AN: This is my very first fanfic, so please, leave feedback! Also, I don't have anyone checking for errors as I'm sad and lonely, so please let me know if I missed something. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, just taking out the characters to have some fun. No copyright infringement intended. If Bruno Heller and JK Rowling had babies, they'd create genious television shows.

She should have had that muffin she had found in her kitchen cabinets. You didn't often get lucky like that, but she had thrown it away without thinking twice.

It was probably stale, but then, it wasn't as if she usually noticed things like that at times like these. Nose buried in a book, hair carelessly twisted into a bun, using her wand to stir a cauldron bubbling in the kitchen on top of a jar of bluebell flames, muttering to herself. Neither she nor Ron were great cooks, but when she was on a case, the situation got dire.

It was his stomach, no doubt, that had prompted Ron to leave.

However, despite her resentful feeling towards Ron's paunch, it wasn't his fault that she was currently standing in a pub full of people with their hands in the air, all eyes on her. She wished she'd just eaten that muffin. That guy was really making her feel uncomfortable.

"Ah. Stomach rumbling. Well, that's not exactly an admission of guilt, but we'll have to look into that. However ... " - the blonde man directed his attention back to the entire room at that - "... one of you has killed Mr. Urquart. I want that person to lower their right hand right now."

Nobody moved. A pale girl with glasses coughed.

"Okay. If you didn't kill him, hop on one leg."

You could have heard a pin drop. Standing in the middle of the room in his three-piece suit, the man looked completely at ease. He exuded confidence, right from his curly hair to the tips of his tattered brown shoes. An enigmatic smile graced his lips, as if he was in on a joke and the pointe was escaping everyone else's attention. You'd have thought he was enjoying himself, if it weren't for the murder.

"That doesn't exactly narrow it down, either. I guess I'll have to go with suspect abdominal issues and see where it gets me. Folks, you're free to go, but don't leave town. Can I talk to you, Miss... ?" He approached her before she could leave the pub.

"Granger. And I'm afraid I don't have time, sir. Have a nice day." She really needed to get back to her cauldron. If Urquart was involved as well, this might turn out to be the biggest case she'd worked on so far.

"It's Jane. Patrick Jane. You went to a boarding school, didn't you? You consider most people older than you as authority figures but have difficulty taking men seriously. Which is why you immediately raised your hand when I asked, but smirked while doing so. Do you like calligraphy?"

"I don't see how... I really don't... Calligraphy?"

"Ink stains underneath your fingernails. Just like Urquart had. How long have you known him?"

"I didn't know him at all."

"You worked together, right?"

"No, we didn't."

"You didn't like him?"

"I didn't know him."

"You don't know him, you mean."

"I'm sorry, Mr ... ?"

"Jane."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jane, but I really have to get going. Have a nice day."

"Right, of course. We'll be in touch, Miss Granger."

"I doubt it, Mr. Jane."

An otter with curly hair was waving a stick and whispering "obliviate" next to an Irish clown in his Memory Palace. For the first time ever, Patrick Jane had forgotten what he wanted to remember. Vexing.