Severus Spade and the Dame that was Harry Potter

Part 3: Drinking Out of the Same Bottle

By the time we get over to my end of town, we're already losing daylight. No surprise there; the kid must have had us stuck in that old mausoleum for hours. There's a speakeasy on the west side of town, just past the old bridge, so that's the first place I hit. No, it ain't the only joint in town, but I gotta couple of close friends in there the only ones you won't find in a bottle or the chamber of a gun. Well, to tell you the truth, we're really not all that close. We're just some guys that happen to like the same joint, the same juice, the same atmosphere. If a little talk happens to go along with it, so much the better.

I didn't feel quite right taking Harry there, though, so I made him drop me off and promise to head back to the office. He wasn't happy with that--not one bit. But after cursing me under his breath for a while, he agreed. "Get some damn filing done," I advise him. "It's been almost a month since anybody touched the filing, and it's driving me right up the wall. How do you expect me to concentrate, with papers all over the place?" It was an out and out lie--the only time I can think is when everything's a mess. Maybe that's why I keep my life that way.

He only gives me this sultry look, just before he's ready to drive away. We're in front of Fletcher's, and I'm leaning in the window, and he looks me right in the eye with those iridescent high beams of his and says, "Trust me, Severus. With me around, you'll never spare a THOUGHT for the filing." He winks and guns the engine, so I step back and let him roar away from the curb. Cheeky little bird.

Filch is already in place by the time I walk in, and it's not even five in the afternoon. Of course, Filch REALLY likes the atmosphere. Me, I bring my own in a hip flask. Nothing against Fletcher, I just really prefer homemade. It's just about the only thing I do well, anymore. Filch nods at me as I take my seat.

Fletcher, the little weasel, sets a glass in front of me, as if I'm gonna use it. "What'll it be, Sev?" he asks, grinning widely.

"Pickled onions," I reply, disgruntled. Filch rolls his eyes at me and knocks back another glass. He's seen us do this same routine a thousand times before, and somewhere along the way, he's ceased to find it entertaining. So have we, really.

"I hear where you've gone and picked up a new honey," Fletcher croons at me, and I scowl.

"I hear where you been drivin' around in fancy cars and thinkin' you're too good for the likes of us," Filch merrily jumps in, hoping to sow some dissent. He's the type of guy who ain't happy unless everyone else is miserable.

"Would I do that to you?" I ask him. "My good pals?" No answer. "Next drink's on me," I tell Filch, and he looks almost disappointed. No dissent tonight.

"So, you hear I'm running around with a new fellow, huh? What else is running around the rumor mill?" I lean back in my seat and pull out my flask. It's gonna take a while to get to the point, and I plan on enjoying myself in the meantime.

"Heard the new boy's quite a dish," our host leers knowingly.

"I'm sure he'd say the same of you, Dung Beetle," I tell him. Dung Beetle is Fletcher's nickname, owing to the fact he roots around everywhere and finds something useful in all of it. Or so he tells us.

"I hear he's quite a catamite," Filch interjects. "A regular little harlot," he adds, and Dung's face goes tense. It wouldn't be the first time I threw a punch just because I'd been drinking and somebody insulted my companion, but hell, Harry wasn't even here, and I wasn't sure how I felt about him, anyway.

"Well, that should make me an easy in then, shouldn't it?" I reply, shrugging it off.

Dung's face relaxes again, and Filch snorts. "You're an easy in to anyone--so long as they're too blind to get a gawk at your schnozzle or greasy hair." He takes a long swig of his drink--MY drink; I paid for it.

"It's a roman nose." I take a swig from my flask companionably. "They call it 'classic' or something."

He chuckles wheezily. "Does that mean it's ancient, like the rest of you?"

"Aw, zip it already. Anything else interesting floating around?"

"Wait a minute, we didn't even get started on my news!" he protests. "I hear that boy of yours--what's his name? Potter? I hear he got to play houseboy for the Malfoys. Ha ha; although if it turned to play, my bet is on rough and tumble and green-eyes down on his knees--"

"Shut it," I order him, and he shuts. People that know me do, when they hear me use that tone. My blood had turned cold. Malfoy. No way in hell.

Except that it was entirely possible. I didn't even know the kid! Who knew who he did in his spare time? And his manners entirely fitted a much lower class than he dressed--he was far too brazen and tactless to be upper class. Could Malfoy be his sugar daddy? Possible--far too possible. I make a mental note to have it out with the kid tonight.

I look at Filch's face; he's still frozen with his glass halfway to his mouth, like I'm gonna pull something. His eyes are all bugged out, and I'd laugh if I didn't half feel sorry. "Either of you hear of a guy named Lupin?" I change the subject.

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I'm hoofing it down the street--since I don't have a car--and my mind is buzzing with things. Not the least of which is the homemade giggle juice that's still drowsing around in my blood. I'm thinking over what I've just been told. It's raining out, and that's always a good thing. Keeps at least some of the bad boys indoors, and creates this wet, thrumming world that's all my own. I've done some of my best thinking in a torrential downpour. Just my luck this is merely a passing shower.

I wonder if Harry knows about Lupin. Nah. Lupin acted too goody two shoes when he saw the boy. I still can't hardly believe it. Lupin is Moony. Moony is Lupin. Half of me wants to laugh and say, 'Yeah, and so's your old man!' But it kind of fits. He looks right, somehow. Moonshine Moony, shaking my hand like I'm Voldemort his self. Or the mayor, or something. Moony sells to the biggest--in bulk. For any price he names. I wonder again if Harry knows, but shake my head once again, agreeing with my earlier thought. It just can't be.

If I know Moony is Lupin, then others are bound to know, as well. I wonder exactly who knows. I wonder if that has something to do with the deep circles under his eyes, and the fact that he looks haunted. He's got some kind of problem, I could tell that by looking at him. I wonder if stealing scrolls from Tibet would have lightened his load. Maybe I'll ask him.

I'm walking past an alley, when I hear a deep, grunting voice; "Get 'im." I spin around, ready to pull my gun, but I was in too much of a trance, too deep in thought. 'Last time anyone will ever accuse me of that,' I think, as a meaty hand claps over my mouth. I try to bite down, but these guys are like, professionals, and they drag me back into the shadows with the barest scuffle.

I kick back and feel my heel connect with something--presumably the guy's shin, unless he's a real contortionist. His hand loosens its grip, and I struggle free of it. "What the hell do you want?" I demand, kicking and squirming in the grasp of the vise-like arm around my middle. It's pinning my hands to my sides, rendering me pretty much unable to fight back. But at least my mouth's free, right? That's gotta be a help. "You mother lovin' sons of shit-eating pigs!" I holler, and Mister Arm reaches his other around me to shut me up again. Yeah, that was a big, big help.

The other goon steps forward, and I recognize the face. He's one of us--fuck, wait--I'm not one of THEM, not anymore. He's on the force, but he's in someone else's pocket. Voldemort's. 'Goyle?' I almost gasp, but then I realize that, considering the circumstances, this might not be the wisest thing to do. Just occasionally, I'm capable of circumspection. Normally, it's all I can do to spell it.

"You'd better stay outta this, flatfoot," Goyle warns me. He emphasizes his statement with a blow to my gut that takes my air out. Then he punctuates the remark attempting to puncture a lung. This thug is one hell of a conversationalist. Then he concentrates on saying things to my face for a while. Once he and his buddy are through with me--not that his chum did much, but I appreciated being held up through it all--they start to meld back into the shadows. "Just a friendly warning, like," he tells me. I can't help but wonder who writes his lines--they really oughta try being less cliché.

I prod myself for damage, and I'm happy to find that there isn't much. I think my chest will be a little sore, but I've had much, much worse. My face is in worse shape--my nose probably took the brunt of it. Yeah, maybe I don't look so pretty, but I don't look too dead, either.

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When I stumble into the office, Harry practically leaps out of his seat. I can see him trying to decide if this is an everyday occurrence, and I start to laugh. Unfortunately. Laughing might be some great medicine, like they say, but it's doing a hell of a lot more harm than good, right now. He gently takes my jaw in his hand and turns it this way and that. "It looks like you've been building character," he tells me, and I start to laugh again. It hurts. "You need me to get you a doc or something?" My nose is still kind of gushing, but I ignore it. If you ignore it, it'll go away, right?

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I assure him. What I need is a good night's sleep.

"Well, come on, then." He slides his arm around me and drags, carries, and--for the sake of my pride--'assists' me to the car. Damn if I don't feel proud. I'm about to bleed to death in an honest-to-God Rolls. Maybe I didn't solve the case, but that shouldn't stop me from dying happy, anyhow. I'd get to dirty up a rich man's toy on my way out, at any rate, and that would be kind of satisfying.

We're heading down the road before I know it, into an even worse part of town. I'm pinching the bridge of my nose, too self-involved to think much of where we're going.

"What happened?" he finally asks.

I shrug. "I heard some guy in a bar call you a floozy, and I decided to teach him a lesson." If it's good enough to warrant the hip flask, it's STRONG. Maybe I shoulda said when. I hate it when I get all flippant. Only thing worse is when I get sentimental.

"By beating your face into his fist?" He looks amused, but still concerned. A good combination. Amused, concerned, and naked is the way I like 'em, but hey, what're you gonna do?

"Come on, I'd do anything for you." My voice is a little nasal, but I'm feeling frisky, and it comes through in the tone.

"Anything?" he smirks at me as he caresses the gear shift. The whole smile gear shift thing has my pulse racing like a nag at the racecourse.

"Where are we going, anyhow?"

"Gotta drop Betsy off," he tells me. "Don't want anything to happen to her."

I listen to this in horrified fascination, wondering if he hasn't named some body part in a fit of whimsy, but then it don't make much sense to want to drop it off. Does it?

"The car, Sev," he clarifies, catching my look. I shake my head a little.

"Lost too much bootleg, drank too much blood," I inform him, and he laughs a little.

"Take a rest, you boozehound," he tells me.

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