The Paper Maze

“No, no, nope, wrong, that wont do,” Paris spoke to himself as he ran his index finger along one book’s worn leather spine at a time; he was in search of something, but not even he was aware of the specifics.

Every sound was absorbed by the dust-covered books that hid the walls from few, and so, as Perry took hold of a near ladder and pulled it towards himself, the howling of the wheels that its legs had been attached to ended far sooner than the noise should have, taking the man by surprise. Sound was quite the egotistical fellow, and for as long as Paris had known him, he had always finished his sentences… but not in Flourish & Blotts. The small, poorly-lit shop defied the element.

After pausing for a moment to remember which portion of the wall he had left off on before being startled by the backwards ways of the lonely bookstore, Paris began to climb the rickety wooden ladder, moving upward without hesitation until his eyes were level with the next row of books. He extended his index finger once more and began to tap the titles of each of the books before him, his eyes flickering from left to right repeatedly as he scanned each one. Where was it? Which book was it that he was so determined to locate?

It certainly was not in that row, and so Perry began to sway, putting increasingly more force behind his movements as he continued; he was building up to a momentum that would, hopefully, force the ladder that he stood upon to roll across the splintering floorboards, bringing him to his next collection of books. Why hadn’t each section been labeled? Certainly, if Paris owned such a large collection of books he would at one point take the time to categorized them- but these books seemed to have been shoved upon their shelves at random, making his search that much trickier.

“One… two…” and he swung his body to his left with all his might, gripping each side of the ladder tightly. The prehistoric thing had been aligned with a track along the bookshelves, making it possible for Perry to survive his trip across the room until the ladder reached the track’s end- which was, admittedly, a bit farther than he had intended to travel, but it had worked nonetheless. “Bon ... où êtes-vous? Où te caches-tu?” He whispered quietly.

Mikki was here, researching. It had been one of the few days where her insane uncle Isaak had not sent her on some foolhardy mission. She was good at what she did, but she was better at the intelligence stuff in her opinion, if only Isaak did not hog all of that to himself. He just seemed to know everything, instinctively. And this gave him the right to bark orders at her in Russian.

However, with no secrets to extract, no threats to destroy, no suspicious persons to tail, Mikki found that her day was free. So she went and did what she felt she did best; research. She did not exactly trust the British's sources, but she could not just pop back in Russia either. Isaak may been respected, but he was also hunted. she could easily become a hostage. And he would not save her. He did the intelligence stuff. She did the saving.

She went to the British's precious Diagon Alley, the renowned shopping spirit of the magical world, it seemed. She had been there before and knew there was a bookshop. She had arrived early morning and had worked her way through tons of books, most to do with the Deathly Hallows and Grindewald. Her mother's obsession was now her own.

But after awhile, she did have to take a break. There were a few other people there and their attention seemed to be continually drawn to an eccentric man who seemed in desperate search of a book. Isaak always told her, that a man who was making himself known (consciously or not) was a man she needed to know as well. Besides, it beat getting another paper cut...

After watching him for awhile, she finally spoke up. For the great manipulator, the woman with the barbed tongue, she was dreadful at one on one confrontation, or so she thought. Isaak always rolled his eyes when she made this point. She was about to all at him from across the room, when he suddenly came sliding all the way down to her, talking to himself. She changed tact, dropping her voice. "Do you need help finding a book?" she asked in her heavily-accented voice.

Paris had immersed himself in a world of words and paper from where he stood atop his ladder, with one leg dangling off of the wooden mechanism- but he had gotten lost along the way. Somehow, Paris found himself skimming across the pages of a fictional book that he had pulled from the shelves, only moments after rowing himself towards a bundle of biographies.

Something was tugging at the furthest corner of his brain, something that had been forgotten long ago. What had he read that he forgotten? No, that was not the way to go about such a question, for if it were worded in such a way, there were hundreds of different ways that it could be answered.

The real question was, what was it that Paris had remembered reading?

In his other hand, he held his wand, trying to coax from his own chest the shriveled, hairy heart. But the hairy heart was stronger than he was -Paris slid his reading glasses down the bridge of his nose, removing them from his face for a moment. No. That book certainly wasn't the one he had spent the afternoon searching for. Perry was far more interested in the truth than he was about a web of lies that a man with a pen had woven.

“Des mots, des mots, des mots, mais pas les mots justes,” he spoke to himself while taking a look at the many books around him from a different perspective; perhaps it wasn’t any one book... but he was torn from the world of jumbled words and curious thoughts when a voice penetrated its atmosphere. A young, Russian voice? Perry had grown so used to the British accents that he had surrounded himself with, that he had almost forgotten he wasn’t the only one who had been born elsewhere. "Do you need help finding a book?"

“Certainly. Perhaps you could tell me what book I am looking for…?” he asked sincerely.

It was now that she noticed he was speaking French, which peaked her interest quite a bit more than if he had been English. She and her uncle were quite prejudiced- one could go as far to say racist- towards the British, finding that their blood ran too deeply Russian to think them as good as themselves, but they had little wrong with French.

His question confused her though. How was she supposed to know what he was looking for. She bit her lip and stood. "Is there a particular subject you are looking for? I am not an employee here but I am rather familiar with the store. If not, I've found interest in just...picking a book." She plucked a book from the shelf and showed it to him. "Marvelous Memories: A Memoir of a Magizoologist. There's a plus side. Alliteration."

(Sorry about length. Soooo busy...))