There's a Depression on, You Know.
James kicked a rock out of his way as he stalked down the street. Peter followed next to him. It was late now, the moon fully risen in the sky. It cast a bright light onto the streets, contrasting with the paltry streetlamps that buzzed and flickered.
James knew that he should be heading back to his apartment, but he felt too restless. His body screamed at him to do anything but go to sleep. So, he walked next to Peter, speaking in a dour tone.
“What do you think about that McGonagall? Five whole years of work just ended like that.” James would have snapped for emphasis if he wasn’t so busy sullenly shoving his hands in his pockets.
Peter sighed, patting James on his shoulder, “It was the only thing she could do, she knew she was holding you back.”
James shook his head. He couldn’t believe that. That Minnie wanted him to go to the big con, that she wanted the quiet life. What happened to the fun that they had? Did she really think she could just pull out and leave? What would James do?
“We were partners. If it weren’t for McGonagall I’d still be rigging pinball machines,” James frowned, remembering the day McGonagall found him and offered for him to work with her instead. She wanted to end it, just like that?
“I don’t need anything more than what I have.”
Peter scoffed at James’s words, flicking a coin into a sleeping homeless man’s hat. “You won’t have anything if you don’t lay off those games of chance,” Peter nodded to a newspaper stand that they walked past.
“There’s a depression on, you know.”
“There’s always a depression on.”
Peter sighed. They’d had this conversation before. A lot.
“If you saved a little, you wouldn’t have to grift as much,” Peter reminded James. James just grunted in response, loosening his tie in aggravation. It was suffocating.
“I like grifting.”
Peter rolled his eyes, and James could hear him mutter something about how James would just never quit. James sighed, fixing his gaze off of Peter’s mopey face and instead on the headlights of the car that was driving past the street. And getting closer.
James realized who it was too late.
Peter gave a strangled yell as a uniformed cop burst out of the side door, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting his arm behind his back.
James scrambled backwards, briefly considering ditching Peter before grabbing Peter’s wrist and trying to make a run for it. However the cop was stronger than he thought, and James barely made it two feet before another figure went barrelling into him.
James shouted as he was dragged back into the alleyway near them, and a wiry yet surprisingly (annoyingly) strong arm slammed him against the wall. A familiar smell of grease and coffee filled his nose as James looked at the pinched face of the man he knew all too well.
“Hey there, Snape. Things a little slow down by the station? Run out of doughnuts?” James grinned.
Severus Snape looked down his nose at James, his hair falling around his shoulders in greasy curtains. His police badge glinted in the fuzzy orange light of the streetlights. Snape pointed a finger at James, smiling in a way that showed off his crooked teeth.
“Hey, Potter, I just got some news. You know, you scored blood money today. You’re gonna need a friend. Won’t he, Mulciber?” The man holding Peter laughed darkly (stupidly).
James had no interest in what this sniveling moron was talking about. He rolled his eyes, knocking Snape’s hand away and pushing off the wall, forcing Snape back.
“Go find yourself a shoplifter to roll. Or better yet, take a shower–”
Snape rudely interrupted James by punching him in the gut. As James doubled over with a grunt of surprise mixed with pain, Snape landed a hard blow to the back of his head.
James gave a manly yelp and grabbed his head as he toppled over into a couple of garbage cans. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as smelly garbage water soaked into the side of his new suit. The deers on his tie seemed to be running around in a panic, though it was most likely just the stars swimming around his vision.
James saw Peter move to help him as the other cop had let go of him by now. However Peter stopped short as the cop gave him a look. Peter gulped nervously, knowing that the cop could and would beat him into a pulp if he tried anything. Actually, the cop seemed a bit eager for Peter to try and give him the excuse.
“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal. I’ve been home with the flu all day,” James pushed himself up, trying not to breathe through his nose and saying the first lie he thought of. He spat at Snape. “If you want proof, you can stake out my toilet.”
Snape landed a harsh kick to James’s liver (which was just playing unfair), and knelt down next to James, twisting his hand into the back of his hair. James’s head was jerked up to look at Snape in a painful angle. James gritted his teeth. That was gonna hurt in the morning.
“I'll tell ya what you did, smart boy. You tied into a loaded mark on 47th. You and McGonagall played the switch for him and blew him off to a cab on 49th. If he hadn't been a numbers runner for Tom Riddle, it woulda been perfect.”
James felt his heart drop.
Tom Riddle? At least, that was his name to people who didn’t know him. To anyone in his business, he was Voldemort. To anyone who respected or feared him enough to call him Voldemort.
James thought of him as Tom Riddle.
He was still scared shitless, though.
“You’re crazy. I’m not stupid enough to play for no racket’s money.”
Riddle was the most vicious numbers racket on this side of the country. If James had stolen from him? He knew better than to do that. But then again it was beginning to make an awful amount of sense. James should’ve questioned why the man had that much cash on him. Stupid, stupid.
Snape jeered at him, seemingly reveling at the horrified look James’s face. “Maybe not intentionally. But that won’t matter to Riddle. He’ll swat you like a fly.”
James swallowed dryly, shaking his head. “I’ll square it with a fixer.”
Snape shook his head, tapping his badge with a smug look, “Not if I put the finger on you.” He waited, and James…knew he was beat.
If Snape got the cops wise to his operation, if Riddle found out that it was James and McGonagall who took from him…James sighed, waving his hand for whatever price Snape was about to throw at him.
Snape nodded smugly, “Good. Now I take it your take was at least three gees. I want two of them, no matter what it was.” James cursed internally, then shook his head.
“My take was only one,” he said, like a liar.
Snape tsked in annoyance, then tightened his grip on the back of James’s hair, making James have to try not to hiss in pain.
“Then you’ll have to come up with another grand somewhere,” He sneered cruelly as James tried to think on his feet, which was very hard because he was currently slowly soaking up trash water.
James sighed in resignation, hesitating before he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He saw Peter’s brow furrow in confusion as he caught sight of the bills inside.
Snape snatched the wallet out of James’s hand, counting the bills with his sharp eyes. After a moment, he smiled and pocketed it, motioning for his friend to follow him as he walked back to the cruiser.
He hit Peter’s shoulder with his own (probably leaving behind a trail of slime) as he passed Peter, making him jump. Snape jeered at him, “Relax, Pettigrew. I’ll bill you!”
He and his friend burst into ugly laughter as they slammed the doors shut. James had to scramble back as Snape used the alley to turn around, almost hitting him before driving off down the street. What James wouldn’t do to put a nice, big, dent in the hood.
James watched them leave for a moment before brushing off his suit, trying and failing to flick the garbage water off of his sleeve. Peter rushed over to him, “You good?” He gave James a pat down, deftly avoiding the ruined parts of the suit before continuing, “What gives, I thought you blew all your money?”
James took Peter by the elbow, taking them in the opposite direction of Snape’s car at a quick pace that was just slow enough to look casual. “I did. Those bills were counterfeit, they’ll spot it in the first place Snape tries to spend it,” James explained quietly.
It was a good thing that James had a few counterfeit bills on him. He and Minnie had decided to use them instead of—
James froze.
Then he began booking it down the street. Peter made a cry of surprise and tried to keep up, but James outran him easily. His feet pounded against the crumbling sidewalk. How had he not thought of it before? It should have been the first thing he thought of the moment Snape showed his ugly mug.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!!
Phone booth, phone booth, where on Earth was a–there! James darted into a nearby store, heading straight for the phone booth in the back.
James ripped open the little red door. He hastily apologized to the old woman who was using it, who let out an indignant squawk. James kindly shoved her out of the way and closed the door before she could start beating him with her purse.
His fingers shook as he dialed a number. Peter caught up to him after a moment, yelling through the glass and over the woman’s protests and demands for him to let her back into the phone booth, “What are you gonna do when Snape lays the finger on you? Riddle’ll kill you, you’re committing suicide, kid!”
James listened to each ring of the phone, feeling his heart sink as no one picked up. “What difference does it make? If Snape knows, everybody knows. He never gets anything first,” James snapped at Peter.
That meant Riddle knew. And if he knew, he wouldn’t waste his time beating around the bush, no, he would order hits right away. And if he did that, and James and Peter hadn’t seen anyone…there was only one grifter left.
One who wasn’t answering her phone.
Peter understood after a moment. His eyes widened, and he reached in, grabbing James by the shoulders and turning him around to look at him. James was startled by the amount of concern on his friend’s face, his watery blue eyes wide and piercing right through him, pinning James like a bug.
“Listen to me, Potter. Whatever you do, don’t go home tonight. Don’t go any place you usually go, you hear me? Best if you skip town or somethin–”
James slammed down the phone in panic and frustration as no one answered, pushing past Peter. He knew Peter was right, but he just had to find McGonagall. He had to make sure–he had to see for himself that she was alright.
He heard the woman begin attacking Peter with her purse, demanding her nickel back.
James felt as if he flew down the street. He barely even noticed as he stumbled at one point, landing hard on the pavement. He dusted off the gravel that stuck itself in his hands and ignored the drops of blood welling to the surface of his palms.
As soon as McGonagall’s apartment building came into sight, James burst through the doors, skipping the elevator and taking the stairs three at a time. His heart dropped as other apartment dwellers gathered in the hallway.
Whispers flitted around as people jumped out of the way to let him through: “What happened?......I heard there was a fight….I hope everyone’s alright….did you hear something break…?”
James made it to McGonagall’s door, staring at the weathered grain as he pounded on the wood so hard he swore he could feel splinters lodge in his knuckles. When there was no answer, he kicked the door twice before it gave way. He dashed inside.
The sight inside made him sick.
There were papers strewn all over the floor. He recognized the papers from Pomfrey’s books. James heard the crunch of glass from a knocked over lamp’s bulb as he walked in, his breath growing shallower.
As he made his way to the kitchen, the signs of a struggle were the most. A chair was turned over. McGonagall’s tea was spilled, dripping onto the floor in a puddle that was still warm. Each drop echoed through James’s ears.
There was no sign of McGonagall.
By the windowsill, shards of broken glass sat strewn around a lotus in a cracked vase.
James’s feet carried him to the window, and he felt himself look down at the alley below. He swallowed bile at the sight of a familiar green dress lying three stories down.
James rushed back out of the apartment, jumping down the fire escape and running around to the alley. A small crowd was forming where people had found her. James pushed past them, skidding to his knees next to McGonagall. No, no, no..
James took her shoulders, rolling her onto her back, and…god.
Her face was covered in bruises. Dark blood oozed out of a few cuts on her face and the corners of her mouth. Her gray hair was falling out of its bun, clumping and sticking to her face with blood. A puddle of the vile liquid was slowly spreading around her head like a twisted kind of halo.
James’s throat grew sticky and he shook her shoulders. He couldn’t breathe. He wrenched his jaw open to speak.
“Wake up, Minnie. Minerva, come on! Stop playing around!” He shook her shoulders harder, making her head loll to the side. James felt pricks of pain in the corners of his eyes. She had to wake up, she had to. She couldn’t be…
“Minerva!” James flinched as a terrible cry came from behind him.
He jumped up, grabbing onto Poppy, who had her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror as she came to the front of the crowd. Her red peacoat swished around her knees. In her hand, she had four bingo sheets, all with five in a row. Now they all fluttered to the ground.
James tried to hold her back, not wanting her to see Minnie like this, but she pushed past him.
“Oh Minerva! Who would do this to you, Minnie? Say something to me!” Poppy rushed forward, clinging onto McGonagall’s shoulders. Terrible cries came from her throat as she buried her face into Minerva’s neck, her hands cupping her face. Poppy’s voice grew thick with tears. “Lord, Minerva! Wake up…”
This..this couldn’t be happening. Just an hour ago, James was upset that she wasn’t going to be grifting with him anymore. James felt sick. Just an hour ago, he was mad at McGonagall. The last thing she knew was anger. Before he left her alone in her apartment.
She died alone.
James wanted to yell at her to wake up. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t mean it. He wanted—
A hand landed on James’s shoulder, and he jumped, turning to see Peter’s face tight with pain at the sight. Peter’s wiry blond hair was sticking to his face from having run after James. James felt himself come back into reality through Peter’s hand on his shoulder. When his ears stopped ringing, he heard sirens.
Peter shoved something into his hand, and spoke with a voice that warned he was on the verge of tears, “Run. James, run as far away as you can. Now!”
James felt his legs carry himself out of the alley as Peter’s voice grew more urgent. He couldn’t stop himself from running if he tried. Like a damn coward. He could see cop cruisers pulling up. He couldn’t breathe, but there was no time for that.
He gave McGonagall one last look. Peter was kneeling next to Poppy, whose hands were in her hair. Tears dripped from her face and onto McGonagall’s dress. Peter had an arm around her, his face screwed up in grief as well.
The last thing he saw was the silver glint of two matching silver rings on two hands that would never hold each other again.
James ran out of the alley and onto the street towards the train tracks.
He found his way onto the Chicago bound bus. He jumped the turnstile and made his way onto the train, sitting near the window and looking out at the bright city.
He finally felt the thing Peter had handed him. James unfurled a slip of paper written in a terribly familiar cursive:
‘12 Grimmauld Place, Chicago. Sirius Black will be waiting.’