Warnings: This is a serious piece of adult fiction involving rape and bad language. Don't read it if you think it will upset you.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters, they belong to J. K. Rowling. However, the permanently pissed off Inspector Flint is mine.

A/N – Rape is quite simply the worst crime to me. It's disgusting that some sad men find the need to assert their masculinity through harming others. In my opinion, all rapists should be forcibly castrated. The government disagrees, and this is why we have that lovely term 'repeat offender'.

Also, I've never been interviewed by the police, so I can't promise this is an entirely accurate account of their procedure. If anyone does know, feel free to tell me politely.

So anyway, as you read this ask yourself: Who are the good guys, and who are the bad guys?

No flames please.

Inspector Flint investigates

"Inspector Flint, we've got the little shit." I glanced up from my desk at Detective-Sergeant Burton's words.

"You arrested him?"

"Yes sir. Scrote was hanging out at his aunt and uncle's house." Burton sniggered. "Not too bright." I closed the file I had been reading, covering the horrific photographs. This guy was as good as convicted, as far as I was concerned. Raping children is foul, and murdering them afterwards is sick. I would make sure the bastard who did this paid. It was just a pity Britain no longer had the death sentence.

"Any trouble picking him up?" I enquired. Burton shook his head.

"Would you believe it, he was sitting in his room, cool as a cucumber. Came without a fuss too. Seventeen years old." Burton sighed. "What the hell is wrong with kids these days?" I clicked a file up on my computer and read the words.

"No record, but the Aunt and Uncle claim he intends St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. Of course the school's buttoned up – won't let us near their files. Even tried to deny that Potter went there. Still, we don't have to see the files to know what we'll find. I know St Brutus's, and it's not for kids with parking fines. We're talking hardcore delinquents. Anyone in St Brutus's should be in a cell."

"He's downstairs being photographed," Burton said. "Then the usual drill – DNA taken for tests etc. They're running it to the front of the queue, as you asked. Forensics is tearing apart his bedroom as we speak. You'll never believe it, but we found an owl up there. Constable Yates is looking after it now. We've phoned the RSPCA."

"What are the relatives saying?" I demanded. Difficult families were something I could really do without. Burton shrugged.

"To tell you the truth, I'd say they were happy to see the back of him."

"Hardly surprising," I commented. "I've been reading his school records from before he was sent to St Brutus's, from his junior school. Kid was in and out of fights all the time. Liked playing around too – they found him up on the roof once."

"I feel sorry for his cousin," Burton said, with conviction. "Name's Dudley Dursey. Poor kid. I'll bet Potter made his life hell."

Potter was already in Interview Room 4 when I entered with Barton. I took a minute to run my eyes over the kid. Seventeen. Still young enough to be counted as a minor, but the Crown had decided to make an exception in this case, due to the nature of the crimes. Potter was thin and pale, with a shock of black hair, vivid green eyes hidden behind overlarge glasses. On his forehead a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, standing out in stark relief to his white skin. He didn't look particularly nervous, but I intended to change that.

"Hello Harry, my name's Inspector Flint," I said pleasantly, sitting down next to DS Barton. I switched on the tape and went through the standard protocol. Date, suspect, interrogator. I smiled again. "I'm sure you know why you're here."

"Actually no, Inspector. I don't." Potter's voice was insolent. Any last shreds of sympathy I may have had for him evaporated. "I suppose I'm 'helping with police enquiries', but I have not yet been told what you're enquiring about." He shrugged. "As it is, I doubt I can help you."

"You're in a talkative mood, it seems," I said. Potter didn't reply. "Well," I continued, "the person I really want to talk to you about is Emily Rose Heath." Potter shrugged.

"Who?" I reached into the file I held and pulled out the picture of a smiling blonde girl. Nine years old, playing Frisbee with a golden Labrador.

"This is Emily. And this…" I brought out the next picture. "This is what Emily looked like when you'd finished with her." Potter picked up the picture and then let it fall back to the table, a look of disgust on his face. "What's the matter?" I asked. "You don't like viewing your own work." I picked up the photo. "I suppose I can see why. It's absolutely disgusting what you did to her."

"I didn't do that," Potter snapped.

"You're sure?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, angrily. He stood up abruptly. "And I'm leaving."

"Sit down Potter," I commanded. "You are under arrest – you stay here as long as I tell you to."

"This is ridiculous. I don't have to listen to this."

"Do I have to have you handcuffed?" I inquired. He frowned but sat down. I smiled. "Now you see Harry, I've interrogated a lot of people. And innocent people start clamouring for their lawyers around now. You don't want one?"

"I have no need for one," he replied. "I am innocent, and as soon as you start investigating this properly you will see that."

"I'm sure I will," I assured him. "In the meantime, could you tell me where you were on the night of July 7th?" He rolled his eyes.

"Last Tuesday? I guess I was walking around the roads near my house."

"I see. And what time did you go out and get home?" He shrugged.

"Five to around nine, I guess."

"So you just walked around for four hours?" No reply. "And can anyone verify this?"

"My aunt. She was in when I returned."

"And can anyone verify what you were doing whilst walking around?" He sighed.

"No. I'm sorry; I forgot to establish an alibi."

"Right." My anger was growing. I loathed cocky criminals who didn't care, criminals who could destroy and then sit there all indignant because we had manhandled them or taken them away from their telly or whatever. Potter was grating on my nerves. "Shall I tell you what you were doing? Because between about six-thirty and eight-thirty that evening someone grabbed little Emily Heath on her way to a flute lesson." His face was expressionless, and I had to fight the urge to slap him. Instead I used my words to provoke a reaction. "That someone then raped Emily Heath repeatedly, before stabbing her and dumping her body on a roundabout in the playground near your road." I leaned over the table. "And when I hear that you, a boy with such violent tendencies that you had to be sent to St Brutus's, were walking around that evening, well, what does the evidence tell me?" Still no reaction. I kept my voice low and dangerous. "It tells me that you raped her. That you stabbed her and disposed of her body."

"That's your evidence?" Potter asked cynically. He waved a hand dismissively. "It'll never stand up in court."

"Actually I received a phone call just before I came down here," I told him. "Do you know what forensics found in your bedroom?" He had paled now, and I pushed on, tasting victory. "Books on witchcraft. So what was this, Harry? Some occult ritual gone wrong?"

"Those books mean nothing," Potter protested, but he looked less calm than before. I showed my teeth.

"Oh I don't know. They're not going to endear you to the jury – that's for certain. And any half decent prosecutor could cause you an awful lot of trouble with them. We haven't read them yet, but if we were to find anywhere, and I mean anywhere, a reference to raping little girls, well…" I steepled my fingers and looked at him over their tips. "That would seem pretty conclusive evidence to most juries."

"Look," Potter said, his calm demeanour distinctly ruffled. "I didn't rape this girl and I didn't kill her. I don't even go to St Brutus's school."

"Really?" I asked sarcastically. "Then would you be kind enough to tell me which school you attend?"

"I…" I saw the lie forming. "I don't go to school anymore."

"Well that's not what your relatives are saying," I told him. He frowned.

"My bloody uncle!"

"You don't like your relatives?" I asked sympathetically. "Yes, I'd bet that would get you angry. Having to live with them. No money of your own. They don't seem to care much for you, but then, you only have yourself to blame for that." Two spots of anger flamed in his cheeks.

"Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"All that fury and frustration," I pressed on. "You're walking around, seething, and then you see it. The perfect opportunity to vent. You grab a little girl who can't fight back. And then what? Maybe you didn't intend to stab her. It's her fault, right? She said she'd tell. So you killed her." I grabbed the picture of Emily's mutilated body and thrust it at him. "You raped her and you tore her up and you dumped her."

"Will you not wave that filthy thing at me!" Potter shouted.

"No," I snarled. "No, I think you should see what you did to her." I forced him to look. "Look. What kind of animal does that to a child?"

"I didn't do it," he replied, trying desperately to avert his eyes. "It's disgusting. Will you please put it down?" I placed the photo on the table, facedown.

"Now where were we?"

"I'd just raped and murdered a child," he said bitterly. I pounced on his words.

"Aha! So you admit it?"

"No!" he yelped. "That's what you were saying. I didn't do it." His reaction only confirmed my belief in his guilt.

"All right, let's try another angle. Have you ever slept with anyone before?" Potter folded his arms.

"I hardly see how that's your business." I groaned.

"Just answer the question, ok?"

"Fine. No comment." I smiled.

"That's a 'yes' then?"

"It's a 'no comment'," he replied.

"Oh come on," I wheedled. "St Brutus's has a lot of nasty boys. Boys without very nice habits. Maybe you didn't want to play with them. Maybe it was you on the bottom, begging them to stop." He looked like he didn't follow for a minute, and then his face blazed with anger.

"That's disgusting and untrue!"

"It's not your fault if you're raped," I went on. "It's not your fault, but you carry the consequences. People overlook raped boys. I doubt there'd be much sympathy for you at a hard place like St Brutus's." He didn't interrupt, but just sat there looking stunned. "But you feel violated and foul," I continued. "You feel helpless and furious with yourself. You need to prove your power to yourself. You need to exert the same sort of control over someone else, need to hear them crying, begging." I picked up the photograph of Emily alive. "I'll bet she cried. I'll bet she shrieked and pleaded with you to stop hurting her."

"Will you please stop?" he begged, looking nauseated.

"It doesn't feel so good in retrospect, does it?" I demanded. He shook his head, dumb. "Come on, Harry. I don't think you're a bad boy. If you confess to this and plead guilty then you'll get a reduced sentence." He ran his hands through his hair.

"You want me to confess. But I won't. I didn't do it." Damn! I'd thought I'd had him. I checked my watch and stopped the tape.

"Well, I'm off for a coffee. Sit tight, Potter. I'll be back soon." I stalked out and slammed my foot into the drinks machine. "Little shit!"

"Interview restarted," I told the tape, then supplied the time and the names of those present. Potter looked tired. I'd left him with Barton for two hours to contemplate what I'd said to him, and now I adopted my 'fatherly' expression.

"So, Harry, ready to tell me the truth?"

"Yeah." He sounded defeated. I leant forward.

"Yes?"

"The truth is," he began, his voice quavering, and then growing stronger. "The truth is, Inspector, that you have your head so far up your arse I'm surprised you could find your way to this room." I controlled my anger with difficulty. Lord, I wanted to slap him.

"I see. Then you maintain your pretence of innocence?" He laughed, and I wondered if two hours had been too long a time to leave him alone.

"Oh absolutely, Inspector. I will not be intimidated into making a false confession, and you can search my room for as long as you like; you will find nothing there to connect me to this murder, and the last time I checked, reading books on witchcraft for a paper I was set was not a crime."

"What about that magnificent owl of yours?" I asked him. "What do you think the RSPCA are going to have to say about him?"

"Her. And I'm sure when they examine Hedwig all they will find is a healthy, happy, well-fed owl. Keeping birds is not a crime, and if you're reduced to threatening me with cruelty to animals then that really is rather pathetic." Under the table my fists clenched.

"You know the maximum sentence you could receive Harry? Life. Maximum security. And maximum security isn't 50 station satellite telly, a gym and breakfast in bed. Maximum security is what we use on the dregs of society who have no place in our world; it's where we throw them to rot. You're young. You really want to throw your life away like that? No? Then co-operate with us. It's the only way." He groaned.

"Why is it, Inspector, that you are incapable of even considering the possibility that I may be innocent?" I ignored him.

"We found a broomstick in your room. I would never have believed it, but a broomstick! And robes and a stick which I suppose is your 'wand'. You've really got the works, haven't you, Harry? Now come on, this isn't a paper you're writing. This is an obsession, a mania. And with the right psychiatrist you're mentally sick and it's schizophrenia. You get sent to a mental hospital, that's a hell of a lot nicer than Her Majesty's prisons. We got some jails that make Alcatraz look like a holiday home."

"Schizophrenia?" he repeated. "You really are desperate for a confession, aren't you, Inspector?" He shook his head sadly, and I wanted to break his scrawny little neck. "No, I'm afraid I don't feel like pretending to be mad. I've seen mad people, and I respect them too much to ape them."

"Fine then," I said breathing hard. "Then you'll go to prison for fucking this kid and for fucking killing her too." He flinched. "What? You don't like the word?"

"Inspector, if we could avoid crudities I would prefer it." His soft voice infuriated me.

"Then what would you call what you did to Emily?" I snarled.

"For the last time, I didn't even touch the girl!" he yelled.

"So you don't deny you saw her?" I pressed. He squirmed.

"She was around. I might have. I don't know."

"Did you see her that evening? Yes or no?"

"Yes," he confessed. "Yes, I saw her whilst I was walking. But I didn't go near her, I swear."

"You saw her, with her flute case, and you didn't touch her," I repeated. "And you expect me to believe that."

"It's the truth."

"Funny," I sneered. "A minute ago you'd never even heard of her before, and now you saw her. What's the next version? You tried to beat off her killer, and are in fact a hero?"

"I will say it very slowly, Inspector, so you don't fail to understand. I. did. not. rape. or. kill. her."

"Listen to me…" I began, when there was a knock at the door. "Come." It was opened and I sighed.

"For the benefit of the tape Constable Lucy Taylor has entered the room." Lucy looked anxious.

"You're not going to like this, Inspector."

"What?" I snapped, already in a filthy mood. She opened the file in her hand.

"DNA results, sir." My heart sank.

"No match to the trace we found on her?" She consulted the chart.

"Well actually sir, a partial match. Meaning…"

""Meaning Potter didn't rape her, one of his relatives did." I groaned, as the truth sank into me. I'd spent half a day with the wrong person. And he'd be well within his rights to sue the force for harassment. What a shit day!

I turned back to Potter.

"You knew, didn't you?" He shrugged, a bemused expression on his face.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You knew it was one of your relatives," I told him. "And you've been covering for him all this time!" Potter leaned back.

"Maybe." I stood up, scraping my chair back.

"Right, Barton. Get a warrant for the cousin and uncle. We're going to throw the book at whichever little turd it is."

"Oh, I don't think so," Potter said softly. I turned back to him.

"Our business is done," I said curtly. He smiled and nodded towards the tape recorder, still on, still listening.

"No, Inspector, it isn't. Particularly as I confess to the rape and murder of Emily Rose Brown."

I gaped.

"Don't be stupid. We know now that you didn't do it."

"Oh, but I'm saying I did," he protested calmly. "I grabbed her, I raped her and I took that knife and I stabbed her. I threw the knife down the drain and I dumped her on the roundabout in the playground."

"This interview is terminated," I snapped, and switched off the tape. My fury was boundless. "What the hell are you playing at Potter?" He continued smiling that annoyingly superior smirk.

"It's simple, Inspector. When the defence gets hold of that little confession, well, that'll muddy the waters quite a lot. I doubt my cousin will be locked up for more than ten years."

"It was Dudley, then," I hissed.

"Of course," Potter replied. "I happened to come across him as he was dumping the body. There was nothing I could do for her by then." His eyes were cold and I realised that the flustered teenager I'd seen before, the teenager who had pleaded me to take away the photograph, had all been an act. This boy felt no fear, only contempt for me.

"Why?" I asked, not understanding. "Why would you confess for your cousin? Why would you offer to go to prison instead?"

"Two reasons," Potter replied, his smile broadening. "Firstly, whilst I agree with you that Dudley is most certainly a little turd, he is my family, and I have little enough of that as it is, so I feel somewhat duty bound to protect it. And secondly…" He blew me a kiss. "I can do something Dudley can't."

With a crack he disappeared.

So tell me. Who are the bad guys and who are the good guys?