[January miniplot] Dial A for awkward [Cezary]

Three events in two days wasn't something Hunter was used to. While he claimed to be a sports reporter, really he preferred to take the odd writing job and then have a few days' break in between. Living in a tiny apartment with his rats for company didn't demand a high wage so he didn't worry about doing anything more than making ends meet. So it was that the young man was already tired after reporting on the Puddlemere United match (they'd won 830 to 40) and attending a gala dinner in honour of the retiring coach of the Kenmere Kestrels. He'd actually managed to make notes on both events, and he hadn't spilled any wine on the parchment that was stuffed into the pocket of his only decent jacket, so he counted that a success.

But after an extremely late night, he had an early start  - well, 10am - because today there was a new year's match just outside Dahliental between the Belgian and French under fourteens. Not exactly something that got a lot of publicity, but maybe there would be some future Quidditch star in the making there, so Hunter had arranged an early(ish) portkey. Which he had promptly missed by oversleeping, and considering the amount of wine he'd enjoyed last night, attempting to apparate to another country wasn't a great plan if he wanted to be sure of keeping all his body parts.

The floo network, it was, then. Not Hunter's favourite mode of transportation, but it was simple, cheap and at least had the virtue of getting all of him to the same place in one piece. Best of all, he only had to walk into the cafe next door and pay two sickles to use their fireplace. He closed his eyes; it was a bit later than he'd planned but he'd be in France soon, still with time enough before the match to get fresh coffee and a couple of pain au chocolats. Hunter didn't speak french, of course, but the universal point, grin and say thank you in English tended to be enough for him to get by wherever he ended up. The familiar dusty crunch told him he'd reached his destination, and he stepped out of the fireplace, opening his eyes and experiencing an unfamiliar sinking feeling.

This wasn't France. This was a private room in... "where the *** am I..?" he muttered, picking up a handwritten envelope from the mantlepiece to see if he could work out where he was.

Cezary loved the weekends. He loved his job, too, but the weekends meant lazy mornings, waking up with his son, and playing with his family for most of the day. He thought maybe he'd take Damon for a walk in the park, weather permitting, and perhaps help Moira with dinner later on in the evening. With his day planned properly, Cezary took his time to get dressed and then slipped into his office to catch up on his letters and bills.

It didn't take long before he heard the familiar crunch of floo powder all the way from the living room, and he grabbed his knife without skipping a beat. He went quickly in to see the culprit, watching the man touch his mantle with an angry sort of sneer. How dare someone come into his house. Cezary disarmed the man quickly, and brought the knife out, holding it to the other's throat.

“Who are you?” He demanded. In his job he sometimes dealt with shady people, and he sometimes got himself into trouble. “Why are you here? What do you want with my family??” He demanded, now waving the knife in front of the other's face like the lunatic he was. Cezary could be calm and coll, and most of the time was content to stand and let anything happen but not this. Where Cezary's family was concerned he was a wolf protecting the pack and no stranger was breaking into his sanctuary.

He tried his best to corner the other in a nearby wall, the knife pointed dangerously towards the other's throat.

The writing was neat cursive and he held the envelope a bit closer to his face. The address was...London? So he hadn't gone more than a few miles, which meant either the Floo network was playing up or he hadn't enunciated his destination clearly enough. In his still slightly hungover state, it could have been either. Hunter rarely felt uncomfortable, much less embarrassed, but now his only thought was to get out of here before someone heard him moving around and came to see what was going on. Visions of a screaming woman clad in antique robes danced in his mind as he searched the mantle for a pot of floo powder. At the back of his mind he was wondering if he should leave a few sickles to pay for what he used, but that would prove someone had been here, and curiously, that was the exact moment he felt someone grab his wand and heard the quiet crash that meant it had been thrown across the room.

Hope it didn't break was his next bizarre yet fervent thought as he spun round, which was probably the most stupid thing he could have done as now there was a knife to his throat and the man holding it didn't look like anyone who was going to be reasoned with, not least because he was about a foot taller than Hunter. The young man tried to swallow, which he could only manage by backing away, but the knife followed. Hunter was starting to panic. He'd spent much of his life living in squats, moving from one place to the next even as a small child and he was no stranger to fighting his way out of a difficult situation, but he felt vulnerable without his wand. Mere seconds had passed and he hadn't said a word.

"I'm...no! I don't want anything..." the questions came thick and fast and he answered randomly, out of sequence "I was just..." he backed away, eyes on the door opposite - hell, even the window would do so long as he wasn't six floors up "I took a wrong turn...the fireplace. Floo network! See, my boots are covered with ashes... I'm a Quidditch reporter... I don't even know who you are!" Hunter was flailing for words, as if finding the right combination would be an incantation to stop that knife pointing at his throat.