Fic: "Double Indemnity" for goodkingnerdnor
Title: Double Indemnity
Author: das_kabinett
Recipient's name: goodkingnerdnor
Rating: PG-13 for cursing
Character: Fred & George Weasley, Severus Snape, Regulus Black
Warnings: cursing, & rampant raging Americanisms.
Author's notes: Thanks to my lovely beta for absolutely coming in at the last moment and thanks again to dearest for moral support. You know who you are. goodkingnerdnor, I really hope you like this. It wriggled away from pure humor and grew a plot. It's also somewhat experimental in style, done like a long voice over from a classic film noir movie or a hard-boiled short story.
The name's Weasley. George Weasley, but it doesn't really matter, you can call me Fred. A lot of people do and my brother and I like it that way. Keeps people guessing, off guard. Gives us a little power and it’s a dangerous world out there, even for proprietors of a joke shop. Everyone needs a little power.
Especially if you sideline in a bit of private investigation, as we are wont to do. You see, Fred and I? We're good at finding things out and even better at it if nobody wants those "things" found. I say it's because people with secrets get nervous, get sloppy - Fred says it is because we are more stubborn than an eighty year old mule with an overdeveloped sense of the perverse.
People in our line of work need that attitude. And other people, those in slinky black cocktail robes or pinstriped pointy hats, well, they respect it. And while, we're not famous, and don't want to be, those people who know things, know the Brothers Weasley.
But I'm monologuing more than a sloshed actor with an eye for Shakespeare and getting off my point. My point is that when Miss Moneyknutt sashays into our office with that look on her overly made-up face, Fred puts away the latest batch of toffee and grabs his fedora.
Me? I'm already wearing mine, being quite fond of it, and I ask Moneyknutt to show our guest in. She's a nice girl, a bit chunky but not overly so. She just has unfortunate taste in clothing, with a tendency toward the feathered and rhinestoned. I never knew that they sold robes that glittered until I met her.
Fred mutters some Latin at a discreet record player and a whiskey throated broad begins singing the blues. It sets the mood.
It also means Fred's wand is still out when Severus Snape walks through that door, allowing Fred to stun him in the next breath. He looks disgusting, with lank black hair that goes on for miles and a generalized air of neglect. In fact, he looks just like a man who has been on the run for the last few months and I can't resist a grim smile of satisfaction at that.
Bille Holiday's still singing but us living ones are quieter than the dead for a long moment. Snape looks like someone just stapled his bollocks to his pasty white thigh, but he's always been observant. He's probably already gathered how much we want to do exactly that, the unpleasant bastard.
I stand, wishing I smoked so I could nonchalantly light a cigarette.
"What the fuck are you doing here and why shouldn't I Floo Harry to come over here and kill you?" I snarl, rather proud of my form.
Snape makes a face like he smells something terrible. I sympathize. The man reeks. He doesn't say anything, though, just looks at me with those disconcerting beetle eyes. I close the gap between us and press my wand against his throat. "Answer me!"
There is a cough behind me. "Ah, George?"
"Don't interrupt," I snap, not moving my wand.
"Oh, okay," he says, his voice arch.
There is a long and pointed silence. He's clearly waiting for me to crack and I roll my eyes. "Yes, Fred?"
"Still stunned, George. Probably finding it difficult to talk to you, as much as he would like to."
Goddamnit. Now Snape's eyes are laughing. I hiss the spell through my teeth and then immediately start a new one. He goes flying against the wall and I listen to the crunch of bones against drywall with satisfaction. Fred smoothly says another spell to tie him to it. I like the way my brother thinks, even when he's being an ass.
"Talk," Fred snaps and I wordlessly slip back to let him take the lead. That's the trick, you see. Keep reversing roles and the bastards never know what's coming. It's Good-Auror/Bad-Auror, but in this game, you can't tell them apart. Even people, like Snape, who are quick enough to separate my identity from Fred's, get disoriented, because we are still bloody twins.
"About what?" Snape sneers and Fred snorts.
"Don't be absurd. Are you turning yourself in?" His voice is laughing, but his back is tense and he's clearly not as lassez-faire as he would like to be. It is impossible not to be furious at Snape, not when he's done what he has.
"For what?" he says, "I've done nothing wrong."
I can't help myself. I hit him. Yes, I know, he's forcibly immobile and honorable men don't do that. But these aren't honorable times and Albus Dumbledore was a better man than any of us. He glares at me and I can feel Fred's frown, as little as I buy his disapproval.
"Dumbledore was already dying!" Snape insists, his eyes flickering from me to my brother and back,. "It wasn't murder. Also, he asked me too. We planned it all along."
"And you expect us to believe that shit?" Fred asks, incredulous. I am shocked too, I must admit. I always thought Snape was a canny old bastard. Evil, but canny, and no canny man would expect us to believe that blatant ploy; we were still Dumbledore’s men.
"No," he says and I'm back on familiar ground, "I also noticed some irregularities in your books. I'm sure the Ministry won't care about the source when it comes to their revenue. What about you, boys?"
His lips curl around the word "boys"; it's like he's cursing us. I do him one better curse proper, muttering something crude about Merlin and three goats.
"Ahh, taxes. The last bastion of government legitimacy," Fred says, looking at me. I read his expression; we both know we do have something to hide. We never reported that little present of Harry's and we are at a difficult point in our business right now; if the Ministry decides to fine us, they'll sink us. Hell, they'd probably be happier for it.
Fred knows this, I know this and apparently, that bastard Snape knows this. How did he fucking find that out? He is also taking advantage of us and I know he knows how. We could just kill him and dispose of the body - the nice thing about being a wizard is that it is easy and clean. He knows we wouldn't do that, though, and so he has us by the purse, a place more painful than our short and curlies.
"So, what do you want?" I ask, trying to sound cool about it. Snape is like a piranha, he scents blood. Bleed a little emotion into the room and he'll swim to it, teeth gnashing.
"I want something found," he says, "and I heard that you two are good at that."
Fred wanders to the sideboard and takes out a bottle of hooch. Glancing towards me, I nod a little and he pours me a cup as well. I wait until I get a drink of the stuff before responding to Snape.
"Your information only buys you your life, so I'll expect fifty galleons a day and a two hundred galleon bonus when found."
Snape snorts, "Twenty five and one hundred."
"Twenty five and two hundred."
"Done," Snape says. It is interesting how he thinks he is calling the shots. I can feel the confidence oozing off of him, mixed in with grease and a generalized stench. He looks as if he expects to be taken down, but neither of us do.
"What is it you need looking for?" I ask, staring into my Firewhiskey. I wonder when it was that we started accepting money before knowing the job, but times are rough for a joke shop. It is the middle of a bloody war and no one feels like laughing.
Fred keeps saying that we ought to move into weaponry, but I'll stick to candies and toys. I'd rather sell nothing at all than sell things and see them mentioned in the obit section of the Prophet.
"I need you to find me a locket."
---
After Snape left, I go out to tend the customers for a while. When no costumers need tending, I sweep and fuss and tinker. Tinkering is my favorite: it is why I chose this life. Sure, I have a healthy disrespect for authority and a joke shop is good for that, but if that was the only important thing, I'd have lots of career options. I could pick up an interest in terrorism, phoenix ash sales or even a lively spot of queue jumping.
I like my toys, though, and I'll stick to selling them instead of controlled substances. (Sure, we do sell controlled substances in the course of selling jokes and sweets, but that's a little different.)
I'm currently working on a new product and I haven't figured out yet whether or not it is going to work. I haven't even figured out whether or not I want it to work. At the moment, it looks like a small glass capsule with gas swirling inside. The glass is thin, breakable. I can imagine it shattering and releasing its contents, which is in fact precisely what it is supposed to do.
It's a defense mechanism. A way of protecting people from the rest of our pranks and I'm kind of pleased by it. Pranking is getting too easy for these young fools. They are reckless and confident, darting from trick to trick without any conception of the work that goes behind each one.
Look at me, I'm ruminating again. Snape must have hit me harder than I thought, because I'm doing everything possible to avoid thinking about him. I bet he's the subject of more than one person's Scare Gas. Hell, he was Neville's boggart and this was tame in comparison.
You see, the gas would morph into whatever figure the viewer would listen to. For us, it'd probably be old Dumbledore with his annoying candy and canny old twinkling eyes. Damn, I wish I could see those eyes again. I half want to break it right then and there.
A touch on my shoulder, but I don't startle. It’s Fred. He always knows when I’m getting mopey and his hands are large and rough, catching against the fabric of my robe. It's thinner than most: they just don't make neon magenta robes like they used to.
"I don't like that one," he says and I shrug, turning around.
"I do. Teach those buggers a bit of creativity."
"You sound eighty."
I feel eighty, but I don't say anything. We look at each other for a long moment and he backs off, neatly stealing the capsule from my hands and slipping it in his own pocket, patting it lightly.
"Careful," I say,. "Don't break it yourself, it's our only prototype."
He snorts and replies, "Snape hit you hard, didn't he?"
"Hit you hard, too!" I say indignantly, "I saw you scurry off to go make toast. You always make toast when you are thinking."
"And you sweep. Toast and sweeping; we're such girls."
"Fuck off."
Fred slaps my shoulder and I glare at him, but it isn't serious. We are just playing, mostly because we don't want to actually talk about what we're given and what we learned. Fred and I talk about everything but say very little. We don't need to say things by speaking, most of the times we already know it.
So, when he takes out the obnoxious note that Snape gave to me, apparently stolen off of Harry in the middle of a fire fight, and says simply, "Let's visit Roger," I'm not surprised.
I do, however, pick his pockets when he's not looking and get back my Scare Gas. He scowls at me, but lets me keep it and off we go.
---
Roger O'Connery is a buddy of ours who works at the MLE. Every bloke should have at least a few friends of the type, especially blokes like us. We first met him when we were taken in for underage magic, before we learned to use potions in the summer and wands at school.
He was a good cop, as cops go, and reliable. His price never changes and he genuinely likes us. He had red hair too (Irish) and I think we made him comfortable.
He always bitches a lot, though. He enjoys making us sweat and today was no different. We watch each other, his brown eyes shifting from my face to Fred's and back again. His hands are folded across his chest and he's tapping an annoying cadence against his desk.
A memo zips across the room and collides with a large, pink bird with a terrible squawk and an explosion of plumage. I am not sure how the bird got there, but a tiny witch with a matching pink wizard hat and a nose that reminds me of a beak seems very irritated about the whole affair.
"Georgie?" Roger snaps,. "Where in blazes is your head?"
I look back at him and smile mysteriously. He snorts and continues talking, in his thick East Ender accent. He isn't Muggle-born, but his mother was and she was quite a woman. I only met her once and I don't intend to meet her again, considering all that I remember of the first encounter was the screeching of curses. I'm still not listening to Roger, though, and I get called on it again.
"George?" he says, sounding peeved.
"Never mind him, Roge, can we see what you got?"
"Why do you want to see the contents of a brown bread bloke's pockets.? Feels a mite off to me, and I'm a copper, that's my job," he says, leaning backward in his chair and peering down his nose at us. He has a little smile twisting his lips; clearly he is waiting for us to offer money. I let it linger for another moment, giving him time to think about it.
"When I feel something is off, something is off," he says,. "Don't make me get suspicious."
I don't like threats, but I scowl and suck it up. Roger doesn't mean it, but he always says it. Fred figures if we give in before he gets a chance to play the big man, he won't be so amenable. He likes feeling that we are under his control. I toss over a bag of galleons and Roger shifts into the absolute vision of friendliness.
"Right this way, gentlemen," he says, standing, "I'll get you a room and then fetch the valuables, but you really are a right pair of shifty bastards."
We just smile.
---
"Regulus Arcturus Black," I say, examining the walls of the waiting room. It feels like as cell, with harsh lighting and sterile floors. I can't decide whether I feel imprisoned or like I am in a hospital. Neither is a good feeling. This place sets my teeth on edge -hell, my teeth are already on edge! I'm not happy with this job and this client and neither is Fred.
Such a bundle of goddamn nerves.
"Died at the hands of You-Know-Who, left at his brother's doorstep," Fred replies, glancing at a stick of gum from the lock box. He's thinking about eating it, I can tell.
"That's disgusting," I reprimand him, and he just smirks back.
"Anyway," I continue, "how do we know that Snape is right? How do we know that R.A.B is Regulus anyway? Where is he getting this info from and for that matter, how do we know this isn't just a bunch of shit anyway?"
"Relax, George," Fred says, examining the broken nib of a quill,. "It makes sense that he would know it was Regulus, considering he said they were friends and Snape)was a Death Eater. Regardless, old boy, when have we ever trusted a customer?"
I grunt, still not pleased, but look into the box again. So far it was useless, but there is a slip of paper folded into the corner that looks promising. I take it out, unworried about my fingerprints or all that silliness. I'm a detective, not a Muggle) scientist, and I don’t tend to bother with that sort of thing.
Fred gives me an annoyed glance, however. He's very meticulous. Likes to keep things orderly.
"Never, but we've never been hired by a Death Eater before," I grumble, but it's toothless. When I open the paper, my stomach turns at the bloody fingerprint that has seeped through the parchment. I always find this kind of thing hideous, and it shocks people. It seems sort of backward for a private eye not to be able to stand the sight of blood. Fred, he understands, so he puts his hand on my shoulder and reads it out loud.
"Dear Stubby, we had a very good dinner that evening and I would so hope to do it again. Love, your Doris (Doris Purkiss, I know you had trouble remembering that bit last time.)"
"Well, Freddy-my-son," I say, "I think we have a lead."
---
A lead that Fred has to follow, because I have no interest in doing it myself. I send him off to the archives, asking him to find Doris Purkiss, and he complies. It takes him a while to comply, granted, but after I bribe, threaten and coax him with the surgical precision that only a twin could attempt, he is amenable.
He sends me a queer little look, though, as he's leaving. I hate it. It seems to imply that he's giving in on purpose, that he thinks I need a little bit of time off. I don’t like to be thought unstable by my own fucking twin, but c'est la vie.
As I walk into the pub, I tell myself I don't care about why I'm upset. There is no reason to be upset, so I decide not to be. There are better things to do, like getting booze and broads, both of which this dive specializes in.
I get a glass of Firewhiskey and find a seat, nicely out of the way. I like sitting against the wall,; allows me to keep an eye on the whole joint. It isn't as if I don't trust people, it is just that I like knowing where everyone is. Came from pranking, that habit. Knowing what people are doing is crucial to being able to avoid them knowing what you are doing. It sounds faintly philosophical, but I'm no Aristotle. My musings revolve around dames, dying and toys.
A simple bloke, really. Not much to bother with.
Apparently, I'm easily surprised. A touch on my shoulder causes me to jump and my wand is out before I can blink. Unfortunately, my good reflexives and rakish instability cost me my drink. I feel the whiskey sink into my robes, tingling my skin and making me feel clammy and cool.
It's Verity Moneyknutt, our secretary.
"Has Fred found her?" I say, relaxing back into my seat and trying to ignore the reek of alcohol.
She looks puzzled and I backtrack, " Never mind. What brings you here, Miss Moneyknutt?"
"Honestly, George," she says, slipping into the seat across from me and crossing her legs, "can't I get you to call me Verity?"
I smile at her. I hope it looks dashing, because that's really what I'm going for.
"Ahh, but I'm a gentleman. Wouldn't want to be too familiar."
"So kind of you, George," she snorts and summons a waitress. The bird is clearly here to attract eyes and tips, because she looks confused at two orders of whiskey. She also is very good at her job and I can't help but watch her sinuous hips as they twist and curl themselves away.
When I look back at Moneyknutt, she looks annoyed. She'll never get that job, but she's pleasant enough to look at. She wears too much eye make-up, frankly, and I'm a bloke who doesn't tend to notice that sort of things.
"Following me, are you?" I say, moving back to the more pertinent questions. I’m not suspicious, not really, but I’ll still ask questions. She laughs and makes a face at me. She thinks it's cute; I think it looks like she just tasted something foul, sour and possibly still moving.
"No, silly! I just came in here for a drink. Why, is the job getting hot?" she says, leaning over and resting her chin on her hands. She’s always been a curious sort, always wanting to know what was going on. I could chalk it up to her fixation with Muggle writers, or it could be more sinister. I let my eyes linger on her face, her ruddy skin cracking the white powdered make up. She flushes, becomes even more red, and tries to look away. She’s young, but she makes herself look old with that stuff.
It would explain so much. It would explain how Snape got those tax records and how he waltzed right through our door without being questioned. Previously, I had chalked up the latter to Verity’s natural inability to question anyone at all, but now I’m not so sure.
I surge out of my chair, sending it scraping backward and she jumps. Holding out my wand, which had become sticky from the spilled drink, I growl at her.
"Are you a Death Eater?"
She squeaks and looks at me, eyes impossibly wide.
"Answer the question, love."
"George, no!" she says, and her eyes dart around the tavern desperately. People are watching us, and there is someone whispering furiously to the barman. A young chap and his girl huddle near the wall. It's just this one old geezer with a top hat doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s still talking merrily to himself.
"Honest, George, I don’t know what you are on about!"
Her voice is shaking and mousey and drops to a whisper at the end. For a moment, I stare at her, examining her fear and confusion. I feel sick. In fact, I feel like I’m going to throw up or explode or something, right there in that pub.
The energy seems to drain out of me, as if it leaked out my fingertips into the air itself, saturating with the all too obvious tension. I lean down and drain my glass.
"Sorry, Verity," I say, feeling defeated, "I forgot I don’t live in a mystery novel, that’s all. If Agatha Christie or Arthur Conan Doily-"
"-Doyle-" she gulps.
"Doyle wrote it, then, well, fuck. Of course you’d betray us, but life’s not a book and you’re a sweet girl. Sorry, it’s just-"
I don't know how to explain to her what it was, because, frankly, I don't know myself. I lean over to drain her whiskey and she doesn’t stop me.
"I’ll just go," I say, glancing down and trying to ignore the stares. In the back of my mind, I hope no one recognizes me. The store doesn’t need the bad publicity.
As I walk out, I realize something that makes me want to go back and get another dozen shots of whiskey, or perhaps even the whole bottle. I also don’t want people to see me because I want people to remember me as I was, seventh year. With jokes and laughter and infinite gaiety.
The war has leaked bitterness into my laughter and this whole Regulus thing was is clearly driving me mad. On the way to our flat, I stop and get myself that bottle of whiskey.
---
I hear my name before I am even awake and it twists itself into my dreams, ringing through the cavern I am unapologetically walking through and fluttering the hem of my checkered apron. I’m not sure why I’m wearing that apron, even in the dream.
"George!" Fred repeats again, and I’m jolted awake by a handful of ice tossed rudely against my face. As I open my eyes, I determine the culprit. He froze my glass of water, which I had prepared the night before for hydration purposes.
I groan. The light is painful and now I don’t have any water to soothe my blistered, parched throat.
"I bloody hate you," I inform him in a guttural rasp and his laugh hurts my head.
"We have people to see, places to go!" he crows, yanking off the covers of my bed,. "I’ll get you another glass of water, but darling, dearest Doris lives all the way up in Birmingham and I’d like to get an early start."
"We are going to Apparate!" I cry, with my eyes screwed shut and my legs shivering in the cool morning air. He's still laughing at me and I'm feeling sullen and unpleasant. All I want to do is go back to sleep, sod this stupid locket.
"Punctuality is key, my good man, key."
A wet splash of water on my face accentuates his point. I splutter, trying to expel the water I had accidentally breathed in and feeling quite pathetic.
"Get up," he repeats, "and I'll get you another drop of booze or something. Hair of the dog that bit you, yeah?"
It is in moments like these I have a bit of bitterness against magic as a whole. We can destroy lives in instants, regrow bones, let us fly on bloody broomsticks, but no one has yet determined a hangover cure, a cure for the common cold or any magical way to lose weight. I'm not a religious man, but the Creator has had a hell of a joke on us all.
I manage to haul my sorry carcass out of bed and into a new suit. I have Fred cast the pressing charm to salvage something out of my beaten up trenchcoat, because I'm afraid that I'm going to turn it into that inexplicable apron. When I have that, my fedora and a bacon sandwich (a truly remarkable hangover cure), I'm feeling good enough to skip the whiskey.
We Apparate to Birmingham. I am immediately assaulted by the smell of curry from the small Indian place a few doors down. Doris Purkiss lives in a tiny row-house near the commercial district, made of dull grey cement. It is pretty hideous. Fred walks up to the door and I absently follow, slipping out a picture of Regulus that Snape gave us. I finger it, studying his face. Regulus scowls back up at me and his handsome features are twisted into such a growl of discontent that I half expect him to stick out his tongue. There is a dull pop from somewhere behind me and I chalk it up to a gunshot; I heard Birmingham was filled with those.
Fred rings the door bell and a cacophony sounds from inside. There are footsteps, and a woman opens the door.
"Mrs. Doris Purkiss?" Fred asks.
"Yes," she says cautiously, "but I really don't want to buy anything-"
"Good day, Mrs. Purkiss," I interrupt, smiling sweetly at her. She frowns at me at first, but cannot seem to hold it and ends up smiling back.
Fred cuts in before she can start talking, "We'd like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Stubby Boardman, ma'am,"
Her face lit lights up and she says, "Oh yes! Oh yes, do come in, I'm so excited you are here. I was so afraid no one was going to listen to my little article, but I'm ever so pleased that you did. Really, I'm just chuffed beyond belief. After I published it, I thought that maybe I should have gone to another one, not the Quibbler, because no one seems to take it seriously"
Her voice has a thick Bremmie accent and her vowels are coming out funny; every sentence also ends on a down note and she manages to sound sing-songy, even at an impressively rapid speed.
She looks to be in her mid-thirties and there are laugh lines around her face. I try to get a good look at her as she ushers us in, slamming the door behind us, but she seems to move too quickly. She almost vibrates with her energy. Fred and I both slip off our fedoras, as Mama raised us right.
Her home is placid, though, and oddly neat. It looks as if no one lives there and she's just a curator. There are pictures of three different children all over the walls and several family shots with her, the kids and a large dark man I assume is her husband. The pictures are everywhere, tiling the wall and crowding each other off the mantle. There is one fallen off an end table and Fred leans over to pick it up.
"Welcome to my humble little home!" she crows, bustling to the kitchen, which is at the back of the house,. "Lemme get you some tea, would you gentlemen like some tea? It's really not a problem at all."
Fred accepts for us and I ask a question that's been on my mind since we found her whereabouts, "Did you move from Little Norton recently?"
She pauses for a second in her movement before continuing at the same speed.
"Milk?" she asks and we both accept,. "Well, my husband passed on.and I wanted to move back to Birmingham. You probably can tell that I'm from around here; this was the house I grew up in, in fact. If you had arrived a bit earlier, you would have gotten the chance to meet my mum."
She seems to young to be without a husband, but I don't ask about it. She emerges from the kitchen with two cups and herds us onto a floral couch. I sit awkwardly, uncomfortable. The couch is crinkly and hard, as if it was stuffed with resilient popcorn.
"But that isn't really what you came here to ask about, is it? You want to know about Stubby!" she says, pressing the cups into our hands. I take a sip of mine. It's terrible. I'm not surprised.
"Well, when was the last time you saw him?" Fred asks, setting his cup resolutely down on the end table. Doris leans forward and places it on a coaster.
"Well, I last saw him on that dinner I told the Quibbler about; you know, on the night of the Potters' death? Terrible tragedy, by the way, simply awful. I still can't get over that and it's been what, sixteen years?"
"Yes, something like that," Fred agrees gravely. "So the last you heard from Stubby Boardman is from that night?"
"Well, no, that's the last I saw from him. Every few years he owls me and asks me for a few things; newspaper subscriptions, odd bits of information. It's all been a bit strange, but I don't really mind. He's such a nice chap and we had such fun together," she says, twisting her hands in her lap.
I resolutely don't look at Fred.
"Tell us about how you met Stubby," I ask, leaning back on the couch, in an effort to get more comfortable. It doesn't work.
"Well, that's a hard question. Not a hard one, really, but an odd one-"
She hesitates and Fred jumps in to prompt her, "Yes, go on?"
"Normally I'd say right off that I met him in seventy-six, right when he was coming onto the scene, but we fell out for a while. The Hobgoblins were a great little act, though, right from the start, despite their issues with that bassist. Started talking again around 1980, about a year or so before that dreadful incident with the Potters. Second time we were close, he was different. A bit odd. I always chalked it up to drugs or the like, but I was thinking about it the other day and I thought---well, I don't know what I thought, but I was certainly thinking about it."
Sweetheart, we are thinking about it too.
---
She tells us she last heard from him in Manchester. To be perfectly honest, I'm not exactly thrilled about exploring another manky industrial town, but I'll live. Fred is giving me a look like he knows what I'm thinking, so I won't give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.
We decide to explore the bar scene, hit up a few clubs. I want a few drinks in me and judging by his posture, so does Fred. We might even ask the bartender a couple of questions or something. It's a valid professional move, considering bartenders seem to know everything. You get a lot of folk spilling their hearts to their bartender, and maybe even a dead man would join them.
The bar we pick to go in first is a Muggle one and I have to freeze the picture before I can show it to the staff. They still don't recognize him. We move on without drinking anything because neither of us like Muggle drinks all that much; they go down rough, burning your throat.
The next joint is wobbly, leaning over to one side with gusto. I didn't know rocks could manage such awe-inspiring flexibility, but what do I know? As I walk through the door, the magic prickles the back of my neck. Clearly, there is a bit of help in its structure.
The patrons aren't looking at anybody else and the air is thick with multicolor smoke. I smell anise and tobacco and a few other things that I'd rather not name. Glancing at Fred, I meet his smile. Even if they don't recognize the picture, I think we are staying. Recon, we'll call it.
I order two drinks and we get down to the serious business of the evening.
There are two or three slugs of hooch in me before I'm feeling that natural need, you know the one. My bladder feels like it's about to burst and I'd rather not ruin my trousers two nights in a row. Last night it was whiskey and if I don't move right now, tonight will be even worse.
Trotting to the loo, I unzip my fly and let out my special friend for a little break, when I hear footsteps shuffling just behind me.
"Fred," I say, zipping up again, "what are you doing?"
I turn around and see a quick expanse of pale skin before there is a sharp pain in the back of my head and I'm falling. I hit the disgusting tiled floor with the crumpling sound of breaking glass. As my vision fades away, I hear Sirius' voice shouting.
---
I wake up and like yesterday, the light hurts. I see Fred leaning over me, freckles blurring together to create a brown/white/red mess of his face.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," I croak and he grins. He rests his hand gently against my shoulder, not saying anything but just looking at me for a long moment, and I look back.
Whenever one of us is hurt or frightened, there are always a few moments of uncertainty. We like to get a hold of each other, to touch. I claim we are recalibrating; twin mind-reading powers take precision, you know.
After a long moment he leans back and holds up a matchbox,. "This fell out of your attacker's pocket. Has the name of a restaurant."
"I'm thinking we should check out the scenery?"
"I'm thinking you're right."
"I get a nap first," I say, leaning back against the pillow. Fred must have rented a room while I was out, because I don't recognize this place in the slightest. It smells like sex, sweat and cigarettes.
"You get a nap first," he nods.
"What I was wondering," I say, "is how the fuck did Regulus know to attack me?"
"First, you are assuming it was Regulus - don't get me wrong, I agree, but it's still an assumption. That's the only issue, though. The bloke was sitting within ear shot of us and we aren't particularly discreet, friend. Too many years of pranking, not enough of being sneaky."
I groan, "Never, ever let me take a job again."
"You didn’t! I did. And I'll do it again, this is fun, Georgie."
"Fun in the sense where you mean me getting hurt?"
"Best sort of fun there is. Besides, you weren't too badly injured. Your silly Scare Gas capsule chased Regulus away."
"Ahhh," I say, "I thought I was hallucinating Sirius."
"Sirius?" he asks, obviously curious. I smile (one can never get enough practice with the mysterious, infuriating grin) and shut my eyes. It is time for my nap.
---
The worst thing about this job? Stake-outs. They are bloody boring. All they are is waiting and watching and waiting some more. You'd think there would at least be the edge of nervous anxiety or something, but no. At least for me, it is mostly just boring.
Perhaps that's why I'm always the one ending up unconscious before the end of the evening.
Nevertheless, it has been three hours and eight glasses of water (Fred is a hardass, at times) and there is still no sign of Regulus.
I send Fred a baleful look and swirl my straw around in my glass, clinking the ice against the side,. "Can I get a lemon for this water or is that too decadent?"
"Fuck off," he says, leaning back and smiling at me.
"Ahh, such maturity, such class."
"We run a joke shop, Georgie. The point where we grow class is the point where we are out of job."
"Fair," I say, fishing a bit of ice out of my glass and chomping on it. I'm just ready to drift again when a figure walks through the door, greeting the maitre'd with friendly regularity.
It's Regulus. It's gotta be; I've looked at that fucking photo enough. The Regulus in the photo just rolls his eyes when he sees me, now.
I meet Fred's eyes and we stand, moving into opposite directions. Regulus doesn't seem to have recognized us (we both changed our hair color, in order to be sneaky) and is casually talking with a waiter. The thought of him working at this joint, which he clearly does, is enough to make me snicker.
How low the high have fallen. And, if Fred has his way, how hard they are going to hit the ground.
Fred jumps him, sending him into a waiter with a clatter of breaking dishes and muffled curses. A bowl of spaghetti lands on my brother's head and it's oddly comforting; at least his hair is red again.
I surge forward before anyone else can have a chance to think, and Fred Apparatus the three of us out of there; it's a magical restaurant, at least, so that part won't be odd.
Regulus is hissing like a disgruntled cat, even in the hotel room, screaming curses and accusations. Fred pins him to the nasty bed and I mutter a bondage spell. I'd prefer not to disclose where I learned said spell, but I can assure you it is very effective.
"So, buddy boy," I say, stepping back and trying not to snicker at Fred's busted lip and spaghetti-ed body. I'll laugh at him later, but giggling is not the interrogation face of people who want to get some serious interrogation done.
"Could you tell me something about you being alive? Because I'm kind of surprised about that."
Regulus was raised in a family of evil. I hope the traditional habit of spilling out your evil and fiendish plot is genetic to the Blacks, because we really need a clue. If asked to explain how we found him, we'd have to resort to babbling about Birmingham and matchboxes, which is a level of confusion no private eye wants to admit to.
"Well, obviously I wasn't dead," he sneers, spitting out blood onto the pillow. It could hardly make it worse.
"Any other details?" Fred asks. "We know you masqueraded as Stubby Boardman."
Something occurs to me.
"Even during school?" I say trying to sound certain of it but failing. It doesn't seem to make any sense. Regulus was still at Hogwarts in 1975. He shouldn't have been able to meet Doris Purkiss, much less organize a band.
Regulus grins with pleasure. They always like to be able to fool you and I try to tell Fred I make my silly suggestions for just that reason. We both know I'mpretending
"No, that was my Uncle Alphard. He faked his death, gave his money to Sirius and started a band. Insane old coot, honestly. When I needed a place to hide, I went to him. He's living on the Bahamas and sending me Polyjuice Potions every once in a while."
"Here is the important question. Got the locket?"
"If you are bloody looking for it, shouldn't you have known that before you started chasing me?"
Fred opens his mouth to say something, probably something snide, when the door is pushed in with a dreadful crack. It hits the opposite wall and Snape stalks in. Unlike last time, neither Fred or I are prepared enough to counter him immediately. Fred moves near to Regulus to get out of the way of the door, and I raise my wand against the new entrant.
"What the fuck-"
My voice dies down. A cadre of Death Eaters follows him, masked and armed. I'm shaking with anger, - the stupid greasy bastard.! He's smiling, like he's winning a game that we just found out we are playing. I half expect him to swirl his cloak over the threshold, but he doesn't.
"Surprised?" he says, but we are both too stubborn to admit anything of the sort.
Fred sneers, "We never trust our clients."
"Well," Snape replies, "for untrusting fellows, you were remarkably good at leading me to dear Regulus here."
Only then do I think to glance at Regulus. His face is white, and his eyes are very wide. He hasn't said anything since Snape came into the room, but instead of afraid, he looks vaguely queasy.
Clearly he has something Snape (or You-Know-Who) wants. And it is probably that locket.
I shrug, "We do what we can. Anyway, have you come to pay us?"
Fred gives me a look of surprise, but I lower my wand and shrug again. In the movement, I subtly nod towards Regulus. Fred raises an eyebrow. Whirling back toward Snape, I put one hand on my hip and gesture with the other one.
"Well?"
"Well, no, George, I don't think I'm going to pay you. Killing you, actually, would be much neater," he says. That bastard has a flair for the dramatic a mile long. Bottling death or whateverthefuck indeed.
I step backward, throwing my arms up dramatically.
"Whoa there, pardner" I say, "This is a civilized country."
Someone (hopefully Fred) presses a hand against my back in one quick motion, and I have just enough time to give Snape the two-fingered salute before Fred Apparates us out of there. We use that little trick quite a lot for the very good reason of it working. After the gut pressing feeling of Apparation, we arrive in the hall outside of Harry's flat
Fred tosses me the locket which he had grabbed just before getting us out of there and I examine it. I'm not very magically sensitive, to be frank, but it feels filthy to the touch and I want to throw it as far away from me as I can. No wonder he gave it to me.
He's banging on Harry's door and while drops his wards, I spare a thought for Regulus. He clearly wasn't happy to be where we left him.
Harry opens the door. I hold up the locket and chuckle at his face.
Regulus made his choices, as did everyone. It's a funny old world and we all have to live in it. And I've seen where thinking people can change can get us. Dumbledore thought Snape had changed. He thought he was a good-guy, trustworthy. Snape ended up killing the bastard, but if he hadn't, I wouldn't have cried if You-Know-Who offed him. It was his choice to begin with.
Regulus had twisted his face into a look of terror. I remember seeing it just before the world twisted and yanked my stomach along with it, because he had watched us go. He wasn't even looking at Snape, just staring at us. He had been white and shaking, but when he saw what we were doing, when he figured out that we were leaving him, his face shifted. It became weary. It was the face of a man who had been running for longer than he had stood still, with the treads of his own boots etching lines on his face. He had looked older than any right to be and more alone than I thought possible.
I realize that I don't know anything about him.
I let Fred explain to Harry what had happened and I find a piece of parchment. Sitting down and summoning a pot of ink, leaving traces as it flew, I began to write a letter to Doris Purkiss.
Someone who did know him should think of him. It was only right.
Author: das_kabinett
Recipient's name: goodkingnerdnor
Rating: PG-13 for cursing
Character: Fred & George Weasley, Severus Snape, Regulus Black
Warnings: cursing, & rampant raging Americanisms.
Author's notes: Thanks to my lovely beta for absolutely coming in at the last moment and thanks again to dearest for moral support. You know who you are. goodkingnerdnor, I really hope you like this. It wriggled away from pure humor and grew a plot. It's also somewhat experimental in style, done like a long voice over from a classic film noir movie or a hard-boiled short story.
The name's Weasley. George Weasley, but it doesn't really matter, you can call me Fred. A lot of people do and my brother and I like it that way. Keeps people guessing, off guard. Gives us a little power and it’s a dangerous world out there, even for proprietors of a joke shop. Everyone needs a little power.
Especially if you sideline in a bit of private investigation, as we are wont to do. You see, Fred and I? We're good at finding things out and even better at it if nobody wants those "things" found. I say it's because people with secrets get nervous, get sloppy - Fred says it is because we are more stubborn than an eighty year old mule with an overdeveloped sense of the perverse.
People in our line of work need that attitude. And other people, those in slinky black cocktail robes or pinstriped pointy hats, well, they respect it. And while, we're not famous, and don't want to be, those people who know things, know the Brothers Weasley.
But I'm monologuing more than a sloshed actor with an eye for Shakespeare and getting off my point. My point is that when Miss Moneyknutt sashays into our office with that look on her overly made-up face, Fred puts away the latest batch of toffee and grabs his fedora.
Me? I'm already wearing mine, being quite fond of it, and I ask Moneyknutt to show our guest in. She's a nice girl, a bit chunky but not overly so. She just has unfortunate taste in clothing, with a tendency toward the feathered and rhinestoned. I never knew that they sold robes that glittered until I met her.
Fred mutters some Latin at a discreet record player and a whiskey throated broad begins singing the blues. It sets the mood.
It also means Fred's wand is still out when Severus Snape walks through that door, allowing Fred to stun him in the next breath. He looks disgusting, with lank black hair that goes on for miles and a generalized air of neglect. In fact, he looks just like a man who has been on the run for the last few months and I can't resist a grim smile of satisfaction at that.
Bille Holiday's still singing but us living ones are quieter than the dead for a long moment. Snape looks like someone just stapled his bollocks to his pasty white thigh, but he's always been observant. He's probably already gathered how much we want to do exactly that, the unpleasant bastard.
I stand, wishing I smoked so I could nonchalantly light a cigarette.
"What the fuck are you doing here and why shouldn't I Floo Harry to come over here and kill you?" I snarl, rather proud of my form.
Snape makes a face like he smells something terrible. I sympathize. The man reeks. He doesn't say anything, though, just looks at me with those disconcerting beetle eyes. I close the gap between us and press my wand against his throat. "Answer me!"
There is a cough behind me. "Ah, George?"
"Don't interrupt," I snap, not moving my wand.
"Oh, okay," he says, his voice arch.
There is a long and pointed silence. He's clearly waiting for me to crack and I roll my eyes. "Yes, Fred?"
"Still stunned, George. Probably finding it difficult to talk to you, as much as he would like to."
Goddamnit. Now Snape's eyes are laughing. I hiss the spell through my teeth and then immediately start a new one. He goes flying against the wall and I listen to the crunch of bones against drywall with satisfaction. Fred smoothly says another spell to tie him to it. I like the way my brother thinks, even when he's being an ass.
"Talk," Fred snaps and I wordlessly slip back to let him take the lead. That's the trick, you see. Keep reversing roles and the bastards never know what's coming. It's Good-Auror/Bad-Auror, but in this game, you can't tell them apart. Even people, like Snape, who are quick enough to separate my identity from Fred's, get disoriented, because we are still bloody twins.
"About what?" Snape sneers and Fred snorts.
"Don't be absurd. Are you turning yourself in?" His voice is laughing, but his back is tense and he's clearly not as lassez-faire as he would like to be. It is impossible not to be furious at Snape, not when he's done what he has.
"For what?" he says, "I've done nothing wrong."
I can't help myself. I hit him. Yes, I know, he's forcibly immobile and honorable men don't do that. But these aren't honorable times and Albus Dumbledore was a better man than any of us. He glares at me and I can feel Fred's frown, as little as I buy his disapproval.
"Dumbledore was already dying!" Snape insists, his eyes flickering from me to my brother and back,. "It wasn't murder. Also, he asked me too. We planned it all along."
"And you expect us to believe that shit?" Fred asks, incredulous. I am shocked too, I must admit. I always thought Snape was a canny old bastard. Evil, but canny, and no canny man would expect us to believe that blatant ploy; we were still Dumbledore’s men.
"No," he says and I'm back on familiar ground, "I also noticed some irregularities in your books. I'm sure the Ministry won't care about the source when it comes to their revenue. What about you, boys?"
His lips curl around the word "boys"; it's like he's cursing us. I do him one better curse proper, muttering something crude about Merlin and three goats.
"Ahh, taxes. The last bastion of government legitimacy," Fred says, looking at me. I read his expression; we both know we do have something to hide. We never reported that little present of Harry's and we are at a difficult point in our business right now; if the Ministry decides to fine us, they'll sink us. Hell, they'd probably be happier for it.
Fred knows this, I know this and apparently, that bastard Snape knows this. How did he fucking find that out? He is also taking advantage of us and I know he knows how. We could just kill him and dispose of the body - the nice thing about being a wizard is that it is easy and clean. He knows we wouldn't do that, though, and so he has us by the purse, a place more painful than our short and curlies.
"So, what do you want?" I ask, trying to sound cool about it. Snape is like a piranha, he scents blood. Bleed a little emotion into the room and he'll swim to it, teeth gnashing.
"I want something found," he says, "and I heard that you two are good at that."
Fred wanders to the sideboard and takes out a bottle of hooch. Glancing towards me, I nod a little and he pours me a cup as well. I wait until I get a drink of the stuff before responding to Snape.
"Your information only buys you your life, so I'll expect fifty galleons a day and a two hundred galleon bonus when found."
Snape snorts, "Twenty five and one hundred."
"Twenty five and two hundred."
"Done," Snape says. It is interesting how he thinks he is calling the shots. I can feel the confidence oozing off of him, mixed in with grease and a generalized stench. He looks as if he expects to be taken down, but neither of us do.
"What is it you need looking for?" I ask, staring into my Firewhiskey. I wonder when it was that we started accepting money before knowing the job, but times are rough for a joke shop. It is the middle of a bloody war and no one feels like laughing.
Fred keeps saying that we ought to move into weaponry, but I'll stick to candies and toys. I'd rather sell nothing at all than sell things and see them mentioned in the obit section of the Prophet.
"I need you to find me a locket."
---
After Snape left, I go out to tend the customers for a while. When no costumers need tending, I sweep and fuss and tinker. Tinkering is my favorite: it is why I chose this life. Sure, I have a healthy disrespect for authority and a joke shop is good for that, but if that was the only important thing, I'd have lots of career options. I could pick up an interest in terrorism, phoenix ash sales or even a lively spot of queue jumping.
I like my toys, though, and I'll stick to selling them instead of controlled substances. (Sure, we do sell controlled substances in the course of selling jokes and sweets, but that's a little different.)
I'm currently working on a new product and I haven't figured out yet whether or not it is going to work. I haven't even figured out whether or not I want it to work. At the moment, it looks like a small glass capsule with gas swirling inside. The glass is thin, breakable. I can imagine it shattering and releasing its contents, which is in fact precisely what it is supposed to do.
It's a defense mechanism. A way of protecting people from the rest of our pranks and I'm kind of pleased by it. Pranking is getting too easy for these young fools. They are reckless and confident, darting from trick to trick without any conception of the work that goes behind each one.
Look at me, I'm ruminating again. Snape must have hit me harder than I thought, because I'm doing everything possible to avoid thinking about him. I bet he's the subject of more than one person's Scare Gas. Hell, he was Neville's boggart and this was tame in comparison.
You see, the gas would morph into whatever figure the viewer would listen to. For us, it'd probably be old Dumbledore with his annoying candy and canny old twinkling eyes. Damn, I wish I could see those eyes again. I half want to break it right then and there.
A touch on my shoulder, but I don't startle. It’s Fred. He always knows when I’m getting mopey and his hands are large and rough, catching against the fabric of my robe. It's thinner than most: they just don't make neon magenta robes like they used to.
"I don't like that one," he says and I shrug, turning around.
"I do. Teach those buggers a bit of creativity."
"You sound eighty."
I feel eighty, but I don't say anything. We look at each other for a long moment and he backs off, neatly stealing the capsule from my hands and slipping it in his own pocket, patting it lightly.
"Careful," I say,. "Don't break it yourself, it's our only prototype."
He snorts and replies, "Snape hit you hard, didn't he?"
"Hit you hard, too!" I say indignantly, "I saw you scurry off to go make toast. You always make toast when you are thinking."
"And you sweep. Toast and sweeping; we're such girls."
"Fuck off."
Fred slaps my shoulder and I glare at him, but it isn't serious. We are just playing, mostly because we don't want to actually talk about what we're given and what we learned. Fred and I talk about everything but say very little. We don't need to say things by speaking, most of the times we already know it.
So, when he takes out the obnoxious note that Snape gave to me, apparently stolen off of Harry in the middle of a fire fight, and says simply, "Let's visit Roger," I'm not surprised.
I do, however, pick his pockets when he's not looking and get back my Scare Gas. He scowls at me, but lets me keep it and off we go.
---
Roger O'Connery is a buddy of ours who works at the MLE. Every bloke should have at least a few friends of the type, especially blokes like us. We first met him when we were taken in for underage magic, before we learned to use potions in the summer and wands at school.
He was a good cop, as cops go, and reliable. His price never changes and he genuinely likes us. He had red hair too (Irish) and I think we made him comfortable.
He always bitches a lot, though. He enjoys making us sweat and today was no different. We watch each other, his brown eyes shifting from my face to Fred's and back again. His hands are folded across his chest and he's tapping an annoying cadence against his desk.
A memo zips across the room and collides with a large, pink bird with a terrible squawk and an explosion of plumage. I am not sure how the bird got there, but a tiny witch with a matching pink wizard hat and a nose that reminds me of a beak seems very irritated about the whole affair.
"Georgie?" Roger snaps,. "Where in blazes is your head?"
I look back at him and smile mysteriously. He snorts and continues talking, in his thick East Ender accent. He isn't Muggle-born, but his mother was and she was quite a woman. I only met her once and I don't intend to meet her again, considering all that I remember of the first encounter was the screeching of curses. I'm still not listening to Roger, though, and I get called on it again.
"George?" he says, sounding peeved.
"Never mind him, Roge, can we see what you got?"
"Why do you want to see the contents of a brown bread bloke's pockets.? Feels a mite off to me, and I'm a copper, that's my job," he says, leaning backward in his chair and peering down his nose at us. He has a little smile twisting his lips; clearly he is waiting for us to offer money. I let it linger for another moment, giving him time to think about it.
"When I feel something is off, something is off," he says,. "Don't make me get suspicious."
I don't like threats, but I scowl and suck it up. Roger doesn't mean it, but he always says it. Fred figures if we give in before he gets a chance to play the big man, he won't be so amenable. He likes feeling that we are under his control. I toss over a bag of galleons and Roger shifts into the absolute vision of friendliness.
"Right this way, gentlemen," he says, standing, "I'll get you a room and then fetch the valuables, but you really are a right pair of shifty bastards."
We just smile.
---
"Regulus Arcturus Black," I say, examining the walls of the waiting room. It feels like as cell, with harsh lighting and sterile floors. I can't decide whether I feel imprisoned or like I am in a hospital. Neither is a good feeling. This place sets my teeth on edge -hell, my teeth are already on edge! I'm not happy with this job and this client and neither is Fred.
Such a bundle of goddamn nerves.
"Died at the hands of You-Know-Who, left at his brother's doorstep," Fred replies, glancing at a stick of gum from the lock box. He's thinking about eating it, I can tell.
"That's disgusting," I reprimand him, and he just smirks back.
"Anyway," I continue, "how do we know that Snape is right? How do we know that R.A.B is Regulus anyway? Where is he getting this info from and for that matter, how do we know this isn't just a bunch of shit anyway?"
"Relax, George," Fred says, examining the broken nib of a quill,. "It makes sense that he would know it was Regulus, considering he said they were friends and Snape)was a Death Eater. Regardless, old boy, when have we ever trusted a customer?"
I grunt, still not pleased, but look into the box again. So far it was useless, but there is a slip of paper folded into the corner that looks promising. I take it out, unworried about my fingerprints or all that silliness. I'm a detective, not a Muggle) scientist, and I don’t tend to bother with that sort of thing.
Fred gives me an annoyed glance, however. He's very meticulous. Likes to keep things orderly.
"Never, but we've never been hired by a Death Eater before," I grumble, but it's toothless. When I open the paper, my stomach turns at the bloody fingerprint that has seeped through the parchment. I always find this kind of thing hideous, and it shocks people. It seems sort of backward for a private eye not to be able to stand the sight of blood. Fred, he understands, so he puts his hand on my shoulder and reads it out loud.
"Dear Stubby, we had a very good dinner that evening and I would so hope to do it again. Love, your Doris (Doris Purkiss, I know you had trouble remembering that bit last time.)"
"Well, Freddy-my-son," I say, "I think we have a lead."
---
A lead that Fred has to follow, because I have no interest in doing it myself. I send him off to the archives, asking him to find Doris Purkiss, and he complies. It takes him a while to comply, granted, but after I bribe, threaten and coax him with the surgical precision that only a twin could attempt, he is amenable.
He sends me a queer little look, though, as he's leaving. I hate it. It seems to imply that he's giving in on purpose, that he thinks I need a little bit of time off. I don’t like to be thought unstable by my own fucking twin, but c'est la vie.
As I walk into the pub, I tell myself I don't care about why I'm upset. There is no reason to be upset, so I decide not to be. There are better things to do, like getting booze and broads, both of which this dive specializes in.
I get a glass of Firewhiskey and find a seat, nicely out of the way. I like sitting against the wall,; allows me to keep an eye on the whole joint. It isn't as if I don't trust people, it is just that I like knowing where everyone is. Came from pranking, that habit. Knowing what people are doing is crucial to being able to avoid them knowing what you are doing. It sounds faintly philosophical, but I'm no Aristotle. My musings revolve around dames, dying and toys.
A simple bloke, really. Not much to bother with.
Apparently, I'm easily surprised. A touch on my shoulder causes me to jump and my wand is out before I can blink. Unfortunately, my good reflexives and rakish instability cost me my drink. I feel the whiskey sink into my robes, tingling my skin and making me feel clammy and cool.
It's Verity Moneyknutt, our secretary.
"Has Fred found her?" I say, relaxing back into my seat and trying to ignore the reek of alcohol.
She looks puzzled and I backtrack, " Never mind. What brings you here, Miss Moneyknutt?"
"Honestly, George," she says, slipping into the seat across from me and crossing her legs, "can't I get you to call me Verity?"
I smile at her. I hope it looks dashing, because that's really what I'm going for.
"Ahh, but I'm a gentleman. Wouldn't want to be too familiar."
"So kind of you, George," she snorts and summons a waitress. The bird is clearly here to attract eyes and tips, because she looks confused at two orders of whiskey. She also is very good at her job and I can't help but watch her sinuous hips as they twist and curl themselves away.
When I look back at Moneyknutt, she looks annoyed. She'll never get that job, but she's pleasant enough to look at. She wears too much eye make-up, frankly, and I'm a bloke who doesn't tend to notice that sort of things.
"Following me, are you?" I say, moving back to the more pertinent questions. I’m not suspicious, not really, but I’ll still ask questions. She laughs and makes a face at me. She thinks it's cute; I think it looks like she just tasted something foul, sour and possibly still moving.
"No, silly! I just came in here for a drink. Why, is the job getting hot?" she says, leaning over and resting her chin on her hands. She’s always been a curious sort, always wanting to know what was going on. I could chalk it up to her fixation with Muggle writers, or it could be more sinister. I let my eyes linger on her face, her ruddy skin cracking the white powdered make up. She flushes, becomes even more red, and tries to look away. She’s young, but she makes herself look old with that stuff.
It would explain so much. It would explain how Snape got those tax records and how he waltzed right through our door without being questioned. Previously, I had chalked up the latter to Verity’s natural inability to question anyone at all, but now I’m not so sure.
I surge out of my chair, sending it scraping backward and she jumps. Holding out my wand, which had become sticky from the spilled drink, I growl at her.
"Are you a Death Eater?"
She squeaks and looks at me, eyes impossibly wide.
"Answer the question, love."
"George, no!" she says, and her eyes dart around the tavern desperately. People are watching us, and there is someone whispering furiously to the barman. A young chap and his girl huddle near the wall. It's just this one old geezer with a top hat doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s still talking merrily to himself.
"Honest, George, I don’t know what you are on about!"
Her voice is shaking and mousey and drops to a whisper at the end. For a moment, I stare at her, examining her fear and confusion. I feel sick. In fact, I feel like I’m going to throw up or explode or something, right there in that pub.
The energy seems to drain out of me, as if it leaked out my fingertips into the air itself, saturating with the all too obvious tension. I lean down and drain my glass.
"Sorry, Verity," I say, feeling defeated, "I forgot I don’t live in a mystery novel, that’s all. If Agatha Christie or Arthur Conan Doily-"
"-Doyle-" she gulps.
"Doyle wrote it, then, well, fuck. Of course you’d betray us, but life’s not a book and you’re a sweet girl. Sorry, it’s just-"
I don't know how to explain to her what it was, because, frankly, I don't know myself. I lean over to drain her whiskey and she doesn’t stop me.
"I’ll just go," I say, glancing down and trying to ignore the stares. In the back of my mind, I hope no one recognizes me. The store doesn’t need the bad publicity.
As I walk out, I realize something that makes me want to go back and get another dozen shots of whiskey, or perhaps even the whole bottle. I also don’t want people to see me because I want people to remember me as I was, seventh year. With jokes and laughter and infinite gaiety.
The war has leaked bitterness into my laughter and this whole Regulus thing was is clearly driving me mad. On the way to our flat, I stop and get myself that bottle of whiskey.
---
I hear my name before I am even awake and it twists itself into my dreams, ringing through the cavern I am unapologetically walking through and fluttering the hem of my checkered apron. I’m not sure why I’m wearing that apron, even in the dream.
"George!" Fred repeats again, and I’m jolted awake by a handful of ice tossed rudely against my face. As I open my eyes, I determine the culprit. He froze my glass of water, which I had prepared the night before for hydration purposes.
I groan. The light is painful and now I don’t have any water to soothe my blistered, parched throat.
"I bloody hate you," I inform him in a guttural rasp and his laugh hurts my head.
"We have people to see, places to go!" he crows, yanking off the covers of my bed,. "I’ll get you another glass of water, but darling, dearest Doris lives all the way up in Birmingham and I’d like to get an early start."
"We are going to Apparate!" I cry, with my eyes screwed shut and my legs shivering in the cool morning air. He's still laughing at me and I'm feeling sullen and unpleasant. All I want to do is go back to sleep, sod this stupid locket.
"Punctuality is key, my good man, key."
A wet splash of water on my face accentuates his point. I splutter, trying to expel the water I had accidentally breathed in and feeling quite pathetic.
"Get up," he repeats, "and I'll get you another drop of booze or something. Hair of the dog that bit you, yeah?"
It is in moments like these I have a bit of bitterness against magic as a whole. We can destroy lives in instants, regrow bones, let us fly on bloody broomsticks, but no one has yet determined a hangover cure, a cure for the common cold or any magical way to lose weight. I'm not a religious man, but the Creator has had a hell of a joke on us all.
I manage to haul my sorry carcass out of bed and into a new suit. I have Fred cast the pressing charm to salvage something out of my beaten up trenchcoat, because I'm afraid that I'm going to turn it into that inexplicable apron. When I have that, my fedora and a bacon sandwich (a truly remarkable hangover cure), I'm feeling good enough to skip the whiskey.
We Apparate to Birmingham. I am immediately assaulted by the smell of curry from the small Indian place a few doors down. Doris Purkiss lives in a tiny row-house near the commercial district, made of dull grey cement. It is pretty hideous. Fred walks up to the door and I absently follow, slipping out a picture of Regulus that Snape gave us. I finger it, studying his face. Regulus scowls back up at me and his handsome features are twisted into such a growl of discontent that I half expect him to stick out his tongue. There is a dull pop from somewhere behind me and I chalk it up to a gunshot; I heard Birmingham was filled with those.
Fred rings the door bell and a cacophony sounds from inside. There are footsteps, and a woman opens the door.
"Mrs. Doris Purkiss?" Fred asks.
"Yes," she says cautiously, "but I really don't want to buy anything-"
"Good day, Mrs. Purkiss," I interrupt, smiling sweetly at her. She frowns at me at first, but cannot seem to hold it and ends up smiling back.
Fred cuts in before she can start talking, "We'd like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Stubby Boardman, ma'am,"
Her face lit lights up and she says, "Oh yes! Oh yes, do come in, I'm so excited you are here. I was so afraid no one was going to listen to my little article, but I'm ever so pleased that you did. Really, I'm just chuffed beyond belief. After I published it, I thought that maybe I should have gone to another one, not the Quibbler, because no one seems to take it seriously"
Her voice has a thick Bremmie accent and her vowels are coming out funny; every sentence also ends on a down note and she manages to sound sing-songy, even at an impressively rapid speed.
She looks to be in her mid-thirties and there are laugh lines around her face. I try to get a good look at her as she ushers us in, slamming the door behind us, but she seems to move too quickly. She almost vibrates with her energy. Fred and I both slip off our fedoras, as Mama raised us right.
Her home is placid, though, and oddly neat. It looks as if no one lives there and she's just a curator. There are pictures of three different children all over the walls and several family shots with her, the kids and a large dark man I assume is her husband. The pictures are everywhere, tiling the wall and crowding each other off the mantle. There is one fallen off an end table and Fred leans over to pick it up.
"Welcome to my humble little home!" she crows, bustling to the kitchen, which is at the back of the house,. "Lemme get you some tea, would you gentlemen like some tea? It's really not a problem at all."
Fred accepts for us and I ask a question that's been on my mind since we found her whereabouts, "Did you move from Little Norton recently?"
She pauses for a second in her movement before continuing at the same speed.
"Milk?" she asks and we both accept,. "Well, my husband passed on.and I wanted to move back to Birmingham. You probably can tell that I'm from around here; this was the house I grew up in, in fact. If you had arrived a bit earlier, you would have gotten the chance to meet my mum."
She seems to young to be without a husband, but I don't ask about it. She emerges from the kitchen with two cups and herds us onto a floral couch. I sit awkwardly, uncomfortable. The couch is crinkly and hard, as if it was stuffed with resilient popcorn.
"But that isn't really what you came here to ask about, is it? You want to know about Stubby!" she says, pressing the cups into our hands. I take a sip of mine. It's terrible. I'm not surprised.
"Well, when was the last time you saw him?" Fred asks, setting his cup resolutely down on the end table. Doris leans forward and places it on a coaster.
"Well, I last saw him on that dinner I told the Quibbler about; you know, on the night of the Potters' death? Terrible tragedy, by the way, simply awful. I still can't get over that and it's been what, sixteen years?"
"Yes, something like that," Fred agrees gravely. "So the last you heard from Stubby Boardman is from that night?"
"Well, no, that's the last I saw from him. Every few years he owls me and asks me for a few things; newspaper subscriptions, odd bits of information. It's all been a bit strange, but I don't really mind. He's such a nice chap and we had such fun together," she says, twisting her hands in her lap.
I resolutely don't look at Fred.
"Tell us about how you met Stubby," I ask, leaning back on the couch, in an effort to get more comfortable. It doesn't work.
"Well, that's a hard question. Not a hard one, really, but an odd one-"
She hesitates and Fred jumps in to prompt her, "Yes, go on?"
"Normally I'd say right off that I met him in seventy-six, right when he was coming onto the scene, but we fell out for a while. The Hobgoblins were a great little act, though, right from the start, despite their issues with that bassist. Started talking again around 1980, about a year or so before that dreadful incident with the Potters. Second time we were close, he was different. A bit odd. I always chalked it up to drugs or the like, but I was thinking about it the other day and I thought---well, I don't know what I thought, but I was certainly thinking about it."
Sweetheart, we are thinking about it too.
---
She tells us she last heard from him in Manchester. To be perfectly honest, I'm not exactly thrilled about exploring another manky industrial town, but I'll live. Fred is giving me a look like he knows what I'm thinking, so I won't give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.
We decide to explore the bar scene, hit up a few clubs. I want a few drinks in me and judging by his posture, so does Fred. We might even ask the bartender a couple of questions or something. It's a valid professional move, considering bartenders seem to know everything. You get a lot of folk spilling their hearts to their bartender, and maybe even a dead man would join them.
The bar we pick to go in first is a Muggle one and I have to freeze the picture before I can show it to the staff. They still don't recognize him. We move on without drinking anything because neither of us like Muggle drinks all that much; they go down rough, burning your throat.
The next joint is wobbly, leaning over to one side with gusto. I didn't know rocks could manage such awe-inspiring flexibility, but what do I know? As I walk through the door, the magic prickles the back of my neck. Clearly, there is a bit of help in its structure.
The patrons aren't looking at anybody else and the air is thick with multicolor smoke. I smell anise and tobacco and a few other things that I'd rather not name. Glancing at Fred, I meet his smile. Even if they don't recognize the picture, I think we are staying. Recon, we'll call it.
I order two drinks and we get down to the serious business of the evening.
There are two or three slugs of hooch in me before I'm feeling that natural need, you know the one. My bladder feels like it's about to burst and I'd rather not ruin my trousers two nights in a row. Last night it was whiskey and if I don't move right now, tonight will be even worse.
Trotting to the loo, I unzip my fly and let out my special friend for a little break, when I hear footsteps shuffling just behind me.
"Fred," I say, zipping up again, "what are you doing?"
I turn around and see a quick expanse of pale skin before there is a sharp pain in the back of my head and I'm falling. I hit the disgusting tiled floor with the crumpling sound of breaking glass. As my vision fades away, I hear Sirius' voice shouting.
---
I wake up and like yesterday, the light hurts. I see Fred leaning over me, freckles blurring together to create a brown/white/red mess of his face.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," I croak and he grins. He rests his hand gently against my shoulder, not saying anything but just looking at me for a long moment, and I look back.
Whenever one of us is hurt or frightened, there are always a few moments of uncertainty. We like to get a hold of each other, to touch. I claim we are recalibrating; twin mind-reading powers take precision, you know.
After a long moment he leans back and holds up a matchbox,. "This fell out of your attacker's pocket. Has the name of a restaurant."
"I'm thinking we should check out the scenery?"
"I'm thinking you're right."
"I get a nap first," I say, leaning back against the pillow. Fred must have rented a room while I was out, because I don't recognize this place in the slightest. It smells like sex, sweat and cigarettes.
"You get a nap first," he nods.
"What I was wondering," I say, "is how the fuck did Regulus know to attack me?"
"First, you are assuming it was Regulus - don't get me wrong, I agree, but it's still an assumption. That's the only issue, though. The bloke was sitting within ear shot of us and we aren't particularly discreet, friend. Too many years of pranking, not enough of being sneaky."
I groan, "Never, ever let me take a job again."
"You didn’t! I did. And I'll do it again, this is fun, Georgie."
"Fun in the sense where you mean me getting hurt?"
"Best sort of fun there is. Besides, you weren't too badly injured. Your silly Scare Gas capsule chased Regulus away."
"Ahhh," I say, "I thought I was hallucinating Sirius."
"Sirius?" he asks, obviously curious. I smile (one can never get enough practice with the mysterious, infuriating grin) and shut my eyes. It is time for my nap.
---
The worst thing about this job? Stake-outs. They are bloody boring. All they are is waiting and watching and waiting some more. You'd think there would at least be the edge of nervous anxiety or something, but no. At least for me, it is mostly just boring.
Perhaps that's why I'm always the one ending up unconscious before the end of the evening.
Nevertheless, it has been three hours and eight glasses of water (Fred is a hardass, at times) and there is still no sign of Regulus.
I send Fred a baleful look and swirl my straw around in my glass, clinking the ice against the side,. "Can I get a lemon for this water or is that too decadent?"
"Fuck off," he says, leaning back and smiling at me.
"Ahh, such maturity, such class."
"We run a joke shop, Georgie. The point where we grow class is the point where we are out of job."
"Fair," I say, fishing a bit of ice out of my glass and chomping on it. I'm just ready to drift again when a figure walks through the door, greeting the maitre'd with friendly regularity.
It's Regulus. It's gotta be; I've looked at that fucking photo enough. The Regulus in the photo just rolls his eyes when he sees me, now.
I meet Fred's eyes and we stand, moving into opposite directions. Regulus doesn't seem to have recognized us (we both changed our hair color, in order to be sneaky) and is casually talking with a waiter. The thought of him working at this joint, which he clearly does, is enough to make me snicker.
How low the high have fallen. And, if Fred has his way, how hard they are going to hit the ground.
Fred jumps him, sending him into a waiter with a clatter of breaking dishes and muffled curses. A bowl of spaghetti lands on my brother's head and it's oddly comforting; at least his hair is red again.
I surge forward before anyone else can have a chance to think, and Fred Apparatus the three of us out of there; it's a magical restaurant, at least, so that part won't be odd.
Regulus is hissing like a disgruntled cat, even in the hotel room, screaming curses and accusations. Fred pins him to the nasty bed and I mutter a bondage spell. I'd prefer not to disclose where I learned said spell, but I can assure you it is very effective.
"So, buddy boy," I say, stepping back and trying not to snicker at Fred's busted lip and spaghetti-ed body. I'll laugh at him later, but giggling is not the interrogation face of people who want to get some serious interrogation done.
"Could you tell me something about you being alive? Because I'm kind of surprised about that."
Regulus was raised in a family of evil. I hope the traditional habit of spilling out your evil and fiendish plot is genetic to the Blacks, because we really need a clue. If asked to explain how we found him, we'd have to resort to babbling about Birmingham and matchboxes, which is a level of confusion no private eye wants to admit to.
"Well, obviously I wasn't dead," he sneers, spitting out blood onto the pillow. It could hardly make it worse.
"Any other details?" Fred asks. "We know you masqueraded as Stubby Boardman."
Something occurs to me.
"Even during school?" I say trying to sound certain of it but failing. It doesn't seem to make any sense. Regulus was still at Hogwarts in 1975. He shouldn't have been able to meet Doris Purkiss, much less organize a band.
Regulus grins with pleasure. They always like to be able to fool you and I try to tell Fred I make my silly suggestions for just that reason. We both know I'mpretending
"No, that was my Uncle Alphard. He faked his death, gave his money to Sirius and started a band. Insane old coot, honestly. When I needed a place to hide, I went to him. He's living on the Bahamas and sending me Polyjuice Potions every once in a while."
"Here is the important question. Got the locket?"
"If you are bloody looking for it, shouldn't you have known that before you started chasing me?"
Fred opens his mouth to say something, probably something snide, when the door is pushed in with a dreadful crack. It hits the opposite wall and Snape stalks in. Unlike last time, neither Fred or I are prepared enough to counter him immediately. Fred moves near to Regulus to get out of the way of the door, and I raise my wand against the new entrant.
"What the fuck-"
My voice dies down. A cadre of Death Eaters follows him, masked and armed. I'm shaking with anger, - the stupid greasy bastard.! He's smiling, like he's winning a game that we just found out we are playing. I half expect him to swirl his cloak over the threshold, but he doesn't.
"Surprised?" he says, but we are both too stubborn to admit anything of the sort.
Fred sneers, "We never trust our clients."
"Well," Snape replies, "for untrusting fellows, you were remarkably good at leading me to dear Regulus here."
Only then do I think to glance at Regulus. His face is white, and his eyes are very wide. He hasn't said anything since Snape came into the room, but instead of afraid, he looks vaguely queasy.
Clearly he has something Snape (or You-Know-Who) wants. And it is probably that locket.
I shrug, "We do what we can. Anyway, have you come to pay us?"
Fred gives me a look of surprise, but I lower my wand and shrug again. In the movement, I subtly nod towards Regulus. Fred raises an eyebrow. Whirling back toward Snape, I put one hand on my hip and gesture with the other one.
"Well?"
"Well, no, George, I don't think I'm going to pay you. Killing you, actually, would be much neater," he says. That bastard has a flair for the dramatic a mile long. Bottling death or whateverthefuck indeed.
I step backward, throwing my arms up dramatically.
"Whoa there, pardner" I say, "This is a civilized country."
Someone (hopefully Fred) presses a hand against my back in one quick motion, and I have just enough time to give Snape the two-fingered salute before Fred Apparates us out of there. We use that little trick quite a lot for the very good reason of it working. After the gut pressing feeling of Apparation, we arrive in the hall outside of Harry's flat
Fred tosses me the locket which he had grabbed just before getting us out of there and I examine it. I'm not very magically sensitive, to be frank, but it feels filthy to the touch and I want to throw it as far away from me as I can. No wonder he gave it to me.
He's banging on Harry's door and while drops his wards, I spare a thought for Regulus. He clearly wasn't happy to be where we left him.
Harry opens the door. I hold up the locket and chuckle at his face.
Regulus made his choices, as did everyone. It's a funny old world and we all have to live in it. And I've seen where thinking people can change can get us. Dumbledore thought Snape had changed. He thought he was a good-guy, trustworthy. Snape ended up killing the bastard, but if he hadn't, I wouldn't have cried if You-Know-Who offed him. It was his choice to begin with.
Regulus had twisted his face into a look of terror. I remember seeing it just before the world twisted and yanked my stomach along with it, because he had watched us go. He wasn't even looking at Snape, just staring at us. He had been white and shaking, but when he saw what we were doing, when he figured out that we were leaving him, his face shifted. It became weary. It was the face of a man who had been running for longer than he had stood still, with the treads of his own boots etching lines on his face. He had looked older than any right to be and more alone than I thought possible.
I realize that I don't know anything about him.
I let Fred explain to Harry what had happened and I find a piece of parchment. Sitting down and summoning a pot of ink, leaving traces as it flew, I began to write a letter to Doris Purkiss.
Someone who did know him should think of him. It was only right.