Fantastic Prisoners and How to Kill Them // kazuscara

Prologue

"I need you to find someone."

Pale flames enlightened the room. The only ambient sound easing the tension between both came from the crackling fire from the fireplace. Tiny, black snakes slithered across the room, tickling their feet as they stood still, one wearing shiny leather shoes, one dirtying the marble tiles with shaggy boots.

"Sir, you know I can't do that for you."

The man shifted, taking the cigar from his mouth, and puffing out a cloud of smoke. An owl hissed at the smell, flapping its wings.

"You're the only man I trust with a wand here, Mr. Kunikuzushi." He tipped his cigar into a glass ashtray on his table, slowly twisting the flame from the cigar. "What makes you think otherwise?"

Scaramouche pressed his lips into a thin line, boots stepping onto each other as he fondled the buttons of his camel coat. It was what he always had a habit of doing when he was under pressure. That was probably why his boots were so shagged, his coat buttons on the brink of falling off. But he never minded any of his appearances. As long as he wasn't freezing to death, he would even wear a plastic garbage bag if it meant keeping him warm.

"I am not qualified for such a delicate task, Mr. Zhongli."

Zhongli turned around.

"I work for The Daily Prophet, sir. Newspapers. I write. I'm not a wand-bearing mastermind like you praise me for."

Zhongli sighed.

"The head of the Ministry of Magic in Japan has contacted me directly through owl." he side-eyed the files laying on the table made from pure ebony, "There was an escapee. Even the best of the best wizards and witches in Japan couldn't capture this stinger."

Pop.

Scaramouche jolted. He felt something in between his fingers.

A button. He'd broken a button off his camel coat. He cursed at himself before throwing a new button into the collection of buttons he'd tugged off his shirts.

"A man who goes by the name of Kaedehara Kazuha recently escaped Prison of Onaga after being imprisoned for nearly a year." Zhongli stroked his hair with one hand, the other on his hip.

"You're of Japanese decent, Mr. Kunikuzushi." He sighed, "Your parents immigrated from Japan all the way to London. You still speak Japanese fairly well, do you?"

"A little," Scaramouche scratched the back of his head, his hands struggling to keep themselves busy as he had just broken the last button on the sleeves of his camel coat. "Enough to keep a conversation going with a stranger."

"Awesome. I'll let the head of the Ministry of Magic in Japan know that we've got someone behind this case." Zhongli let out a playful laugh, flipping in his drawer for a piece of fine parchment. The feather pen floated as it dipped itself into a jar of fresh, dark ink, ready for writing. The files on the desk float neatly into different piles, making room for the parchment.

"No!"

Zhongli stopped. The feather pen stopped. The files stopped midair.

"What?"

"I mean... I'm sorry, I can't accept this task. I have... prophets, to write. Yes."

Zhongli cocked his head, eyes blinking rapidly as if he were to think he had heard Scaramouche wrongly. A black snake traveled up his leg, gripping his limb as it hissed at Scaramouche.

"What do you mean, prophets to write?" Zhongli coughed out a laugh, "We can tell someone else to do double the work for you or simply hire another! There's no need to worry over The Daily Prophets. There are hundreds of wizards and witches breaking their skulls open for a job in the journaling industry."

Scaramouche lowered his head, biting his tongue.

"No, I-I can't. I have... um... my own, prophets, to write." Scaramouche stuttered.

"Your 'own'?"

"Yes. I write them for myself to read." Scaramouche snorted, breaking into silent laughter at his utterly terrible excuse to mask up his unwillingness to accept the offered task. He let his bangs curtain his eyes, afraid to make eye contact.

Zhongli dropped the parchment, letting them slide back into the drawer.

"Mr. Kunikuzushi."

Scaramouche flipped his hair, allowing clear visibility. His beanie fell off slightly.

"I'm sorry," he giggled, "I simply cannot accept such an appealing offer, sir."

With shaggy boots and a buttonless camel coat, he spun around on his heels, and sashayed out of the room.

Mr. Maybell's owl spread its lofty wings, growling.