A/N I will have a LONG update for MOD tomorrow!

Harry

The clock on our dash reads 2:31 a.m. when Ron Weasly, my partner, parks a street down from where the first roadblock and crime scene tape is strung up.

I take a breath of fresh air when I get out of the 4X4, stretch with my hands over my head, and let my eyes slide over the neighbourhood. The air is crisp and refreshing this close to the lake. But there's a severity to it as well. Something heavy, weighing down the atmosphere.

Blood was spilt tonight.

I'd like to say being hauled out of bed in the middle of the night is a rarity for our department, but I'd be lying. I lead the Investigative Unit for the Hogsmeade Police Department. We get hauled down whenever there's something special about a crime, whether it's a robbery gone wrong or cold-blooded murder.

What is unique, however, is the location. With the hospital one kilometre north, the bridge less than three south, and a police outpost two kilometres east, you don't get too many murder victims in this vicinity. Prostitution and petty crime? Sure. We get tons. Not so much for manslaughter. This part of town is by far the softer side of Cheapside. The further out from the bridge you get, the deeper you delve into the sin that infects our city.

We're not a small community, not by a long shot. But we're no Richmond upon Thames either. We don't have a Chinatown, but we do have a Little Italy. And unfortunately, something in the water system seems to breed a special kind of crazy in our criminal elite.

Hence the need for me and mine.

Ron and I take our time making our way to the crime scene. It always fascinates me the way the underbelly of a civilization scatters when law enforcement appears. I could mosey up this street any other night with my badge hidden and see half a dozen people loitering in doorways and street corners. Still, as soon as I need a reliable witness, the whole damn block turns into law-abiding citizens, tucked safely into their beds by ten.

No matter, we hesitate in front of housing units, taking pictures of residents' names on-call boxes and making notes of the hours listed on business windows. I'll send Neville or one of the junior detectives out tomorrow to start canvassing and knocking on doors. Or, later today since it's technically Monday morning.

A whole block is cordoned off with yellow and white crime scene tape. It seems a little extreme for a drive-by shooting. There's something else happening here that I don't know about yet. That's why it's essential to come in a case fresh without other people's assumptions clouding your vision. Not that I don't trust my fellow officers; I just trust myself more.

There are enough flashing lights at the intersection to make the whole area glow red and purple. The CSU floodlights brought by the crime scene techs combined with the red, white, and blue strobe lights of the emergency vehicles are enough to make even the strongest countenance squeamish. It's my least favourite part of working a case at night.

We approach the barrier, and a patrolman lifts the thin plastic in one hand for Ron and me to duck underneath. We give him a nod of respect and thanks, and Ron pauses to ask about his children. But I don't bother with words. Ron is loquacious enough for the both of us. I wait for my partner with my hands in my vest, taking in the scene in front of me.

Beyond the half dozen patrol cars and another two to three undercover sedans, there's an ambulance and the coroner's van parked inside the perimeter. Two detectives from the Narcotics Department have their heads together on the outskirts of the perimeter.

Drug deal gone wrong?

The body is already in a body bag. It's resting on a gurney in front of the coroner's van with several lab techs standing guard over him.

Members of the investigation unit scramble around the area. Two are taking pictures of what appears to be blood splatter on the main drag and sidewalk. One is walking the space with a video camera while two others are measuring skid marks on the pavement. Plain clothed and uniformed officers alike are milling around in clusters of twos and threes, talking about who knows what.

The lights sparkle in my eyes the wrong way, and a feeling of déjà vu crashes over me. The walls of the surrounding buildings close in and then disappear and the taste of a flash grenade fills my senses. I close my lids and count to five, waiting for the nausea to subside. I dig my toes into my boots and will my feet to plant firmly in the here and now.

"I'm going to go walk the outside," Ron calls as he strides purposefully towards the other end of the blockade and just like that it's over. My senses snap back into the present.

Neville Longbottom, my third, is inside and standing with a pair of uniforms and a woman by an ambulance. The lone female is out of place at a crime scene like this, and it sets off my alarm bells. She sets my alarm bells off. I take a moment to watch their interactions.

Of average height, she's curvy in her figure, tiny. From what I'm seeing, I could probably wrap my hands around her waist with only an inch or two to spare. Her hair is pulled away from her face and into a high ponytail. Or, what used to be a high ponytail. Currently, it hangs at a weird angle, strands of hair falling over her face. Very, very curly strands. Her clothing is nothing special. Comfortable clothes you'd expect to see on a housewife making an early morning coffee run. Or a jogger running through the park.

What stands out the most is the one-hundred-pound bright pink, fluorescent sneakers covering her feet, and the thick coating of blood covering the rest of her. This is not a girl who belongs on this block at this time of night.

She looks distinctly worse for wear. There's devastation in the stoop of her shoulders, but defiance in the strength of her spine, and suddenly the need to protect this woman races across my membranes.

The back of my neck tingles, and I take an unconscious step forward before jerking to a halt.

Who is she?

Certainly not a plain-clothed officer.

A witness then? But how? And why? What's a girl like her doing on this side of the bridge at this time of night? She doesn't give off the junkie vibe and certainly doesn't look like one of the local working girls.

What went wrong in her life to put her right here, right now?

As I approach, the uniforms catch sight of me and quickly excuse themselves from the conversation. Neville watches them scatter and grins at my approach. It makes me want to smirk back, but I keep the scowl on my face. Neville is the perkiest member of my team, plucked straight from the academy. He's still new enough that he can smile at a crime scene at two o'clock in the morning.

That, and he thinks the way most people are afraid of me is hilarious.

It's not that I'm scary. Okay, it's not only that I'm scary. I like my crime scenes run a particular way, and one of those involves talking to potential witnesses without any outside influences. Untrained officers who've made up their minds two seconds onto the scene qualify as outside influences to me.

Neville puts his hand out to shake mine as if it's been months since we've last seen each other and not five hours ago at Seamus's pub. Having been raised in a titled family, proper etiquette and manners were drilled into his head since birth. Fighting an eye roll, I return the gesture and allow him to make the introductions.

"Boss, this is Dr. Herman Granger. She was on scene when it happened. Dr. Herman, this is Detective Chief Inspector Potter. He'll be the lead investigator on the case."

"I'd offer to shake your hand, but—" she holds her hands out in front of her, and I see the blood still thick under her fingernails.

Herman? Immediately my mind rolls through scenarios that would match a body like that to a name so distinctly male. The voice was undoubtedly feminine. They aren't wearing a ring, and there are no other identifying markers to point me one way or the other. Nothing for it then.

"Dr. Herman? Do you mind me asking your pronouns or—?"

I let the question hang in the air between us and am rewarded with a distinctly feminine chuckle.

"I didn't realize street cops were so enlightened. It's Hermione. Hermione Granger. She/her."

I ignore the quip about being a street cop. Seeing Neville's desire to mention the sensitivity training we've gone through on the tip of his tongue I shoot him a look.

"Hmmm," is all I reply.

She bends to grab something out of the bag at her feet and hands me both a business card and her driver's license. I unwillingly make a note of the way her spine curves when she folds herself in half.

"Even in the year 2021, a good portion of our population prefers their physician's male. I use Herman for professional reasons. My legal name is Hermione, though nobody calls me that. I'm known as Dr. Herman at the hospital."

I pocket the business card and hand her license back to her, after jotting down her pertinent information. She lives less than a mile from here, in one of the better condo buildings in this area. It's adequate, but still not where I'd expect someone like her to live. And it doesn't explain what she's doing out here tonight.

"Well, Dr. Granger. I'm sure you're tired of telling the story, but repeat it for me again if you don't mind. What in the hell happened out here, and how did you end up covered in our victim's blood?"

"Before you take her statement, boss, did you see who the victim was?"

I raise my eyebrow in silent question, and Neville motions for our witness to stay put and for me to follow him.

"You're not going to like it."

With a silent nod at the morgue employees standing watch over the body, I tense when the face of my least favourite criminal informant comes into view.

"Peter Pettigrew? Shit."

My vision blurs before snapping back into crystal clear clarity. Death Eater, lifetime gangster, and rumoured to have had a hand in killing my parents once upon a time.

No one could ever prove it, but it was him.

"You okay, Prongs?" Ron asks quietly, blurring the line between boss and friend.

"Yeah," I say distractedly.

I swivel my head around the area, taking in the scene with fresh eyes.

Narcotics makes a shit more sense now. As does the obscene amount of people crawling around my scene like ants.

"Bugger," Ron sighs exhaustedly. "I better call Kingsley."

Our boss. I agree. If they try to take this case from me, heads will roll.

"What in the hell was the Number Two of the Death Eaters doing all the fuck way over here? And without his crew to boot. I'm assuming he was all by himself, yeah? Otherwise, we'd have a hell of a lot more dead bodies on our hands."

Neville scans the scene again, a grim expression on his face.

"Yeah, he was alone. I'll let our witness tell you about it. As for what he was doing this close to the bridge, unaccompanied? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe his crew found out he was snitching?"

I can't contain my scoff, my fingers itching to fist in frustration. Instead, they flex against the vest pulled tight against my chest.

"Don't be a prat, Neville. His whole fucking crew knew he was a CI. That's how they were able to give us seemingly valuable information and still stay the most powerful gang in the county. He only gave us intel they wanted us to know. Kept narcotics busy while his crew handled their real business."

Their real business being guns, girls, and anything else they could move for a profit. That's another way he was able to avoid going to jail for what happened to my folks. You don't bite the hand that feeds you, and Pettigrew fed us just enough intel to keep him safe.

A flash of neon pink catches my eye, and I turn towards our sole witness. She looks exhausted, but like she's used to powering through anyway. She's bent in half again, this time with her arms wrapped around her knees. She quickly squats, then straightens, stomping her feet and shaking out her arms. Shock? Or is she just keeping the blood flowing after standing in one spot for too long?

"Give me a lowdown of our erstwhile witness, will you? I'm assuming you ran her already?"

Neville gives me a look, before pulling out his mobile and going over his notes. Another trick of the new guard. He keeps all his notes electronic. Claims he can type faster with his thumbs than he can write with a pen.

"Hermione Granger, thirty-three; only child, parents live over the bridge. Steady employment history. She's worked at Lakeside for the last five years."

"Did you run her?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

Neville nods his head, pulling up a file on his mobile and shooting me an email.

"She's had an ungodly number of parking tickets, the majority of which are still unpaid. She had one arrest in university during the protest of a local magistrate who had allegedly gotten away with raping several prostitutes.

"Worked a shift and a half at Saint Mungos today when her car wouldn't start. Made the brilliant decision to walk home. Was across the street when it happened. Uni's found her laying on top of Pettigrew. When she couldn't find anything strong enough to stem the bleeding, she tried to use her body weight. He was dead when the ambulance got here."

A do-gooder then.

"She walked alone at night?"

His laugh of derision says it all.

"Yeah, and I thought doctors were supposed to be smart. Still, she tried to save the scum."

"Show some respect, Nev."

I give Neville the comment that look deserves, and he has the decency to look abashed. It doesn't matter that under the right circumstances, I would have killed Pettigrew myself. What matters now is that a man is dead by murder in my city, and it's our job to bring his killer/s to justice.

The doctor, as reckless as it was, tried to save him. For that alone, we owe her our respect. Even if she needs her head examined.

Ron approaches on nimble feet, and we watch in companionable silence as a female uniform offers Dr. Granger a cup of coffee. The good doc smiles in gratitude and brings the cup to her lips. Even though it's CSU coffee, which automatically means it tastes like sewer sludge, her eyes close in bliss, and her shoulders slump in palpable relief. The sight she presents makes something tug hard deep in my chest, and it takes all of my considerable training not to reach up and rub at the ache.

"We good?" I confirm with my second. Ron tips his chin.

"All ours," he confirms.

Well then.

"Let's go talk with our doc fellas."