Harry Potter as written by Mickey Spillane
My Wand is Quick
by Technomad
I stood there, the rain pouring down out of the bleak autumnal sky, and looked down at the corpse in the gutter. There was no sign of blood, but I knew that this had been a murder. My gut knotted at the thought of how it had been done.
"Yeah---it looks like the Cruciatus Curse, all right. Done long enough, and hard enough, it's a killer all by itself." Ron Weasley, head of the Auror division in Knockturn Alley, and one of my best pals in the world, squatted over the corpse. "Poor Longbottom---he didn't deserve this. But then, nobody does."
I disagreed. I could think of quite a few cheap hoods and Dark Wizards whose brains I'd love to fry with a nice, prolonged Cruciatus, and whoever had done this had just joined that list. "Ron---you'd better find whoever did this, fast."
Ron looked up at me. "Or you'll take care of it yourself, Harry? They do pay us Aurors to take care of crimes, you know. You're supposed to be a private detective, not a one-man vigilante squad."
"I know that. I also know that, because I am a private eye, I can do things and go places that you Aurors can't. I can find out things before you can. And right now, finding whatever yellow weasel fried Neville Longbottom's brains for him is my number-one case."
"He was your friend."
"He was a friend to all of us. Hell, he saved all our asses by organizing Dumbledore's Army again, when you, me and Hermione all went on our Magical Mystery Tour, remember? Without the DA, we'd have been toast a dozen times over." I clenched my fist, wishing it was around someone's neck. "He'd have taken a spell---or a Muggle bullet---for you, me or any of us without a second thought, and never wondered why we'd make a fuss about it."
"Just try to keep it legal, okay? I have all I can do without having to cover for your vendettas." With that, Ron made a signal, and his assistants swooped in to take all that was left of Neville Longbottom off to the morgue.
I hadn't let Ron see just how angry I was. I fully intended to beat him to whoever had killed Neville Longbottom, and I had plans for that person. Whoever had done it hadn't just wanted him to die, although that would have been enough by itself. I wanted to get whoever had done this, and see him suffer just the way Neville had suffered. It wouldn't be a quick, easy death for this one.
And I planned to start my latest investigation by slapping some answers out of a particular creep, rat and punk who was up to his inbred ears in every bit of dirty dealing down Knockturn Alley. I was looking forward to paying a visit to Mr. Draco "the Ferret" Malfoy.
*
Before I went over to Malfoy's place to start re-acquainting him with the business end of my brass knuckles, I stopped at my office. My secretary, Ginny, gave me one of those million-Galleon smiles that I liked so much. I knew she had it bad for me, but I kept it strictly business between us.
"Hey, toots. Anything come in that I need to know about?" She looked through the inbox.
"Nothing, Harry. Not this time."
"Good. I'm headed over to talk with a ferret."
*
Although his operations reached their slimy tentacles into the foulest parts of Knockturn Alley, and all over the underside of Wizarding Britain, but his offices were class all the way---they all but screamed money. Looking at them, I ground my teeth, thinking of all the underhanded ways he had made that money. Every dirty racket, every crooked deal, paid Malfoy a percentage.
I made my usual entrance, slamming the door open with a loud bang. Malfoy's secretary, Pansy Parkinson, screamed like she'd just seen a mouse, or like her husband had caught her in bed with the paperboy. "Mr. Potter! What do you want?"
"Keep your cool, skirt. I'm not here after you today. I want your boss."
"But you can't see him!" She glanced helplessly toward the office door that was marked Draco Malfoy. "You don't have an appointment---"
"I don't need an appointment to see him!" Shoving her aside, not too hard, I kicked Malfoy's door open like I was a Panzer and his office was Paris. Malfoy goggled at me, his face even pastier than its usual color.
"Potter! What do you mean, bursting in on me? I haven't done anything---" Before he could tell any more lies, I was on him, with my fist twisting his expensive ascot tight around his neck as I banged his head against the wall, my wand out and pointed.
"Listen, you miserable little sewer rat. Neville Longbottom just bought it, and I think you or someone in your organization had something to do with it!" I slammed his head against the wall for emphasis---and just because it felt good. Hurting Malfoy's one of my chief pleasures in life.
"But I didn't---I didn't have anything to do with it! Honest!" By now, his nose was bleeding, and he was definitely going to have to replace his trousers, if my nose was any judge. He couldn't take his eyes off the business end of my wand, which was pointed right between his beady little ferret eyes.
I let go of him, and he slumped, holding his nose. Leaning down, I hissed: "You better hope none of your people had anything to do with it, you gutter scrapings, because if you did---you'll be lucky if the Aurors are the ones that catch up to you!" I shoved my wand toward him, and he flinched. "My wand is quick---and I am the Wizengamot! They won't need to waste time on a trial for you---just a funeral!" I smiled at the thought. "The undertaker won't be able to leave your box open, either, punk, because after I and my wand are done with you, Michelangelo wouldn't be able to make you look good!"
END
