Severus Spade and the Dame that was Harry Potter

Part One: The Persuasive Dish

When I walk into my office Monday morning, I see a pair of big green eyes and think; 'Uh oh. This dame is gonna be nothing but trouble.' Turns out I was right; about everything but the dame, that is.

The boy's as good-looking as any dame I've ever seen, with those pretty peepers, long thick lashes, sweet little bow of a mouth and the kinda thick, black hair most chicks would kill for. Wide, innocent eyes. Milky skin. A real ingénue. You know the type. Oh yeah, trouble for sure. He's dressed real swanky too, his suit cut to the latest fashion--a real double-breasted London cut--charcoal colored and open at the neck, letting me see he wears no undershirt. Nothing there but creamy skin. He's dressed real nice, all right, but he looks kinda young to be hangin' around my part of town. I put him in his late teens, not full height yet, slender body accentuated by the suit, and a face of flawless, smooth skin.

I give him my best intimidating look. I'm usually good at that; a scowl from me'll scare most kids silly. Not this kid. He just gives me this long, cool look, then dips his fingers into the inner pocket of that suit. I see that, and my revolver's in my hand before I know what I'm doing. It's instinct; see? It's why I'm still around.

Silently, he slips out a golden cigarette case. It has a lion engraved on the front. He doesn't look even a little impressed with my gun, and it kind of burns me. I fight down the urge to give him a closer look at my piece.

"Cute little thing like you shouldn't be nosing around places like this," I tell him, arching a brow and putting the .44 away. He slowly puts the cigarette to his lips and purses them around it. I dig into my pocket and get him a light. "Your parents know you're out here?" I ask him. "Your mama finds out you been spending time on this side of the tracks, and you're gonna get a spanking," I inform him.

He smiles at me, blowing a long cloud of smoke out. "Why don't you just save her the trouble?" he suggests. I don't say anything, but move around him to my desk and pull out a cigar and light up myself. Pretty soon the room is filled with thick smoke.

"What are you doing here, anyhow?" I finally ask him.

"Are you the S.S. on the door?"

"Yeah," I grunt. I have the initials S.S. on my door, right before the P.I. "Severus Spade, Private Investigator," I introduce myself.

He sticks out a slender hand. "Harry Potter." I shake his hand, and he doesn't let go right away. "I've got a case for you," he tells me.

I don't know why, but there's something about this kid that's off. I shake my head. "I got plenty of cases already," I tell him.

"That's not what the police chief says." He smiles again, and inwardly I curse. Dumbledore, always passing me the pity case. Always using me to keep an eye on the underworld. Someday I'm gonna tell the old man where to get off. The kid sits in the seat across from me, crossing his legs elegantly. His jacket falls open, and I can see more of that skin. Yeah, someday I'll tell him. But maybe not today.

"What kind of case you got?" I enquire around the stogie. He licks his lips a little, and I almost forget to listen to the words.

"Something's been stolen from me. I want it back," he says plainly. I like plain. Plain is easy. It's right or it's wrong, and it's a lie or it's a truth, but at least there isn't any gray. I hate gray.

"Uh-huh," I say, leaning back in my chair, sweeping my hair back before putting my fedora back on, pushing it down over my eyes a bit, so he can't see how closely I'm studying him. "What, exactly, are we talking about here? A jewel, some money, rare art, what?"

He bites his lip. Very nice. "A prophecy," he murmurs. "It's an ancient text that came straight out of Tibet. It was my godfather's. He recently passed away. In his will, he left it to me, but we couldn't find it."

"How do you know he still owned it, then? Times are hard. Maybe he traded it for enough green to keep a roof over his head, food in his mouth, that type of thing."

The youth shakes his inky dark head. "He would never have done that. It was too important to him."

"Yeah? What exactly is this ancient prophecy you lost, anyway? Why would anyone want to steal it?"

"It's a Buddhist text. Roughly translated, its title would be something like, 'The Route to Agharta.' It's never been dated; my godfather's family has had it for generations, and never let anyone touch it. The museums alone would be aching to get their hands on it." He turns the lights on in those eyes, and yeah, I can tell he wants something. Whether it's me, or the manuscript, that's something else again.

"Agharta, huh? Never heard of it," I tell him.

He gives me this cute, crooked smile. "It's sort of like heaven, as far as I understand it."

"Oh, I can show you that right here."

"I'm afraid I'd never consider anywhere heaven, not with the loss of my godfather's prized possession hanging over my head."

"And what if you got it back?" I kick my feet up on the desk, folding my hands behind my neck.

"Well, that WOULD be heaven, wouldn't it?" I could swear his eyelashes fluttered. Subtlety is not young Mister Potter's middle name.

"You're playing with fire, kid," I mutter, not really caring if he hears me. Then, louder, "And if you don't get it back?"

"Then that would be hell."

"Nah, I could show you that, too. Much worse than not seeing God-daddy's heirloom again, I can tell you that." I puff a couple of times, and watch a distressed look cross his face.

"But I have to get it back! You don't understand; I'll die if I don't!"

"You'll die anyway. Eventually." Then the tears well up, and I know I'm a goner. Never could turn anyone down when they started the waterworks.

"I've got money," he says, sounding just a tad hysterical. "Fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. A car. A secretary. Name your price. I must have your help!" He leans over and presses his hand over mine.

"Fifty clams a day, huh? Car...secretary...where are you going to get me a secretary?" I gotta admit, I could use one of those. Not for company--you might have already noticed broads ain't my thing--but the filing doesn't do itself, and the last one walked out on me when I missed her third paycheck in a row. Like I said, times are hard.

He flushes, lowers his eyes. "Well, I was planning to offer to volunteer for the job myself," he tells me, causing my eyebrows to shoot up. He gets all defensive. "Hey, I'm educated; I can file, I can answer the phone. I've got gorgeous short-hand."

"That I don't doubt. All right, first five days up front, and I'll do it." This is a test. If he gives me the money right off, he's desperate, stupid, or that map to heaven is bona fide and worth its weight in gold.

He gets a slant on me for a long moment, and I almost smile. He's not a dumb as he is pretty. "One day up front," he offers. "And I'll want to be kept up to date on anything you find out."

"If you're gonna be around the office," I point out, "you will be."

He nods, and we shake on it. I don't know if I'm going to regret this or not, but as his silky palm slides across mine, I figure, what the hell. If nothing else, it's bound to be quite a ride.