Dreogan had been back in town for a day now and he had made a solemn--or nearly so--pact with his neighbour.

When he and Moira Randall had been talking one day in front of their complex of wizarding flats--conveniently tucked behind a Greek Orthodox church in Bayswater--both had confided their dread of cooking for one. There was something so depressing about it, Moira had said. Dreogan had confessed that he . . . simply didn't.

And that did it.

Wednesday nights, should Dreogan be in town and Moira be working dayshifts instead of night, they would meet together to cook. Due to conflicting schedules, this had happened twice: once at his--he had cooked spaghetti with little incident or damage to the kitchen--and once at hers--she had cooked salmon crusted in panko and honey dijon.

He was going to her house for dinner tonight.

Dreogan, of course, had insisted that he help and so brought his lettuce tomato, onion, and avocados. Ascending to the upper level, where Moira lived just a floor above him, Dreogan tucked the bag under his arm and knocked on the door, standing on the doorstep and smiling in anticipation. Two nights in a row of legitimate dinner! That is . . . if he managed to pick the vegetables right.

Work had gone smoothly, the trip back to her flat had been uneventful, and Moira was thankfully distracting herself with preparations for dinner with Dreogan.  It was their third dinner, and he had quiet willingly allowed her to cook twice in a row.  Their Wednesday dinners had been a natural choice after their conversation on the steps the first day they met.  He had made the mistake of admitting he did not cook for just himself, and the caretaker in her had jumped at the chance to rectify the situation.

She was currently gathering the ingredients for a Roman inspired chicken recipe and trying not to think about the last few days.  The danger was the conversation with Knox and the incident at the book store were still so fresh in her mind.  She refused to dwell on those things tonight and she was thankful when she heard the knock on the door.

Leaving the supplies for a moment, she moved across the apartment, unlocking the door with a smile.  He was holding a bag that should contain supplies for the salad that evening.  She had left the appropriate knives and a bowl out for him, deciding he would be in charge of that aspect of dinner.

'Hey there!" she greeted as warmly as possible, stepping aside to let him in as the previous forty-eight hours were practically forgotten.  She had hidden the bruises on her arm with her clothing and throat with charms, and some make-up just in case.  There was no need to alarm anyone else.  "Come on in, I was just getting started."

Dreogan's smile widened as Moira waved him in. "Smells good," he said, looking at the spread out ingredients and preparations underway as one might inspect a rare document preserved beneath glass. "Ah. . . did you want me to help with . . .?" he looked nervously at the thawed chicken.

"I er, brought the salad," he added. "Well, it's not salad yet."

He laid the bag down onto a spare piece of counter and, glancing over his shoulder to watch her progress at laying things out, spread his ingredients out carefully.

You probably wash these, part of him said.

Out loud, he said, "So, how has London been treating you? I'm sorry I haven't been around; I was supposed to be the welcome wagon."

Moira felt a bit more at ease as the conversation began.  It had been that was the first few times they did this, and she found it extremely refreshing.  She had no expectations for their time together other then dinner and an adult conversation, and she had a distinct feeling he might feel the same.  It was just nice to have a regular, or semi-regular, dinner night with someone.

"So, how has London been treating you? I'm sorry I haven't been around; I was supposed to be the welcome wagon."

In her mind she thought, Well, so far work has been normal.  But other then that I haven’t done that much worth talking about…accept figure out I have a Muggle stalker, a criminal whose done goodness knows what looking for me to be his personal Mediwitch, and, oh yes, I’ve attracted the attention of the Minister of Magic.  Just a normal welcome home!  However, she kept all of those thoughts to herself.  She hadn’t seen the Daily Prophet yet that day, and she truly hoped she was not front page news.

“Work and getting settled here have been keeping me fairly busy,” she said, keeping her focus on the chicken as she spoke.  “I did manage to see any old friend of mine from school at the ministry the other day.  I haven’t seen her in years…She was like an older sister to me at Hogwarts so it was wonderful to have a few minutes to catch up.  How have you been?”

Dreogan began to cut the lettuce as he spoke. "Fairly busy is good. I like the additions to the apartment," he said, looking about. Last time he had visited, she had only been in a week and was acquiring furniture still. To be honest, Dreogan had not noticed what specific additions had been made, but he did notice the flat looked, on the whole, more orderly. While Dreogan was no aesthete, he was clean and tidy. His apartment in many ways looked spartan, but what pieces there were were put together well and kept in good repair. It was girls--women--they had the eye for that sort of thing. Dreogan, however, liked to think himself a bit neater than the average male. Certainly more so than his brother, whose flat in West Jerusalem resembled a shambles. Well, it was nice to be here.

Still, she seemed a bit laconic as she spoke and an unknown expression pulled at the corners of Dreogan's mouth--nearly a frown. However, at the mention of a friend at the ministry, he smiled. That was better. "Oh? Well, I'm glad. You seemed a little nervous at re-acculturating yourself here. I didn't think you would have much trouble with it, though. I mean," he said, pausing and looking at the sliced lettuce. He stopped. "Was I supposed to wash the lettuce before? I think I was." He looked at her a little anxiously and, scooping up the lettuce in his hands, turned on the sink faucet with a pinky, holding the handful of romaine under the spout a little precariously. He shook it and continued talking. "I mean, I didn't go to school here, but I've had a visit with some of my friends from when I was a child. I'm gone half the time, but I still have people to visit. These friends, they've grown up," he said with a broad smile as he remembered the encounter, "in ways. But certainly not in others." He'd not elaborate on the conversation with the Grimlishes, and even felt his cheeks grow hot at the remembrance of the conversation.

At the question to how he was, he gave a contemplative, silent smile for a few moments as he laid out the lettuce. "Good. Busy, but good. I think I've finally adapted back to Britain's time, so no more sleepless nights and sleeping days--would you believe it? I fell asleep in the library!" Dreogan laughed here and proceeded work on chopping a tomato. "Ah, do you want these diced?" He looked at the tomato, which looked nearly mashed in the attempt to dice. "Slices good?" he corrected, thinking this would be much easier. Well, he was not going to be a sous-chef any time soon and he trusted Moira would forgive him. It felt nice, in a way, to spend time with her. He had nothing to prove, no agenda but to be her friend and keep her company.

Some of this was due, in part to the fact that Dreogan had made such a miserable failure of his first go at dinner that she could hardly be surprised anymore. Notwithstanding this, she had said nothing and so it felt like an unwritten agreement between them. At least he hoped that was the case, for he was standing there mashing tomatoes in a spotty jumper and birkenstocks.

"I guess the true test of whether or not I've adapted would be if I manage to make it through dinner without falling asleep in the salad." He laughed then quickly added, "Not that you aren't very amiable company, of course." He moved on to the onion and paused, the knife in hand, hovering.

Tough one. He knew he must cut it in half, but which way? Vertical or horizontal? He chose and, upon looking at his handiwork, decided he had chosen poorly. "Diced?" he asked as he proceeded because, really, there was nothing else that could be done. "Oh, I meant to ask you. I sometimes listen to music at night--and I mentioned I've been up most nights this week. The sound doesn't carry up to here, does it? I figured you didn't come home until late . . ."

Dreogan cringed inwardly at this. It sounded downright stalkerish, but he was a man who kept a constant eye and ear on his surroundings and couldn't help but notice when he heard the shufflings overhead. . . Part of him realised that these facts did not compute with the account she had given him. If she had no time for socialising but for a couple of minutes with a friend, but was back late at night, despite being on day shifts . . .

Well, she had not needed to account for every minute of every day. He wasn't an inquisitor, though he found himself slightly curious. After all, he reasoned further, he had not mentioned the specifics of his conversation with the Grimlishes, or dinner with Harker, or being bit by Salwa Bernier . . . because they were details he hadn't wanted to share off the cuff.

"But if you're fond of jazz and string quartets," he said, looking up from cutting until he considered he ought to keep both eyes on the knife at all times, "maybe you don't mind so much . . . anyways, as I said, I'm sleeping at night now, so you might not hear much more if it anyhow."

"Fairly busy is good. I like the additions to the apartment.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking over at him with a smile before turning to start heating the oil in a large skillet.  She had bought a few new homey touches, unpacking some of the other items she had brought with her from America.  It had made the move feel more permanent, more planned and less of a last minute decision she was practically forced in to.

She listened as he spoke of friends and getting re-acclimated with London.  She had been a bit nervous.  America certainly wasn’t that different, but she really hadn’t visited the city in the seven years she was there.  Of course she had visited her family, but most of those trips revolved around her childhood house, not adventures into the city beyond it.  She didn’t comment on the lettuce, knowing the salad would taste fine, not matter what it looked like.

“It was amazing to think just how much everyone I knew has changed and yet some things were exactly the same,” she said, smiling at the memory of her visit with Akiva.  She didn’t press for more information on his visits.  It was sort of becoming an unwritten rule, if they wanted to talk about something they would share it.

"Good. Busy, but good. I think I've finally adapted back to Britain's time, so no more sleepless nights and sleeping days--would you believe it? I fell asleep in the library!"

She couldn’t help laughing a bit at his mention of the library.  He probably knew her friend, and she thought perhaps she’d ask her during their up coming ‘girl’s night.’   She nodded at his questions about the vegetables, not commenting on his slicing skills as she worked on the chicken.  He was trying his best, and that was all she would ask.

"I guess the true test of whether or not I've adapted would be if I manage to make it through dinner without falling asleep in the salad.  Not that you aren't very amiable company, of course."

She laughed with him, as she answered, “Believe me, I more then understand the feeling.  I’ve had to try to function after all night shifts and it can be quite a challenge.  I can remember on time my parents came to visit and insisted on having lunch in this fancy restaurant after I had worked nearly twelve hours.  It was the longest lunch of my life.”

She nodded again at his question about the onions as she turned the chicken over in the skillet.  "Oh, I meant to ask you. I sometimes listen to music at night--and I mentioned I've been up most nights this week. The sound doesn't carry up to here, does it? I figured you didn't come home until late . . ."  She looked at him for a moment, knowing her footsteps would surely carry down to his flat.  The past few days had been quite late for her…there was a night shift, a trip to the Leaky Cauldron after work, and of course the previous day’s events.  There was also the fact that she also awoke often in the middle of the night

"But if you're fond of jazz and string quartets maybe you don't mind so much . . . anyways, as I said, I'm sleeping at night now, so you might not hear much more if it anyhow."

“I hadn’t really noticed,” she said easily with a smile.  “I’m a bit of a night owl myself and I love music anyway, so it wouldn’t have bothered me.  Hopefully you can’t hear me scurrying around here at night too much.  I tend to be up late reading most nights.”

That was certainly the truth.  A true Ravenclaw, she was always looking for new healing topics to study.  It would only serve her well in the future.  When she wasn’t doing that there was often some work of fiction before her to get lost in whenever her mind would not allow her to sleep.

“I think the chicken is almost ready.  How’s the salad coming?”

"I hadn’t really noticed. I’m a bit of a night owl myself and I love music anyway, so it wouldn’t have bothered me.  Hopefully you can’t hear me scurrying around here at night too much.  I tend to be up late reading most nights.”

"Don't worry about it. I'm a light sleeper, but I'm used to it. Doesn't bother me. What do you read? Anything good?" Dreogan asked, interested and a bit envious. There was a time when he had been an avid reader. Very academic. The top of his class, in fact. While remnants of his learning still lingered in his speaking vocabulary from time to time and certainly his writing, he had not had the chance for academic reading or research. He dearly missed that.

As it was, Dreogan felt this new knowledge was practical, hard, and rough-and-tumble. It was real-world knowledge, not the delightful, aesthetic, organised theses and propositions of theorists. To be honest, Dreogan felt he was slipping. His education had been cut short and he never had learned as much as many of his classmates. And yet he had been forced to learn much more than them. The harder lessons. Ones that weren't in books. Like what it was like to . . .

Dreogan smiled. "I'm looking for book recommendations," he added. "Who knows. I might just get to read one one of these days."

When she announced that the chicken was nearly done, Dreogan's eyes widened. "Already?" he asked incredulously. "Well. . ." He scooped the vegetables up quickly in his hands, dropped them into the bowl, and shifted it about a little, shaking it, then tossing it so that all the good stuff wasn't at the bottom. He hated that. "Well, I am done," he said with a teasing pride. "I may even pour us some drinks," he said, then realised he had no idea what she might have. "Did you want anything other than water?"

“Don't worry about it. I'm a light sleeper, but I'm used to it. Doesn't bother me. What do you read? Anything good?  I'm looking for book recommendations.  Who knows. I might just get to read one one of these days."

“Depends on my mood,” Moira told him, flipping the chicken one final time and letting it cook for another minute.  “Most of the time I’m usually flipping through a healing journal trying to keep up on the latest techniques and research.  Keeps me sharp…Workaholic, I know.  Unless you’re trying to keep ahead of the next wave of healers like me, it would probably put you right to sleep.”

She smirked a little as she said it.  The articles in the journals she read tended to be very dry…she had much preferred the hands on approach.  However, as her student days were over there was really no other way to stay current.  She added with a slight laugh, “That might really put your theory of your adaptation to the test.”

When he asked about drinks she knew the answer would be relatively easy.  He didn’t drink, and she didn’t during their meals so as not to make him uncomfortable.  Plus, as fond as she was of firewhiskey, it could easily become more then just an occasional thing.  She didn’t want to walk the fine line of what was both social acceptable and healthy.

“Water for me, but I have pumpkin juice if you prefer that,” she said, the sound of an owl at the window drawing her attention away from the conversation.  The Daily Prophet had arrived, it seemed, a bit later then usual.  Taking the chicken off the heat she moved over to the window to claim her paper and other mail.  Part of her wanted to put off looking at it until she was alone, but she wanted to be sure her dinner wouldn’t be interrupted by a frantic visit from her family.

Unfolding the paper, she scanned the front page and her eyes went wide.  Towards the bottom on the right side was the article she had been dreading.  Her name appeared clearly within the first few lines, in bold letters, and she fought the urge to swear under her breath. 

"Ah, well," Dreogan laughed as he pulled out two glasses and then moved to the freezer to rein for some ice. Workaholic. Who wasn't? he wondered.

"I'm glad you get a chance to read that. It's certainly the most sensible thing for you to be reading. Though not just you. I really think that healing is one of the most important things a mage can learn." Dreogan had a personal, strong conviction of this which carried through his voice. He considered the various times he had needed that knowledge, the various people it might have helped. He pressed on and moved to the sink to fill the glasses with water.

"I know I've more than once tried to sit down and read up a bit more on it, but they're probably like your journals. I couldn't get two sentences before I no longer knew what they were talking about. If you have any recommendations--just the basics," he said as he finished with the water and moved to the table to set them down at their places.

At this moment, The Daily Prophet seemed to arrive. "Now that," he said nodding to it, "is the sort of reading I do. But I subscribe to seven newspapers--magical and muggle. . ." He watched her back tense and, setting down the glasses, moved towards her side, looking first at her to read her expression, then following the trajectory of her gaze.

"Is . . . everything alright?" he said, scanning quickly and catching several words--and names--which made his eyebrows rise. He frowned and set his jaw. "Moira?"

"Of all the things they could choose to put on the bloody front page," Moira mumbled slightly, scanning the article again.  "My mother is going to be a wreck."

She set the paper aside with a slight sigh before looking over at him.  Reading his expression she knew there was really no way around explaining things too him.  Besides, he could simply read about it in his own copy, along with the rest of the Wizarding world.  As thankful as she was Marcus had been there, she was suddenly wishing the entire incident had gone unnoticed.

"I...It's not as big a deal as they've made it sound," she said, not really believing her own words.  Even with the Ministry involved Donelly had her name and address.  He could find her if he wanted to, and she was sure he could find a way to get to her again.  It would probably excite him more to try to do so with the Ministry involvement.

"Let's just go back to dinner, shall we?" she continued, trying to give him a sincere smile.  "You know how those papers are…They tend to make everything seem worse then it is.  It’s fine…honestly.”

The art of the understatement was quickly becoming her specialty.  If the bruising had been visible she highly doubted she would have been able to pass it off as nothing.  Turning, she made her way back to the stove, grabbing the two dishes she had laid out earlier, sure this was not the end of the conversation.

Dreogan listened silently as she explained--tried to rationalise her way out of this. The moment she began to move towards the dishes, Dreogan moved deliberately towards the newspaper and read the first few lines. All he had seen before was "abduction."

And really, that had been enough. But the few other facts he gleaned from the paper were not encouraging, either. "That may be," he conceded about her quips to the media. "The media loves to fuel fire, appeal to peoples' most passionate and vindictive natures, but Moira . . . abduction is never a fine thing. It's never fine," he said, holding the paper for her to see and moving to the table where she now stood.

"Were you?"

Setting the dishes down, Moira took a moment before answering.  She obviously couldn't lie...Aside from it not being within her nature to do so, she also wasn't the type that could conceivably help someone like Donelly willingly.  However, to admit the truth meant she had to deal with the facts of what had happened again.

“Yes,” she began softly.  “I was in Flourish and Blotts yesterday reading when this man appeared out of nowhere.  Before I even knew he was there he hit me with a silencing charm and demanded I go with him.  It was such a blur, but we went outside and apparated to…to some house somewhere and the next thing I knew I was staring at this huge gash in his harm that needed tending to know.”

It had been that moment that she had come back into full awareness of the situation.  When she had looked at his arm and saw the wound her focus had suddenly returned and the blurring stopped.  She decided to skip over some of the details, like the near choking she had received, moving along with the story instead.

“I cleaned the wound and mended it, and he brought me back to the shop,” she said.  “He wanted all of my information though…something about liking my work…”

((OOC: Some of this has not happened yet, but it has been talked over))

Dreogan listened to each word with an intense interest. As she drew to a close, Dreogan closed his eyes and expelled his breath. "Oh, Moira," he said sympathetically and pulled out a chair for her to sit in, then pulled up the second chair to sit beside her.

"I'm so sorry this has happened to you. You've taken it to the authorities--that is good." He didn't want to alarm her. He wanted her to feel empowered in this situation. He couldn't point out to her the inadequacies that any government or policing force faced when trying to trace thousands of criminals and their millions of victims. There was only so much that could be done, and law enforcers could not always trace every step of every person, leaving gaps of vulnerability.

And this happend when the law enforcers decided to do something. Dreogan knew of many cases--knew too well--where they did not. Instances when they feared involvement might lead to greater danger.

"I'm sure it was hard, but you were right in going along with his requests at that time," he said gently.  Had she resisted--and resisted poorly--his anger would have been flared, leading to an act of vengeance and domination to crush the resistance. Droegan's lips formed a grim, determined line. "But that doesn't mean it ever has to happen again. Did you give him your information?" To Dreogan, this was the most ominous part. Not because he himself lived below her, but because she had likely given the information compulsorily . . . which to the criminal, would be as good as an engraved invitation.

He'd feel it was his right, and a sense of entitlement led to the worst crimes imaginable.

"Listen," he said, nearly to himself as his mind began to spin, "there are things that can be done . . . precautions to be made, both here and . . . and anywhere you go. If you would like, I can show you."

Moira gratefully took the seat he had pulled out for her, settling herself down as he spoke.  She hated having others worry about her, she was the one who was supposed to worry.  She had always been the strong one to see everyone else through difficult situations.  It didn't feel right that the roles were now so completely reversed in nearly everything she did.

She didn't tell him that the authorities were waiting for her by a stroke of luck.  If Marcus had not witnessed her being dragged from the store and apparated away she wasn't entirely sure she would have gone to the authorities.  At the time she had very little information to go one.  She didn't know where he had taken her or who he was.  She felt like a fool who would have only been putting herself in more danger.

"Did you give him your information?"

"Yes...If I didn't he would have killed me on the spot, and if I gave him the wrong information he would have found me...I'm not that hard to find being he knows what I do for a living," she replied.

She felt stupid for giving him the information so willingly, but the thought of having him track her down at work or even to here scared her.  It might put others in danger where there was no need for it.  At the time she had rather hoped if he needed her again it would simply be another relatively quick encounter.

"What kind of precautions?" she asked when he had finished speaking.  Increasing the security on her flat was fine, but she wasn't sure exactly what he meant.

Dreogan nodded. Again, in the circumstances, with her so unprepared and overwhelmed, it was the only thing that could have been done.

"Any and everything that's necessary," Dreogan said in a kind and understated manner, hoping to curb her anxiety at least on this issue. "Some surveillance established around the home--and I'll extend my wards to incorporate the stairwell. If he approaches from below, he can't get through to you without going through my spells first."


Dreogan's eyes glowed with -- not excitement, passion would be nearer to the term. He was in his element. He was of use. It had been a while since he could help anyone in this way, though Dreogan himself was tempted to utilise all his abilities to track down this Donelly himself. He knew this would jeopardise more than it would gain, especially since he didn't have the support of any of the "officials," of course. And he wished to put his efforts towards helping Moira, not hurting Donelly. That had always been one of his professors' strongest critiques when he had professed his interest in becoming an Auror.

He was not a combatant. He was a defender. For a brief time in Israel, Dreogan had found his calling in life as he protected the security and secrecy of his community. It had been to his own detriment and disappointment, however, that this community had ended up being a highly controversial community frowned down upon my most magical governments. Dreogan, when of an age to understand the intricacies of politics, quitted the place and forfeited a role in life he had never been able to find again, though in ways, he had attempted it in his teaching and in his current job. But this--this mattered to him in ways that teaching and diplomacy did not, though he felt strongly the importance of both.

He took a deep breath as he thought over what the situation required. "I think, since he took you from a public setting last time, this man is relatively confident in his abilities--probably with reason--and is clearly shameless. It would be wise to brush up some of your defensive spells and add some new skills. Scrying, warding, deflecting . . . The sorts of things that will help you resist a future attack. If you don't mind, I think we should start this as soon as we can."

He was quiet for several more moments before he said, "And, if you don't mind, Moira, I think, if you'd like, tonight it might be best if I were to sleep on your couch." He blushed as he said this, for it was an obvious and likely unwanted intrusion, but Dreogan himself knew he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink knowing that a man wanted access to his friend and he had not done all he could. Dreogan wouldn't have time to set up a proper, defensible ward with permanent effect before he left tonight--that sort of thing required a familiarity with the surroundings and various complex spells. "That way," he said, looking at her, "both of us might actually have a chance of sleeping." He thought back on the pacing he had heard the night before. And no wonder! he thought, smiling again at her empathetically.

There had been a time--several times--in Dreogan's life when he had spent many nights pacing, wondering when they would come for him . . .