Guns and Knives

Rating – PG-13, because of possible language and violence later on

Setting – London, at no particular time. Trust me, you'll know what I mean.

Explanation – A small fic I wrote a while ago and never finished. Before I get flamed to death, I'll just point out that this is a spoof. It doesn't make sense when compared to the actual books by JK Rowling.

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the characters in this here fic. If I did, I'd be extremely rich, which I'm not.

Part Two – An Invitation to Disaster

I opened a drawer of my desk and dropped the necklace into it. Then I put my forehead to the shiny polished wood of my desk. It smelt like something you would be horrified to find in a dump, but I didn't care. The smell helped me think. And how I thought! My brain is still aching from all the thinking I did. I'm rather more of a doer than a thinker. I pondered and I considered and I mused over things, and I mulled over things, and I contemplated.

Then I gave up and picked up my coat from the floor and walked out of my office, locking the door behind me.

I strode down the hall and down the three flights of uneven steps until I reached the ground floor landing. As usual, Mrs Weasley, the landlady, was sweeping the floor.

"Good evening Mr Lupin," she greeted me casually.

I nodded at her, and exited the building. Once outside, the cold breeze that littered autumn nights chose to whip around my ears, causing them to go numb. And I can inform you now, if you didn't already know – having numb ears isn't the most pleasing of experiences. I wasn't quite sure where I was intending to go when I started to walk along the dirty pavement, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't where I turned up...

I looked up at the broken-down hotel, taking in the smashed windows, the sign with no letters, and the wrecked piping, and smiled to myself. Only six months ago this place had been the centre of social activity. But like every other venue of interest to the public, it had taken a downfall as rapidly as it had arisen. It was a hotel / nightclub / pub that went by the name of Hogwarts. I think it was meant to sound business-like and professional. Or perhaps just strange.

I climbed up the cracked steps warily, and knocked on the door. A panel slid across and I saw two eyes stare at me suspiciously. They were red-rimmed, so I guessed the owners of the eyes had been "on the ale" as my father used to say. The man seemed to recognise me, but nonetheless demanded, "Password."

"Fig," I answered confidently.

The person coughed.

"Yeah, yeah. But don't spread it around!"

There was a lot of clanking, and I assumed that the man was unbolting the many locks on the door. Eventually, the large black door opened. I say opened, I meant that a space about the size of a fat mosquito was revealed. I sighed and pushed the door, entering the building.

In front of me was an old man. He had long white hair that he had tucked into his pockets, and a long pointed nose that looked like it could skewer someone.

"Albus!" I shook his hand vigorously and he glared at me.

"'Lo Remus," he said in his croaky voice.

He stood there, staring at me doubtfully. It was becoming evermore uncomfortable.

"So, erm, can I sit down?"

He shrugged and turned away, leading me to a dark room that used to contain a bar and sat down on a dingy moth-eaten barstool. He poured himself a glass of some unknown beverage and started to guzzle it down. It wasn't the most pleasant of things I had seen in my life. When he had finished the drink, he set the glass down with a bang on a pool table littered with cobwebs. The alcohol was still hanging in little droplets on his beard, making him appear greasier than he was already.

"So, what's going on? Why do you have to bother me now, you good-for-nothing ingrate?" Dumbledore asked me. I was not at all offended by his blunt and abusive question. Insults were casual compliments to him. It made him all the more interesting to me. I guess I was, and still am, the only one who thinks so.

I grinned at him.

"I've got a new client," I announced.

Dumbledore coughed. Actually, it would be more correct to say Dumbledore hacked up a fur ball, because that is what it sounded like. He looked at me with his eyes crossed. I think he either didn't believe me, or was trying to see what two of me looked like. Either way, he got bored of it eventually and looked at me, bushy eyebrows raised.

"Who, a dust molecule? No one's stupid enough to come to you. I'm sure even the dust molecules choose better..."

For a drunken wreck of a man, he knew an awful lot about dust molecules.

"No, it's Lord Evans's daughter," I replied smugly.

Dumbledore looked as though he was sucking a lemon.

"Don't lie, boy. It makes you uglier," he retorted.

I guessed he had done an awful lot of lying in his life...

"I'm not lying!" I protested. "She's really a new client of mine! And she is hot as hell..."

Dumbledore shook his head, spraying little flecks of alcohol everywhere. I ducked, and managed to avoid the disgusting shower.

"Never love a client. Especially when it is a woman."

Well, I wasn't about to fall in love with the boring old blokes that I usually associated with.

"Too late for that, my friend. Anyway, she's paying me two grand a day! Can you imagine what I could do with that kind of money!?"

Dumbledore suddenly sat up. I think he believed me, because a dirty grin was spreading on his face.

"Well done, my lad. And now, you've come to split half of your earning with me? You're too kind...too kind..."

I smiled and stood up, making for the door.

"Sorry, not today. I'm just here to flaunt my good fortune. Goodbye, Albus!"

And with that, I set out into the street once more; considerably pleased with the look of revulsion I had etched onto the old man's face.

To my own dismay, I found that it was raining, and that I had no umbrella.

I reached the flat again, looking rather like something that had crawled out of the Pacific Ocean. Mrs Weasley bit her lip and clucked her tongue at me, but said nothing. This was clever of her. I didn't feel like arguing about anything, and especially not the state of my appearance.

I made my way slowly up the stairs, clutching a half-empty bottle of tequila to my side. I reached my flat, and fumbled for what seemed half an hour trying to find the keys in my pocket, when I realised that I didn't have to unlock the door. It wasn't locked. I pushed the door suspiciously and it swung open. I gasped. Everything was...well...everywhere. My desk was upside down, my mug of Incredibly Cold Coffee was now an Incredibly Murky Puddle on the floor, my dead plant was lying on the floor – soil spread about it like blood, my documents were thrown around the room, and the drawers of my desk were open. I rushed over to them, and confirmed what I had feared the moment I saw the state of my room. The necklace was gone.

The rest of the afternoon I spent tidying up my office. In truth, there wasn't really that much to do. The houseplant was beyond repair, so I carried it into the corridor outside. At the far end, about ten yards from my door, there was a large open window. Even though it was raining outside, this window would not close. I reckoned that even if violent hurricanes ravaged the flat, the window might blow off, but still wouldn't close. It gave me an idea. I hoisted the dead plant over my shoulder – spraying soil down my back – and neared the window. Looking out, I could see the alleyway beneath it quite easily. It was overgrown with vegetation. By vegetation, I mean junk that other people have thrown there – sofas for example – which have been claimed by foliage and now look like they belong in the jungle. Surely no one would notice if a dead houseplant joined it? Of course not. If there were sofas down there no one would care about a houseplant. I lifted it up to the window, and pushed it. It flew through the air; it's shrivelled leaves reaching up to the sky quite pathetically, before landing with a resounding splat on a heap of compost.

Moments later I found myself leaning out of the window, profanities being yelled at me by angry tramps that I had mistaken for the compost. They seemed not to be extremely appreciative of being covered in soil. I found this very hard to understand, as they had, in fact, been lying in something that seemed to smell of really foul eggs. Personally, I would choose the soil. With one last meaningful gesture, the tramps grunted and rolled over, reverting back to their drug-intoxicated siestas. I took this to mean I was dismissed, and I turned back to my apartment. When I got back in, there was a note on the coffee table that I was sure had not been there before. It was in strange scrawled writing, and looked like it had been done by a three year old, in a hurry, on a bus, on a road full of potholes. It read –

Lupin –

Be at 12 Grimmauld Place at 8pm tonight. Bring no one. Tell no one.

Ask for Sirius Black.

I let the note drop to the floor. It suddenly felt very cold in my small apartment. Sirius Black wanted to see me. But...why? Last time I checked, he wasn't on my list of people I owe money, or my list of mortal enemies. Maybe it had something to do with Miss Evans. It was the only reasonable explanation I could think of. Not that I was in the mood to think of reasonable explanations though. I mean – I'd just had my flat broken into and broken up, been yelled at by tramps, and found out that the Head of the London Crime Organisation (or LCO) wanted to see me. That Evans woman's necklace was missing as well – just to add another nice big burden on top of my already backbreaking load. This really was not turning out to be a good day.