The Sitting Duck

“How long ‘r yeh gonna take, Radborn?”

“Don’t rush him; you’ll screw with his focus!”

Paris grinned, his back facing the pair of bickering thieves as he hunched over a small lock-box; they were nervous, and it was painfully obvious as they spoke with each other. Perry had deduced that their first robbery had not been very long ago from their intentionally blank faces and bitter conversations, and it was quite clear that they were married, or very much in love. The latter was their biggest problem; if you intended to dig around in the life-savings of some shop owner in Diagon Alley, you most certainly did not allow your spouse to tag along. Or so Paris had been told…

His fingers moved swiftly as he slid one of his most commonly used picks within the box’s small keyhole, and wedged a tension wrench in-between the two. He was in his natural element while he squinted down the lock that he had set to work on. He began going through his routine, checking each step off of the list as he moved on.

Which way did the lock need to be turned? Paris forced the tension wrench to the right, but the lock would not have it. Left; when a key was used to unlock the box, it needed to be turned to the left. Paris would be acting as the key in order to please his angsty clients, and therefore, would mimic that same motion.

Perry began to apply pressure to the left of the lock- handling the metal devise as gently as a surgeon would an artery - when he received another order from the man who continued to breath down the back of his neck, “Get out of me way. Yer gonna get me an' Harleen caught,” he insisted, shoving Paris to the side abruptly.

Paris had been taken off guard, having dedicated his focus to the task at hand, and did not have time to stop himself from hitting the near wall.

It was an occupational hazard…

“You idiot, you can’t just”- but Perry had not been able to get the words out of his mouth fast enough to stop the thief from aligning the tip of his wand with the lock and casting an unlocking charm that he had most likely learned during his years as a firsty at Hogwarts. Apparently, that professor of his had forgotten to mention what would happen if the counter-charm was cast on the locks that were created from magic, rather than the usual enchanted hunk of metal.

The lock in question seemed quite eager to let the brute know.

Immediately, the sirens sounded from within the safe box, splitting through the silence - and through Paris’ ears, which he covered with his flattened palms from where he sat on the floor against the wall. “Wow! If I ever need an alarm clock, I know who to call!” he shouted at the top his lungs, fighting to be heard over the screeching security system so to speak that single joke aloud. How many times did he find himself in the same situation?

An auror would be on his way; the lock was programmed to deafen the Ministry workers as well when it was being broken in to, and Perry was the only of the three who would not be locked up in prison for theft upon being found. “Run,” Paris ordered, and like wild horses they sped out of the shop, leaving Perry alone in the poorly-lit cauldron shop. "Of all the places to rob, why the cauldron shop?" he wondered aloud, rubbing the fresh bruise on his arm.

Frank was often in Diagon Alley, since he had such strong ties to the Leaky Cauldron; especially since he had grown up there. It was sort of his soft spot, the place he could go and things usually seemed alright. Not that things weren't typically alright. He may have been an Auror and in the Order, but it was not like he had seen horrors. Really, he had not seen anything.

His father had not told him about all the paperwork it took to be an Auror. Frank was almost sure that was why Neville had decided to become a professor, a Herbology one at that. Just dirt, no forms, no paperwork, just the occasional grading. As an Auror, it was like writing an essay every night, it seemed. You had to fill out a form to breathe Ministry air...

It was then that he heard the sirens. He felt a little bit of excitement, before he realized it was probably a break-and-enter type case, with the perps already gone. He would run to the location, to find everyone gone, and would have the joy of three stacks of paperwork for the singular incident. Got to love the government.

Nevertheless, it was his duty, so he pulled out his wand and turned on his heel, appearing closer to the location and sprinting the rest of the way, rolling up his sleeves. He saw the door to the cauldron shop open. Great. Elanor and Thomas Diwinky had bad luck as it was. They went on one vacation and got broken into? He did not want to be the one that told that to the couple.

He ran inside and stopped dead. There was someone still in there... He was momentarily caught off guard and finally he raised his wand, pointing it straight at the man's heart. "Stop, sir. Hands up. State your business."

“Ne tirez pas!” Paris shouted, instinctively speaking in his native tongue. The Ministry was getting faster with their alarm responses; Paris could remember an evening just a month before when he had been provided with enough time to clean an old shop out and leave, after his client had accidentally tripped an alarm. Of course, he had returned the artwork, for he showed no interest in trade with the black market, but the point was not that Perry could rob a shop, but that, had the Minister put his aurors through more training, perhaps he wouldn’t have gotten away with the crime. Paris’ success was simply an example of the crimes that were to come if these Ministry Workers did not learn how to sprint – or, perhaps, to apperate efficiently.

Perry examined the polished wood that was being pressed against his chest roughly, and brought his hand in-between it and the fabric of his shirt. The wand was quite a fine one, but Paris had seen one quite similar to it in the past. “Hmmmm,” the gentlemen began with his eyes still fixed on the wood. “Hornbeam, and I’d say” – he paused for a moment to count under his breath softly – “fifteen inches. Certainly; I would bet money on that. Double core? It has the mark of a double core wand along the side,” Paris spoke, his thick accent only enhancing the effect of his remarkable guesswork. He had, after all, spent a good portion of his life studying the creation of the handy devices.

Though the most impressive thing that Perry had to share with the auror before him was not the fact that he could determine what made his wand, but what Paris said next: “That most certainly isn’t the handle that I remember on Neville Longbottom’s wand, but it is quite similar. I didn’t know him well, but I certainly haven’t forgotten the make of his wand. I met him during the time of the Triwizard Tournament, I believe.” Paris grinned in a way that suggested that he knew he was showing off, but that showed he was also quite humble at the same time. “Bonjour, Mr. Longbottom,” he greeted the boy, extending a hand - the hand that wasn’t separating the tip of Frank’s wand from his chest – for him to shake. “Do you mind pointing that wood of yours in another direction? Life-threatening situations and I aren’t really the best of pals.”

French-to-English Translation
“Ne tirez pas! - "Do not shoot!"
"Bonjour" - "Hello" (obviously)

Frank did not speak French and he was a little offput to hear it being shouted at him, so naturally, he did not drop his wand. He watched the man and said, "I can not, sir, you are trespassing and- keep your hands down!" But the man slid his hand in between himself and the wand, staring down at it ina way that made Frank uncomfortable. His incredibly accurate description frightened and... well, awed him.

"Kelpie and unicorn hair," Frank commented, unable to keep himself from supplying this information as his honest, open nature prompted him to make conversation. "Very good." He took a step back but kept his wand trained on the man. As he continued, Frank's eyes widened slightly and he lowered his wand ever so slight. "You know my dad?" he asked. Neville would be angry to find he had pointed a wand at a friend. Though, the man did not have t be a friend of his father. His father had many enemies too.

He nodded as the man explained they met during the Triwizard Tournament, which made sense. The man extended an arm that Frank cautiously shook, though he raised his wand again. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. You've been caught trespassing. I need you to state your name and your business on these premises."

"Unicorn hair?" Paris repeated with a nod. "The core is quite common, but is effective, I suppose," he added, sharing his opinion with the boy - for it seemed that Paris could never contain his thoughts. "I have always preferred rare cores."

Paris paused and smiled, making it quite evident that he'd thought his next words over before speaking them aloud.

"I am working on my own version of a wand.. Some day, I am certain, there will be no more wood involved in wand making. Be on the lookout for mechanical wands, boy. They will be far more effective than these twigs" - Paris held up his own wand, which he'd produced from his pocket for that gesture alone - "that we've been provided with."

Paris leaned his head further backward and rested it against the wall that stood behind him; his eyes had started to throb in his skull due to all of the looking up that he'd been doing in order to watch Frank from where he sat. It was clear that Paris was not going to be able to persuade the man to drop his wand without explaining his affiliation with the Ministry - but for a moment he'd been optimistic, and had considered that perhaps for once he could do without the swapping of life stories.

The peculiar-looking man grinned, revealing his pearly whites polity; despite his irritation, he found that he could not help but smile - in fact, it was a wonder that he managed to swallow the giggles that were constantly threatening to pry their way free from their prison. He was eternally amused, and considering his past, that was a rather frightening truth.

"Yes, I knew your father - though I can not remember under what terms, or what sort of relationship we shared," he replied, admitting to the fact that his memory had large holes in it. In a sense, the Auror was right to keep his wand aimed in Perry's direction - but at the same time, it was quite unlikely that Paris would attack Frank, no matter what events had been wiped clean from Paris' mind.

Paris was quite pleased with the fact that Frank had accepted his handshake. Sometimes he preferred the Aurors over the Death Eaters; at least the Aurors saw a handshake for what it was, rather than jumping to the conclusion that the hand Perry had extended must be some form of weapon.

He dropped his hands in his lap once more, and he began, "My name is Paris Ravindra Radborn - have I already mentioned that? No, I didn't - I don't think so, at least," Paris began, speaking in a rather chaotic manor, as though he were speaking to himself. "I deal weapons to the Ministry of Magic, but I am also a 'locksmith' of sorts. You've caught me at a bad time, I'm afraid; one of my clients decided to take matters into his own hands, and set off the alarm that you heard."

Frank blinked. Usually, when he ran into someone, they just ran. Then again, Frank was still a greenhorn in the Auror department. In fact, he was not supposed to be doing field work just yet, he was typically stuck in the Ministry with piles upon piles of paperwork. He was the rookie, yes, but if he saw a crime in process, better he try to stop than let it go, right? He had information on the guy now that he could run through with the Ministry- French, in school during his dad's time, experienced in wandlore. Any information was worth passing on, he knew that.

This man certainly had his opinions and he felt them worth sharing, too. Frank stared at him and then nodded. What an odd character- claiming to know his dad one moment, and then unable to recall anything specific, though Frank did not think he was lying. Frank was an excellent lie detector, even if he could not tell a lie for himself. Much too honest.

And now he had a name. The man 'explained' what he was doing there, without really explaining. All he had really told Frank was that he worked with the Ministry and he was breaking in. That still constituted criminal activity and meant Frank should bring him in, but he still needed to know what was going on, before bringing someone in. "Could I speak with this client to verify?"

With an amused grin, Paris began once more in his attempt to satisfy Frank's curiosity, in the hopes of convincing the man to point his weapon in another direction. "Certainly," Paris chirped. It could easily be predicted by the tone in which he'd spoken that he had set up the following, patronizing remark with the single word. "If you manage to find them. They were a pair. Clients, not a client. Two weasels to find - and they are particularly skilled in hasty retreats, if the way they ran out of this place is a common escape method for them."

Despite the joking manner that Paris had answered in, however, he seemed determined to remain in Frank Longbottom's respects - if he was at all respected by the man to begin with - and offered him a polite reply, following his previous answer. "However, the alarm"- Paris gestured towards the security device that had brought the festivities to an abrupt halt with a simple wave of his free hand - "should have collected traces of their identities. It is fortunate for the shop owner that he upgraded to such a sophisticated lock, is it not?"

After a short pause to collect his chaotic thoughts (which seemed to have plans of flooding Paris' mind) he shifted, so to make himself more comfortable in the hunched position that he'd been forced to remain in. "While the Ministry does not completely approve of my extracurricular activities, we have come to a sort of... agreement. So long as I continue to provide your people with the firepower necessary to defend themselves, and their school, they shall turn the other cheek when I am caught red-handed in predicaments such as this one," Paris elaborated reluctantly.

If only, for once, Paris could work under the command of someone who was not entirely ignorant, as this evening's clients had been. If it had not been for the impatience of a man who appeared to be a mere stray hair away from an Apeman, Paris would not have found himself in this situation.

At least it was exciting; the possibility of being locked away in Azkaban...

This man made Frank feel completely un edge, absolutely and totally uneasy. There was some sly deceptiveness of him that made Frank feel as though the man had a private joke going and Frank was the butt of it. He needed to remember the man's name in case he escaped. What was it? Paris... Paris Ravi-something Rad... Radburn? CRAP! If this "Paris" fellow made a break for it, Frank would be screwed. He needed to remember... Paris Ra... Ravi-something... Radborn. There it was. Close enough.

Paris began to discuss the absent shopkeeper, which only reminded the already anxious Frank that the shopkeeper had yet to arrive, leaving all of the responsibility on Frank. Frank rarely did field work, and he relied on having someone else take charge, as he was still a greenhorn. He was terrified that now, out on his own and relying on his own judgment, he was going to screw up and disappoint everyone who had given him a chance, and screw up the opportunity for a second chance.

He continued on and felt more uneasy. If he was lying and Frank believed him, he could get in major trouble for letting a criminal loose. But if the man was telling the truth and Frank tried to arrest him, well.. he may very well become the laughingstock of the whole Ministry of Magic. Still, he would rather be safe than sorry. "Well, if that's true, a quick trip to the Ministry of Magic should clear everything up."