Harry Potter and the Runecraeft of the Norns

Chapter Five: A Hard Day's Night

"What did you say the house was going to be used for again?" asked the man who co-owned the house as he signed the documents before passing them across the table.

"Corporate housing," said the clean-cut man in a tailored three-piece suit, signing the papers before handing them to the realtor. "You'll have the wire transfer by end of business."

"It's been a pleasure doing, Mister Jenkins," said the realtor, standing as the clean-cut man rose out of his chair and shaking his hand. "I'll call you when the transfer is cleared and the title is ready for transfer. That should only take a day or two."

"I'll be waiting."

~ooOoo~

Rome froze as a hand clamped down around their wrist, their whole hand still in the back pocket of the boy the thief only knew as "Whiplash Hunter".

"You're doing it wrong," said the shadowrunner. "To perform a lift, use two fingers, like tweezers; no hesitation, just in and out. If necessary, use a distraction on the opposite side of the body; a bump will suffice, so if you're in traffic, time the lift to contact, like a collision.

"If you know the wallet's in the back pocket and you've got a light touch, you can use a razor blade to cut the bottom of the pocket and let the wallet drop into your hand, but if you slice too deep, you'll get blood everywhere; a single-edge razor blade is probably the best for that."

"Right, thanks," Rome said, pulling their hand free of the pocket as the boy let go. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why am I doing what?"

"Helping me. Nobody helps anybody unless they've got something to gain."

"You're a talent, and I'd hate to see talent go to waste," said the shadowrunner. "Besides, you're magical, and everybody needs to start somewhere, even if it's just a small push."

He reached into one of the front pockets of his pants, pulling out a small card; quickly, he scribbled something on it, then handed it to the thief. "I won't be back until mid-August, but if you're ever in England, you can look me up at that address."

"I might just take you up on that," said the thief, "but I need to get out of New York until everything Rogers blows over and I hear Boston's nice this time of year…"

"Then you should go."

"That's the plan."

~ooOoo~

With a safe house secured for all intents and purposes and a good portion of the recently-acquired money looked after by a professional, it was time to find a job; while he certainly was wealthy enough to not need to work for a while, Harry didn't like having idle hands, and taking a job meant learning new skills, skills which could prove beneficial in the long run. Furthermore, after having nothing for so long, it just felt like every little bit mattered, especially when having two dependents meant there could be numerous unforeseen expenses.

Unfortunately, while the shadowrunner certainly had a set of skills that could be quite lucrative in the right context, it wasn't like he could just walk into a bar and demand to be involved in a criminal enterprise, so he could only rely on his other skills, namely cooking and cleaning.

Thus, while Liv and Luna spent the afternoon at the blacktop courts, playing hoops, the physical adept was sitting across a table from the owner of the pizza parlor he had visited with them earlier in the week, wearing the body and face of a man the Norwegian Ridgeback had killed, along with some clothes he had picked up at a value clothing retailer.

"What makes you think you'd be a good fit here?" probed the manager.

"I worked in a Japanese-Chinese restaurant out in Vegas last summer, so I have experience in the food service industry, and I'm a quick learner," said the boy-in-disguise.

"Why here, then? We're not a Japanese or Chinese restaurant."

"I had the food here a couple days ago and I thought it was really good, so I'd love to learn how to make pizza. Besides, the chef at the last place I worked told me restaurants are always hiring…"

While the last part was certainly true, the shadowrunner had made arrangements beforehand for an opening in the back of house of the restaurant to exist; since the restaurant had an open kitchen, he had seen the cooks during his previous visit, so he ambushed one of the pizza makers and duct taped his wrists, ankles and mouth at gunpoint before forcing him into the boot of his own car and rendering him unconscious with the butt of his pistol, then walked in and asked for a job interview while wearing a different face.

"Well, you're in luck," said the manager. "We're a bit short-handed today, since one of our cooks no-showed, and we could use the help right now, so why don't you get in the kitchen and we'll see what you can do."

"Before that, full disclosure, I actually owe a lot of money on my credit cards, and my pay would get garnished if I got paid the normal way, so if you could pay on the down-low instead, maybe we can work something out where you don't pay me as much, but I get to keep my paychecks so I can pay my rent and my bills?"

"We'll see about that. If you're a good fit, we can work something out.

"Now get in there, and Todd's going to show you how to make pizza dough."

~ooOoo~

With the price of a slice being only a dollar twenty-five and an entire pie going for just eight, it was a busy shift, but what would have been a physically demanding eight hours for anyone else was easy for the physical adept, and he was already making entire pizzas of the cheap variety by himself by the time the restaurant closed for business that night; once the front doors were locked, teardown began, and by the time everything was cleaned and back in the proper places, it was just past midnight.

"Hey, new guy, you want to go for drinks, celebrate the new job?" asked the pizzeria owner as he and the other back-of-house staff changed back into street clothes. "There's a bar down the block we usually go to."

"Sounds good," answered the physical adept as he slung his haversack over a shoulder. "I need to make a call first, though; there a payphone nearby?"

"There's one on the corner."

"All right, I'll be right back."

Stepping outside through the back door, the boy-in-a-man's-body waited until he was around the corner before he retrieved his satellite phone from his bag and punched in the number he wanted to call.

The line only rang once before it was picked up. "Go for Baldursdóttir," answered the dragon.

"Something came up at work, so don't wait up for me," said the shadowrunner.

"Dia's asleep anyways," Liv said.

"And you?"

"I'm working on a project."

"Don't stay up too late; growing girls need their sleep."

"So do growing boys."

"Point to you. I'm out."

Hanging up, he turned the corner back to the restaurant's rear entryway and found the owner and the three other cooks who had worked the closing shift waiting for him, the owner locking the door with a key connected to a thin chain.

"Ready to go?" asked the proprietor of the pizzeria, as he let go of the key and it retracted back to the circular device clipped to his belt.

"Everything's taken care of," answered the physical adept. "What is that?"

"A Key-Bak," the owner answered. "You can find them at any hardware store."

"So, what was that about?" asked one of the cooks.

"Eh, had to tell my girls not to wait for me."

"Your girls?"

"Yeah, I've got two little girls; one's twelve and the other's year-and-a-half."

"Aw shit, man, I didn't know," said the restaurant owner. "Are you sure you don't need to go be with them?

"They'll be fine if it's just tonight," the Hermetic mage said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Besides, first couple days in a kitchen, it's crucial to get to know your co-workers."

"Hear, hear," agreed another of the cooks.

"I don't think I've ever seen somebody slice onions as fast as you, almost like a Robot Coupe," another of the cooks remarked. "How'd you do it, get it paper-thin without cutting yourself?"

"It's just a lot of practice," said the physical adept. "I've been handling knives since I was maybe six or seven years old."

It was at this point they arrived at the bar and entered, squeezing into a corner booth that was unoccupied.

"Hi, I'm Maggie and I'll be your server tonight," greeted a hostess, a bubbly young blonde whose dark polo shirt seemed a size too tight at the chest. "Would you like to order now, or should I come back later?"

"Heineken," announced one of the cooks.

"Whiskey on the rocks," the pizzeria's owner told the waitress.

"I'll have a Bud Light," said another cook, before scooching closer to the blonde. "And your number, beautiful."

From where he sat, the shadowrunner saw the woman barely manage to conceal her revulsion as she ignored the flirtation before she turned her attention towards him.

"And what about you?" she asked.

"Well, I've been sober going on thirteen years now," lied the boy-in-disguise, "so a Coke'll do."

"You're on the wagon and you came to a bar?" asked the woman. "You're so brave, to come to a place where you know you'll be tempted."

"New job, new co-workers, you know how it is," the Hermetic mage said vaguely.

"And you?" the hostess asked the last cook.

"Gimme a Rusty Nail."

"All right, I'll be back shortly with your drinks," the blonde said brightly before walking away.

"I'd do filthy, unspeakable things to her," declared the cook who had asked for the hostess' phone number.

"You don't have to tell me twice," said the pizzeria's owner. "I'd spank that ass until she calls me 'daddy'!"

"Yeah, I'd hit that so hard, her kids would see stars," agreed another of the cooks.

"What about you?" the pizza restaurant's proprietor asked the boy-in-disguise.

"I'm not really into this," said the physical adept.

"What? You gay?" accused the last cook.

"No, I've two kids with two different moms, so what I don't need is to knock up another woman."

"What, you never heard of a condom?"

"Best laid plans of mice and men, man. Just ask the mother of my eldest."

"So, your kids, what're they like?" asked one of the cooks.

"Dia, she's twelve, and she really likes to draw. She's really good at it too; some of her pictures look almost exactly like photos."

"That's really cool, man," said the restaurant owner. "What about the other one?"

"May? May's amazing too," said the shadowrunner. "She's only about one-and-a-half, and she's already talking in complete sentences, and not like, three- or four-words-long ones either; the other day she told me, 'I want to be a dragon when I grow up'! I mean, being a dragon is silly, but she's not that old and she's already got a concept of time and growing up."

"Man, your girls sound like fucking geniuses," another of the cooks said.

"Enough about your kids," said the last cook, clearly bored. "What do you like?"

"Well, besides my kids? I go shooting sometimes."

"Yeah? Whatcha got?"

"Berettas, Glocks and a couple liquefiers."

The cook started to ask for an explanation but was interrupted by the hostess, who had returned with the ordered drinks.

"One Heineken, one Bud Light, one Rusty Nail, one whiskey on the rocks, and one Coke," she said as she set the drinks down on the table.

"Thank you Maggie," said the physical adept, getting her name from the tag on her shirt.

"You're very welcome," she said with a smile as she surreptitiously slipped a cocktail napkin under the lowball glass with his drink in it.

With two fingers, the shadowrunner lifted the paper from under the drink and palmed it in the same hand he used to lift the glass up. "Salud," he toasted.

"Salud," echoed his co-workers before they all took a drink in unison.

"So, I hear you were out in Vegas last summer," said the cook who had tried to flirt with the hostess. "What was it like out there?"

"You know what they say about Vegas, right?" asked the Hermetic mage, his tone jovial. "Whatever happens in Vegas…"

"Stays in Vegas!" cheered the cooks in unison, raising their drinks together.

"No, but seriously, what was it like out there?"

"You ever been?"

"Naw, never had the chance."

"Well, then, let me tell you…"

~ooOoo~

They were about an hour into being at the bar when Harry noticed the music in the background had gone away; looking towards the stage at the back of the room, he noticed the band that had been playing were gone, replaced by five young women setting up instruments.

That would have not been of note were it not for the fact all five of them had glowing motes in their bellies, each of a different color and shape.

"Hey Maggie, you know anything about this band?" asked the shadowrunner of the hostess, reading her name from the tag pinned to her blouse, as she came by with another round of drinks, though two of the cooks were already passed out, faces on the table, and the pizzeria's proprietor was arguing with the last conscious chef, both of slurring their words

"I think this is their first time performing here," answered the woman. "Why, what's up?"

"Naw, there's just something familiar about them," lied the boy-in-disguise.

"Ahem," said one of the young women on stage, a pretty young woman with mocha skin, long black hair and an ovular face, an acoustic guitar hanging from her shoulder. "We're First Romance, and the first song we'll be playing tonight is 'Born in the U.S.A.', by Springsteen."

Sitting at the back of the stage, the group's percussionist, a slender young woman with hair the color of burnished copper, struck her drumsticks together three times, counting down, before she laid into the drum kit before her.

What followed was a cacophony of sound.

While the guitarist who had introduced the group played a melody with a clear samba groove, the young woman besides her played the harmony—except far too fast while laying in a number of extraneous notes—on an electric guitar with heavy distortion; behind them, the bassist played the bassline of the song, albeit with an interpretation based in clearly funk rather than rock, while the young woman on the keyboard played a different harmony to the melody in an almost orchestral tone. Through it all, the drummer did her best to keep it all balanced with the drumbeat, but there was only so much she could do when the members of the band seemed unable to agree on what genre of music they were meant to be playing.

Nonetheless, despite their lack of togetherness, it was clear they were all technically proficient, like they all had some level of training.

"You fucking suck!" heckled one of the people in the bar.

"Get off the stage!" jeered another.

"Hey, let's get out of here," said the pizzeria owner, finishing his drink and standing up. "There's another bar not too far from here where the music won't suck."

"Naw, I think I'll stay and finish my drink," said the boy-in-disguise. "'Sides, with the way things are going, drek's about to hit the fan and I wouldn't want to miss that for the world."

"Suit yourself, then. I'll see you tomorrow night at four," the owner of the pizza shop said, starting to walk away.

"That's Thursday, right?" the shadowrunner asked the back of the departing man.

"Yep," was the answer as the restaurateur became lost in the crowd.

"Play some actual music!" shouted a man who was near the stage.

On the stage, the electric guitarist—a sinewy young woman with short blonde hair styled in a pageboy, wearing a basic white tank top, fitted jeans and work boots—threw down her instrument and jumped off the stage, rushing up to the latest heckler with her right hand cocked back and dropping him with a single right hook that caught him behind the ear.

There was an instant of shocked silence; then, the inside of the bar erupted into pandemonium.

Amidst the chaos, the shadowrunner slipped out.

~ooOoo~

He was wearing Kyle Jenkins' face and shirtsleeves when the bouncers—two burly men in black T-shirts with 'Security' printed on the front—threw the electric guitarist forcefully out of the front door of the bar by her elbows; tumbling to the cracked cement, she sat up and raised both hands, middle fingers extended, at the retreating backs of then men who ejected her from the drinking establishment.

"Saw what you did in there," said the shadowrunner, pushing off from where he leaned against the wall with one foot and going over to offer the young woman a hand. "Most wouldn't have jumped in like that."

"Well, I'm not like most girls," she said, taking the proffered hand thumb-to-thumb and letting the shadowrunner help her up, wincing as she regained her foot and touched the split in her lip that was leaking blood, then spitting on the pavement as she traced a finger over a small cut along her cheekbone and winced.

"What makes you say that?"

"I like drinking, smoking, fighting, cussing and fucking."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"You really think so?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Most guys think a girl shouldn't be doing those things."

"I'm not like most guys you've met."

"Yeah? How's that?"

There was a beat as the boy-in-man's-form considered his answer. Then:

"How many guys you know can cook you a restaurant-quality meal?"

"Are you asking me out?"

"You seem like the kind of woman who knows exactly what she wants and has no problem getting it for herself."

"And if I try to fight you?" she asked, taking a drag from her cigarette.

"I'd choke you out."

"Confident, are we?"

"What can I say?"

Under her breath, the woman mumbled, "That is so fucking hot," to herself as she bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"It wasn't anything important. So who are you?"

"Kyle Jenkins," said the boy-in-disguise as the young woman rolled her shoulder backwards.

"Lex Linqvist," the woman declared, retrieving a packet of cigarettes from her back pocket, tapping it against her palm before pulling just one out with her lips alone. "Got a light?"

Beckoning the woman close with his right index finger, he cupped his left hand within his right as she leaned forward and dipped the tip of her cigarette into the hollow, holding it steady between fore- and middle finger; channeling Astral power into the tattoo at his wrist, an electric spark jumped to the paper-wrapped tobacco, setting it alight. From in close, even under the dim light from the storefront, he could see her hair was dark under the outermost layer of golden locks.

"Neat trick," said the guitarist after inhaling deeply, closing her eyes as she slowly blew smoke.

"I take Springsteen isn't your speed."

"God, no; Springsteen fucking sucks."

"Then why'd you play it tonight?"

"It was the only song we could think of that we all knew how to play."

"Badly, apparently."

"Thanks for reminding me," said the woman, taking another drag from her cigarette before continuing. "So, Kyle Jenkins, are you the next act for tonight?"

"Actually, I'm in A&R," said the shadowrunner. "Do you and your band have a record deal?"

"You've seen us play," the woman answered. "What do you think?"

"Can I speak with them?" Harry-as-Kyle asked.

"I don't know, can you?" snarked Lex.

"May I?"

"The fuck do I look like to you, their keeper?"

"No, but you seem like you'd fight me if you didn't want me talking to the rest of the band."

"That fair, I guess," said the woman after a beat, using the moment to look the purported music scout up and down with her piercing blue eyes. "I'm pretty sure I could take you."

"It's good you've got dreams," said the boy-in-man's-form, as he started down the alleyway besides the drinking establishment. Seeing the woman hesitate, he asked, "You coming?"

"I don't think they'll let me back in," she said.

"Who says they have a choice, chummer?"

Stopping at the bar's side door, the Hermetic mage tried the knob and found it locked; quickly channeling Astral power and whispering the appropriate incantation, he cast knock and heard the deadbolt click open, then twisted the doorknob and pushed the door inwards, letting himself and the guitarist into the bar's back room.

As they passed through the storage area, the guitarist grabbed a bottle of whiskey off a storage shelf, using her teeth to tear the plastic off the neck and popping off the top with her thumb, taking a long pull straight from the bottle before offering it to the boy-in-disguise, who took the alcohol and had a drink himself. Remembering what Shaun had said about Scotch, he held the whiskey in the front of his mouth for a moment, swirling it around to get a taste of the alcohol's caramel, vanilla and spicy, peppery notes before swallowing, setting his jaw against the burning sensation as the mouthful went down his throat like he was swallowing a small fireball.

"That's the good stuff," Lex said as she took the bottle back and knocked back another swig.

"Hey, you can't be back…"

The man who had been behind the bar earlier never quite finished his sentence, as the physical adept struck him with a forearm across the jaw, dropping him to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"Well, slot me sideways," said the shadowrunner with a sigh. "Can't leave this gonk here."

Rolling up his sleeves, he lifted the unconscious man with little effort, carrying him over to a nearby closet and stuffing him inside, hooking his victim's thumbs into the belt loop on the back of his jeans and laying his entire body weight on them before setting a case of cocktail napkins on his chest.

"I like your ink," the guitarist remarked. "What's it mean?"

"They're protective runes," said the Hermetic mage vaguely.

"Ooh, like Wiccan symbology? I've been thinking about getting some ink too; could you recommend a tattoo artist?"

"Mine's in London."

"Okay, that could be a problem, yeah."

They were met at that point by the other members of the band leaving in a hurry, moving as quickly as they could with their instruments in tow.

"Thanks a lot, Alexis!" growled the bassist heatedly, her piercing baby blue eyes narrowed in anger. "Now we can't ever come back here again!"

"Yeah, whatever," the electric guitarist answered back nonchalantly after taking a long drink from the pilfered whiskey. "I got us a record deal."

"You what?"

That was the keyboardist.

"I got us a record deal," Lex reiterated.

"Hey, I'm not exactly a guaranteed record deal," Harry-as-Kyle interjected.

"You heard us play like shit and you're still here," the bassist countered. "Unless this is a long play to get into one of our panties, you're interested."

"I don't shit where I eat."

"Which label are you with?" asked the acoustic guitarist.

"Technically, we're not a label, but an investment group," said the shadowrunner.

"What does that even mean?"

"That's a conversation better not had in the back of a venue you're not allowed at anymore."

"I could eat," said the drummer amiably.

"I know a diner not far from here," volunteered the guitarist.

~ooOoo~

"...and a vanilla shake, if you'd be so kind, Debra."

The waitress, a portly older woman with greying hair and a "Debra" nametag, finished taking the order and walked away from the table with a dour look on her face.

"So, what exactly can you do for us, if you're not representing a label?" asked the bassist.

"As I told Lex, I'm in A&R," Harry-as-Kyle started.

"Yeah, but A&R is with a record label," the bassist interrupted.

"Shut the fuck up, Bethany, and let him talk," interjected the electric guitarist.

"We invest in businesses, in people, when we see potential, and I think this band has potential in spades," explained the shadowrunner. "I've heard you play; you're all technically proficient, probably even good to great, but you just couldn't get it together. Now why's that?"

"That was our first gig as a band," admitted the keyboardist.

"Before that, we were a girl group," the bassist added defensively.

"I don't follow," said the Hermetic mage.

"About two years ago, a label had a talent search and discovered us and put us together in a group, but after working on an album that went nowhere for about eighteen months, they dropped us a week ago," elaborated the keyboardist.

"We wanted to stay in fucking the game, though, so we said, 'Fuck it' and decided to try as a band," finished the electric guitarist.

"And 'Born in the U.S.A.' was the only song you all knew how to play?" Harry inquired.

"It was that, or Disney songs," spat the electric guitarist.

"I didn't know the song, but I figured I could keep up on drums," admitted the percussionist.

"Frag it, I'll just put the deal on the table, so there's no confusion as to what the offer is," the ferryman said. "A quarter million up front, in cash, against ten percent of the profits of your first album and right of first refusal on the next. You maintain full creative control over your music, and you own the rights to everything you produce while under contract as well."

"That sounds too good to be true," said the bassist. "What's the catch?"

"First, you need to figure your shit out; I'm not investing in a band that doesn't know what it can do. Second, and this is the important one, we have no infrastructure, which means you'll have to find your own studio, your own producers, your own management, and your own publicist; all we provide is money. And finally, this is also important: you will be required under the terms of the contract to produce an album within two years; otherwise, you'll have to pay back the advance, with interest. In a sense, it's probably for the best if you consider it a salary, rather than a cash advance against the sales of the album."

"What if the album flops?" asked the keyboardist.

"Don't put that into the world, Minnie," chided the drummer gently.

"If you decide to record another album afterwards, we'd still have right of first refusal; otherwise, we part ways on amicable terms." Pausing, the shadowrunner checked his watch, then stood up, reaching into his shirt's front pocket and taking out a business card and a money clip he peeled a pair of one hundred dollar bills from, setting both on the tabletop. "Listen, I've given you all a lot to think about, so here's my card; consider my offer and give me a call before Saturday if you want to make it happen; after that, I'll be out of state. Money should cover the meal plus tips."

Then, he left, leaving the band heatedly talking among themselves.

~ooOoo~

It was a bit of a trek to get back to where he had left the cook he had waylaid the previous day, but the shadowrunner got there all the same.

Pulling the pistol he had taken from the dead crime lord's dead bodyguard, he emptied the weapon's clip into the back windshield of the car, well above the boot he had locked the cook in, then quickly field stripped the weapon and tossed the parts all over the alleyway.

He hated to waste a perfectly functional firearm, but he needed a way to get the cook to hospital without raising suspicions, and bullets through a car windshield was the fastest way he could think of.

Author's Notes: No, Harry did not give Rome his home address.

Always remember: Harry is a Hufflepuff not because he's loyal (even if he can be), but because he's a grinder who will always work hard developing his skills, and getting a job at a pizza joint is an extension of his desire to expand his cooking repertoire.

Living in 2021, it's hard to believe there was a time when a slice of pizza went for a dollar twenty-five, yet that's what my research turned up for NYC prices in 1993.

What's the difference between the truth and your cover? There isn't one. Your cover is the truth.

Anybody who's worked restaurants will tell you that food service shifts are just weird compared to shifts at more normal jobs.

While Harry previously wouldn't consume alcohol because it would put him in an altered state, the information from Grace that the ribbon would keep him from getting even tipsy means he can now drink without that consequence, even if he still normally wouldn't as Harry, as a way to keep his cover or manipulate somebody else.

As the pandemic is still on-going, please take care to be safe. Even if you're tired of wearing a mask, it's important to keep wearing one even after you've been vaccinated, as you never know which strangers aren't, and the vaccine's primary function is to make it less likely for its recipient to die upon contracting the virus, since no vaccine is 100% perfect.

Once again, many thanks to my long-suffering editor Romantically Distant and to pmansell for proofing and editing my work. Also, thank you for reading what I've written.