June 21
11:30pm
Holding Cell

A figure slept on the metal-framed bed in the closet-sized cell.  It was never truly dark down here, and never truly illuminated which gave the whole experience a hazy, tepid feeling of grogginess.  A month must have passed by now, but it didn't feel like routine.  It felt like anxious, tense, claw-the-walls waiting and apprehension. 

Nathan Briggs had broken into the Magicarium Apothecarium and stolen something they were calling the muhra glass, they being the Department of Mysteries.  They were not so easy to predict as the Aurors, and Nate figured from the little bit he could pick up that there was some question over who he belonged to.  And so a month had passed with little to no action on his file.

Level Two was pissed right off that he'd fired against a Hitwizard - you weren't supposed to do that.  But Level Nine was in a twist, an unrelenting twist, about the muhra glass and the implications that it was unaccounted for.

Unaccounted for because Nate had as of yet refused to cop to taking it.  Which wasn't the tricky part.  Obviously he'd taken it.  It was missing.  The Hitwizard and the bloke from Level Nine had seen him take it.  Heard him summon it by name.  The tricky bit was that he wouldn't say where he sent it.  And he didn't plan to.  He'd learned his lesson about snitching.  He was a quick learner, that Nate Briggs.

Any journey to the cells on Level Ten felt a little like traveling into some deep, decrepit dungeon somewhere.  Despite the clean upkeep and the lack of anything resembling an iron maiden, Jonas still half-expected to hear distant, gurgling screams or see rats scurrying down the corridors between cramped, unmarked cells.

He'd left Briggs' file upstairs.  Most of it, he had memorized -- at least the parts of it that he had access to.  The Department of Mysteries had been particularly close-mouthed about this bloke, and most of the conclusions he'd drawn were from reading between the lines.  Briggs was a Knockturn rat through and through.  Arrested for Muggle-baiting.  Married to Wiedman.  He'd been nominally involved in the Runespoor mess; his singing-like-a-songbird to Adon had gotten the Ministry its first big break back in October.  Though the Hogwarts graduate wasn't a career criminal, judging by his recent spat of run ins with the law and growingly frequent arrests, he seemed to be making all the wrong decisions to get him on that path.

The fact that his wife had seen fit to marry him spoke better of Nathan Briggs than anything that Jonas's partner might say.  Briggs was self-serving and not entirely as bright as he might think he was, but Jonas liked Dazmond Wiedman.  The witch had spirit; she'd dealt with him fairly, even if he couldn't reasonably say the same; and much like he felt towards Aberdeen Spencer, he owed her.

That unspoken sense of debt was what brought him down here now.  This wasn't his case; it wasn't in any reasonable shape or form tied in to his investigation, although it would be easy enough to make a convincing argument if he were challenged.  But all that didn't matter.  Dazmond Wiedman had made a request, and as much as he could, he was going to honor it. 

Of course, he'd much rather honor it in the middle of the night when no one was likely to make uncomfortable inquiries like what exactly he was doing sticking his nose into this mess, but he was still going to honor it all the same.

Briggs was stretched out on the bed, apparently snoozing.  Jonas watched him thoughtfully for a moment, watching through the cold metal bars, and then raised a hand to rap on the door of the cell. 

"Well, good news, mate."  He spoke up cheerfully, arms crossed as he regarded the groggy Briggs.  "Turns out you didn't accidentally kill your own grandfather by mucking about with that Muhra Glass.  Now we've just got to make certain that the rest of the timeline made out alright." Jonas cocked an eyebrow, giving the younger man a quizzical look. "Haven't noticed any odd temporal shifts about lately, have you?  Chimpanzees in an unexpected position of power?  Strange dictators holding on to power where they shouldn't be?"

A clank of metal and a voice roused Nate from his shaky slumber and he rolled over to look at where the voice was coming from.  He blinked blearily over his shoulder through the bars at the ...Auror...(he took a second to register) standing there.  It felt like the middle of the night - not that he had any way of telling time.

"What time is it.  Who're you...?" he asked.  Then, without caring about the answer, "Dunno what you're talking about.  Go away."  His voice was slurry and lethargic and there didn't seem to be much behind his words right now other than instinct and the desire to be sleeping.

Slowly but steadily, the words spoken a few moments ago began to slide into meaningful places in Nate's brain.  His face told the tale as actual deliberate emotion (and not the sleep-need) took over his facial expression and other motor skills.  He pressed himself up to sitting and finally focused full on the red-headed Auror he'd seen before.

He rubbed his face with his hand and then asked, some notes of hostility replaced by curiosity. 

"Did you say chimpanzees?"  He set his feet down on the floor and blinked hard.  "I don't know any chimpanzees, bruv.  What time is it?" 

"You sure about that?" Jonas asked brightly, his tone far too cheerful for the middle of the night.  The endless possibilities of clever Muggle movie references always left him with an adrenaline rush unlike any other.  "Temporally disoriented," he observed.  "Don't have a photograph of your family handy, do you, mate?  Maybe we ought to check up again on your grandfather."

He felt -- almost felt -- for the man before him.  The Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries still made the hair on Jonas's neck rise unlike any other set of Ministry employees.  Colin Downer was one of the more friendly, likable ones, and he'd seen what the researcher did to bodies.  He wasn't entirely sure what interest they had in Briggs -- there was only so much he could find out by idly glancing through a file -- but the man had been in custody for over a month.  It couldn't have been a pleasant experience.

He wasn't about to make it any more pleasant.  There was a limit to how much he was willing to owe Wiedman.  But wheels were slowly turning in his head.  Favors worked both ways.  And there was a possibility of turning this into something that could be very useful.

"Alright, Briggs," he said, jerking his head up in an obvious command to rise.  "On your feet.  You and I, we're going to take a walk."

Nate still couldn't make heads or tails of what the Auror was talking about.  Unless he was making a joke about the grandfather paradox, but he didn't really give Aurors that much credit.  Plus the nature of what he'd stolen wasn't common knowledge, or so he'd sorted out.  Most people, like Nate, had never heard of a muhra glass.  And those that did had never tried using one since the rumors about them were so forbidding.

He just stared up from the bed at the Auror with a sort of patient tolerance on his countenance - waiting for the jolly turnkey to get to the point.

When he did, Nate's heart sank into the very pit of his stomach, and a rush of the four humors hit his bloodstream.  That was the thing with Aurors.  It was impossible to trust a person who had total authority over you, wasn't it.  Sure, there were laws.  But a law wasn't a thing that swooped down to stay a flicking wand from casting.  A law was a nothing. A bit of writing on a bit of paper and no good to someone like Briggs who just had to hope the Auror cared enough about bits of writing on bits of paper. 

But then, there were ways to avoid brushes with Aurors and Nate had made...divergent choices.

With a noticeable moment's hesitation, Nate sat still.  Even yet was he considering the option of complying or not, so against his comforts was being ordered around.  So reviling to him was obedience. 

But finally Nate placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself to standing.  He picked up the grey striped tunic off the floor and pulled it over his head.  As he did this, (with a deliberate slowness), he tried to clever out what the nature of the visit was - strange time of night, just the one Auror, no file, no guard - it wasn't the usual procedure so his guesswork was coming up inconclusive.

"Trevelyan," Nate read the Auror's badge as he approached the bars.  "Historian," he noted.

"Any use asking what this's about?  I'll save you some time: I don't know where it is."

But he did.  When they dumped his wand after the burglary they'd have found a very particular type of Vanishing spell.  Not a Disappearing Spell, but a Sending Spell.  A spell with a destination. 

He raised his eyebrows at the Auror.  His posture was slack, his expression as bored as he could make it.  Whatever he could do to fight off the dread in his gut.

"Where what is?" Jonas asked mildly.  He kept his expression impassive, mildly friendly, as he watched the kid watching him and then as he slowly rose to his feet. 

No -- not a kid, not exactly.  He wasn't going to fall into that trap.  Briggs was twenty-six years old: he had spent his latest birthday in the holding cell just over a week ago.  When Jonas had been that age, he had already been married with a kid, both of which events had happened in suspiciously quick succession.  Briggs might be young, but he'd had enough time to learn.  He'd made his own decisions.  There wasn't any game that would be won by underestimating him.

Either way, the man seemed sharp, even when he'd been woken in the middle of the night.  Weighing, judging, considering -- obviously deciding.  He could reason this through for himself.  That made this entire enterprise all the more dangerous, and yet with the potential to be much more interesting.  Jonas found himself liking the not-kid already.

He unlocked the door, and then pulled it open.  His wand went back in his pocket.  The presence of the cool cedar was comforting enough; he didn't need to wave some symbol of authority in Briggs' face.

"Well, to be honest, I was hoping you might do me a favor," he said, glancing to make certain that the younger man was going to accompany him before starting off down the corridor.  There wasn't exactly anywhere to run on Level Ten; even with his limp, he could draw the wand quicker than Briggs could dodge around a corner. 

"I was puzzling through a case, but I could use a second opinion on it.  Have you got a few minutes?" he asked amiably.  There was nothing in either his expression or his voice that even hinted that temporarily springing suspected criminals in the middle of the night so that he could inquire after their legal opinions was anything but perfectly usual.  "I reckon you might lend a unique perspective."

Trevelyan opened the cell door and then just went on down the corridor.  Nate followed, and again the thought of bad behavior crossed his mind.  It was the same feeling he'd had even as a kid - make them work for it.  Make the parents, make the teachers, make the police, make the Aurors - make them work for their paycheck.  Force them into an ultimatum.  But he followed, opting for the easier path.

From the incarcerated life, one of dismal predictability, to whatever this was proved both crazy-making and curious both.  As he followed along fully awake now, he couldn't help but find the tingle of fun in it.  The small thrill of something different.  But then, at the end of the night he'd wake up in a cell again and there was no questioning that.

Wait, look at that - Auror Trevelyan had a hitch his step.  Really.  Nate noted it with gravity.

Trevelyan chatted on as if they were peers.  As if one of them didn't had a wand and the leave to use it and the other wasn't wearing stripes.  So no matter how cheerful, the Auror struck Nate as phony as hell.  Any illusion of equal footing or honesty between them was bullshit.  Of course.  Their personal goals were not in harmony.  Out vs In.

"Have I got a few minutes?" he echoed, roundly removed from his sense of footing with the revelation about this little trip.  He scoffed.  Damned comedian, is he?  Fine.  They could be funny.

"Oh yea, mate.  Sure. Be chuffed to do it.  I do so love being of service to our knights in scarlet.  Lead on, sir," he said to the back of the Auror's head without any of the mirthful tone his words might otherwise carry with them.

"This fecking guy..." he said out loud to himself, marveling at the theater of the absurd that was unfolding around him. 

They'd just hit the heavy door at the end of this row, and Nate stopped a few paces behind the Auror. 

The words were loud enough to carry.  Jonas cracked a grin as he tried the door at the end of the hall.  He led Briggs through that door, down a second corridor, and then through another, until they finally ended in an empty room that gamely illuminated itself as he pushed open the door.

This was relatively spartan as far as anything associated with the Wizengamot went.  The room itself looked ancient, with carved frescoes on the stone walls and enormous busts of ancient wizards glaring challengingly down at them, but it had the lived-in look of a chamber that was used for less than formal purposes.  Someone more liberal about appearances -- which, on the Wizengamot, meant anyone under the age of 85 -- had moved in a table and some chairs some years ago, which looked as though they'd been recently used for a rousing game of Wizards' Poker.  A magical kettle stood with bare feet on a stone countertop, something inside it bubbling and churning as it wriggled its toes impatiently.

"You like coffee?" Jonas asked over his shoulder as he started for the pot.  It happily froze as soon as his hand grazed the handle.  It was surrounded by a pile of cups, each of varying condition and cleanliness; judging by the looks of them, they'd been collected over the past seventy years and had been scoured infrequently since then.  Apparently the members of the Wizengamot had other things to worry about than doing their own dishes.

"You'll be happy to know, Mr Brigg," he began, as he carefully selected the cleanest mug he could find from the pile,  "that I'm not assigned to your case.  But I was glancing through the file earlier."

The incident had seemed relatively straightforward, especially after some of the casework that had sent his and Adon's head spinning recently.  Briggs wasn't a career criminal; he'd been caught in the act, and he wasn't going to get off the hook.  Armed robbery was a serious offense even in the magical world.  Jonas had three equally likely guesses as to where the object might have gone -- but to be fair, he held a few trump cards in the form of a pleading letter from Dazmond and the private surveillance he'd performed back in November and December.

"So in this case," he began, lifting the pot to pour it, "we've got a bloke -- not one with a long rap sheet, but one who occasionally mucks around a bit -- who gets nipped whilst stealing an object from a local curiosities shop.  No history of burglary, nothing to suggest that this is a regular hobby of his, but he's caught in the act nonetheless.  The object in question is both expensive and obscure; considering its supposed use in potion making, and considering the fact that he took the time to handle it with appropriate care, it's reasonable to conclude that he was specifically targeting it." 

The fact that he'd been caught at all had to sting, seeing Briggs now.  The younger man was clearly a thinker; he didn't seem the type to be in the habit of making random, rash decisions.  Stupid ones, certainly.  But not rash.  Whatever his reason for stealing the bloody glass thing, he must have had them.

The coffee had finished pouring.  Jonas set the kettle down, gave it a grateful pat, and reached for the sugar.  "Our man," he went on, giving Briggs a quizzical look, "rents a flat at a hotel in Knockturn Alley -- so as far as the Ministry are concerned, he's already suspect.  A point of interest is the fact that he's married to a known potion dealer, who is known to associate with a darker crowd."  He dumped a couple of spoonfuls in, and then began to mix it, glancing thoughtfully at Briggs.  "Last time he was brought in, he had no problem ratting his employer of several years out, but this time, he's determined to keep his mouth shut.  Won't say who hired him. Claims he doesn't know where he sent the bloody thing.  And there's no explanation as to why he's suddenly not talking, no believable excuse for why he doesn't remember, save for a sudden and seemingly uncharacteristic show of loyalty to someone off-screen."

"So," he said.  His eyes flickered to meet Briggs' gaze across the room.  "Let's say I'm a bumbling member of Magical Law Enforcement -- not much of a stretch, really," he added politely, eyebrows raised.  "What logical conclusion do you think I'm going to draw from the evidence?"

They'd taken a right when Briggs had always before taken lefts and when they arrived in a room, Nate didn't know where they were anymore.  His familiarity with the floor plan down here was exhausted.  The whole time they were walking they hadn't seen anyone else and he felt strangely normal doing it without his hands tied.  Like he could just keep on walking out the door across town and into his bed.

And now it was coffee. 

The Laughing Auror was offering him coffee.  Nate stood stiffly just a few paces inside the door, which was casually ajar. Then entire walk down he'd been wondering what the Auror wanted, what case he could possibly be helpful on.  Was it something with Sellaphix again? Well that bell was rung.  Was it about Dazmond? He rolled through his criminal/crime files in his head (which didn't take long - there were few) and again didn't settle on a definite answer.  Now, in this new room - a... meeting room it looked like, with a strange little coffee station, he just let the Auror talk on.  Chipper, as he was.

He nodded agreement about the coffee.  He did like coffee.  He'd have a coffee.

Trevelyan kept on talking, and a few sentences in Nate realized he'd been tricked and again the dread that had been hiding in his gut returned.  He quietly mumbled an oath and shook his head.  There was no surprise or case to work on.  His disappointment only added to the resentment of being pulled out of bed, of having been caught in the first place.

He didn't say anything until the Auror stopped talking on his own, and when that happened Nate made his opinion of this little favor easy to see.  The look he gave the Auror was one of supreme disapproval. 

By then coffee was ready, and Nate took his own life and destiny into his hands and sat himself down in a chair at the table. Nate was had been slow to say anything, but that had been his survival mode this last month.  Remain silent and keep your ears open.

How to handle this? Self-Righteous Defiance shoved its way to the top of the lis., elbowing past Stoic Martyr Silence and Blithe Cooperation who tried to warn Defiance that sass would only earn everyone black eyes and spellburns. 

"You're a clever one," he said from his seat, by way of complimenting all of this.  "Really, I'm amused.  But it doesn't change anything.  I don't know what this is, or who you are.  It's not in my best interest to admit to anything."

He paused and made a beckoning motion with his fingers.  "I'll take that coffee."
 
But the temptation to talk, to think, was more alluring than he probably realized.  There was a part of him who wanted to inform this Auror, wanted to play this game.  How far could he get without giving up his position? 

"But hypothetically?" he found himself saying not a moment later, as he scratched the beard growing down his neck, "I'd wonder why you assumed that sorry sod was hired.  Perhaps it was an anniversary gift and he doesn't want to ruin the surprise.  Just a dumb kid in love...?"

Dazmond would have a laugh at that, if she were here.  The idea that the pair of them observed an anniversary with secret gifts, that they were mushy kiss-on-the-cheek, honey-I'm-home sweethearts.

He inspected the Cheerful Auror for the result of his fooling around.  Behind that friendly facade there lurked the hard-lined authoritarian power-junkie they all were, who'd hear one to many jokes from Nate and then pound his fist on the table and spit and shout and threaten.  Could Nate draw him out? How long was he going to play nice?

Finding another clean mug felt a bit like trying to locate a needle in a haystack, but Jonas managed to locate a second after a few moments' search.  He poured a second cup, deposited it with Briggs, and then fetched his own mug, limping over to join the younger man at the table.  At least the conversation had taken the turn he had expected.  Jonas studied the other wizard thoughtfully as he eased himself to sit.  Briggs was still talking with the dismissive sullenness of denial; he hadn't cottoned on to what the Auror was after yet.

"Sure," he allowed with a nod.  "Makes sense, doesn't it?  Our mate nicked the thing with the intent of giving it to his girl.  That would explain why he suddenly decided to take up burglary, and why he's so intent on keeping his mouth shut.  He wouldn't want to give her up."

He lifted his mug to take a sip of coffee, letting that observation hang in the air.  "Although then," he started thoughtfully, nonchalantly.  "Since I'm an Auror, I'm not really content to leave it at that.  I start looking a bit closer at Madam Wiedman-Briggs -- wondering why her husband might suddenly decide she wants something so rare as a Muhra Glass."

It was easy enough to tick through the facts; he did so, counting them off on one finger after another.  "I notice she was a patron of the Black Chimera.  Maybe I pick up on the friendship between her and Cinaed Tawse," he added with a shrug.  "But now I'm digging around her affairs, looking for more I can jump on.  Bumbling or not, I'm probably sharp enough to pick up on the fact that Tawse and his lot have someone working for them that knows potions -- Polyjuice, Runespoor venom, what have you.  And so now suddenly, I'm interested.  Maybe I get lucky and hit on the fact that Wiedman and her husband came into a large sum of galleons back in November -- right around the time when Gawain Robards was murdered, as a matter of fact," he added mildly.  "Bit of a coincidence, innit?"

His expression was still benign, but Jonas was watching Briggs now.  Looking for some hint that the kid was catching on; waiting for some sign that he was getting through.  Or even worse than that -- studying him for any clue that his extrapolated tale might have struck a nerve of truth.

He liked Dazmond Wiedman.  Jonas hoped that the witch, for all of her antagonism towards the Ministry and her loyalties in Knockturn, hadn't been drawn too deeply into the terroristic crusade of the Wizarding Blood Alliance.  But then again, he'd liked Cinaed Tawse once, too.  Everything he'd said to Briggs was more or less cherry-picking from what he knew, but the facts still clicked into place with the easy logic of truth. 

That wasn't what he wanted.  Not to discover that this business was far darker than either Ackerzonne or the Department of Mysteries had suspected.  Not to find someone else who had been drawn into this mess.  He didn't want to have to choose, even though it was long and foregone which side he'd pick, thanks to Adon and Raynor and Radley.  But even so, hanging Dazmond Wiedman and her husband out to dry in the name of what was best for the Ministry was not anything that he wanted to sleep with at night.

Jonas took a sip of coffee, eyes still locked on the younger man, and then set the cup down.  "You seem sharp enough, Briggs," he said quietly.  "What do you think the logical result of all this is going to be?  Because I promise you, eventually the blokes around here are going to get tired of shouting at you and will actually turn their minds to investigating."

Wait.  This was about Dazmond? Nate's frown deepened as Trevelyan began ticking on his fingers.  By the time he got to four - about the 900 galleons - Nate had his elbows on the table, his hands laced in front of his face in apparent thought. 

The other investigators had threatened Dazmond in exchange for cooperation before, but it hadn't ever bothered Nate.  They never had very much on her and Nate in a very real way didn't know how Daz did her business.  They liked it better that way.  Any threats in the past had been hollow - he could piss them off all he wanted because she was damn near untouchable.  To Nate's knowledge, she'd never even been arrested.

When Trevelyan made the connection with the galleons and the slain Head of the MLE, Nate's head hit his hands.  He stared down at the table.  All this ruckus was about a murder rap now? Under the table, he bounced his leg up and down, idly tapping his heel on the floor.   He was searching his mind desperately for some comforting knoll to land on, some bit of safety he could resolve on.

Daz had never told Nate where that gold had come from.  She'd told him she didn't know.  And even over the summer, in the cottage when she'd gotten sick off some vial she drank - Nate never actually learned the whole story. 

He was frustrated to see that his hand shook a little when he reached out a few inches to take a sip from his coffee.  Thank Merlin - it was dark and hot.  But he barely tasted it.  He was trying to keep a cool head, but the feeling of being cornered was distracting.  And all of it over a cup of coffee, friendly chatter - completely wand and threat free.

When he glanced up at the Auror, his eyes were washed with resentment and anger.  But he looked down again, back to holding his forehead in his hand.  His other hand balled into a fist and he rolled his knuckles over the wood grain.

"Daz isn't involved.  And I don't know what she does.  But I see what happens to people down Knockturn when they find out you talked, when you give up someone from the neighborhood.  It's a bloody closed system and there's an entirely separate economy of reputation and dues paid and those are limited resources.  You don't get to start over.  You try and straighten up, mate, but you can't control what goes on."

He shook his head and sat up away from the table.  He let his hand fall limply into his lap and he shrugged.

"Honestly, I don't know what the hell I'm doing here.  But I do know that I can't trust any one of you.  You want me to talk? Threaten my wife? What am I supposed to do with that? Be an agent of my own destruction?"

"Logical result is that my life's banjaxed. Please and thank you."

A few more of the mental boxes checked themselves off in his head.  Jonas thought back to what he could remember of Briggs' file.  A skirmish here or there, the one instance of Muggle-baiting -- until the young man had been arrested by Adon earlier that year, he'd faced no major charges.  The burglary was serious, though.  Briggs had been out on parole.  Best case scenario was that he spent a few months in Azkaban; worse case was that he spent a few more and didn't have a wand when he got out.

Years ago, when he'd first started dating Anna, he'd come across a stray dog on the streets of Exeter.  This wasn't unusual, save for the fact that it had followed him back to his uncle's place; this may or may not have been induced by the fact that he hadn't entirely resisted the urge to feed it.  The adoption had lasted for all of a week until he'd been forced to admit that sneezing constantly with his eyes always watering was not exactly his preferred way of life.  Anna had always said that if it wasn't for allergies, they would have ended up with half the canine population of the United Kingdom sleeping in their front room.

He felt for Briggs -- the way the kid wilted, even the spirit that he showed even as he realized that he was cornered -- but he couldn't fix this for him.  The former shopkeeper had made his own choices in life.  He couldn't offer him a job and a sense of grounding, like he had for Lexus; Jonas somehow doubted that Tamis Raynor would be happy if he managed to maneuver half of Knockturn's working populace onto the Ministry payroll.  And even if he could, Briggs would never trust it or take it.  That wasn't the way things worked in his world.

Jonas leaned back in his chair, regarding him with consideration, mulling things over.  The explanation made sense; that would explain why Briggs had suddenly latched on to the idea of not saying a word.  In his own way, he was protecting both himself and his wife.  But the knowledge didn't necessarily help; it hadn't ruled out any of the three likely options.

"Alright.  So you know you can't trust us."  His forehead creased as he regarded Briggs, even as he kept his tone relaxed and reasonable.  "You talk, then word'll get back to Knockturn.  You keep your mouth shut, then eventually me coworkers'll pull their heads out of whatever uncomfortable location they've been stashing 'em in and your wife, who's got nothing to do with this, stands a good chance of visiting Azkaban alongside you."  Dazmond would never last in the wizarding prison; to the free-spirited, fiery witch, a term there was as good as a death sentence. 

"So that's Options One and Two, Briggs." Jonas crossed his arms, gaze thoughtful, words even. "What's Option Three?"

Still cheery.  And still talking like he wasn't an Auror, like he was operating outside of protocol.  Normally, that kind of trick was Good Cop talk.  But Nate had a sense that something else was going on.  The other incongruities actually supported Trevelyan's act - the late night visit, the pleasant surrounds, coffee, and a noticable lack of Aurorly accouterments (namely wands and bindings).   He'd underestimated Eleor, taking him for a thug.  Perhaps he was doing the same on this Trevelyan.  Something fishy, this. 

Daz in Azkaban.  That was a horrible thought.  Part of him considered it a possibility since day one, that she'd slip.  Odds were for the house after all.  But he'd never counted on it being on his conscious.  That he just couldn't bear.  She's the one who knew what she was doing.  He was the one who trusted a guppy to be his lookout.

Azkaban for himself.  He'd been considering that too, alone in his cell these past weeks.  Mulling it over was crazy-making and he stopped himself from thinking on it if he could.  Even the holding cell was better than that place. 

And again, the Auror turned things over onto Nate.  And again, Nate took his time answering.  Brows furrowed, he was at least satisfied the Auror made no attempt to bullshit him or convince him trusting Aurors was a good thing.  He drank again from the mug, his leg still tapping.

"No idea, Trevelyan," he said with a tired look.  "But I bet you're going to tell me.  My solicitor, who I believe lacks the mustard for this, seems to deny the existence of a Third Option.  Who're you to have all the answers? Does your boss know you're here?"

Then after a pause he scoffed out a laugh.  "The Third Option's escape." 

He lifted a hand a wagged a finger at the Auror. "That's thinking outside the box, innit?"

He laughed again wearily.  Maybe that's what this was.  He let his mind believe it for just a second or two and it was delightful and absurd.  An Auror woke him up, sat him down for a chat about his choices, and then let him loose.

The red-haired man laughed, flashing him a quick, appreciative grin.  "Naw.  I like me job too much for that," he said nicely, still clearly bemused.  If not his job, then his partner -- Adon Eleor's morale judgements, hardened through the fire of life in the Middle East, did not leave much room for gray.  Even if he thought that he could get away with it, Adon would murder him when he inevitably found out.

The rapid sequence of questions was nearly enough to make him laugh again.  Both Rosier and Raynor would probably hang him if either of them got wind that he was having midnight chats with suspects on cases that had nothing to do with him.  But that was what one thought about Aurors -- they were faceless red-robed enforcers, the strong arm of the Ministry. Merlin forbid any of them ever leave the pack.

"Believe it or not, mate, but we don't report in on every decision that we make," he replied, flashing Briggs a lopsided grin.  "The day the Ministry start demanding blind obedience again is the day that half of us walk back out.  So no, Rosier doesn't know I'm down here.  But you've still got three Hitwizards between here and the lift," he added dryly, still looking amused by the prospect.  "You really want to take your chances with me, you've still got some odds against you."

If that was what the kid really wanted, then all the more power to him.  Jonas hadn't made any move to grab his wand.  He wasn't worried.  Nathan Briggs, for all of his smart aleck comments and his suddenly infallible loyalty, didn't strike him as the sort likely to kill.  Anything else, he'd survive.  It was part of the risk.

"Look, Briggs,"  he said simply.  "I don't have all the answers.  But your wife looked out for a friend of mine a few months ago -- Dale, the werewolf girl.  Reckon I wouldn't be all that thrilled to see you land Dazmond in Azkaban, and so I'd like to return the favor if I can -- but it's your call."  He regarded the younger man quizzically, leaving the question open.  "You want to hear a potential third option?  Or are you already sold on taking your chances with One or Two?"

Hitwizards!  Nate grinned genuinely despite himself.  Hitwizards were even worst than Aurors since they weren't paid to think - just blow stuff up.  Nate listened on, peering at the Auror with an old familiar superior skepticism as he confirmed that no, this wasn't official.  And that hell - he knew Dazmond.  Nate didn't have any idea of what he was talking about, but he didn't expect to.  He knew Dazmond brewed Wolfsbane on the side - the almost charitable side of her business.  She helped Jonas's werewolf friend.  Good for them.  Good for all of them, turned out.

Given an inch and Nate would take a mile.  If there was a boundary or limit to authority, he tested it.  Found its true edges.  So far he'd been a good lad with this Auror.  Following directions, no quick movements, keeping a distance, following.  But both of them were starting to get comfortable, or so it seemed, and so the time to see what the limitations of this relationship really were.  Suggesting escape hadn't triggered any alarm in the Auror.  Curious.  How off duty was he?

Suddenly, Nate pushed his chair away from the table, away from mug and Auror, and got to his feet.  He took a few paces away and lifted his arms above his head in a stretch. 

"Can't say that I'm satisfied with the results so far," he said turning back around to face the Auror.  "Time for a new plan.  Let's hear it."