This is based on a novel called Curtain Prey. I've changed some of the stuff around, so if you read it, some of the character's might be the same. Unfortunately, I don't own Harry or anybody. If I did, Harry and I would already have been married for quite a while now.
Note: This takes place after the trio's seventh year. Harry and Hermione are roughly 25-ish.
She breathed evenly, her eyes closed. She was relaxed …. pretending she was on a beach …fuck, her nosed itched.
Hermione fell backwards on the wooden parquet floor, itching it crazily until it was red. This whole relaxation thing was a lot harder than it looked.
Speaking of looking, the walls were kind of looking dingy. Better paint 'em or something. Or put up another bookshelf.
She got to her feet. Surveying the walls of her apartment. If she ever got the chance, she'd paint them and put up another bookshelf. Hermione always needed another one.
She yawned, stretching and padding to the refrigerator. Leaning with her forehead on the one door, the coolness of the stainless steel waking her up, she opened up the other door with a tired, lean but muscular arm. Hmmm, beer, vodka, beer, some water. She pulled out a beer and collapsed on the couch, latest book in hand. She couldn't get enough of them … except for now.
She had a meeting with the guys upstairs in three hours . . this wasn't good. Sure her methods were unique, thinking patterns abstract but always thorough enough to convict the perp. But she hadn't had a case go stale yet, just the usual ones with political ties that kept a perp from serving the time they deserved. All cops had those. And she had only had two, considering she was the youngest person in the history of the NYPD to pass the Detective's Test.
Hermione was about to throw the book across the room when the phone rang. She flipped over with a groan, then groaned even louder; she recognized the number as that of the private line of the Captain. "Hello?"
"Watcha wearin'?" he said gruffly.
"Fuck off, Stotts."
"How'd you-"
"Caller ID, dumbass." She stood up, ready for him to say he needed her for something.
"Watch yourself, Frizzy, I'm your boss," he said laughing. She mouthed 'fuck you' into the receiver. "We need you at headquarters."
"When?" she said tiredly, nearly kicking her cat, Crookshanks.. Walking into her bedroom, she turned the speaker button on, already knowing the answer.
"Ten minutes."
"Okay," came her muffled response. She was throwing her old college sweatshirt on and jumping into a pair of worn jeans at the same time. Fuck Stotts, she thought. He was calling her in on her off time. He'd have to see her in her full sloppy beauty.
"Oh, and wear somethin' nice . . you're meeting someone special today." He hung up the phone.
Groaning with aggrivation, Hermione fell back on her bed. Fuck Stotts, she thought to herself as she rolled off and got some presentable clothing out of her wardrobe, always so fucking cryptic.
"I'm here, so let's get this fucking over with." Hermione's badge bounced against her black shirt, her leather jacket open and her holster only visible to someone who was really looking for it. She fit in very well with the bleak atmosphere. She crossed her arms.
"Oh come on, Frizzy. Take a Motrin and get over your fucking self." She spun around.
"You know that part of my life is over. No more frizzy hair, no more frumpy clothes and no more British private schooling." She paused, sunglasses came off, surveying the scene. Messy, rainy. Lovely. Murder was inside, but outside looked like visual vomit. Shit. Ruined crime scene.
"Detective Granger, just cool it."
"I can't, I have a meeting with those fucking dickheads upstairs in two and a half hours. Who am I meeting?"
Stotts laughed. "If there was anyone who sounds like they shouldn't be cursing, it's you, Granger. You've got that 'cut glass British accent' thing going on. Was your mouth this dirty growing up?"
She shook her head and opened the door. "No never, really. I have to thank you and everyone at the precinct for my large repertoire of cusses. What's the stats?"
Stotts looked at her strangely, and then continued casually. "Oh, you're not on this case. I just called you down so you could meet your new partner."
"What!?" She stopped, disbelieving. A partner? She'd never had one. She worked alone. No, this was a joke.
He turned around. "Yeah, you're meeting with the uh, 'fucking dickheads' was to meet em. Hey, Detective, get your ass over here and meet your partner," he called to a man, also in a leather jacket and dark jeans, who was leaning over the body. Stotts and Hermione started over.
"Detective!" Stotts called; he didn't get an answer, and then shrugged. "You deal with 'em. I'm done." Stotts shook his head and started off towards an officer.
"Can't you even give your partner a 'hello'?" she asked, tapping the man on the shoulder. He jumped up and spun around, and Hermione stared.
"Harry?!"
Dana Rinker was eighteen when she was raped at the nudie bar she worked at. It was in Surrey, and most of the thirty-something men in the area would come in at least once a week. The bar, as the posters said, was Easy On, Easy Off.
Dana wasn't anything spectacular. She was just another one of the dancers. She had her regulars, a few bachelor parties, but not much.
On the night of the rape she had the last performance of the night. She did her usual and got off the stage. Nothing had gone strangely with any of her clients, except for one new guy who left after she'd done her done a little dance in front of him.
Dana left through the back door, her high heels hitting the ground and echoing off the side of the stand-alone building.
He was crouched behind a Ford pick-up truck. It'd all come to him the second he saw her on stage. Fuck Petunia, he thought. This was better.
She never had a chance.
"Holy shit, Dana," her one manager had said when she came back through the door. She wasn't as scared as she was pissed off.
"Save it. I want you to tell me when that motherfucker comes back in here."
The other manager came back with a small wad of hundereds and tucked them in her tube top. "That's so you can go get yourself looked at if you want. Why?"
"Because," she said thickly between swigs of a ginger-ale. Never alcohol. "I'm going to kill him."
It was two weeks before he came back, and by that time, the three had a whole plan set up. They'd get him drunk and then take him down the stairs. Dana would –since they two, were wizards and knew she was- curse him badly enough that he'd die slowly. She didn't care.
They gave her the signal that they had him down stairs while she was on stage. As soon as her act was done, she was in the basement.
"Gonna need some help?" One of them asked.
"Don't worry about cleaning up," said the other.
Vernon, since they'd found out his name a while ago, was unconscious, and had no idea this conversation was going on.
"I'll be fine."
As soon as they left, she pulled out her wand, and muttered something. He woke up, howling with pain. She waved her wand again.
He never had a chance.
A few weeks later, Vernon Dursley's disappearance had been off the news stations for two weeks, a man came into the bar. He asked for Lavender.
The managers knew the man, and word had gotten around of Dana's doing off with the guy. The guy who had come in had wanted to talk to her wanted to offer her something; a life.
So Dana became a lady-killer. It was a second job; she had quit her job at the nudie bar and opened a bar in Delaware. She mostly did mafia hits, all untraceable, all perfect.
Things were looking up.
Ginny lay on her bed, eyes closed to block the opaque brightness of her bedroom.
Ginny Weasley knew she was in love with Oliver Wood. It wasn't a gradually, slow realization, but a sudden one. She loved the way he'd put his fingers through his hair, the way he'd look at her when he talked to her. She loved everything about him.
Unfortunately, he was very married.
It only added to his appeal.
Ginny was a prominent lawyer. She owned a simply gorgeous apartment in New York, and she had three sports cars. Ginny was rolling in dough.
It was also a sudden idea to kill his wife. One of her better ones, if you asked her.
Neville Longbottom was an old client of hers, who had been charged with the possession of illegal drugs. Nobody knew where he'd gotten the money for a lawyer like Ginny, but he certainly got his money's worth. He was proven innocent.
His card was in her Rolodex. He had given it to her 'in case'.
Now seemed like an 'in case'.
So, with one final look at her ceiling, she walked into her home office and pulled out his card. Taking it into her bedroom, she used her private line, one that was registered under her mother's maiden name, and called Neville Longbottom.
"Neville?" She yelled. Like yelling made a difference. The trailer was a piece of shit, and it'd probably fall apart in a second.
"Come on in."
The door swung open, and Ginny stepped in, disgusted.
"Nice shit hole."
"Well, thanks." He sat at the table. "Watcha need.?"
"God, your accent's gone, Neville. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Yeah, well. Let's get down to business."
"I need someone dead."
"Seriously?" he said as he took a swig of his drink.
"Yes. Her name is Cho Oliver."
"Her? That's heavy."
Ginny glared at him over the rim of her sunglasses. "Don't you think I know that?"
"I've got just the person for you. I'll call her today. Come back tomorrow and I'll see what I can do." He leaned forward. "You need five thousand bucks. Clean. Clean as clean can be." He took Ginny's hand. She didn't say anything, even though she wanted to vomit. "Once you say go, she's dead."
Ginny didn't even hesitate. "Go."