prompt(s): (unoffical) Dramione remix
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Not 221b Baker Street
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I need soup, was what was written on the paper she was greeted with as she entered the kitchen. Raising a brow at the bird shaped note, she turned it over to find the rest of the message, an admission that only spelt trouble: I think I'm sick.
She sighed.
Just lovely.
Since Hermione Granger was a creature of habit, it was no surprise that she could be found at half-past six every morning nursing her first cup of her favourite Yorkshire Gold. The fireplace was already lit, and as ahead of her self-imposed schedule as she could ever be, she indulged in the commentary of a morning radio show.
The glum of another Monday already discussed, the show's hosts moved onto an update regarding a recent police case – a murder of the most peculiar circumstances.
As the events were being described, Hermione found herself sinfully piqued – piecing together the puzzle in her head for herself – before she jumped at another paper bird suddenly flying through the fireplace.
As it landed beside her mug innocently, she unfolded the origami aviator to find the same familiar scrawl from the earlier self-diagnosing note: Too easy, it informed.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
Muggles, he added as an exasperated afterthought.
Detaching the magnetic pen from the door of the fridge, she wrote: How's the Daniels' case, Malfoy?
His reply was immediate and she could practically hear his exasperated sigh. Solved, if the bloody Aurors would listen to me.
One day, she mused in reply, they might.
Wrong, he was quick to retort. Hermione reckoned, with a snicker, that he was right about it too, not that she'd ever admit it. Malfoy had a big enough head already.
The following note was practically an order: This is why you need to get back in that damn office, Granger! Those idiots wouldn't know their heads from their asses without you.
I'm a pathologist now, Malfoy, came her temperate reminder.
The best.
She snorted. Obviously.
So clearly, he continued in another succession of flying-bird notes, you need to be involved. Why haven't they brought you the body to examine yet?
"I don't work for the Auror office anymore Malfoy, and I don't know why I have to keep explaining this to you," Hermione muttered the words aloud as she penned her response.
Who examined it then? Another demand.
Hermione thought back to whom Ron had been complaining about during lunch yesterday (a much needed break, he said, from his very pregnant and very hormonal wife) before replying, Hennings.
Ugh, that fool wouldn't know how to empty his shoe if the instructions were written on the sole.
Again, she snickered. There was never a morning without a snarky word from Malfoy, sick or otherwise. Hermione smiled to herself as she prepared to leave.
Stop being grouchy, I'll send your soup.
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Granger, stated the next flying bird as Hermione alphabetized the samples she had received after exhuming the body of a celebrated bachelor who was, rather unsurprisingly in her opinion, killed by one of his ex-girlfriends for insurance. Internally, she tsked, wizards were just as predictable as muggles.
Bored.
She ignored that one too.
Granger.
Nope.
I need a new case.
She made a face, but didn't respond.
Anything interesting? He continued to prod.
Looking towards the heavens for some kind of deliverance, Hermione took the quill she had been using to fill out documents to reply. If there was, you would already be here.
You're right, he admitted.
Surprisingly, he didn't annoy her further.
Hermione returned to her task, marveling at how Alexander Price's ex-girlfriend had tried to make his death look like an accident by doing the exact opposite. Well, she mused with a sigh, we all do silly things.
"Yes they do, don't they?" was the verbal reply from just over her shoulder.
She jumped, clutching her chest with her right hand and turning towards the voice. "Merlin, could you not?"
Unsurprisingly, Malfoy had shown up decked in a thick black Belstaff coat, nose slightly pink, and a pout tugging at his lower lip. Also, he was standing far too close to her. "Why? You're the only one who works here."
"No, I'm not."
"The only competent one." Therefore, the only one who works here, was what the familiar facial expression conveyed.
"What are you doing here?" She asked him instead, all too aware of his non-abridged remark (she berated him often enough about his rudeness, after all), rolling her eyes as she did so.
"I need a new case," he said, finally putting some distance between them.
Hermione pretended not to notice, even as she reached out to touch his arm. "You need to go home and rest, Malfoy, for goodness' sake. Do you really think the Aurors are going to take you seriously looking like that?"
He actually seemed offended as he shoved his hands deeper into his coat.
"Not your clothes," she corrected, "you're sick. Go home."
"Bored," he repeated flatly, though now it sounded a bit more like a question.
She waved him off. "Not my problem."
When Malfoy said nothing else, she turned back to her work. If he lingered over her shoulder for a bit, and pouted some more before leaving with an audible huff, Hermione pretended not to hear him.
Not ten minutes later, another paper bird found itself on her desk.
Bring me a liver then? An arm, perhaps?
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By the time nine o'clock rolled around, Hermione was knackered. Five bodies had found themselves on her silver slab after Malfoy's visit – one was a freakish accident involving a broom (she had always said those things were death traps), the next a result of poisoning that was a bit more of a challenge than Alexander Prince had been, whilst the other three were part of a more interesting case involving a variety of dark curses.
The three bodies had been found after a disturbance was reported in Knockturn Alley, the Aurors having arrived characteristically late.
The who's and how's expectedly became Hermione's territory and so she had gotten to study the effects of how twelve different dark curses could have an effect on three different bodies. Subconsciously she was glad Malfoy hadn't barged in right then.
Not only were most Aurors wary of the redeemed Death Eater in their midst, but Malfoy would likely have never left, leaving her with six bodies instead of five on her slab. His autopsy would have been swift and not particularly interesting. Not even on the scale of Alexander Price.
Malfoy would be disgusted, she thought with a snicker.
Stepping through the hearth, Hermione found herself yelping in surprise as the first thing that caught her eye was Malfoy pacing in front of her kitchen. He was musing aloud to a most indifferent Crookshanks as a news report, outlining yet another mysterious death rambled on in the background.
"Excuse me!"
"How was work?" he asked, hands pressed together beneath his chin as if praying, whilst continuing to inform Crookshanks of his theories on the muggle case.
"What on earth are you doing here?" She found herself asking again.
Turning to her, suddenly confused, something seemed to snap into attention as he replied, "My liver."
"Your…oh!" She shook her head. "I got carried away at work, sorry."
He became more animated, "What happened? Was there a huge potion accident? A poisonous bite from a magical creature? A massacre as a result of a dark curse, perhaps?"
Removing her coat, she shook her head. "You really shouldn't sound so excited about any of those."
"You would be!"
Fair point, she allowed. "You're supposed to be at home resting, Malfoy. You're sick, remember?"
He glared in refusal. "Not when there's a case."
"Yes, even when there's a case. Sit on the couch at least and let me get you some soup," Hermione said, shooing him out of her kitchen and passing a greeting rub atop her familiar's head.
"It would be the least you could do."
Her brows raised to touch her hairline. "I'm sorry?"
Despite it being a question, Malfoy inclined his head magnanimously. "You're forgiven."
She spent a better part of the evening unwinding with some mind numbing telly with Malfoy sitting beside her, spouting off and ruining two of the horror movies she had wanted to binge-watch. All the better it seemed because, at nearly four in the morning with both of them fired up in a heated exchange about the right way decapitation should take place, Hermione was summoned by a disembodied voice from her fireplace: "Miss Granger, I'm sorry for disturbing you at such an hour."
It was Malfoy who answered, "Disturb away, it'll spare her dignity."
Hermione scowled. "What is it?"
"There's a body."
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Malfoy and Hennings were arguing, as per usual, but Hermione had mastered the art of ignoring them both. Malfoy came with twelve years of practice after all so Hennings was much easier to dismiss.
"I told you," the latter grated, "I've already ruled it a suicide."
Hermione didn't even roll her eyes, but she could hear Harry do it. "And I'm telling you that something isn't right!"
"I'm loath to agree with anything Saint Potter says," Malfoy jumped in, "but he's correct." He then made a noise at the back of his throat like bile was pushing against his uvula and that's when Hermione's eyes crossed for roughly the fifth time that day as a result of his, sometimes, juvenile behaviour.
Hennings shrilled, "Well, I'm sure I'm just incompetent then!"
Rising from her examination, Hermione remarked absently, "You said it, not me." Ignoring the Auror's spluttering, she gave her verdict:
"Definitely not a suicide. There's no sign of dark spells or cursing. But there are scratches running down her neck."
"It could have been as a result of trying to pull loose the noose," Hennings was quick to retort, "it isn't unusual for a person to try and break free even if they're committing suicide."
"It could have been," Hermione allowed. "Except there's magical residue that isn't hers, and the concentration is at the closest rate to suggest that it was strongest just before time of death."
Malfoy added, "Her socks are wet."
"What?" Ron asked in confusion.
"Her socks are wet," he repeated flatly, "but the floor is completely dry."
"The rest of her clothes are dry too," Hermione added.
"He did a terrible job of cleaning up," Malfoy murmured with a scowl, the challenge clearly reduced with the killer's inattentiveness.
"There hasn't been rain in the past two days why would she be wet in the first place?" Ron mused aloud.
"For Merlin's sake, do I have to do everything myself?"
"Malfoy," Hermione warned.
He huffed. "This case isn't even a four, you two deal with it."
"And what will you do?" Harry asked, brow raised.
Cut open that liver she promised me once I make her pilfer it from the hospital, Hermione could practically hear him scheme although he replied instead, "Have soup."
Surprised, both Ron and Harry protested at their departure as Malfoy pulled Hermione along with his declaration."Gentlemen, I'm afraid I can't stay, my girlfriend insists I'm sick and requires her immediate attention."
Her brows raised, but it was Hennings who repeated incredulously, "Girlfriend?"
"Yes lad," Malfoy replied, almost solemnly, "I know it's a foreign concept too complex for your feeble mind, but do grasp it quickly, my soup is getting cold."
"Girlfriend?" Hermione repeated as they shut the door of the crime scene.
Pulling the collar of his Belstaff up, he smirked over his shoulder. "Keep up, Granger."
A/n: An attempt at the Dramione Remix with BBC's Sherlock, though unofficial. I ship Sherlolly. Fight me.
Huge thanks to LaBelleDonne for her beta skills!
Thanks for reading, please do review!