Hermione

Angelina and I are in the kitchenette in the A&E, where we keep crackers and beverages for the patients. On the counter sits a coffee pot of regular and decaf, and hot water for tea, kept filled on a twenty-four-hour basis by whoever sees it getting low. We have a break room tucked away from the primary patient care areas, but this is much easier when all you need is a quick pick me up and a place to gossip between patients. It's large enough for a fridge and a table and not much else.

I thought about taking a sickie. After all, I had a ready-made excuse. One day off after what happened doesn't feel like enough. But the hospital is my happy place. I never feel as at peace as I do when I'm helping someone feel better.

It's slow this morning, or as lackadaisical as an inner-city A&E room ever gets. I pulled Angie with me into the kitchen area to give her a rundown of my latest adventures and the conversation with my parents that followed it. I was hoping she'd be on my side. I should have known better.

"Oh, yes! I love me an Alpha Man. I only have two questions for you. Is he cute, and how big is his dick?"

Alpha Man.

Right.

Apparently, I'm the only human on the planet not aware of that term. Of course, I am. Mum is right. I really should read more romance novels.

"Ugh, Angie. No. You sound like my parents! Did you not hear what I told you? The arsehole hotwired my car. And why does no one seem to care about the bullets whizzing by my head."

Instead of sharing my irritation, her eyes cloud over in concern, before quickly lighting up in excitement.

"Oh sweetie. I know. What happened to that guy was just terrible. But your car? That is so hot. It's a shame you weren't with him when he did it. Then he could have given you a ride. I bet a man like that could drive a woman wild."

Her face scrunched in anticipation. I swear a tiny shiver runs through her body. Angelina is a goddess incarnate, and the intimate movement momentarily makes me wish I was bi. She reminds me of Ashley Graham, but better. Tall, thick, and gorgeous, her skin is dark as ebony. Even in plain black scrubs, she radiates sex appeal. This month her hair is bubblegum pink, but you never know what you'll find one day to the next. You'd think it would clash with the wine-red lipstick always coating her lips, but you'd be dead wrong.

She's got a chip on her shoulder the size of Stonehenge and the attitude to back it up. She's the best damn nurse in the hospital. The best friend too. Despite her constant desire to get me laid.

I shake my head in exasperation of her relentless sex drive. That woman could make Penthouse blush. Pouring myself another mug of coffee, I try to shove the now graphic image of me riding Detective Potter squarely out of my brain.

"Eww, and again, no. Besides, this whole thing is your fault. I wouldn't have walked home if I thought you'd have picked me up without a lecture on interrupting your sexy time."

"No. Nonononono. You do not get to blame this on me. It was your bright idea to jaywalk at two in the mor—"

She trails off into a confused silence as I drop to a squat and push my back up against the cabinet of the countertop tops.

"What is he doing here? What is he dooooing hereee?"

God dammit!

Instead of scolding me for my sudden imitation of a two-year-old, she whips around in anticipation, eager to see what caused my age regression.

"Oh Herman, please tell me that snack of tall, dark and scrummy is the detective you've been winging about for the last forty-five minutes. Because if so? That moronic walk in the dark is the best decision you've ever made."

She purrs out the word best, and now it's my turn to shiver. What is he doing here? Keeping my moments as small as possible, I turn so that my front is pressed against the cabinets, rising from my squat enough to peek my eyes over the counter.

My haven is being violated, and the only thing separating me from the object of my ire is a pane of glass and forty feet of hospital hallway.

What an arshat. He could have at least called before he showed up unannounced. Of course, if he'd called, they wouldn't be unannounced then, would they?

Potter and the proper mannered one are stopped in the middle of the clearing, talking to Dr. Binns at the nurse's station. Gone are the vests from the other night, to be replaced with something much more intimidating — undeniable sex appeal.

Fine. I admit it. He's hot. It doesn't mean he's not an arsehole.

"Quick, which one is he?"

"You seriously have to ask?"

The nice Detective is wearing more of what I think of when one thinks of a homicide cop. A cheap suit, slicked back hair, and I see what looks like stains from a jelly donut. He's probably a good ten years younger than Potter, if not more.

"He's wearing a Henley, Herman."

Her sing-song voice says it all, and I drop back below the cover of the counter. I rest my forehead against the cupboard doors and try to get my galloping heartbeat under control. I love Henleys.

Love them.

Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you. It's not as if they are the be all and end all of men's fashion. But ever since I watched that first episode of Dexter and saw the way his muscles flexed in his serial killer uniform, a man in a Henley just flat out does it for me.

Potter is wearing a torso hugging cerulean blue Henley and a pair of black fitted jeans that, if I was looking, make his arse look phenomenal. His beard is neatly trimmed, but his hair is loose and wild. Not like it's supposed to be that way either, but like he honestly didn't take the time to run a brush through it this morning. Or like a woman has been running her fingers through it. He looks good enough to eat.

I hate him for it.

"Unless you want him to catch you on your knees, and please, please let him catch you on your knees for him, I'd get up off the floor quick. Ghosty's pointing them our way."

Usually, I'd lecture her on using Dr. Binns's sex name in my presence. She knows I hate that. Plus, eww, again , that I even know he has a sex name. Another fault I can lay squarely on my best friend's shoulders. She claims it's because when he slides inside you it makes you shudder. Like a ghost walking over your grave. That's a detail I should not know about the man that signs my evaluations. Today, I let it pass. I have more important things to worry about.

"Hide me!"

Crawling on my hands and knees like an infant, I stop when she's in front of me then use her hips as leverage to pull myself into a standing position. Never one to let me down, she blocks me entirely, standing in such a way to let her breasts and personality take up as much space as possible while I get myself together.

"Before they get here, can I have him? Please?"

God. Yes, please. He deserves whatever Angelina gives to him.

"Done!" I whisper-yell beside her. Faster than lightning, her clip is out of her hair, and she's bent in half, flipping her mane in a mermaid arc on the way back up.

By the time I hear the masculine voices, my composure has been regained, and Angelina is practically purring beside me.

I'm regretting talking to my parents right now.

No, I never regret talking to the people who raised me.

The wine during the conversation may have been a poor choice. In the seconds remaining before the detectives join us in the coffee room, the list of characteristics of an Alpha Male that Dad pulled up on his tablet runs rabid through my mind. Potter certainly has the pleasing to the eye part down.

The young one reaches his hand out for mine, and when he smiles, it reaches his eyes. I smile in return, giving him a warm squeeze. Flicking my eyes to Potter, he's staring again, but without the warmth that his partner has.

Angelina is positively glowing next to me. Though nothing interesting is going on, her gaze is flittering between the two men as if she's watching a tennis match.

"Dr. Granger, it's so good to see you again. I hope you've recovered from your experience the other night."

My eyes land on the young one, and I give him my full attention.

"Yes, thank you so much. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."

"It's not like you had more pressing matters on your mind now, is it? It's Longbottom, Neville Longbottom. But please, call me Neville."

Neville is positively charming, a glowing warmth radiating from his every movement. Potter, on the other hand, seems content to stand in silence watching our interactions.

He doesn't reach for my hand, so I don't bother either. Is he angry with me, for what I said to him yesterday? Not that I really give a shite. He shouldn't have kidnapped my car.

I sense Angelina appraising them and doing evaluations in her head. Watching her take down a man is like watching a mathematician work a blackboard. Part science, part art, and part imagination. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing to behold. She flicks her eyes between them, then makes her move.

"Are you a detective too, Neville?"

That's… not the move I was expecting.

Angelina used her dumb voice.

Ah man.

I sigh internally, knowing what's about to happen.

Her eyes are wide. She sweeps her fingers lightly across her chest, like she's never seen anything as fascinating as the man in front of her. Just like that, I see the hook sink deep into his soul. He's as good as hers. What happened to taming the arsehole?

"Yes, ma'am." Potter turns his head slightly to the younger man, his eyebrow raised in a silent rebuke. "Or well, I'm an investigator. I joined this department straight from the academy."

I swear his chest swells to twice it's with size with those ten little words. His uppercrust accent went from barely there to a hunter on the prowl. Or, maybe, a little boy trying to please a princess. I have to drop my gaze to stop the laughter from escaping.

"Oh my. How brave you are. I'd love to hear more about it. I've never had the opportunity to talk to a real live hero before."

She bats her eyes at him, posture leaning towards his every word. No man alive can withstand Angelina when she's set him as her goal. Honestly, it's fascinating to watch. Neville opens his mouth to respond, but she turns her whole body to face Potter, effectively cutting Neville off at the knees. His face kind of stutters, wondering without words what the hell just happened there.

Ouch.

"We're so rude. I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself properly. I'm Angelina Johnson. What's your name, handsome? Herman didn't tell me that so many good-looking men came to her rescue Sunday night. I was so afraid for her when she told me what happened. Thank you for taking such good care of my friend."

She reaches to shake Potter's hand, and he responds automatically, engulfing her hand with his. The bait and switch. Her eyes widen a fraction of an inch, and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sighing slightly as their hands slowly separate.

She's good.

"DCI Harry Potter, ma'am. Most people call me Potter, or Harry. There's really no need to thank us. Your friend took care of herself. We just came in afterwards to clean up the mess. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'm here to talk to Dr. Granger."

No wonder he gets on my nerves. I hate the name, Harry.

Mimicking her move from moments before, he shifts his posture so that she's out of his direct line of sight and puts me squarely in the crosshairs.

Great.

"Well, I'll be damned," Angelina whispers so quietly I can't be sure she meant to be heard. She sounds awed, but I can't see why. The man is insufferable.

"How can I help you, Detective Potter?" I inquire.

I debate about mentioning the incident with my car, but decide I'll wait to say something until he does. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Okay, I know exactly how I feel about it. It pisses me the hell off. I seem to be the only one who's had that reaction, however. Everyone else I've talked to seems to think it was sweet that he arranged to bring my car home, even if he had to hotwire it to get it there. Besides, I think I made my opinion on the matter pretty clear yesterday.

Still, though, I'm not apologizing for what I said. The man is an overbearing arsehole.

"First and foremost, we wanted to check and see how you were doing. I know you said you're used to death, but being around men dying and watching men be killed are two different scenarios. The station has a counselor we can recommend if you need it."

Seriously? I work in a freaking hospital. Neville twerks his head in a bemused expression, but doesn't add to Potter's words.

"Thank you, but I'm fine. I appreciate the concern."

God, damn it. I'm going to have to apologize.

"I'm sorry about yelling at you yesterday. I was—" Narked? Irritated? Pushed beyond my mortal limits? "It was kind of you to bring my car home. I apologize for how I reacted."

It comes out rushed and clipped, and I cringe on the inside. So much for waiting until he brought it up.

"Your car?"

There's that same strange look from Neville again, but Potter doesn't do anything other than nod his head in acknowledgment and spread his fingers at his side.

Angelina, probably sensing my need for rescuing, takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Nerves bubble in my stomach. Why the hell did I bring up my car?

"We wanted to ask you a few more questions about the other night if you're up for it?"

My mind blurs with irritation that they just assume, in the middle of the workday, that I'd be able to drop what I was doing and come at their beck and call. Then, it surges with the desire to help catch whoever killed my patient this weekend.

Because that's what he was. Above all else, he became mine, my responsibility to care for, the minute I laid my hands on him.

"Of course, but you'll have to give me a moment. I'm technically in the middle of a shift. Angelina, could you entertain the Detectives for a few minutes while I let Dr. Binns know what's going on?"

It takes a moment for Angelina to respond. She seems to have gotten sucked into the blue of Detective Potter's shirt or something. She angles her face towards my voice, but her eyes never leave the detectives.

"Yeah, Sweetie. I'll call Sue on my walkie, let her know I'm staying with you for emotional support."

"Yeah, okay." I turn to face Potter, giving him a look that says I'm telling you, and not asking. "It's okay if Angelina stays, right?"

Neville looks to Potter for confirmation, and at his slight nod of approval, Angelina gives them one of her most brilliant smiles. I head out of the room to the sound of Angelina offering the detectives coffee or tea.

Dr. Binns is in the same spot he always is and assures me it's okay to take all the time I need. I haven't told anyone outside of Angelina and my immediate supervisors what happened this weekend, but as he falls into that chain of command, he already knew. The look of pity on his face makes me want to kick him in the shin.

I take my time returning to the kitchenette. I'm in no hurry to answer questions about Sunday night. Besides that, it won't do to let Mr. Drop Everything and Do What I Tell You, to think that I'll, well, drop everything whenever he tells me to. While I have zero issues with helping with the investigation, I do have a problem with him stopping by without warning me first.

The man seems to have zero understanding of personal boundaries.

They're sitting at the table when I come back in, mugs resting in front of three of the four seats.

Surprise, surprise; Potter seems to be the one spot without. I bet he doesn't drink coffee. I bet he doesn't need to eat, either. He's probably some inhuman robot.

He stands when I enter the room, pulling out the chair next to Angelina for me. After I lower myself into it, he gently scoots it back to the table until folding himself into the seat in front of me.

Why does he have to be a gentleman? It's so frustratingly attractive.

It certainly doesn't go with his pushy personality.

The Alpha Male knows how to treat a lady. He respects women, often because he's had some great ones in his life.

Is that what this is? Did his mother instill in him the ways to be a gentleman?

Angelina winks at Neville, and his answering grin is ear-splitting. Then it immediately slips from his lips when he sees Potter giving him a bland expression. If anything, that just makes Angelina smile wider.

Once again, Potter doesn't pull out anything to take any notes. He leans forward slightly with his forearms on the table and turns his eyes back to me. Jesus, he's intense. His eye contact is bordering on intimate, and I resist the urge to squirm in my seat.

"Do you mind if I record you?" Neville asks, "It makes it easier to make connections away from the conversation."

He hesitates with his hand halfway back into his suit jacket and pulls out a USB recorder at my nod of consent.

The four of us sit in silence for a moment, and at some unseen signal between the boys, Neville starts the inquisition.

"First, let's talk about before you saw the deceased, Peter Pettigrew. What was the environment like before that point? Was anyone aggressive with you? Did you see anything suspicious? Did anything stand out as out of place?"

I think for a minute, but nothing really comes to mind.

"Not really. There were prostitutes, but that's not unusual. No one even spoke to me except—Mr. Pettigrew; Peter, I guess you said his name was. There were teenagers hanging in groups. They were trash-talking each other, but not in a serious sort of way. I didn't get any indication that anything violent was about to go down. No one was making an attempt to watch, or an obvious attempt to be ignored. Nothing set off any warning bells."

Neville is making notes on his mobile, Angelina is holding my hand, and Potter appears to be pondering the meaning of life.

"Let's talk about Peter. Where did he come from? When did you first notice him?"

I close my eyes for a moment to try to recollect, then open them to respond.

"No, keep them closed. It'll help. You're walking down the street; the air is cool against your skin. There was a slight breeze. Maybe your hair was blowing. Remember the weight of your bag on your back. The feel of the pavement through your shoes. What did you see?"

Potter's hand lands on top of my own, and my eyes drop to where his thumb is pressing into my wrist, before looking up to look at him. He nods at me in small reassuring jerks, and I do as he says, and close my eyes again.

Potter starts to speak, to paint the picture of Hogwarts Avenue at one a.m. at night. His tone catches me off guard at first, but the timbre of his voice is pleasing to my ears. The way he touches me is soothing. Comforting.

And he's right, dammit. Closing my eyes does help.

"He was directly in front of me, walking down my side of the road. I didn't see where he came from. I was just past the corner, and it was half a block until another intersection. If he came from one of those streets, I didn't see it. There was still plenty of space between us when he left the sidewalk."

"Did you see him interact with anyone else before he got to you?"

"No, he—."

I let my head fall backwards, trying to picture it clearly in my mind.

Potter's thumb rubs soothing circles into my wrist. His voice, deep and penetrating, calms my ragged nerves. And then he has to go and fuck it all up.

"That's okay. It's common to not remember much after an attack."

Suddenly, what was once comfort, now sounds condescending.

I open my eyes and glare at them, frustration building in my chest.

"I'm not an idiot, you know. No matter what everybody seems to think."

"No one is saying that you are," Angelina soothes, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Yes. You are. Everyone has told me how stupid I was. The detective here says it with his fucking tone of voice, and the way he assumes I'm some pathetic little female who needs him to hold my hand."

I yank my fingers out from under his, and he leans back in his seat, lacing his hands together on the edge of the table. He hums low in his throat.

"I knew it wasn't a good idea to walk home. I wouldn't let a woman walk alone that late, even in my parent's neighbourhood. But I can take care of myself. I know how to be inconspicuous. But I also know how to watch my surroundings. So no, I didn't see him talking to anyone else. I didn't see him interact with anyone. I kept my head on the swivel, looking for signs of trouble, and my patient appeared from the shadows straight ahead, and didn't interact with anyone but myself.

"You need to drop this poor little her attitude at the door. I wasn't the one attacked, I'm not in shock, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop treating me like a trauma victim."

"Okay then," Potter says, looking me in the eye. I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to apologize for my outburst.

I put my hands up in front of me, flexing my fingers, before closing my eyes.

"I was considering moving to the other side of the road, to get away from him, but he beat me to it. He didn't move to the other sidewalk, though. He was walking down the middle of the street. He was hitting on me in the way construction workers hit on birds in old Pepsi commercials. Terms of endearment that were rude enough not to be effective but not so insulting that I would get offended. When the car came towards us, he shuffled to the other side of the road."

My hands end up palm up on the table, and Angelina immediately wraps my right hand in hers. I sense Potter's hand move closer to my own, but he doesn't touch me again.

"I remember the car. It was a white BMW. I'm positive. I looked at pictures online yesterday."

I squeeze my eyes tighter, and Angelina strengthens her grip on my other hand. I squeeze back hard, then separate from her completely. Her closeness is pulling me out. As if he can sense it, Potter's voice leads me back in.

"The car. Tell me about the car. How was the paint job? Were the windows tinted or could you see inside? Did it smell like marijuana?"

I nod my head and try to think of the car.

"The windows were tinted. I didn't pay enough attention to the paint job to notice anything special about it, but I don't remember any body damage. It was a newer model. 2018 and above. There wasn't a smell coming from it, but there was a slight scent from Peter himself. I didn't notice if the car turned onto our road or came straight on. I was trying to watch everything at once while not being observed. Admittedly, by that point, Peter was taking up a good portion of my attention.

"The car passed us by without slowing. It gave no indication of what was about to go down. I heard the tires squeal maybe ten seconds after it left my line of sight. After the first shot rang out, I hit the ground and didn't look up until the air was silent again. By then, the car was gone. Peter was in the same spot I last saw him in."

I see it play out in my mind, like a slow-motion picture. My eyes fly open as it dawns on me. I know most people wounded in a drive-by shooting don't expect it. But Peter, he had no idea what was about to go down.

"He wasn't expecting it."

I'm sure they realized this already, but to me, it seems like a revelation.

"He made no move to run, no move to get out of the way. He didn't even have the chance to cover as I did. I messed up the crime scene by trying to save him. I realize that now, and I'm sorry. But he didn't run. He didn't try to save himself. He dropped where he was. He was still facing the bloody car."

Potter's expression is as neutral as ever, but there's a sea of thoughts and emotions cresting behind his gaze. He gives me the briefest of smiles. Not even; just an uptick at the corners of his lips, really. Still, suddenly I feel like I've won the lottery. A buoyancy I haven't felt in days rushes through my system like a brushfire.

At Potter's motion, Neville reaches up and stops the recording, slipping it into his pocket again. Angelina envelopes me in a hug. Taking comfort in her teddy bear embrace, I inhale the scent of her perfume. When we separate, she looks at me with pride and fierceness in her eyes.

Thank god she's on my side.

She turns to the boys, a smile on her face.

"Well, that was intense. I think we deserve a drink after that. How 'bout it, boys? Cold one on us tonight? I promise we won't keep you out too late."

Neville pounces at the suggestion, and I let Angelina make plans to meet Neville at a local pub.

I rise from the table, and Potter follows suit, leaving Angelina and Neville to finish up their conversation. Potter has reverted back to unnerving mute, observing rather than participating in the goings-on. I find it interesting that Potter says so little, but Neville obviously defers to him. Another part of the Alpha Man's qualities rattle off in my head, and this time I don't resist the smile.

An Alpha Man is a leader not because he chooses, but because he has no other choice. As if those around him can sense grace and a warrior's heart, others follow him wherever he will lead them.

"Thank you for your time, Hermione. I suppose, I'll see you tonight."

Hmmmm. He's back to Hermione, instead of Dr. Granger.

"You can call me Herman. Everybody does."

His eyes twinkle in amusement, but his cheeks don't even twitch.

"No. I don't think I can."

Potter reaches out to shake my hand, and the coarseness of his palm feels rough against my own. He keeps me in his grip longer than strictly appropriate, the power emitting from him palpably. As the connection is sliding from uncomfortable to uncomfortable , he lets my fingers slip from his grasp.

Angelina and Neville hug, and I know from the look on Neville's face she whispered something dirty in his ear. He doesn't know what he's in for, poor guy. She is going to eat him up, and spit him out alive. With a final nod, Potter turns to leave, Neville following in his wake.

We're silent as we watch them walk away. I can admit I'm admiring the view. The man does have one fine arse.

"Hey, Herman?"

"Mmm, hmmm?"

Her voice sounds distracted and far off. I spare her a glance, then return to watching the retreating detectives' backs. A few more feet and they'll turn the corner.

"Can you go get me a pregnancy test?"

Now that gets my attention. Moving so I'm directly in front of her; she's still watching the hallway over the top of my head. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's fanning herself with her hand.

"Oh, my God. You're pregnant? How? When? Why are you just now telling me?"

Angelina takes her bottom lip between her teeth and makes a sound that's half pain, half pure sex.

"Yes. I am absolutely one hundred percent pregnant. The way that man was staring at you? Mmmm, it just knocked me the fuck up."