Characters: Harry, Kirmani
Word count: 555
Summary: “People lose keys,” I said. “They lose dogs. They lose people. They tend to keep a pretty good hold of their body parts.”
Author's notes: Written for the 'heart/red' challenge @ dresdenflashfic.
“This may be the weirdest thing I’ve ever had to find,” I said, as I followed my crystal down a Chicago backstreet.
“Really?” Kirmani said. “I’d’ve thought this was right up yer alley, Dresden.”
“People lose keys,” I said. “They lose dogs. They lose people. They tend to keep a pretty good hold of their body parts.”
“But don’t you use things like newt eyes and frog legs in your potions’n’shit?” Kirmani asked.
“Newt eyes can be bought at a store,” I said. “And frog legs are a French delicacy. You eat them with butter and garlic sauce. You don’t put them in potions.”
“No, ‘cause that would be weird,” Kirmani said.
I ignored him and turned onto an even shadier backstreet. The street lamps were starting to come on now, as darkness fell, and I hoped I would find what I was looking for soon. This neighbourhood didn’t look like a good place to be after dark, even if I did have half the 27th District police force following behind me in a funeral-like procession.
“You ever eat frog legs?” Kirmani asked, after a moment or two of blissful silence.
“Yes,” I said. “In New Orleans. They taste like chicken. If chicken were really, really gross.” Kirmani snorted. “How we doing for time?”
Kirmani looked at his watch. “Got about half an hour left.”
“All right, then you have to shut up,” I said. “So I can concentrate.”
That was, technically speaking, a lie. Tracking spells are my forte. I can do them in my sleep. But, with Murphy working the homicide end of the case, I had been stuck with Kirmani all day. Which meant non-stop cracks about Harry Potter, Jedi, potions, spells, warts, toads, broomsticks, King Arthur and Houdini. I’d had it up to my pointy hat.
“Here we go,” I said, several minutes later.
We were outside a very unwholesome looking door. Kirmani checked the handle of the door. It was locked. I did a little magic on it and stepped back to let the chorus of policemen gather behind Kirmani.
There was a lot of yelling and crashing and crashing and yelling and then it all quieted down and Kirmani emerged carrying something resembling a picnic cooler. He was pinching the handle very lightly between two fingers and holding it as far away from him as possible.
“Here is it,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“I got it,” I said, grabbing it before he dropped it.
I hurried out to street level and passed it off to the EMT. Moments later, it was zooming away in an ambulance with all lights and sirens blaring.
“Good job, Gandalf,” Kirmani said, as he walked by dragging a cuffed, angry looking college kid.
“You too, Columbo,” I replied.
Several weeks later, I received a letter in the mail from the mother of the kid who had gotten the heart I’d recovered. Someone at the hospital must have let it slip that I’d helped. I immediately returned the cheque in it back to her, but I kept the letter, as a reminder.
I’d gotten a kid a heart. When you spend days fighting demons and unspeakable horrors, it’s good remember that sometimes you can do things like that. And, no matter what Kirmani may think, it’s way cooler than anything Harry Potter ever did.