Guns and Knives

Rating – PG-13, because of possible language

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 Three - Apprehension

By the time seven o' clock rolled around, I felt as though I had bitten my nails down to my knuckles. Where was Grimmauld Place? What would I wear? My grandmother told me once to always wear clean underwear – just in case I got killed. And no one wants to be buried in dirty boxer shorts. However, I didn't think that Black would be impressed if I turned up in just underwear. He probably wouldn't even get to see me, once I thought about it, because pneumonia would kill me in the street if I stepped outside in less than three layers of clothing.

Eventually I decided on a pair of black trousers and a white collared shirt. Pulling my black overcoat over it, and I looked more like a gentleman out for a leisurely evening, and less like an underpaid, overworked private detective.

I set off at half eight, double locking my apartment. I didn't feel like welcoming another break-in. Before I left, however, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey. My beverage cupboard was fortunately untouched, and I was thirsty. Descending the long and wonky staircase, I began to worry. I didn't know where this Grimmauld Place was – let alone Number Twelve.

When I got downstairs, Mrs Weasley wasn't there. I began to think that maybe my evening was finally perking up. In the state I was in, I would more than likely have hit her over the head with the whiskey bottle.

I stepped outside into the street, and looked around. It was already dark, and I could only see a few stars due to the abundant light pollution that flooded the night sky. I held the whiskey to my lips and felt the liquid burn it's way down my throat. I don't particularly like drinking – it's just a consolation in stressful situations, and it always has been.

I tucked the bottle into my pocket and set off. I didn't know where on earth I was going, and I couldn't rely on my feet like I had earlier that day. My head was swimming with so many thoughts, I felt like a one-man aquarium.

Where was I going? Why hadn't the person who left the note given me directions? Which son-of-a-bitch stole the necklace and trashed my apartment? Why hadn't somebody stopped them?

That last thought made me realise something I should have done before. Mrs Weasley had been cleaning that hall all day. Why didn't she stop strangers from entering the flats and going upstairs? And why didn't she mention it to me afterwards? It was a mystery. I resolved to ask her about it when, and if, I returned.

By quarter to eight, I had given up. Prowling around the streets hoping for convenient street signs had proven a rather pointless exercise. I sat on an old park bench, the wind trailing the leaves around my feet. It was getting rather cold, and there was nobody around. This, of course, did not surprise me. No one in their right mind would set out onto the streets later than nightfall in this area. Except me, of course. But as I was the only one, nobody would see me and classify me as clinically insane. It was as straightforward as that.

The wind began to pick up, and I found myself wishing for a hat to put on, as my ears were going numb again. Suddenly, something wet and rectangular hit me square in the face (no pun intended). Grumbling angrily, I peeled it off my nose and scanned it. It seemed to be a leaflet of some sort. It was soggy – probably from being discarded in a gutter – and didn't smell too good. It was a dark blue, and had the words 'Thou art cordially invited to the LCO convention. This message being from the Highest Order. Be-eth there, or be-eth square' printed on it. I turned it over, and a map stared up at me from the wet paper. It showed the whole of the area, from the outskirts of London, to the centre, and then merely brushing the Northern Quarter. I saw the road which my apartment was situated, and I traced all the roads that had taken me to the park. Suddenly, a two word street name caught my attention.

Grimmauld Place. I had found it.

There was no way that this leaflet came my way by coincidence.

When I approached the huge estate twenty minutes later, two large and burly security officers that towered above me in dark tuxedos, equally dark glasses, and menacing glares confronted me.

"Uh...hi..." I said uncertainly, raising an eyebrow and hoping that they wouldn't decide to try and turn me into a human cannonball and light my shoelaces.

"Name," one demanded in a rumbling voice.

"Lupin," I answered.

"Business?"

I had to think for a minute. I'd have to be pretty stupid to give out my profession to what I presumed to be part of the security staff for the LCO. So I smiled convincingly.

"I'm a representative from Leicester," I began, naming another area close to London. "I've come to do a deal with Black."

The two men glanced at each other momentarily, apparently mystified. They both looked about as clever as slugs with sunglasses on, so I kept my cynical expression on, and folded my arms, hoping to stare them out.

"I...didn't know Leicester had a CO," the larger security guard said slowly and thickly.

Suddenly, the door behind them creaked open, but I could see nothing beyond there. Just darkness. However, a silky voice floated out of the abyss.

"Crabbe, Goyle, let our friend from Leicester in. I've been expecting him..."
The word 'expecting' had been spoken with uncalled for enthusiasm that sent a chill down my spine. The burly bouncers – identified by the bodiless voice as Crabbe and Goyle stepped aside.