Elegant Pistol

Chapter One: Death in Springtime

The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring.
--Bern Williams

The corpse marched past us, a lone hand trailing the earth in sad farewell. Harry J. Potter turned solemn eyes toward me and I found it hard to say no.

***

When he smoothly walked into my office this morning I almost ordered him right out again. He looked like the kind of person who never went looking for trouble because it had a way of finding him first. And because my heart stuttered when I first saw him I knew I was on the brink of falling into an abyss. He was all elegant cuts and long legs from here to hell with lips that loved to smile and hair delicate enough for the wind to play with. It danced in curves and waves around an angel face already flushed in anticipation. He sported round glasses with nearly-invisible rims, accentuating delicate cheekbones. Hiding behind those spectacles danced crystal emerald eyes.

It was his eyes that put me on guard; his eyes were death.

Sure, you could stare at his Cupid's bow mouth long enough and completely forget the green eyes. But I had been cursed with a memory that wouldn't fail and memories that couldn't fade.

This kid looked like he was in some real big trouble or he was just a good actor. He had sat down before my desk, hands nervously clasped and fiddling in his lap, eyes darting about. But I wasn't about to fall for such an act. I refuse to be played for a sap just because some pretty young man came into my office and told me I had to help him. Tom Riddle had escaped from jail and was after him and he didn't know what to do, he was so scared. His mouth had long since twisted into a cut of desperation, eyes pleading--funny, I never thought to see death plead. It clutches, seizes, snatches, but does not plead. I laughed at the lovely sight.

Harry Potter gave me a stare of confusion and maybe a little anger

"Don't laugh! It's not a joking matter. Riddle is serious trouble. You must have heard of him and what he did years ago."

Yeah, I'd heard of him. Me and Riddle, we go way back. I was nineteen, young and ambitious, eager and egotistical. He was charming and I found his wicked way of thinking irresistibly sinful.

He had gotten me out of a tight spot, and because I had no one else at the time, I looked on him as an example of what I might hope to become--charismatic, wealthy, and ingenious.

I didn't have anywhere to go, so he told me I'd always be welcome at his club, Morsmordre. It was located just on the other side of town, in the seedy district known as Knockturn Alley. The only way one could enter would be if he was invited by a member; this exclusive requirement whetted my appetite and I was drawn to the place.

The moment I strutted into Tom Riddle's club I realized I could never leave. Riddle and his Death Eaters were one tight-knit family that was impossible to break away from. No, that wasn't exactly true--death was always an alternative. That sick feeling of this permanent "belonging" was eased considerably by Riddle's assurances of a new world order in which we reigned supreme, but it never left--the feeling merely drifted to the back of my mind where I stored all information I was too spineless and insecure to really analyze. Because of my refusal to question Riddle, whenever I donned the white mask I never cared to wonder if this was really the life I wanted, if being a mindless follower was something I could get used to. I convinced myself that Riddle's principles were my principles. Deep down I thought it all a bit silly; grown men hiding themselves behind dresses--robes--and a forbidding, white mask was nothing to inspire fear. It was our motives, rather, that were darker than the black we wore.

But those days were behind me. I'd have been lying if I said I still didn't think about them anyway. Truth is, for the next few years I couldn't stop thinking about them.

Even after I had helped put Riddle in the slammer, even after things had quieted down and seemed peaceful enough, I'd still be looking over my shoulder every other step, watching for those stray Death Eaters who'd managed to avoid imprisonment.

Then there'd be nights I'd wake from some unfathomable intense chills and almost unconsciously walk down to the old club. I'd stay there till dawn, throwing rocks through the windows in a pathetic attempt to physically destroy that which stood as a hated symbol of my past.

But at twenty-seven I felt like I was finally ready to move on, to forget it all. Life was calm, if a bit mundane. I felt safe, secure, except for that nagging hunch that said if Riddle could almost pull off his ideas of domination over the people of England he could certainly slither his way past bars and walls. I sensed that Harry Potter was going to throw my still world out of balance, and I wasn't going to let him--not without a fight.

"Yeah, I've heard of Riddle. Went to jail a few years ago. Everyone lived happily ever after. The end."

Potter frowned. Maybe I wasn't taking this seriously enough?

"You aren't taking this seriously enough."

Question answered. "So he finally broke out."

"Yes, and he's--excuse me? 'Finally'?"

"Yeah. I knew he'd do it eventually." I stretched, leaning back in my chair. "He's too smart, too ambitious, to sit in a cell for the rest of his life." Damn, I hate it when I'm right; it wouldn't take much detecting skills to see how this would affect my life. And I had only just stopped screaming in my sleep.

But back to the petite beauty in my office.

"How did he escape? And when? I haven't heard anything about it. I'm sure the Daily Prophet has its priorities, but really. When a mad killer escapes from a top-notch facility that's assumed to be impossible to break out of, it's only worth mentioning in the space between weather and horoscopes? As if anyone reads that crap."

Just out of curiosity, I opened up this morning's paper and looked for my horoscope.

"Riddle's escape isn't in the paper at all," Potter said, perhaps thinking I was looking for any mention of a disturbance at Azkaban.

"Yeah, I know. This is important research. Detective matters."

The Aries horoscope: Your short temper and impulsive nature will get you into trouble. Don't get too curious! Refrain from making any decisions before carefully thinking them through. An interesting, new person may lead to much grief.

Well, damn.

"Hey, Potter. What's your sign?"

"Leo, but why?"

"Research."

The Leo horoscope: Using your own powers of persuasion could help you "sell" something now. You can create a favorable first impression today, for you're looking good. Turn on your charm. Be coy and friendly.

Hot damn.

"Sorry about that. Now go on."

Potter fidgeted. "It happened last night. The Ministry's been keeping it quiet because they don't want everyone to start panicking, so that includes no mentions in the paper. Minister Fudge seems to be in denial. Said Riddle died a long time ago so it's impossible he's back. No one knows but they said he had an accomplice named Peter Pettigrew."

I nodded. "Also known as Wormtail. I thought he was dead."

"So did everyone else. But I guess he was just in hiding, planning for this moment. Guards say he had a prosthetic hand that was rather...unnatural." He gave me a curious glance then, as though he believed I knew why or how or even cared that Wormtail had lost a hand.

I could understand why Wormtail disappeared. Word was he ran away the instant Riddle got caught, fearing punishment from both the Aurors and Death Eaters who claim he sold them out. I don't know about the hand, though. Maybe he lost it while he was living the fugitive life. Maybe it fell off while he was helping Riddle out of jail. Maybe I'm wondering where he got the stand-in hand, or if he somehow whittled it himself, middle finger defiantly carved pointing up. What a trooper.

"So what do you want me to do? Catch Riddle? That would be the Aurors' job."

Potter's eyes flashed in contempt. "Not when they're trying to pretend it hasn't happened because they believe it isn't possible to escape from Azkaban. That's not why I want to hire you anyway. Riddle's after me. I want you to find out why."

Why would Riddle want Potter? I had to admit, my curiosity was growing. However, I knew better than to deliberately tangle with Riddle again.

"Sorry, kid, I'm not interested." Lie. "Leave it to the officials. A loose cannon like me could screw up the works." Yea, maybe if I kept talking I'd make him think I had more of an effect on reality than I really did.

"Please, at least come to Azkaban with me to see what he did. Maybe you'll change your mind after you see the damage."

Damage to a prison? It sounded pointless, and I could think of places more appropriate to while away time with a man like him. I tried to come up with a biting response, but my wit was failing. An empty stomach had the tendency to dull the sharpest sarcasm.

Why not just go check it out? It couldn't hurt.

***

Azkaban was the same as I had last seen it. The rest of the world could be sun shiny bright and the island of Azkaban would still be dreary with an air of perpetual despair. The guards had a knack for making it the least attractive place on earth.

Even though Riddle had left the night before, the place was still crawling with reporters, Aurors, and medics in mid-morning. So much for keeping it quiet. By the next day everyone will have heard of an "Incident" at Azkaban, and though they wouldn't know what the "Incident" was, anything out of place in this prison was considered terrifying. People would start to panic no matter what the Minister said.

The Aurors seemed to be making only a half-hearted attempt to keep the reporters away; mostly they looked as if they didn't even know what they were doing there. The Ministry was probably feeding them some crackpot story of a harmless occurrence that they were finding very hard to swallow.

Once the bodies were brought out, however, there was no way the Ministry could pretend nothing had happened.

***

There were six in all, five in body bags and one on a stretcher. They marched past us in some sort of deranged parade, a hand dangling off the stretcher, which no one bothered to do anything about. All I could see was a whole lot of blood soaking the sheet that lay over the stretcher.

When potter said "damage" I foolishly thought he meant a hole or two in the wall, a few bent bars, maybe even a broken light. But cadavers were another issue altogether.

I turned to him, meaning to ask how he knew Riddle was after him when I was temporarily blinded by a flash.

"Hey, Harry! What are you doing here?" Oh no. It was that irritating photographer from the Daily Prophet, Colin Creevy. Although his clingy, exuberant nature did not endear him to many reporters, he was known for some stunning works of art and was completely devoted to his career. Right now he was busy snapping pictures of the two of us, Potter glancing apologetically at me while I sneered contemptuously at Creevy.

"Colin, um, this isn't the best time. I'm rather busy--I'll talk to you later, all right?" Potter was steadily backing away. I longed to reach out and crush Creevey's camera under the heel of my boot but decided that would be considered bad form. Besides, he was leaving anyway.

"Bye Harry! See you soon!"

"So how do you know him?" I asked.

"We went to school together." His expansive sigh said more than enough and I found it hard to stifle a smile.

I sighed. Back to business. I again turned to Potter. And again those eyes were pleading with me. He didn't need to bother; after seeing those bodies I knew I wouldn't be able to leave this alone. And logically, and regrettably, if Riddle was out I knew he'd eventually be after my blood. I was the one who'd double-crossed him after all, spied on him, then testified against him in the Wizengamot court. The Wizengamot was an order of the There'd be no way he wouldn't try to kill me. I might as well get a head start on the situation by helping Harry Potter.

"I'll take your case." Famous last words?

Potter's insufferable grin was about the size of the sun and twice as bright. I felt a sad little twinge at the sight, which should have been a clue as to what the future would bring. Clue? Hell, try warning.

***

I'd had my fill of snapping cameras, bossy reporters, and unanswered questions. I'd come back later when it was less crowded to scour for any hints the Aurors missed as to how Riddle escaped. I could faintly make out Rita Skeeter closing in on an unfortunate Auror; I wanted to get as far as possible before she decided to pounce on me, too.

We were about to leave when I felt a heavy hand clap down upon my shoulder. Only one person I knew had such a grip--Viktor Krum--which meant Sirius Black wouldn't be far. The two were partner Aurors; I'd gone to school with Black. We had a lot of history together, all of it bad. I wasn't in the mood for verbal sparring with him, so I tried to shrug off Krum and, with a slight toss of my head, signal to Potter that we were leaving.

"Well, well. Look what the dog dragged in." I instinctively sneered at the voice I knew too well. "What's a Death Eater doing at Azkaban? I thought you all bribed and lied your way to stay on the opposite shore."

Except for the Lestranges who had willingly gone to prison to prove their loyalty to Riddle, the others had walked. Though I don't think it was that observant of Black to note something almost everyone else had suspected, I still had an absurd impulse to applaud him for noticing something.

"I asked you a question, Snivellus. What are you doing here? You have no reason to be at this crime scene," he snarled.

"He's working for me," Potter said, leaping to my defense. I bristled indignantly. I didn't need a boy defending me.

Black turned towards Potter and said, much more congenially, "Sir, if you needed detective skills you should have come to the Aurors, not that." He vaguely gestured disgustedly to me.

Potter smiled faintly and said, "I'm just fine. I have the utmost confidence in Mr. Snape's abilities."

For some strange reason I felt he was laughing at me.

Black snorted. "Well, at least one of us does."

***

We went back to my office for some simple questions, such as his address and phone number.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm the professor of history at Hogwarts."

Hogwarts. That's where I'd gone to school. He said he was twenty, so that meant he'd started school the year after I'd left. He was incredibly young to be a teacher, but from what I seemed to recall, Hogwarts' previous history professor was as animated as the dead. No doubt Potter's youthful exuberance was seen as a great improvement.

"Where do you and your family live?"

"I live in Hogsmeade, but I'm an orphan."

"I'm sorry." Sorry not all of us could be so lucky. I hated my parents with an undying fervor and feel I would have fared better alone.

"I was too young to remember anything. It was an automobile accident."

The small talk eventually wandered to the issue of payment and fees. As soon as that was done, I ushered him out of my office. As he walked to the door he paused to turn around and smile confidently at me. Again, I felt as though I was the butt-end of a cruel joke.

It was an hour later before I realized I'd forgotten to ask how he knew Riddle was after him.

***

To ease my nerves I decided to take a stroll over to the fortune teller down the street. Every now and then I try and escape the binds of my life with something whimsical and silly. Some drink to a stupor, others go out and shoot people. I supposed a fortune reading's the cheapest method. The fortune teller claims she's got gypsy blood but with a name like Trelawney I'd figure her a liar.

The heavy incense wafting around the gaudy, rainbow room itself was almost enough to cause hallucinations and visions. I paid her and tried not to let the heady scent overcome my wits. Almost as soon as the money had clinked into her hand she started moaning, rolling her eyes back, tossing her head about. It's nothing I hadn't seen before.

In front of her lay many, many tarot cards. Of all the fortune tellers I know only she uses such an eccentric method; the others call her a fake while I laugh at the hypocrisy.

"How many cards do you wish me to See today?" Her method is to interpret up to ten cards per deck. I've always asked for one because I don't think I could stand ten cards of her theatrics.

She flipped a random card and screeched.

"Four of Wands in reversed position! Oh my, oh my." She leaned forwards and clasped my hands together, palm to palm. Searching my eyes she intoned deeply, "Don't let envy take even the smallest foothold in your life. Errors in judgment are likely when your emotions cloud reason. Is someone taking advantage of you? Think about it!"

She screamed the last bit, dragging out the "it" until shudders overcame her frail body. Trelawney swooned into the voluminous pillows surrounding her. I noticed she kept an eye on her money, though.

I took a long drag from my fag. Like I said, it's nothing I hadn't seen before.