Wars of the Labyrinth

Draco hadn't been there on Monday, but apart from that little special happened. On Thursday he was late; Blaise was already in the Brown Basket for a few hours when he came. Draco took his seat quietly and watched a few drunks sing sailor songs about Skirtless Betty while frantically filling a napkin with scribbles that most probably meant nothing. He didn't show up again on Friday. But that wasn't a cause for worry - after all, it was a big city and things happened. Traffic happened and car accidents and raids and police happened, but while Draco was most definitely insane, he wasn't stupid.

No one else seemed to notice, either way. Gordon had already passed out around three in the afternoon, and Boeing was merrily pulling at the rattling joystick along with Junior. An enthusiastic tourist took Draco's usual place next to Blaise and was happily splaying out his newly purchased city map on the table before them. It was the fifth one to have passed through the Basket that day, a remarkable amount but not completely unusual.

"Lovely city you've got yourself here!"

The man had a strange accent Blaise couldn't place. He ignored him nonetheless, folded one of his many newspapers once, twice, before putting it away and reaching for the next one.

"You live here, don't you?"

Loudly ruffling the pages, Zabini opened the paper to inconspicuously surround him, more or less quarantine himself from the talkative guest.

"Of course you do, I can tell you do! You've got that... that...thing about you!"

It was the accent that did it, made Blaise unable to fully concentrate on his task. "With all due respect, Sir," he retorted quietly, still not looking up from behind his paper. "I've been living here for barely two months myself. I do not know where to find good spots, sightings, or any other form of amusement. So please, I'd rather you didn't bother."

The man didn't reply and Blaise hadn't looked up to catch the expression on the tourist's face, he was too busy focusing on whether the two shows he'd just encircled with his red pen would overlap, and whether he could still fit in dinner at--

"Blimey! Reached the Muggle papers too, did it!"

Any thoughts of lunch or females in glittering bathing suits fled his mind with a speed that faintly dizzied him as he looked up from behind his paper, folding down one of its corners.

"What reached the Muggle papers?"

The tourist, or whatever he was--Blaise himself wasn't exactly sure at the moment--seemed to be well and pleased with the given reaction.

"Thought so, too. Could tell from the moment I walked in you were a--"

Blaise held up his hand, quickly and frantically--"Don't say it!" He eyed the relatively quiet bar, quickly summing up the amount of attention they were attracting. "Are you insane? There are people here!"

"Of course there are," the man frowned. "What did you expect, cats?"

It took Blaise a few moments to recover - he should've seen it! He hadn't even taken the time to look carefully at the man at first glance, had he done so he surely would've caught on and had been out of there within seconds! If it wasn't the unmistakeable jungle hat or the large compass the Wizard eyed every few moments that gave it away, then the single spectacle chained to his jacket pocket the man was currently holding up to read off the map--well that, that would've probably immediately done the trick.

"Never mind that," Blaise shook his head, trying to shoo away his state of confusion. "You said something about Muggle papers?"

"Oh, yes!" The pompous Wizard nodded and ticked against the back of Blaise's paper with his glass. "Right here - though surely, young man, you must've heard of the affair before."

Zabini looked about the narrow bar, making absolutely and completely sure he wasn't seeing any of his old schoolmates, making sure none of them were secretly having a go at him. When assured all was safe, he folded the page in half and turned it around to read the off headlines that--

Oh. Right. That affair.

"What the..." He looked up, bits and pieces of his comprehension flying about as all kinds of facial expressions flitted about his visage. "What are they doing? They can't print this publicly! Clearly the mental state Ministry hasn't improved since..." he trailed off, his eyes moving rapidly in their lids, trying to suck in as much information possible.

"Since what?" the man urged on, a peculiar frown creased in his forehead.

"Nothing, it's..." He hadn't. Couldn't. Couldn't possibly have just read what he thought he'd read. Misprint, mistype, smudge of ink--a figment of his imagination! Because Blaise had a very lively imagination after all...

"Is everything alright, young man?"

He looked up; heart one notch too high up his spinal cord. "Excuse me?"

"Why, you look as though you're about to internally re-evaluate your lunch!" He put on his one-eyed spectacle, inspecting Blaise more closely.

"No, no, I'm fine," Zabini backed away slightly. "I just thought..." he looked back at his paper, tracing the spot where he left off with his finger. "I thought for a moment I read it's been claimed by--"

"The Avant Garde, oh yes! It most certainly was! Methinks that's the reason the papers expanded their target group in the first place. Apparently it's become quite a task to trace those troublemakers down! The Ministry believes they've got affiliations with one or another Muggle gang, or something alike, think they'll get more information from the Muggle community. Fancy that! A Muggle mafia, inflicting more damage upon our society than any Wizard has dared to in years!"

This couldn't be right--couldn't possibly make sense! It was all in his imagination! Not Blaise's, that is, Draco's. It was Draco's imagination! There was no such thing as The Avant... couldn't... but the bloke was insane!

Maybe he did it on his own. The fucker. Maybe he slithered his way in and out, with that stupid helmet of his--the plan would've been too simple and plain to trace! Of course! That must've been it. There wasn't an army, no group of people, and that's why the Ministry couldn't find anyone!

But fuck. It'd been weeks now... no, months. Maybe even before Blaise and his mother had moved into their new house.

And Draco wasn't here. It was strange, and out of place, and so fucking familiar the young Zabini felt sick to his bloody stomach.

"Are you sure you feel alright? You look pretty awful." The man was squinting his eyes at the nauseated Blaise, polishing his glass off on his sleeve. "You... you wouldn't happen to know anything about it, do you? Because if you do, I must say, the both of us will have to step to the closest--"

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir, I'm afraid..." Blaise felt his throat go a little dry, anticipation and a small hint of excitement, a feeling that could be traced back to his school days. "I'm afraid I just remembered my... my sister is getting married today. You'll have to excuse me." He rose from his seat, and purely out of habit, held his tie against his chest so that it wouldn't touch the table's edge. Habits were intact but his mind was well and all over the place. "It was nice to meet you... eh..."

"Wait a minute!" the man protested, hurriedly trying to collect his large map. "You can't leave now, young man! We've barely had the chance to talk!"

"Truly sorry," Blaise mumbled, taking his coat from the seat's back and pushing the empty chair towards the table. "Rain check, definitely." He nodded a quick, curt 'Good day', and set a quick pace towards the exit.

"But wait! Young man!"

But Blaise had more urgent matters to attend to and although none of them had anything to do with his sister - who he didn't have - marrying, they were equally as horrifying; if not even more.

Once outside, Blaise threw the coat over his shoulders in one wild wave, pushed his arms into the sleeves. It was still cold, perhaps even colder than when he'd arrived at around one. It was almost snowing because honestly, Blaise couldn't call the miniature rice-like flakes that hung almost motionless about the air--snow. Fake snowlets, he'd come call them. They had a lot of those lately. Einar stood at his regular post, leaning against the street's wall with a fur hat on his head and a small box at his feet. Blaise never knew if it was because he wanted to catch customers before they went into the bar or because he wasn't allowed entrance any longer.

"Einar!"

The addressee broke into a yellow-toothed smile. "Newspaper-man! What's the hurry, man?"

"Listen, Einar, have you seen The--The Squire lately? Seen him around, or something?"

"The Squire? You mean the guy with the..." Einar knocked twice on his fur-covered head.

Blaise nodded enthusiastically.

"Sorry, man. Haven't seen him around for weeks!"

"Oh, right. Well th--" Blaise paused, allowing his heart to skip a beat thoroughly and properly. "What d'you mean, weeks? He was here yesterday! And the day before that and the day before that!"

Einar sniffed loudly in the cold, shrugged and held his gloved hands up in a sort of strange surrender. "Look, man, I don't know! Maybe I haven't been paying attention! I just think..."

"What? You think what?"

"I think I'd remember if someone like him came in, you know. His helmet blinds everyone within a mile range, man!"

The slightly warm and comfortable feeling he'd managed to keep within his shoes slowly ebbed away the longer he stood in the cold, and Blaise's toes were getting bluer by the minute. His head, on the other hand, was gradually growing warmer, and throbbed uncomfortably as more painful questions and even worse possible answers flooded his mind.

"Alright, alright." He rubbed his forehead, forcing calmness to be the bigger man. "Thanks. Thanks a lot, Einar."

"Hey, no problem, man," he nodded dumbly, a vague grin on his face. "Fancy a fix anyway? I've got the bes--"

"No thank you, Einar. I'll pass." He rubbed his forehead again, and neck, then slowly turned around to leave. He thought--well, he hoped he knew the place where he could find more answers. Or at least lessen the amount of questions.

"You sure, man? This is the crème de la crème of the--"

"Goodbye, Einar," Blaise replied without turning his head, raising one hand in a gesture of departure.