Harry
What was Pettigrew doing there?
What was he doing so far out of his territory? There weren't any drugs on him, no weapons. He doesn't have any known associates on that block.
So, what was he doing there at nearly two o'clock in the morning?
It's the one question about this case I don't have an answer to.
That, and who killed him.
I lean back in my chair, tossing the golden stress ball with flittering wings that relieves absolutely zero stress into the air and letting it fall back into my hands.
"What was Pettigrew doing there?" I ask the empty lair.
It's after ten. Everyone else went home hours ago.
I twist my neck around on my shoulders, relishing the pop of tension as joints merge and snap. I suppose it's time for me to go home too. I'm not going to magically divine the answers staring at The Lair's stained ceilings.
I grab my coat from my chair, and open my drawer, checking the chamber and clip of my gun before slipping it into its holster.
It's more habitual than breathing at this point.
My weapon is strictly another part of my body; like a hand or a foot.
I never leave home without it.
I'm halfway out the door when my mobile rings a familiar ringtone.
"Uggghhhhh."
I can't ignore it. The one time I do is when he'll be tied to a chair and the strippers are walking out with his wallet.
Though it would serve him right.
"What do you want, Neville?"
It's loud in the background behind him, and I remember that he's at the pub with the girls.
"I just wanted to let you know that I'm going home with Angelina."
Of course, he is.
"Good for you, Nev," I laugh. "Wear a condom."
"The hot doc is still here."
Hermione Granger. The smile falls from my face.
"Don't call her that," I snap at him automatically.
I've made it to my bike, and I swing my leg over the body, settling my bulk onto the seat.
"She's probably going to walk home again," he sing-songs. He's had one too many beers, if his dippy tone of voice is anything to go by.
"No, she's not," I say firmly, already knowing what he's getting at.
He spent half the day talking about the doctor and her friend. That is until I threatened to punch him in the noise. I spent the entire day thinking about her.
"You're probably right. She's made quite the impression tonight, as I'm sure you can imagine. The girls are a right sight better than what we normally get through the doors. I bet any one of Hogsmeade's finest hanging out here tonight will be willing to drive her home."
My eyes close and breathe through my nose as I pray for patience.
"Spit it out, Neville."
"Come make an appearance, before we take off for the night. I'm worried about leaving her on her own."
I stick the key in my ignition, then hold my mobile with my shoulder, so I can twist the clutch and hit the start button. She purrs to life underneath me, and momentarily blocks out Neville's whining. He has an audience now, or maybe a choir, because people are trying to coax me to the pub in the background.
I've just about made up my mind to hang up on him when he starts to yell in my ear.
"He won't admit it yet guys, but he's on his way. Let's hear it for Prongs!"
I shake my head.
Neville is pissed.
Perfect.
I hit the disconnect button on my mobile as a rousing chorus of cheers bursts through the line, and I'm surrounded by the peace and quiet of my bike once again.
I have to go now, if only to make sure the man-eater returns him to me in one piece.
I drop my mobile into my pocket, grab my helmet from the back of my bike, and contemplate how quickly I can get out of the pub once they get me in there.
"PRONGS!"
I freeze two steps into the building, the screaming of the patrons an assault on my senses. My eyes scan the crowd, taking in the familiar faces of my co-workers, and the regulars that sit along the bar. Neville's affable personality seems to have garnered him an entourage, and he's sitting at a squad of tables pulled together, regaling his audience with who knows what.
From the gales of laughter turned my direction, and the way he beams up at me in a drunken lopsided smile, I have a feeling it's not going to be good for me.
"Har-ry! Har-ry!"
The chanting starts quietly, before morphing into a sound that would rival that of a stadium arena, and I know that any hope I had of making a quick escape are gone.
I lift my finger at Seamus behind the bar, indicating that I'll take a beer. Seamus was on the job before he bought the pub, and the pub was owned by another bobby before him. The place reeks of stale liquor and gunmetal, but he's got cheap ale on tap, and that's all most of us care about at the end of a long shift.
I sometimes wonder who will inherit the building next. If I'll be one of the old-timers, mocking and giving advice to the rookie cops sitting at the bar twenty years from now?
I don't bother to take my jacket off. Hopefully I won't be here that long. As I approach the tables, a younger detective abandons his seat, gesturing for me to take it.
I wink at him, and he startles, then smiles broadly before gesturing to his friend.
"Knock it off you heathens," I bellow above the racket, gesturing for them to calm down with my arms, and they titter off into raucous laughter.
I nod my head in thanks to the kid who made room for me, before lowering into the chair.
"What sort of nonsense have you been telling our beautiful guests, Neville?" I ask with a half-smile on my face. "Don't believe a word he says, ladies. Especially if they're chanting Prongs. Total bollocks, every word."
"Nice of you to join us," Ron says, lifting his beer in salute. A rookie, whose name I don't remember, hands me my pint before retreating to the bar again. I lift my beer in acknowledgement, before taking a healthy swig.
"Unlike you swine, I was trying to solve a case. Besides, what are you even doing out this late, Ron? Isn't it past your bedtime? I figured Luna would have you all tucked in by this hour."
He throws his head back and laughs good naturedly. There's some truth to my words. Ron is definitely a family man. At almost eleven, we're past when he's usually home with his wife.
"You see, Prongs, when you're a good boy, your wife gives you special treats. And I was a very good boy last night. And again, before I left for work this morning. Luna needs time to recover. Hence, I get to hang with the boys."
Cheers and encouragement of his prowess surge among the group, and Ron pretends to take a bow.
"And the girls!" Neville adds, grinning in a devilish way, raising his glass in a sloppy toast. "Don't forget the girls." Angelina is sitting next to him, cheeks pink with heat, but I don't think she's nearly as sloshed as he is. She has a bottle of water in front of her, and seems to be more high off life, instead of anything consumed in the pub.
Hermione is sitting two chairs down, locked in conversation with a constable from patrol, with the guy on her other side listening with rapt attention. Her eyes flick to me as I settle myself, but she doesn't acknowledge my presence.
"Speaking of girls," Neville says, and a hush falls around the bar, "I hear you had a fun interaction with one the other day?"
"I did?" I ask, at a genuine loss to what he's talking about. I haven't had any interactions in months, and even those were nothing to write home about.
"Steal any cars lately, Prongs?" one of the older patrolmen asks with a smirk, and the whole bunch burst into laughter again, slapping the table and whooping into the air.
My gaze trails to Hermione, where a blush creeps up her throat and blossoms into her cheeks. She mouths the word, 'sorry' to me, before sucking her thumb into her mouth and biting on the tip.
Something stirs in my gut, and I bring my gaze back to the inquisition.
I roll my eyes in an obvious manner, then take another swig of my beer, before raising my arms and bringing the tables to order.
"Alright, alright, alright. Yes, okay. I had her car brought back to her house. I apologize if my Uncles raised a gentleman. She'd had a hard night. I thought it only right to arrange to have her car there when she woke up the next day. Laugh it up all you want, yolk-heads. I regret nothing."
They're silent for a moment, before laughter explodes throughout the space, echoing and redoubling until I'm chuckling along with them.
"You ready?" Angelina asks Neville, who nods his head before chugging back the rest of his beer.
I catch Angelina's attention, then point my beer in her direction. "You know, Ms. Johnson. It was Johnson, yes?"
She leans forward in her seat, giving me an ample view of her cleavage. I catch a glimpse of Hermione out of the corner of my eye, and her amusement is plain on her face.
"Please, call me Angelina. Ms. Johnson makes me think I've done something naughty."
She says it in a sultry tone, her innuendo coming across loud and clear. The drunkards at the table hoot and holler, giving her the response she was looking for, but Ron quickly shushes them to silence, to better hear our interaction.
I sit up in my chair, mimicking her posture. I clasp my hands together on my knees, giving her my full attention.
"Well then Angelina, take a good look at my boy there. He may be a pain in my arse," and Neville exclaims in indignation, "but, unfortunately, he's my responsibility. If it were the other way around, I'd say you were too far past the point of consent. You really think I should let him go home with you?"
Hermione snorts, then covers her mouth with her hands. The men at the table immediately come to Neville's defence, assuring anyone who would listen that he's been offering his consent since long before he got shit faced. Angelina, however, seems to grow under my stare, her smile widening until its bursting ear to ear.
"An excellent point, DCI Potter. I'll tell you what. You have my word that I'll take him home and deposit him into bed. I won't pop his cherry until he's sober. I won't even suck his dick for him."
"You bastard," Neville exclaims, slamming his fist onto the table. He's looking back and forth between us like he doesn't understand how his night went so wrong, so quickly. One of the older detectives is laughing so hard I'm afraid he might fall off his chair.
Angelina reaches out her hand across the table, and I grasp it in mine, giving it a firm shake. She jerks her head to the side.
"Take my girl home, would ya? You already know where she lives, and I don't want anybody trying to pop her cherry either."
Hermione reaches over the man on her left and smacks her friend on the chest, but she's laughing all the same. I nod my agreement and push up from my chair. There's only a little bit left in my bottle, and I swallow the rest down, before pulling out my wallet and leaving a twenty on the table.
This was easier than I expected.
Neville is still grumbling when we make it outside. Hermione too, for that matter. I pull my keys from my pocket, check the time on my mobile, and watch with amusement as Angelina firmly handles her friend and her soon to be conquest.
She gives Hermione a tiny shove in my direction, before latching onto the front of Neville's shirt.
"I'll take this one with me. You make sure that one gets home safe," she says to me, effectively ending any arguments. She learns forward and hugs Hermione one handed, dropping a red lipped kiss onto her cheek. "Text me when you get home, sweetie, so I don't have to hunt the Detective down and surgically remove his balls for him."
I accept the threat for what it is when she stares at me over Hermione's shoulder, and give her an assuring nod. The only thing that keeps me from smirking is my years in her majesty's Marines.
"Okay then."
She lets go of Hermione and takes off towards the parking lot at the side of the building. I twerk my head in that direction, and with a huff of annoyance, Hermione falls into step next to me.
I don't try to break the silence, so she doesn't either. Instead, we watch in amusement as Neville starts pleading with Angelina, trying to convince her that I was only joking.
She opens the passenger side door of her newer model Toyota, and shoves him inside, slamming the door before he's barely got his feet in. I can't control the chuckle that slips through my lips, and Hermione does the same beside me.
"Twenty quid says he's asleep before they hit her house," Hermione says, watching as her friend pulls out of the parking lot.
"You're on," I say, knowing Neville better than her. "You'd be surprised how long a man can stay awake when he's thinking with his dick."
She lets out that unexpected snort again, then brings her hand to her face, covering up her mouth.
I keep my expression neutral, though all I want to do is smile at how damn cute that is. It's been a long while since I associated the word cute with anything not wearing diapers.
"Come on, let's get you home before Angelina comes back and castrates me," I say, walking the last few feet to my 1969 Firebolt. I open the biker friend situated on the back of the two-seater and pull out my spare helmet. Only when I turn to hand it to Hermione, she's still five feet back, watching me with a look of consternation on her face.
"I'm not getting on that," she says, resolution set firm in her voice.
"Why not?" I ask, knowing where this is going.
She closes some of the distance between us but doesn't reach to take the helmet from my hands.
"Do you know what we call those things in the A&E? Donor cycles. I'm not getting on that."
I swallow back my amusement, stepping into her personal space.
"Do you think I'd do anything to let you get hurt?"
"No, but—"
"No buts. I promise, you'll be safe with me. You saw how they rode me in there about your car. And that was me doing something nice for you." This time her snort is in derision. "Imagine what they'd do to me if I let you fall off the back of my bike? I'd have to wear a paper sack to work for a week."
She tries to keep her scowl on her face, but it slips its grip in layers, finally giving way to a reluctant smile.
"The Alpha Male can laugh at himself," she mumbles under her breath.
"Huh?" I ask, suddenly desperate to know what she's talking about.
"Nothing," she squeaks out, that beautiful blush creeping up her cheeks faster than last time.
"Hmmm." I think out loud to myself, and her blush only deepens.
She takes the helmet from my hand, but when she makes to put it on her head, I stop her with a touch to her wrist.
"Take your hair out of its knot, first. The helmet will fit better."
I take the helmet from her grasp again and watch as she pulls the holder from her hair, securing it around her wrist instead. She runs her fingers over her scalp, then bends at the waist and tosses her hair back, letting it flow behind her shoulders.
Waves and waves of curls cascade down her back and I bite the inside of my lip to keep my smile to myself. I'm done for. Absolutely ruined.
That rumbling takes hold of my gut again, this time working its way up my diaphragm. I take another step closer, pushing her hair behind her ears with my free hand, before settling the helmet on her head.
"There," I say, and my voice is deep and husky. I clear it as I step out of her space.
She moves her purse so that it crosses against her chest, and on a spur of the minute decision, I take my jacket off, slipping it over her shoulders. She reacts instinctively, pulling it tighter and shoving her arms through the sleeves. She's swimming in it so severely I can't see her fingertips at the bottom.
It takes all my willpower not to smile at the sight she makes.
I walk to my bike, lowering the passenger foot rests on either side.
"I'll get on first and hold the bike steady. Put your foot on here," and I grab the foot rest on the side she's on, "and pull your leg over. You look like you don't weigh more than ten stone, so you should have plenty of room back there. Wrap your arms around my waist, and I promise I'll ride like it's my grandmother on the back.
"Lean when I lean, and you can rest your hands on the gas tank," and I put some of my weight on the bike to show her how sturdy it is, "if you feel like you're leaning too far forward. Okay?"
She swallows audibly, and I watch her throat contract and release, before she nods her head yes. Then I climb on my bike, and kick up the stand, holding it balanced for her.
She places her foot on the petal, and I reach my arm out to steady her, my hand encircling her knee. I knew the first time I saw her she'd be warm under my touch, but I wasn't expecting the way my palm seems to burn where it wraps around her knee. She lets out a tiny squeak when she swings her leg over my bike, before centreing her mass and lowering to the seat.
Her arms immediately tighten around my abdomen, and I place my forearm across hers, soothing away some of her trembles.
"You okay?" I ask, raising my voice to be heard clearly inside her helmet.
"Uh-huh," she says into my ear, but there's a definite waver to her tone. I let my smile show, since she won't be able to see it.
"I won't be able to hear you with my helmet on and the bike going, so if you need anything, just give me a squeeze. Remember, lean when I lean, hold on tight, and I'll have you home in a jiffy."
I pull my own helmet from where I slung it over the handlebars, securing it snuggly on my head. When the bike roars to life underneath us, she jumps against my back, plastering herself as tight as the helmet will allow.
I think she feels my laughter because her nails dig into my abs before she tightens her grip around me again.
It only makes me laugh harder.
It's a fifteen-minute drive to her flat from the pub, give or take a few. I give a few and keep us slow. Going straight in spots I'd normally turn; I take the long way back to her place. Hermione's trembles against my back eased after the first few minutes, but I don't want to put her through any more turns than absolutely necessary. If that meant she stayed plastered to me twenty-five minutes instead of fifteen, well then that's the price I have to pay.
I spend the last few minutes of the drive with my hand running up and down her calf. It seems to calm her nerves, at least a little bit. She loosens her grip around me just enough that I can take in a deep breath of air.
She feels so solid against my back. I've never been more aware of a person in my life. I can feel her heartbeat thundering against my spine. Her presence is so alive against me, that within minutes my heartbeat rises to sync with hers.
When we pull up in front of her flat, I expect her to jump off as soon as she can. But she hesitates a minute or two, and we sit together in silence. The bike is quiet underneath us, and my hand continues to unexplainably run up and down her calf, her foot on the passenger rests behind me.
"Thanks. For the ride," she hollers, a little louder than strictly needed. Even with both of our helmets on, she sounds awkward and unsure in my ears. I give her leg a squeeze before letting go completely, and she flings her foot back off the bike, already tons more comfortable than she was getting on.
I take my helmet from my head and shove it on my handlebars, then watch with fascination when she removes hers and immediately bends in half again, shaking the tangles from her hair. When she rights herself, her face is glowing, and her windblown hair makes her look like a fairy.
Without asking she walks to the saddlebags, dropping the helmet back from where it came from. She slips my coat from around her shoulders, handing it back to me without a word.
"That wasn't as bad as I anticipated, but I'm never doing it again," she says, looking pointedly at my bike. There's an air of the 'lady who doth protest too much,' about her, and I try to fight back my smile, giving her a disbelieving glare instead.
"Sure, you won't," I tease her, and enjoy the way the heat fills her cheeks. "Want me to walk you up?" I ask, already knowing the answer. I'm rewarded with a glare filled with daggers, and she looks like she may smack me.
"Try it, Detective Potter, and I'll tase you into next week."
There's no hiding my smirk now, and she fights to keep the scowl on her face despite her rising amusement.
"Why do they call you Prongs?" she asks me suddenly, and I fight back my eye roll at the stupid nickname.
"It was my call sign in the Royal Marines," I tell her. "Ron and I were in together. It followed me back into civilian life."
"Ah," she says quietly, running her fingers through her hair. "And the other?" she asks, nibbling on her thumb again. "I heard one of the older guys refer to you as The Boy Who Lived."
My heart speeds up in my chest, and for a painstakingly long moment I consider telling her. About my parents, about Pettigrew and Riddle. About everything. I've never told a soul about what happened to my parents. Those who know, know because they were around when it happened, or someone else told them the story.
But I can't. Especially not out here on the sidewalk.
"That's a tale for another night," I tell her gently, and she softly nods her head.
"You better go," I say and nudge my chin towards her building. "Let Angelina know you got home okay, so I don't have to sleep in a suit of armour tonight. I'll sit here, until I get a text, letting me know you're safe behind your dead-bolted door."
"And what happens if I forget?" she sasses me with her hand on her hip.
"Then I'll stay out here all night. Or kick down your front door. Whichever I think will irritate you the most."
"Why are you so obnoxious?" she asks, with a different type of heat lacing her voice.
"Why do you make it so easy?" I snark back and bite my tongue to keep my laughter in check when she growls in frustration. She turns on her heel and shoves her way into the building.
My mobile beeps two minutes later with a selfie from the exasperating woman. She's against her locked front door, smiling ear to ear, giving me the V's.
I throw my head back and laugh, louder and longer than I have in ages.
This woman, man. I've never met anyone quite like her.
When it's finally out of my system, I save the picture to my mobile, twist the key in the ignition, and leave sleeping beauty to her rest.