Flame Thrower (Blairon)

Deductions

Blaise paced his office, his hands deep in his pockets as he stared out of the floor to ceiling glass window overlooking the city and the ocean. He took a pen out of his pocket and began to pass it through his lithe fingers, never missing a beat. It was morning, just before noon, yet Blaise felt as if he had been pacing the smooth floor of his office for days. Weeks even. He felt something in his stomach. Like an itch he couldn't scratch. But that wasn't the only thing bothering him.

"You shouldn't have done it,"

Blaise groaned silently. He was in no mood to deal with this.

"Go away, Mother." He whispered, staring at the couch where Lorelei Zabini sat, one leg atop the other.

"I'm part of your conscious, dear. You have to allow me to go away or else we're stuck together until the day you do," the woman said, smiling up at her son as she weaved one of her braids through her fingers, similar to how Blaise was still playing with the pen.

"You must be here for a reason. So spit it out," he stated and Lorelei chuckled, smirking.

"There are too many things on your mind, figlio. You're scared. Wondering if there's a spy in your midst. Wondering whether giving that little boyfriend of yours and his friends the tattoo of your Hell Hounds was a good idea," she whispered, her eyes watching, scanning her son as he continued to pace his office.

"But ah, there's more. You still, after five years, are extremely curious as to who set the bomb on the Wesley's house in Connecticut. Wondering who told everybody your name-"

"Stop,"

Miss Zabini smiled, batting her eyelashes.

"A good deduction, Mother. But you're wrong about one thing," Blaise said, his tone careful.

"I have never made a better decision, by making Ron a Hell Hound. It's one of the best decisions I've ever made. Not Z, not Ash. Me. He and the others all have such skill that they don't even see themselves. But there is one more thing you failed to mention," he said and his mother rose an eyebrow, amused.

"Who the hell is the Boss?"

Blaise sighed, walking up to the windows, so close that if he breathed a little harder,  fog would coat its shining, surface. He stared at his reflection, looking into his own eyes. Then to his mother.

"I could tell you, you know. But where's the fun in that?" The woman whispered, getting up, off of the couch to stand next to her son.

"You were always so blunt," Blaise chuckled, his mother's laugh ringing in his ears like nostalgic church bells.

"And you always so sharp. I do wonder how you are my heir," Lorelei chortled and Blaise closed his eyes, sighing. "Maybe I'm more like him?" He inquired and Lorelei laughed again, shaking her head.

"No, no. You have his heart, but everything else about you is left for the unknown to figure out." She said. Blaise nodded, opening his eyes to stare into his mother's.

But when he did, she was gone.

Meanwhile, another parent was in his car, his hands shaking as he struggled to hold the wheel steady. He drove through one of the fanciest neighborhoods in Silver Lake. The Crest. Driving around it, Arthur Weasley kept a keen yet weary eye out for number 23 Stream Street. He had barely been to the street, yet now was not the time to think about how much he dreaded what he was about to do. He needed help. Once he found the mansion, he sighed, getting out of his slightly beat up car, breathing in the warm air around him. He looked around.
Two beautiful red cars sat in the driveway, in front of a large white garage door. A few meters away, further up the driveway was the entrance to Number 23. It was grand. Suddenly, the door to the house clicked and opened. Two men in identical suits left the house, locking the door behind them. They were laughing as they walked, though one had a slight limp. When they noticed Arthur however, both of their expressions faltered.

"Fred, George. I need your help-"