Severus Spade and the Dame that was Harry Potter

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers: Lorra...you hope I don't mind? Mind what? A good review? Encouragement? Are you crazy? ; ) Adele Sparks...transparent Malfoys...that'd be a switch, wouldn't it? Spiral Digger--easily rectified. You can pay me under the table, mafia style. Just kidding, no profit, right? Winnie2, much appreciated.

And a triple thank you to Stella Hobbit, for being my guardian Beta. I need to stop writing once I'm so tired that my eyes actually shut, but she does an admirable job at cleaning up my messes.

Now, onto the fic!

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Part 6: Cons and Convolutions

We're halfway back to the cab when Harry suddenly stops, patting his jacket. "Hey Boss, wait up a moment, would you?" he says to me. "I think I dropped my cigarette case in there."

I glance back at the house, thinking That guy can probably afford some top-notch goons. I'll bet he has a few on hand for cases like this. "I'll buy you another one, Beautiful," I tell him.

"Nah, you can't," he whines. "It's irreplaceable! Sirius bought it for my birthday last year. It's inscribed and everything!" Those big, soft eyes are pleading, and a shade just touching irresistible.

"All right," I groan. "I'll go get your damned toy--you go wait in the car." I start trudging toward the door, and he grabs onto my arm and holds on for dear life.

"Wait! Stop; you can't go back in there. Do you have any idea what he'll do to you?" He's digging his heels in, really making it hard.

"Aw, it's real sweet for you to get concerned about me, but I can take care of myself," I assure him. I hope he's not gonna start getting all clingy and shrewish. One time in the sack and they think they own you.

"No!" he shouts, taking me by surprise. "I want to get it myself," Harry adds through clenched teeth. "And he's less likely to kill me. I can go back in there and tell him I'm sorry and all, and maybe he won't be so sore."

He's got me baffled. Why the hell would he want to go and do that? "Why the hell would you want to go and do that?" I look him up and down, and he kind of looks like getting teary on me.

"He knows things; don't you understand? He's an in, Sev! I can't afford to cut him dead or have him cut me dead, not here, not now. Not while I'm still searching for that text."

"You go in there, kiddo, and he ain't gonna cut you dead. He's got a gun--he'll shoot you dead. Far less effort on his end," I point out, but the doll is adamant.

"No, he won't. Trust me, Sev. I know Draco Malfoy." Yeah, that's what I used to think about his father. "I've seen him far angrier than this. This is nothing, Sev. I can handle it. Trust me." Damn, but those eyes make it hard to think.

"I'd like to, but seeing as how you've fed me line after line--" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I haven't lied to you!" he shouts, his face swinging between anger and hysteria. "I never lied to you!"

"Yeah, well, maybe not--but you sure did leave a lot out of your original story, Sweetheart. You didn't tell me nothing about this business with Malfoy, you didn't tell me nothing about your godfather bein' in the stir, you just left stuff out left and right. Ever hear of the sin of omission?"

He laughs humorlessly. "I'm sure I've committed much worse sins than that." He really looks choked up, now, and I'm starting to get uneasy. Like I said; I don't do too good with the waterworks.

"Fine," I tell him. "You wanna go in there and swallow some lead, you go right ahead. I ain't gonna stop you. But I'm telling you right now; you go dyin' before you've paid me up, and I'm gonna dig up your corpse and make you sorry."

"Is that what you're worried about? Well, no problems there, then. Here's your dough--take it! Here!" He flings some green at me--more than I knew he had, and turns and stomps up to the door.

I try to watch him go while at the same time making sure none of the money blows away. What the hell is wrong with that kid? Throwing money around like that. By the time I've got it all cleared up, I'm good and mad. I shove the stuff into my pocket and stamp through Malfoy's daffodils on the way to the front door, not knowing if I want to save the brat from his fate, or just wring his neck myself.

Before I get there, he comes marching back out looking none the worse for wear. I gape at him for a second before pulling myself together. I'm a seasoned flatfoot, right? I've seen just about everything. Besides, I've been with this kid, and so has Malfoy. We both know he's a scorcher. Harry could probably sweet talk his way into or out of anything. I scowl and ask him, "Did you get it?"

Wordlessly, he holds it up. I can read the inscription. It says, I'm proud of you, Firebolt. With love from Sirius.

"Firebolt? I've heard of calling someone a firecracker, maybe, but Firebolt?" He ignores me. Then he flounces right on past me and down to the cab. I follow and we both get in. I give the cabbie directions to Harry's place.

Harry's so mad he won't even speak to me, and he won't take the money back. Finally, I give in. "Look, Gorgeous; I'm sorry for accusing you and all that, but it don't look good when you keep things from me. Besides, how am I supposed to know what I'm doing when I don't have all the information I need?" Still silence from his side of the cab, although he does look a little green. I'm guessing this has more to do with the fact that our esteemed chauffer took that stop sign as a suggestion and breezed through it doing eighty, more than my ability to generate sickening guilt with my elegant words. I sigh. "You sure don't make it easy on a fellow, do you?"

He gives a little huff and sticks his lower lip out just a bit, and I know I'm gone. I tell myself it doesn't matter, that I'll distance myself later, but really--I'm dizzy for the dame, even if he ain't a dame. I must be getting old--or soft. Or both. "Look, Doll, I said I was sorry. What more do you want from me?" I've never been good at this sort of thing. I rack my brains, looking for something. "I'll take you someplace nice for chow, how's that? Or I'll buy you something pretty."

His lips twitch a little at this, and he rolls his eyes. "With my money, I presume?"

"Well, you wouldn't take it back, and I don't have no other money," I tell him, and he laughs. I reach over and turn his chin toward me so I can look him in the eyes. "You still mad at me, or do I gotta blow all your hard-earned scratch on you?"

He smiles again, shaking his head. "You're screwy, you know that?"

"Yeah. You make me kind of screwy, so it's your fault." I sneak a quick peep at the driver, who's happily ignoring us; he's doin' his thing and careering along at breakneck speed, zigging here and zagging there, cheating his own death and likely causing other people's. I smirk and lean over and plant one on the bridge of the kid's nose. "I'm gonna give you the rest of the day off; how's that?"

He looks disappointed. "But what are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna see a friend of mine." He bites his lip, looking at me worriedly. I lean over until my mouth is level with his ear. "Don't worry. He's an ugly old coot. I promise I'll come back to you to get my kicks tonight. And maybe then I'll have some news for you."

He looks tired and sad, all of a sudden, but he tries to give me a smile. "I hope so, Sev. I do hope so."

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My next stop is downtown. I drop the kid off and look at the driver for a few minutes, contemplating. Then I figure; what the hell. He ain't got me killed yet. Plus, the way he drives, I'm a real hard to hit target--that's a big plus. "Police headquarters," I tell the guy, and he nods happily before punching the accelerator like he's going up against Joe Louis for the heavyweight championship.

When we pull up outside headquarters, I tell the guy to wait for me again; I'll only be a few minutes. That way, I can tell Dumbledore I've got a cab waiting, and he won't have the urge to question me politely on every topic from the World Series to what I had for breakfast.

Once I get indoors, it's but the work of a minute--all right, a quarter of an hour, maybe--to get the guy at the desk to let me see the Chief. I whine and plead and threaten, and finally ask where the nearest public phone is. Then I go and call the guy up and tell him I'm from the Mayor's office, and the Mayor wants to talk to Jones, and put him on the horn, like yesterday. He leaps to his feet to find Jones--there's always a Jones--and I see him from down the hall, and slip on past. What a chump.

I flit into the Chief's office, feeling smug. That's when I hear his voice from the depths of his chair--which is turned from me. "It's good to see you, Severus, very good indeed. How can I help you?"

You can start by not knowing things about me that you ain't supposed to know, I think, but I don't say it. Instead I say, "I just came to thank you for the pity case you threw my way. Easy money, and the kid's a wild thing in the bedroom."

He shifts, and even though the room is dark, the chair is dark, and the chair is still mostly turned away from me, I swear I can see the amusement battling with admonishment in those twinkling eyes. "I don't think the case is quite as simple as all that," is all he says.

"You got knowledge that says it isn't?" I arch a brow and pull out a stogie, rolling it around in my long fingers. I hate being in here--I always feel like a patsy who's about to get the rug yanked out from under him.

"Would you like a mint?" he asks, turning and pointedly looking at my cigar. No smoking, not in here. I sigh and shake my head, sliding the cigar away. "Very well then. I do have some knowledge which you might not have gotten a hold of, yet," he admits. What a shock, I think dryly. "Minerva has been in touch." I hide a wry grin. Minerva is this cute little old lady who just happens to be the Mayor's head secretary, and I'm pretty sure she's sweet on our old Police Chief.

"Oh, yeah? What's the news from your lady friend?" I plop down in the seat across from him, suddenly a bit more comfortable with all of this.

He pointedly ignores the remark. "Several new facts have come to light. The first is that the Mayor may be involved in this."

I shrug. When isn't he? Our esteemed Mayor has his fingers in nearly everybody's pies. "And?"

"And...we don't know what his angle is, but he has been seen several times in rather exclusive clubs lately, while in the company of one Mister Lucius Malfoy." He raises his brows at me.

I grimace. "Oh, those Malfoy men. They do get around, don't they?" I sigh heavily. The father is even better looking than the son. They're bombshells in their own way, both of them. A funny thought strikes me--maybe Lucius is doing the Mayor. I snort. Dumbledore gives me a questioning look, and I sober up. "I'll look into it," I advise him.

"I think I ought to warn you to watch your back," he tells me, leaning back in his chair.

"Don't need telling," I grunt in return. I'm dying for a stogie. I'd settle for a pull from my flask, but that's a no-no, as well. "Anything else?"

"Just a bit of news on Tom Riddle," he says, using the man's Christian name. If you want to call it that. It still seems odd that Dumbledore can dig things like that up--things like the childhood names of famous gangsters, who've gone so far from that life that their own mother's probably wouldn't know them.

I shift, and realize I'm really uneasy. Man, I don't call the Dark Lord anything but the Dark Lord, and I don't care if I am a coward because of it. I saw him use a knife to play tic-tac-toe on a guy's chest once, and I've learned not to call him anything, if I can help it. "Yeah? What's the word on that?"

Dumbledore's eyes gleam. "He admires Hitler." Yeah, well. He would. "I believe he intends to join Hitler's cause, in the hopes that Hitler will give him certain...recompenses. Hitler wants something he believes Voldemort has. A Tibetan Text." Don't tell me about Tibetan Texts. "If Voldemort can present it to Der Fuehrer, he'll be considered as the man's new right-hand man. You know, of course, what he did with the last one."

"Mmm," I reply distractedly. I wonder what recompenses Hitler promised. The Chief is silent a long time, and I look up at him. "Is that everything?"

"Unless you have any questions." He smiles brightly at me. "Tell me, are you sure you wouldn't like a mint? They're really quite good. I'm glad, by the way, to hear that you and Harry have been getting on so well. That's splendid, splendid."

"I do have a couple of questions," I interject quickly, hoping to head him off at the pass. I ain't gonna sit here and make small talk with the Police Chief. We are not friends, whatever he thinks. He merely waits expectantly, while I let myself spill whatever I want to know. "What do you know about Malfoy junior?"

"He is not directly involved with Voldemort, although he would like to be. His father has not allowed him to interact with any of the major players, yet," he replies.

"Would he try something on his own?"

"Perhaps. He is certainly ambitious enough, and he has the Malfoy connections. Although he is inexperienced and unsophisticated, he might attempt his own maneuvers. Do you suspect him?"

Of something. Aloud, I only say, "I'm...not sure, yet." I think for a few moments, trying to sort the web out in my head. "What's the Moony factor? Where's he fit in?"

The Chief looks away, and my stomach goes cold. "Remus Lupin is a non-issue."

"The hell you say! He does business with the Mayor, he could well be doing business with Malfoy--"

"All the same, he isn't an issue. Leave it alone, Severus. There is no connection." He looks at me over the top of his glasses, and I start to get angry. I get to my feet and start to pace.

"No connection! No fucking connection? You've gotta be kidding me! He's friends with the guy who owned that Tibetan thingy, he's in up to his ears with the criminal underworld, he's definitely got some kind of heavy duty problem on his mind these days, and you're sitting there telling me to forget about it? What's the deal?"

"There is no deal. He is simply not important to this enterprise," Albus shrugs. He looks uncomfortable under my glare for all of two seconds, before smiling brightly up at me. "How about those Red Sox?"

I cringe. "I have a cab waiting," I snarl, before whirling and beating it through the door. I march past the front desk, giving the sap sitting there my patented Medusa Number Five. He looks shocked and opens his mouth, but I'm out the door and down the steps before he can say anything.

I throw myself into the cab and give the driver my best imperious look, knowing I'm probably appearing more sulky at the moment. "Home, James," I growl.

The guy blinks once, the first time I've seen any indication that he was really paying attention to what I said. "That the place I got you and that kid from this morning?"

"Yes. No." I think it over. I'm not going back to the kid, yet. He's a distraction, and I want to get something done. And dammit, I can't help but think about that moonshine runner. He was living with the kid, for cryin' out loud! He had all sorts of opportunities to steal that thing! The last thing I wanna do right now, though, is tell Harry anything about that. We already got into it once today. "No, I got a better idea," I tell the cabbie, and give him my office address.

When we finally pull up, I give him some of Harry's cash, feeling irritable about the whole thing. I've got to get me some other kind of dough. It makes me feel weak, relying on the kid for cash. I climb the steps, thinking it over. I could give the Tibetan thing to Malfoy, if I find it, since he offered a substantial amount. But that would mean not giving it to Harry, which would probably mean the end of nookie, at least with him. I feel frustrated, as I move to open my office door. I want the money, I want the kid, I want the text. I can have either the money or the kid, but not both, and neither one until I get the text.

"Mister Spade?" There's a man in my office! How the hell did that happen? I look back at the doorknob, wondering if I'd forgotten to lock it last night. I was kind of punch drunk at the time. And the normal kind of drunk, as well. Well, shit. Don't that just beat all?

"Can I help you with something?" I eye the twerp warily. He's a creepy little fellow with a weak chin and a goaty little waxed beard. Yuck. Plus, the way he keeps wringing his hands is getting on my nerves. This guy just about reeks of desperation.

"I'm hoping that you can. I am looking for certain artifact. I was told by a...mutual acquaintance that you have the key to acquiring it. It is rare work, out of Tibet. I believe you are familiar with this subject?"

Fuck, does everybody want this thing? And why the hell do they all think I should have it? The way things stand now, I half expect Mickey Mouse to pop out of the closet, asking me if I've seen the damn thing. This is getting SUSPICIOUS, with a capital everything. "Who wants to know?"

"Ah, yes. I'm sorry; we have not been introduced. My name is Igor Karkaroff. I am a collector of rare antiquities--a passionate collector. And I must own this particular item. If you have any idea of its whereabouts, I am sure I can make it worth your while."

"Oh, I see. Who was it that referred you to me, again?" I asked him pulling out my cigar and lighting up. It seems like the perfect time, and I have to hide a malicious grin when he coughs delicately.

"It was...a friend of a friend, actually," he says, avoiding the question. He's playing with his fingernails, as though they're of captivating interest. "This text is extremely important to me. I should like to obtain it before...someone less reputable gets it first." I wonder who that could possibly be. "I am willing to offer a substantial sum for it...to the tune of fifty thousand dollars." He sneaks a look at me, and I keep the deadpan on.

"Not the best offer I've had for it," I lie, and he scowls. It's a lie unless you count the perk of making it with the kid, I think as he wanders from behind the desk.

"Seventy thousand, then."

"No dice."

"One hundred, and I am completely prepared to pay it, but not one red cent more." He is licking his lips nervously, and it is extremely unattractive.

Why the hell is he doing this? Why does he want the thing? Why is he asking me? I hesitate. "Well, I can't blame you for wanting it. A previously undiscovered poem on the origin of the legend of Fa Mulan? A collector's dream," I remark casually, watching him from the corner of my eye.

He doesn't even hesitate. "Yes, a beautiful poem, by all accounts. I simply must have it. Will you take the case?" Ah ha!

"I'll consider it," I advise him. "Let me think on it overnight. I must admit, a hundred grand ain't chicken feed. If you'll give me a number to reach you, I'll call you first thing in the morning with my decision."

"Very well, then." He reaches into his pocket, I'm assuming for a business card or the like, and instead pulls out a Remington. Well, shit. "If you're certain you're not in possession of the text, Mister Spade, then you won't mind if I check to make sure you're telling the truth."

"Be my guest," I tell him bitterly, well aware that I can't stop him. He is a twitchy, wimpy thing, though. If the gun weren't aimed at my chest, I'm sure I could take him. He begins rummaging through my things, making a mess of all the hard work Harry did last night. Bastard. After he's dumped the contents of most of my desk drawers and file cabinets on the floor, he steps over to me. He begins patting my jacket, and I grit my teeth.

Suddenly the door swings open, and Harry stands framed there. "Hey, Boss. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I get some more filing..." he trails off as he sees the guy with the gun. "Karkaroff?" Interesting.

"You! You double-crossing--" Igor begins. That's even more interesting, but I don't have the luxury of letting him continue to enlighten me. The minute his attention is focused wholly on Harry, I coldcock the cock sucker. He stumbles backwards, dropping the gun, but nearly managing to keep his feet. Better than Malfoy, at any rate. I'd congratulate him on that, only he's a jackass and he just pulled a gun on me, see?

As he tries to get back up, Harry swoops into the room and snatches the gun off the floor. He turns to me, and I tense, but he only smiles and hands me the gun. "That was a nasty thing to do to someone, Sev," he tells me. Then he winks. "But you did it very well."

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And thanks to Loupgarou for inspiring this whole shebang in the first place. Guess what? I finally saw Casablanca for the first time ever! It was great! And hysterical! It was the mother of all clichés--but only because it was the source of all those clichés! I loved it. And I loved Bogey. Count yourself as having made a convert, Loup. I love ya.

Oh, guys! Before I forget, I really, really need betas for my other work, my Harry/Remus. I need someone that notices inconsistencies, especially, because I think I'm writing a lot of them. So I'm begging you, (see what you've reduced me to) really, truly begging you to help me out. You could rec me someone, if you can't do it yourself. Please? I'll do anything!

Oh, all right. Bedtime now. J'taime, my dears.

Starry