Hermione

"Make it go awaaaaayyyyy."

The light from outside the window is filtering through my curtains. There's a single ray of sunshine slipping from between the panels bright enough to cut glass, penetrating my eyelids and boring daggers into my skull.

I roll over onto my stomach, grabbing my pillow and using it to smother myself into the mattress, then I have to spit out a mouthful of hair as my sleep crazy curls try to smother me. It doesn't work. Part of the pit falls on being an on-call doctor. Once I'm awake, I'm awake.

Then the chirping starts from my bedside table.

"Urrrgh."

I yank my pillow from my head, throwing it at my imaginary assailant across my room.

Funnily enough, it doesn't stop the sound.

It's been chirping for an hour at least. But without the sun gleaming in my face, it'd been easy to ignore. Now the beeping appears to get louder with every bleep of the notifications chime.

I shove my hair out of my face, then reach for my mobile while still laying on my belly. The time on my mobile tells me I slept for a solid five hours. The ache in my body feels like I slept on a pile of rocks.

There's a pile of messages, and I open my app, flipping through what's important.

Hospital: Daniels went up to room 416, surgery scheduled for 3pm

That's a sigh of relief. I had a patient come in with a bowel obstruction, and the surgeon on call wanted to wait to see if it would pass on its own. To say I strongly disagreed would be the understatement of the week. I submitted an official complaint to his supervisor, then asked the charge nurse to keep me informed of the patient's progress.

I'm going to have to avoid Dr. Dickface for the immediate future, but at least the patient is getting surgery. Dickface isn't going to be pleased that his initial patient plan was overridden.

Avoid at all costs: Not a problem, Mia. See you when you get here.

Mum. I sent a message to our family chat before I collapsed into bed that I wouldn't make brunch this morning. We normally try to get together at least once a week for brunch and cocktails. Or brunch and orange juice, if I have a shift that evening. I was debating about cancelling altogether, but if I go too long without visiting, then they come looking for me. They're my parents, and they can always tell when something is wrong. Even if Mum is on a "when am I getting grandbabies?" kick and I've taken to avoiding her calls. Besides, a hug from the people who raised me might be just what the doctor ordered.

Angelina: Missed your call? What's up? BTW, Zabini's dick? Could move mountains.

Ugh. Her I text back right away

Me: I'll tell you later. And Ew!

The last message is from a number I don't recognize. It came through about six thirty this morning, right after I fell asleep.

999-999-9999: Dr. Granger. I took the initiative and had your car brought back to your flat. It's in your assigned spot. My car guy replaced the battery and the positive battery terminal. I left his note and his card on the dash. Call him if you have any problems. DCI. Potter

999-999-9999: Also, we'll be in touch about you dropping off your clothes from last night for evidence, and will probably need to speak to you again to go over your story, in the event the case goes to trial. DCI. Potter

999-999-9999: I hope you slept okay.

I read through the trio of messages, then read through them again, my incredulity growing with each pass.

The fucker fixed my car? It's got to be a joke. Or he sent it to the wrong number. Maybe his wife was having car problems too. Because I know there's no way on this planet that Tall Dark and Douchey would overstep his boundaries so freaking far as to move my property without asking.

I mean, that's grand theft auto.

Right?

I drop my mobile to the bed before crawling off and running to the bathroom. Five minutes later I'm wearing shorts, a tank, and a pair of flip flops with my mobile and keys crushed in my grip running down the stairs into the underground parking garage that sits beneath the building.

That stupid, foul, cocky little—

Sure enough, sitting in spot 304, is my poor little Paula, rebuking me in silent condemnation that I allowed strange men to fondle under her hood.

The doors are locked, and I yank my keys from my pocket, before unlocking the door and diving inside, turning the key in the ignition.

She purrs to life without a moment's hesitation, the clock on the radio already reset to the correct time. There's a note on my dash, in chicken scratch so sloppy he could be a doctor, with a mobile number, and an itemized list of things they checked. There also seems to be computer codes at the bottom, with a sentence about telling my mechanic if he asks.

That high handed over-bearing…

I pull the texts back up on my mobile, then hit the dial button next to his number.

"Potter," he answers, without any salutation.

"WHAT THE HELL YOU INSOLENT POMPOUS TOSSER?"

I hear him excuse himself from whatever I interrupted, before the noise levels around him lower substantially.

"You'll have to be more specific than that."

My anger whooshes out in a huff, and I run my fingers through my tangles before pushing out of my car.

"Oh? Make it a habit of ticking off women, do you? Why am I not surprised? Well, let me refresh your memory for you. You kidnapped my bloody car! You and your bloody God Complex. Mr. Tall Dark and thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants. Is that what it is? Does the badge on your hip usually let you get away with this sort of shite? Or do women like it when you kidnap their babies?"

I'm pacing the length of my car, and my voice is echoing horribly in the parking garage. Anyone who caught sight of me would think I'm a bloody lunatic. I don't really care.

"I mean, I thought you were presumptuous last night, pushing in and doing a walkthrough of my home. But this? This is beyond the pale. I should call the police. I should press charges. Have you arrested for kidnapping."

"Kidnapping?" he parrots, and I swear I hear him smiling.

"Yes! Kidnapping. You stole my car! I'm sure you didn't tow it here, so that means you what? Hotwired it? I mean—." My voice putters out into furious stuttering, and he uses the opportunity of my incoherence to speak.

"Did it start alright?"

I want to hang up the mobile, but the lack of a slam would really defeat the purpose. Instead, the sincerity in his voice pulls an answer from my lips despite the inferno raging inside me.

"Yes."

I don't sound like I'm pouting. I don't stomp my foot either.

"And you slept okay? I mean, sometimes it's difficult to sleep after a traumatic event like that."

Again, the answer slips out without my explicit approval.

"I slept fine, thank you."

"Good. You've got my number. Ring me if you need anything."

Just like that, I'm standing alone in the middle of my parking garage with a perfectly functioning car, and the desire to punch Detective Potter in the face.

The bastard hung up.

"I'm here," I holler into the foyer of my parents living room, slamming the door behind me with slightly more force than strictly needed.

I love coming here. For all that it's much too big for just the two of them, they've managed to give their house a homey lived in feel. If you didn't know better, you'd think they'd lived here for half their lives. In reality, since the day I left for college, they've followed me across the world. First, Stanford in California, then Atlanta for Emory Medical, then back to Britain and Hogsmeade when I started my residency. I have no doubt that if I don't get a fellowship and permanent position in Hogsmeade, they'll pack up and follow me again.

"In here, honey."

Here, being the sunroom Mum has set up to paint in. Mum is an artist, and Dad works with the stock market. Theirs is a quintessential case of opposites attract. As different in looks as they are in personalities, still, they'd die to protect each other.

And me.

I drop my bag off on the table, kick my shoes off at the door, and follow the sounds of Lady Gaga into the sunroom. Or the drawing room, which is what I prefer to call it. Because that's why they hang out there; so, Mum can draw.

I place a kiss on each of their cheeks, Mum at her easel, and Dad with his tablet on his lap sitting in a lounger, before dropping onto the couch.

There's an open bottle of wine and two glasses on the table, and I reach for the goblet closest to me, taking a healthy swig.

"Sorry I couldn't get here sooner guys. I've had a hell of a day."

Does the shooting count as today, since it was after midnight? Or does it still count as yesterday, since I hadn't gone to sleep yet when it happened? Maybe it counts as yesterday for me, but today for all the first responders pulled from their beds to handle the aftermath.

The thought of first responders makes me think of Potter, and I feel the scowl slide over my face.

"What's happened, Easy Peasy?" Dad asks, pulling my feet into his lap and digging his thumb into the ball of my foot.

I moan in ecstasy, and take another sip from the wine. I smile at the childhood nickname I can't seem to break my Dad from using. When I was learning how to talk, apparently, I couldn't say Hermione. It came out Easy until I started speech in primary school. Somehow, the nickname stuck. My mum calls me Mia, a nickname one of my teachers gave me, but my dad calls me the miss-matched name of my youth almost exclusively.

I take another quick sip of wine, my parents giving me identical questioning gazes, before I lean forward and place the mostly empty glass back on the table.

"Okay. First, you're going to be cross. At me. Like, a lot, probably. But then, after I finish the story, you're going to be quite irate on my behalf."

"Okay," Mum says, hesitating, making the two-syllable word break into four. She puts her charcoal back into its case, and moves to sit in the chair next to Dad.

I reach for the wine one more time, swallowing down the remaining droplets in the glass.

"It started with my car."

That could have gone better. I glance up from where I've been staring in my lap for the last ten minutes, waiting for Mum to catch enough breath for me to get a word in edgewise. I fought back when she yelled at me that we were selling Paula first thing tomorrow. After all, I'm 32 years old. I'm well past the age where my parents can force me to do anything I don't want to do. But then she crushed a charcoal pencil in between her fingers, and I thought that maybe I'd better just shut up and take it.

It seems the wind is finally puckering out of Mum's sails however, and she collapses back into her chair, from where she's been pacing the last five minutes.

Is this where I get my temper from? Did I look like this four hours ago in my parking garage? Dad picks up the bottle of wine and refills both of their glasses, before giving me an accusing look. He takes the empty bottle from the room, leaving me to deal with Mum on my own.

"Did you hear what I said about him kidnapping my car, Mum? Certainly, there's something we can do about that. Can't you call your lawyer and ask?"

She stands to lord over me again.

"I know exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to call his office first thing tomorrow and offer to shake his hand. From the sounds of it you've treated him horribly, and he was still nothing but a gentleman towards you."

It's my turn to stammer in righteous indignation, and I shove up from my chair while Dad comes back with two bottles of wine this time. Mum does the same, staring daggers at me from three feet away.

"You're staying over, yes?" Dad asks, already assured that the answer is what he wants it to be. He hands me a bottle of my favourite pale Moscato, and pours two goblets of white for he and Mum.

"Don't I get a glass," I huff, already bringing the bottle to my lips. It's a small bottle anyway.

"Do you need one?" he quips at me with an eyebrow raised.

"Not particularly," I sass back in my best fifteen-year-old in a tizzy attitude.

"Sit down dear," Dad says to Mum, dropping a kiss on her cheek and handing her the bottle of wine. Mum does as dad says, taking a bracing gulp of the wine as soon as her arse hits the cushion.

"I for one," Dad says, doing his best to play peacemaker, "want to hear more about this Alpha Man. It's been a long time since anyone got your knickers in a twist, no offense intended dear."

I scoff at the outrageousness of his statement. One of the pitfalls of being raised by quasi hippies is they have no qualms whatsoever of talking about my love life. Or lack thereof.

"Well, offense greatly taken! And what the hell is an Alpha Man anyway? Is that another word for self-indulgent arsehole?"

Mum titters in disbelief, placing her wine glass on the table and reaching for the tablet.

"Why did we waste all that money on your schooling if you didn't learn anything important? An Alpha Man is the king of men. The one they all strive to be."

"Speak for yourself," Dad mutters under his breath, before sipping another draft of wine. Mum ignores him, and instead hands me the tablet. It's a YouTube clip of Chris Evans helping Regina King up the stage stairs at the Oscars.

I suck down a surprised breath at the same time I try to swallow from my bottle, and end up spewing the beverage in a spectacular arc across the couch and table, coughing and sputtering as it shoots out my nose. The tablet drops to the floor, as my parents lurch out of their chairs, one grabbing for the bottle, the other grabbing for me.

My sinuses burn with the intensity of the beverage I just shot out like a super soaker water gun, and it takes me longer than I'd like, with snot running from my nose and wine dripping from my chin, for my coughing to subside and my breathing to return to normal.

My parents never leave my side, asking me questions I can't answer and rubbing my back in an attempt to ease the pain. And the white-hot embarrassment now surging through my body.

"Why," I pant out, my voice wheezy from the tightening of my vocal cords, "did you hand me that?"

The word that spits out, as if I'm referring to a poisonous python, instead of an adorable video of America's favourite superhero.

Mum looks at me like I'm mental, before picking the undamaged tablet up from the floor and gingerly wiping the droplets of my explosion from the screen.

"I was using it as an example. An Alpha Man. You don't get much more Alpha than Chris Evans. Strong, smart, well mannered, athletic, gentlemanly. Falls in love with a nice British girl in that movie. Watch how he jumps up from his seat to offer Regina his arm, all without taking the limelight off of her."

"It's very dreamy, I'll admit," my father contributes to the conversation.

"Why did you spit a forty-quid bottle of wine out through your nose when I handed it to you?" Mum asks, amusement pouring out over her words.

I bring said bottle back to my lips, slowly letting the liquid coat my tongue. Only when I'm able to swallow several gulps without issues do I answer Mum's question.

The wine was a great idea. Which means I'm going to regret this tomorrow.

I avoid her eyes, looking somewhere over her shoulder. I'm never going to live this down.

"My first thought, when Tall Dark and Wankish was introduced last night, was that he sorta looked like Captain America. In Infinity War when he was all dark and brooding. Only with pitch black hair and green piercing eyes."

I was right. Mum swoons.

Dad, who doesn't drink all that much, and so is already half-way pissed, decides to hop into the conversation.

"According to Wikipedia, in studies of social animals, the highest-ranking individual is sometimes designated as the alpha. Males, females, or both, can be alphas, depending on the species. Where one male and one female fulfill this role together, they are sometimes referred to as the alpha pair."

"Ohhh," Mum says, warming up to the subject, "Brangelina!"

"Sweetie, they aren't together anymore. I don't think they count."

I really should put an end to this. Once they get rolling on a subject, it can be hard to get them to stop. But I'm afraid if I drag them away from—whatever it is that's happening right now, they'll circle back round to their yelling at me.

So, I guess I'm learning about the Alpha Man tonight. I pull out my mobile and do my own Google search.

"Okay, fine. Urban Dictionary says," and this I could get behind, "'The man at the top of the male dominance hierarchy. This prototype of a man typically displays all of the conventional masculine traits that are considered toxic today.' See! That's what I'm saying guys. Toxic masculinity!"

Mum, however, follows up right behind me.

"Not so fast, cherry picker. It also says, 'The hallmark of his persona is 'confidence'. The man that conducts himself with such class and possesses a swagger that attracts most women to him like a magnet; also, he's usually calm when it comes to pressure.' What do you think Mia? Did he have a swagger that attracted you to him like a magnet?"

I'm-I'm not having this conversation with my parents.

"He had a swagger that made me want to kick him in the balls."

Dad gets up from his chair, coming to plop down on the couch next to me. He still has his mobile in his hands, and moves so that we can both see the screen.

"What do you think, Barb? Who's your favourite Alpha Man?"

They order Chinese to be delivered, and grab another bottle of wine from the cellar, and I spend the next three hours with my favourite people on the planet, comparing pictures of the celebrity Alpha Man.

It's like last night didn't happen at all.

Plus, I think I was right. Harry is more Superman than Captain America.