesting. And I don't," he interjected emphatically, a bit of humour playing on his face, "say that because you are my boss. I say it because I mean it. I think I'd be doing something along these lines even if it were not my job. I'm just lucky to get paid for it."

This hadn't been the answer she was looking for. She was looking for something small. Clean. Neat. Not the statement that humanity was his interest, that peacemaking was his hobby. "I guess," he added, laying down his glass and thinking, "my hobbies all revolve around it--my job, I mean. I like meeting people, talking to them. Listening to them. I try to meet most everyone on my street, learn 3 new names a day and twice as many faces . . . I never forget a face . . ." He shrugged. "I like people. What about you?"

The lad was quite amusing, to say the very least, but Gabrielle supposed that's what made him intriguing and a benefit to have in her department. Her eyes glanced over him, watching him, being neurotic to see what his apparel spoke about Dreogan Eleor. When that seemed to not satisfy her, she drank from the water glass in front of her and simply smiled as she listened to him speak. He was rather intelligent of his surroundings, which made her quite pleased, not to mention she was surprised as well.

"You do us proud, Eleor. Truly," she started, sipping on the water glass as the waiter was seen coming their way very shortly. "I'm sometimes a people's person. It truly depends if they are someone I wish to engage chatter or see, for that matter. Do forgive me if I was crude moments before, seeming slightly bitter. I should be better than that."

A smile was soon on her face as she nodded to him. "I think our waiter's here. We'll talk after, dear." Looking up at the waiter, she smiled. "I'll be having the Jerusalem Artichoke Soup for starters, followed by the smoked salmon fishcakes with gribiche sauce if you don't mind." Looking to Eleor, she nodded her head. "It's your turn, I do believe. Pick us out a good wine, won't you? Ogden's, from personal experience, has never failed."

Dreogan felt himself under close scrutiny and gave a slightly bashful smile at this, but looked at her confidently. It would do no good to be intimidated of a person who had no intention of intimidating, he decided.

"I do what I can," he said, taking a sip of water so he would be obliged to say no more while he formulated a response to her musings.

"I didn't think it reflected anything of importance," he said to her defense. While wishing her to be at ease for this conversation, Dreogan could not help but to derive some assurance from the fact that his superior at the moment displayed a humanity and affability delivered in an  apology.

The waiter then arrived. Dreogan hadn't made his choice. He glanced up and down the menu. He defaulted. Quickly. "Ah . . . fish and chips for the main course," he blushed slightly as he ordered. It was fried, it was tacky, it was the sort of thing a four-year-old boy would order. And he'd just done it.

And he was actually looking forward to it. Dreogan enjoyed true, British food when he came home from his prolonged stays in his other home--the Near East.

"But I'll also have the bruschetta to begin with, in addition to the lady's recommendation for a wine; I'll have water." There. A partial recovery. Dreogan himself didn't drink except occasionally and probably didn't have much of a discerning taste for such things; he'd not trust bungling someone else's drink if he himself wasn't willing to pay the consequences of actually having to drink it.

He smiled crookedly at the difference in their orders. Dreogan ate when he remembered to. He ate crisps. He had sandwiches, he ate gummies and carmac bars. . . And for all the time he'd spent in Jerusalem, he doubted he'd tried anything like a "Jersualem Artichoke Soup."

Fish and chips? Surely, Dreogan . . . no. She mustn't judge - after all, that's probably what he really liked to eat. Bruschetta was something he also enjoyed? That was without a doubt, one of her favorite things. Naturally, it had to be good bread, ripened tomatoes, fresh mozzarella. Her mouth only could salivate as she thought about it. The waiter looked at her and Gabrielle realized that she needed to pick a vintage. "Well, let's see. If there's a 1996 Rose blanche in your stock, that would be wonderful." The waiter all but smiled and nodded as they departed, leaving the two alone once more.

Looking at Eleor, Gabrielle had chosen that vintage for a good reason. "The Rose blanche is one of the Ogden's finer vintages. I remember slightly helping them bring that harvest, so if I remember correctly, we named it on a variation of what we remember of my mother, Mina. It's a rosy color, which sorta fits her and so on and so forth," she mumbled towards the end, gulping down more water.

What a moron she was starting to prove to be, eh? The goofy look on his face soon took her apprehensions away. "So, where were we at in conversation? Oh, yes. People. I'm sometimes a people's person as I said. Overall, I try to watch what I say and do anymore. It's enough to make grey hairs rise before they should." Pick another subject, silly girl, she told herself and so, with a clearing of the throat, she did. "Do you have interests in the fine arts? Like you know, performing either through music or acting?"

Dreogan smiled, intrigued by her story of the wine. She had worked at a vineyard? It sounded like it, at least. Or perhaps there was a familial association with Ogden's? However, Harker dismissed the conversation quickly before Dreogan had a chance to ask.

They'd get back to that, he decided. Possibly when the wine arrived. For now, a direct question was put to him, and Dreogan had the sense enough to answer.

"I do; quite a bit, actually. I don't perform myself except what little piano and violin I picked up as a child--very little, I will add. I do, however, love playing the role of the listener and audience as far as the performing arts go." He gave a bit of a boyish smile and chuckled as he said, "I've probably more exposure to the Muggle variety than wizarding, though, if you can believe it. I once dated a girl while I was in America who had a passion for movies and clubbing. Now, I like Muggle movies, don't get me wrong. But there were only so many things we could do when we were together. . ." he laughed again, bright and melodious. "She wasn't much for genuine conversation, and so I started taking her to see plays and concerts. And you can't very well take a Muggle to anything magical."

He leaned back in his seat, thinking. "She hated it, but I actually like the more modern plays a good deal. And I love jazz. It's just. . ." he shook his head and smiled broadly, "the improvisation, the soul of it . . . but chamber pieces--more classical--are quite enjoyable. And I like some of the pop-wizard stuff you hear. I discovered Benjamin Britten's War Requiem. . . been thinking about that a lot recently, considering. . ." he trailed off and shrugged, a bit ashamed for having opened that can of worms. "As far as visual art, I really like Albina Hormcost's sculpture art. They had some of it in the lobby of the American wizarding embassy, if I recall correctly."

He paused.  "You asked the question--I'm guessing you're an arts enthusiast as well?"

Her heart practically leapt hearing his voice articulate clearly that he was an arts enthusiast. Oh, fortune was gracing her very well this day, apparently. Dreogan was definitely now one of her favorites (as if he hadn't already been as such), no questions asked. A grin appeared on her face shortly as the two glasses and the wine was placed upon the table. A pop later and two pours, the wine was settled on the table, however, Gabrielle was clearly interested in listening to Dreogan instead.

"Oh, my word. Really? I would've found you quite charming, attempting to woo me over. Naturally, I agree. You really cannot expose too much to a Muggle otherwise, you have a million and one questions. My step grandfather was such a case, but God rest his soul, he would have never harmed a fly or told a soul. Now, my brother's father would. He detested the very notion of wizarding schools and such - so much so that he banned my brother from attending Hogwarts. How he pulled that one off is a mystery to me since I never dared to ask."

It was now obvious Gabrielle was becoming more alert and more chatty, so taking a moment to partake of the wine prior to speaking to Dreogan once more. "I've seen some Muggle  musicals and I enjoy them. As for movies, there are very few indeed I can recall watching as a child. Most of them were those cheesy but delightful Corman films with Vincent Price. Overall, I really haven't ever had a chance to see America's fine arts but have heard a great deal about them. I'm sometimes a benefactor and patron, you could say."

A smile remained. Hm. He was a smart one.

"Naturally, I agree. You really cannot expose too much to a Muggle otherwise, you have a million and one questions."

Dreogan gave a well-practised mask of a smile, deciding not to respond to this portion of her comments. He had promised the Ministry to avoid any incendiary comments regarding his less-than-conventional thoughts about Muggle-Mage relations. He had been fortunate that Professor Laevenstrome, the founder of Laevenstrome's Fundunct of Sorcery where he taught had given him so much liberty to be, well, liberal. But it seemed that in many ways, America was the hub of liberal thought. At least as far as magical government went. Maybe it was that whole American Revolution thing.

He enjoyed hearing about her family. A wine named for her mother, a doting step-grandfather . . . he paused as he considered the stepfather. It was a bit perplexing and distressing, to say the least, a father exercising authority in such a way.

"I'm glad that you've managed to contribute to the community. We might as well call you a philanthropist along with patron. . . Saving those starving artists," he said. "So you seem to have grown up in a very Muggle-oriented household. I'm sorry; I don't even know your background any. I'm guessing your stepfather was a Muggle, but your mother was not? And your brother--does he practise magic now?" he asked, brows knitting in concern.

"A philanthropist? Not right now, please. That's meant for later in life, but yes, I believe that could be very beneficial. Then again, I'm not one for the limelight. That would be the Gabrielle of her Hogwarts days, you know. She'd be all wanting for that attention, then of course, what young witch wouldn't at that age?" she commented, finding it rather odd that she was still opening up herself to him. Hm. Most peculiar.

Then, the questions about Mina, Jon (a wrinkled nose expression arose when the word 'stepfather' was mentioned) and then Quince, arose rather formally. She didn't mind them, not one bit, but they did present the opportunity to relive certain memories that Gabie tended to avoid reflecting on. Taking a gulp of water, she recollected her own thoughts along with Dreogan's question before speaking.

"Yes, Jon was a Muggle indeed. Mina, my mother, was a witch. Let's just say that Jon and his mother, Sarah, are ... I mean were the typical type of 'burn the witch at the stake' personality. Magic to them was very foreign, as it can typically be, but with them not being open minded, they found Mina's secret a dishonest move. Not to mention also that the son, my brother, from their relationship was tainted blood. Needless to say, it did not bode well for anyone. My mother died, there's still speculation and I believe that they had a hand in it; as for Quincy, he never quite forgave completely to his father for what he had done. However, Quince is much like his mother and father - the stubborn nature from his mother and the arrogance, which he works hard not to be but is, from his father. Of course, there is a silver lining to the tale: He does practice magic."

What a fairy tale ending you've given, woman, she told herself, completely disapproving of herself, criticizing her actions and lack of open heart to be honest of how she felt. Of course, she never really could anyway. It seemed only family and a few friends new how she truly felt. Perhaps, only Quincy, her father and the Ogden family.

Dreogan laughed merrily at her views of philanthropy. He supposed it fit with her candid confession earlier that she did not love people. In Dreogan's mind, it was never a bad time to love humanity--though always trying--and the habits fostered in the bloom of one's life were usually the ones carried out at the end of it. One did not simply change with age. Mercifully, his mother was a testament to that. She had always been the same: even-tempered, patient, warm . . . There was so much good in humanity, too.

"Well," Dreogan said, eyes gleaming with mirth, "I think if our school-selves had met each other, I would have let you have all the attention. Happily. I never knew what to say or do in front of a crowd." Dreogan's smile grew contemplative. "Unlike you, I don't think I've changed much in that regard."

Being so willing to talk about her past and future selves, Dreogan could not help but return in kind, speaking openly. And as the conversation took a personal turn--Dreogan should have seen that and phrased his question more carefully, he supposed--he was glad he had been so free with his words. He did not feel a bit the eavesdropper, listening. He listened attentively, giving a sympathetic smile.

Yes, he could see where that notion of Muggles came from now. It was sad, really, for there were many--most, in Dreogan's opinion--of the magical community that were equally closed-minded about Muggles. But there was more there than just Muggle-Mage relations, he was sure. There was familial ties, bonds shattered . . . a bad business.

He poured her a glass of wine.

The shift from are to were was troubling. Either something had happened to them both that they were no longer in Harker's life, or in fact in theirs either, or they no longer held the views they once did. Dreogan hoped dearly for the latter. Family was so important.

At the mention of speculative murder however, Dreogan found it much more difficult to talk about. This presented to him over Jerusalem artichoke soup! Dreogan poured himself a glass of wine at this. One of the rare occasions. Maybe it called for it, particularly as this wine was a commemoration of Harker's mother. It was, in ways, an homage. Dreogan understood well the import of symbols and mementos in remembering. At some level, a coping mechanism if used prudently and sparingly.

"I am sorry." He looked across the table at Harker sincerely. He took a sip. He'd not add the heresy of a formal toast, but the sentiment was there. "Your brother--are you close?" he asked, hoping at least that she had some family which she thought of fondly, to which she could turn. He'd not talk about Adon until he heard Harker's response.

Dreogan recalled before moving to America reading a manners book from a Muggle American, hoping to adapt. One piece of advice had always stuck with him: Do not express joy before one sick or in pain for that contrary passion will aggravate his misery. Apparently Muggle America didn't strictly adhere to the advice and codes of conduct of Mr Benjamin Franklin any longer, which in many ways was for the best. . . Lord, he had seemed quite the fool, talking about him with the Americans as though Franklin were a contemporary figure.

He did, however, afford a slight, melancholy smile as he regarded the woman across from him. She was very successful in what she did, keen, and . . . Dreogan couldn't help but feel she was a bit lonely, for all that. More and more, he began to hope that she and Quincy did have a good relationship, that she wasn't driven to her views of people, that she wasn't driven to overworking, or to the sterile beauty of the arts due to a lack of success with her own relationships. It was hard to believe, talking to her pleasantly like this, that she would have a lack of friends. No, he must not have been reading that right.

_{I'm such a dummy for not posting sooner! x.x sorry}

Gabrielle really found Dreogan's semi-cheery deposition relief from the usual stress of the workplace and what with him speaking about more on the relationship between the Harker siblings made Gabrielle miss Quince more. A slight forlorn look appeared for a moment until she picked up the glass of wine he had poured and then, simply raised the glass to him. "Alla vostra salute! To your health!" she remarked, grinning as she drank from it. Perfect. Now back to the questions at hand.

"Yes, Quince and I are rather close, even though we tend to disagree on some things. Then again, what siblings do not? I love him dearly, even if he is a git at times," was her reply to the question about her brother. Thinking of what to bring up next was halted as their appetizers soon came out. Looking at the waiter and ushering a 'thank you,' Gabie stared at the soup and then to Dreogan.

"I don't know why I picked the soup - I must've been thinking about your work in Jerusalem." Awkwardddddddd. Not a move she had intended to remark about but there it was. Good God. She felt as though she'd ruin the night officially now. Just eat the d**n soup and shut up, idiot, she thought and soon enough, began to taste it.

Dreogan nodded in silent acknowledgment of the toast. Typically, he didn't favour attention shifting in his direction, but here, Dreogan would happily make an exception. After her candid confessions and the pain it had brought, he was happy to let her talk about what she would.

At the use of "git," Dreogan cracked a small smile. That hadn't been a word he had been expecting, but almost could not imagine a brother being described in any other way.

And then . . . Jerusalem. Well, Dreogan was willing to let her talk about nearly anything. As he watched her engrossed herself in her soup, he suspected she had sensed the misstep. Time to put his powers of diffusion to work. "Ah. My work in Jersualem." He grinned at this. "You clearly don't think on it much; not enough to be familiar with my file because . . . it was the Negev, actually. When I did go to Jerusalem, though--as my file would tell you--I was a downright bohemian. Unemployed, traveling, odd jobs . . ." He shook his head. "I call it my 'coming of age, rite of passage.' Young adults don't feel complete, I don't think, until they've done something 'edgy.' That's what all my students said in California. Wanted to be 'edgy.' I suspect it's really just a euphemism for 'incredibly stupid.' Still, better than some other things kids could want to be, I guess!" He shifted in his seat slightly and began to pick at his bruschetta. "Unless, of course, you're talking about our work in Jerusalem. The cases you give me. I do work very hard on those. Still the traveling, but less odd jobs. And I think we can agree that my desk work now is far from edgy." He laughed at this, at the mundane nature of his tasks and yet, due to his background, they seemed nearly exotic. The glorified, stable office job.

 "I have been meaning to thank you--it's been about two years in the coming--for hiring me." Dreogan knew that he had been a difficult hire for the Ministry, particularly in International Cooperation due to his affiliation with a top secret research organisation, and a multi-national sense of loyalty. He knew for a fact that his hiring procedure had been more difficult, the security clearances a pain and more tedious, and his employee file one of the thickest seen in the Ministry in the past decade. Dreogan was not a criminal or insurrectionist but, at certain angles, he may have appeared to have been.

"The job's given me an opportunity to go back to Jersualem often; I've got a brother there--a younger. Adon. You may have heard of him. He's cross-listed with 'git' in the dictionary. Right next to Quince." He laughed. "You know, if I didn't go to Jerusalem as often as I did, I wonder if he would ever do the laundry or clean the place. . . he's a determined bachelor and quite enjoys the life. It's 'edgy,' you know." He laughed, taking a sip now of the wine, realising that by some odd stroke of chance, he quite liked bruschetta with wine. It seemed so refined, so . . . unlike him.

"This is excellent wine, by the way. Excellent choice."