(A/N): I know. I know what you're thinking. 'Why?! Why another story?!' Well, I'll tell you why. I was innocently minding my own business watching Knives Out when I suddenly had the idea of 'What if Hermione was in this?'. So I ran to tell my friend Catzandbookz8 hoping that she would stop me and she DIDN'T. In fact, she encouraged me. So, in conclusion, this is all her fault. And I told her this, by the way. She found it very amusing.

Knives Out and Harry Potter. A strange combination, I know. But I just couldn't resist. This is one of two stories for this crossover, just an fyi. The other one I'm working on has Hermione as Blanc's partner.

This is a three-part story and all parts have been finished. I plan to upload the second part tomorrow (Saturday, here) and the last on Sunday. So no worries about this being an incomplete work. It was originally going to be a one-shot but after I hit over 100 pages I realized that wasn't going to fly so I came up with this.

Any familiar lines are taken from the movie. There's also a few quotes from Gravity's Rainbow. And any mistakes are on me. I read this over a few times but eventually I reached a point where I just couldn't stomach rereading it again. Sorry!

I'm not sure how many people will be reading this since, as far as I can tell, this is the first crossover of this nature, but I hope you enjoy!

Day One (Friday)

Marta came shuffling out of Hermione's room, eyes wide and dried tear tracks visible on her cheeks.

Hermione glanced up from the episode of Friends that she had on and smiled sadly at the other woman, holding her hand out. Marta instantly reached out, grabbing onto Hermione's hand like it was a lifeline. Gently tugging the other woman around to sit beside her on the couch, Hermione wrapped Marta in a tight hug.

"Everything's going to be okay," she reassured her.

Marta shook her head but didn't respond, just leaned her head on Hermione's shoulder and stared blankly ahead.

She couldn't blame Marta for not believing her. The last few days had been hellish for her younger friend, and it likely wouldn't be getting better any time soon.

Damn Harlan and his dramatic tendencies.

Hermione's phone lit up on the table in front of them, vibrating loudly and causing both women to flinch. Pulling away from Marta, Hermione leaned over to see who was calling.

"It's Walt," she sighed, grabbing the phone and standing up.

Wandering into the kitchen, Hermione answered, "Hello Walt."

"Hi Hermione, it's Walt."

Rolling her eyes, she repeated, "Hello Walt."

"Would you mind coming to the house early? The police have a few more questions for everybody."

She stiffened. "Questions? Regarding what?"

Walt sighed. "About Dad, I guess."

"Alright," Hermione agreed, voice soft and even. "Does 'everybody' include Marta?"

Despite facing away from the living room, Hermione could feel the woman in question turning to stare a hole into her back.

"Yeah. I'm going to call her next."

"No need; she's here with me."

"Oh. Alright then. We'll see you both in a bit."

Hermione didn't know why Walt sounded so surprised- the family knew that they were good friends. Harlan may have brought them together, but they'd forged a bond all their own.

"See you then."

Hanging up the phone, Hermione took a few deep breaths. She needed to be calm. The more frantic she was, the more worked up Marta would be.

Turning back to her friend, she stated, "We need to get to the house a bit earlier than planned. The police have a few follow-up questions."

Marta's eyes widened. "But… but they already asked their questions. I told them… what if they ask-"

Striding across the room, Hermione grabbed hold of Marta's shoulders and squeezed tightly. "Calm down," she instructed. "We've been over this, Marta- you don't have to lie, you just have to leave out a few truths. I'm the only one who's hiding anything."

"Because you helped me," Marta retorted, voice breaking. "Because you and Harlan protected me even though-"

"Stop it," Hermione hissed, giving the other girl a light shake. "Those are not helpful thoughts. What's done is done. And as long as you stay calm, everything is going to be fine, alright? Nothing is going to happen to you or your family. I just need you to trust me."

Pressing a hand tightly over her mouth and squeezing her eyes shut, Marta took several shuddering breaths. "Okay," she finally said, opening her eyes and meeting Hermione's steady gaze. "Okay."

Studying her for a long moment, Hermione finally nodded and gave the kind-hearted nurse an encouraging smile. "Okay. Now, go shower and I'll find something for you to wear."

Pushing herself off the couch, Marta said, "It's fine. I can just wear one of the changes of clothes I stashed here."

"Nonsense. You and I are the same size, and the only things you have here are work-appropriate and casual clothes." And I refuse to give the Thrombey's any more ammunition about how much 'lower' Marta is.

Once Marta closed the bathroom door, Hermione wandered into her room and pulled out a simple, modest outfit that she knew Marta would be comfortable in but that was of good enough quality to meet even Donna's approval.

It's only one more day, Hermione comforted herself, hating herself for giving even an iota of thought to what any of the classist, racist Thrombey's would think but she wouldn't have to bother after tomorrow. They only had to make it through today.

The drive to the Thrombey house was weighed down by a heavy silence. Hermione didn't bother to try and fill it, too distracted by her own thoughts.

It had been too much to hope that everything would go as Harlan had said it would. While his quickly hatched plan to protect Marta had been brilliant enough, they had both known it wasn't as thorough as it needed to be.

"I know I've missed something," Harlan had told her as he'd pushed Hermione and Marta out the door. "There's gonna be something I missed. But I know you two can do this. You have to do what you have to do to beat this and win."

Marta had to win. She had to. Hermione had to make sure she did. For Harlan.

"Oh god," she heard Marta hiss as they neared the house and spotted two marked police cars and four officers loitering in the driveway. Off to the side by the garage door, Hermione could see another unmarked police SUV.

"It's alright," Hermione hummed, bringing the car to a stop. "You can do this. We can do this."

The reminder that they were in this together seemed to stop Marta's spiral in its tracks, just as Hermione had hoped it would. Marta may not have been able to hold it together for her own sake, but her courage would always rise the moment someone she loved needed it to.

Opening the car door, Hermione stepped out onto the gravel and glanced back as Marta followed suit.

"Hey, excuse me, ma'am?" someone called, and she looked over to see an officer walking towards her. "Are you with the help?"

"Hey!" Joni's daughter, Meg shouted as she jumped down the stairs to the house and hurried over, the red, white, and blue pom-pom on her knit cap bouncing with every step. "Their names are Hermione and Marta. They were Grandad's assistant and nurse. They're with us."

Hermione tamped down her annoyance and gave the officer an apologetic look. "So, to answer your question, yes." Better to be 'the help' than to be a Thrombey.

The officer's hard look softened a bit and he nodded in understanding at her.

"I'm sorry," Marta apologized anxiously.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Meg told her, turning back to glare at the officer again. "I mean 'the help'? What the hell?"

"They're just doing their job," Hermione chided the younger woman. For all Meg's claims of wanting to be an activist and a voice to those who needed it, she was still very much unaware of her own privilege. And if, as Hermione suspected, the rest of the family was already waiting inside, then it made sense for the officers to think that they may be part of the crew coming to assist with the wake. Especially since Hermione's car was just a Toyota- it was a nice enough vehicle, but nothing compared to the expensive Bentley's and Mercedes's that the Thrombey's tended to favor.

Meg rolled her eyes, choosing to ignore Hermione in favor of giving Marta a tight hug. They stood there a handful of seconds as Marta blinked back tears before Meg stepped back and the group began making their way to the front door.

"How are you doing?" Meg asked them, pulling a Jull out of the pocket of her purple jumper and taking a long pull.

Hermione just shrugged as Marta answered, "Not very good. Lots of this," she gestured at the tears in her eyes, "and not knowing what to do next."

"Hey," Meg stopped them, glancing between the two women. "Anything you guys need… you're part of this family. Both of you."

Marta looked down at the ground as Hermione gave Meg a sad smile. "Thank you," she responded, doing her best to ignore any intrusive thoughts bitterly wondering how long Meg's statement would stand true after tomorrow.

The door swung open and Linda Drysdale, Harlan's only daughter, stepped forward to greet them.

"How you doing, kiddo?" she asked Marta, giving the nurse a small hug.

"Linda," Hermione greeted, nodding at the older woman and doing her best not to stare at the dark pink pantsuit the woman had chosen to wear. She truly hoped that Linda didn't plan on wearing that to the memorial because that would be the height of impropriety. It also contrasted terribly against the black dress pants and dark purple sweater that Hermione had given Marta to wear. "How are you?"

Sighing, Linda stepped aside to allow them into the house. "Oh, you know… the funeral helped, I guess. Just seeing him." Lowering her voice, she confided, "I thought you both should have been there. I was outvoted."

Yeah, right, Hermione mentally snorted. If Linda had even brought up the topic of inviting them, Hermione would eat her boots.

"Fine!" a male voice shouted from the parlor, and Hermione turned to see Linda's husband, Richard, yelling into his phone. "Get arrested! Die up your own ass for all I care!"

"Richard!" Linda hissed.

Hanging up the phone, Richard walked out to join them. "He's not coming," he told his wife, then, upon meeting Marta and Hermione's startled gazes, added, "Ransom. The little shit. Missed the funeral."

Hermione bit back the urge to tell Richard that it would have been more surprising if his obnoxious, self-absorbed prat of a son had bothered going to the funeral than it was to hear that he'd skipped out. At least he was dressed slightly more appropriately than his wife, in a grey sweater, navy jacket, and dark colored trousers.

A slightly disheveled man stepped out of the library and Hermione's gaze instantly clocked the gun holstered on his hip. "Excuse me," he called, glancing between all of them. "Uh, we're ready for you now; we'd like to see you one at a time."

Richard turned to look at Linda, who was staring at her watch, and it seemed as though he was going to offer to go first but his wife waved him off. "Alright. I'll go first. I'm assuming this will all be wrapped up before the memorial tonight."

Based off the uncertainty on the officer's face as he followed after her, Hermione doubted it. And the question of why the police were back was a concerning one.

Tapping away at his phone, Richard absent-mindedly asked, "So, how you doing, kiddo?"

Marta glanced at Hermione, unsure of who he was talking to.

"We're fine," Hermione answered, nudging Marta away from the older man and towards the hall that Meg had snuck down the moment Linda had pulled Marta and Hermione into conversation.

Once they were out of earshot, Hermione leaned in to whisper, "I'm going to run upstairs for a moment. Why don't you find somewhere quiet down here and I'll join you in a bit?"

Normally Hermione wouldn't have dreamed of leaving Marta alone, but she didn't think the girl had the stomach for any more subterfuge and Hermione needed to know what kind of questions the police were asking, and it'd be easiest to use magic to do so. She refrained from telling Marta anything in case someone asked her where Hermione was so that there was no risk of Marta having to lie.

Shooting her an anxious glance, Marta hesitantly agreed.

"There's nothing to worry about," Hermione fibbed. "I just left one of my books somewhere upstairs and I'd like to get it back before the Thrombey's start tearing this place apart in the name of 'settling' Harlan's estate."

Marta shook her head, giving Hermione a disapproving look even as the tension eased from her shoulders. "You shouldn't be so harsh towards them," she chided, her Cuban accent coming through stronger than usual. "They're going through a lot too; they loved Harlan."

Hermione grimaced, but refrained from arguing. That statement might be true for Linda, the only one of Harlan's children that he hadn't cut off the night of his birthday party, but Hermione imagined the other Thrombey's were feeling more relieved than anything else.

With one last reassuring squeeze on Marta's arm, Hermione slipped down the hall and up the stairs to the second floor.

The second-floor entry to the library was probably being guarded, but the bedroom on the side of the house that shared a wall with it wouldn't be. Early on during her time with Harlan, Hermione had discovered that the vent system in the house connected certain rooms together and it was easy to eavesdrop on a conversation if you were familiar with the system.

Silently padding down the hall, Hermione glanced around to make sure no one was nearby before opening the bedroom door and slipping inside. Once the door was firmly shut, she pulled out her wand and threw up a Silencing Charm and a simple ward that would alert her if anyone was headed her way.

Moving to the window, she sank down onto the wood floor next to faded gold vent and tapped it with her wand. The room was instantly flooded with voices.

"Did anyone besides the family show face?" a deep voice was asking.

"Fran, the housekeeper," Linda began listing out. "Marta, Harlan's caregiver. Good girl. Hard worker. Family's from Ecuador." Hermione glared down at the floor, annoyed by the fact that, even after knowing Marta for years, no one in the family seemed to be able to remember where she was from. And yet Marta still insisted that these people were good. "Hermione, Harlan's research assistant. She's getting her Master's at Boston University and Harlan was kind enough to take her under his wing." That was the first Hermione had heard of her supposed educational aspirations. "Her and Marta are practically attached at the hip. And Wanetta, Great-nana, Harlan's mom."

"His mom?" the first voice- who Hermione realized was Lieutenant Elliott, the detective they'd all spoken with earlier that week- questioned. "Wow. How old is she?"

"We have no idea," Linda answered.

Hermione felt a fissure of guilt settle in her stomach. She was rather fond of the Thrombey matriarch, and she wished she'd been able to visit the woman over the past week. It was highly unlikely anyone in the family had given her a second thought.

"Okay. And your son, Ransom, did he attend as well?"

"Yes, but he left early."

A high-pitched note echoed up through the vents and Hermione flinched back. Was that the piano?

After a pause just long enough to be noticeable, the questions continued. "Right. Would you say that the three of you showed up around the same time?"

Linda was slow to answer. "No. Richard came early to help the caterers set up."

"Okay. And you and your husband, Richard, work at a real estate firm in Boston?"

Hermione winced.

"No," Linda instantly corrected. "It's my company."

"Right, right," Elliott hastily reassured her. "Sorry."

"I built my business from the ground up."

"Oh, just like your father."

She nodded in approval. That was sure to sooth Linda's prickly ego.

"You two were very close."

"We… we had our own secret way of communicating. You had to find that with Dad. You had to find a game to play with him and if you did that, and if you played by his rules…"

Another note rung through the vents.

There was no way Lieutenant Elliott was the one messing with the piano, so Hermione wondered who else had joined the detective. And what was the meaning of hitting the piano keys? The first after Linda stated that Ransom had left early… the second after her tangent about Harlan… perhaps they were trying to tell the detective to probe or to redirect?

"Who is that?" Linda demanded. "And what is the point of this?"

"We just had some follow-up questions," Elliott calmly told her. "We're attempting to be thorough, so we can figure out the manner of death."

Hermione hissed. If the police were truly curious about how Harlan had died, then that didn't bode well for her or Marta.

"The manner of death," Linda repeated, voice low and dangerous. "Are you accusing one of us of-"

"No no," came Elliott's hasty response. "Nothing like that. This is all pro-forma."

"Really? Then who is that?"

"This is Benoit Blanc," he told her, sounding reluctant, and Hermione's stomach dropped.

"Fuck," she whispered. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Mr. Blanc is a private investigator of great renown," Elliott continued while Hermione had a silent panic attack. "He is not with the police department and is not officially involved in the case, but he's offered to consult. I happily obliged and I can vouch for him-"

Linda interrupted. "Mr. Blanc, I know who you are. I read your profile in the New Yorker. I found it delightful. I just buried my 85-year-old father who committed suicide. Why are you here?"

"I'm here at the behest of a client," a deep, male voice drawled in the most obviously-Southern accent that Hermione had ever heard. It was honestly ridiculous and if she wasn't so concerned, she might have laughed.

"Who?" Linda demanded.

"I cannot say," Blanc hedged. "But let me assure you this: my presence will be ornamental. You will find me a respectful, quiet, passive observer of the truth."

That was the most outlandish thing Hermione had ever heard. Most especially, the idea of a quiet and passive detective.

Harlan had been fascinated with Benoit Blanc and Hermione had researched several of his previous cases at her old friend's request. 'The Last Gentleman Detective' had amassed quite the reputation for being able to solve unusual and often-deemed impossible cases, though even a vague sketch of his actual personality was nowhere to be found. And, for some reason, this case had caught his attention. Was it just because someone had hired him to look into a seemingly clear-cut suicide?

And speaking of his client… someone must know that there was more to Harlan's death than what it seemed. And she had a sneaking suspicion of who that may be.

"Fine," Linda finally snapped.

"Thank you. But, may I just- then I'll recede- but as a self-made man myself, I have to express my admiration for how you followed in your father's footsteps."

If he was trying to disarm Linda, then it seemingly worked based off the sincere sounding thanks she gave in response to his compliment.

"Just marvelous. You know, the whole family too. Joni with her thing, and Walt with his publishing empire…"

"Tread lightly, Detective," Hermione quietly whispered to the empty room. "That road is filled with landmines." Though perhaps an explosion was what he was hoping for.

"Well," Linda began, "yes, I mean, Walt's done well with what Dad gave him. Not that it matters. But really, Dad hands him a book twice a year and Walt publishes it. It's just not the same."

"But surely Walt runs the merchandising, adaptations, film and television rights," Blanc countered.

"Are you baiting me, Detective? You know he doesn't. And if you think I am dumb enough to be baited into talking family business, into shit talking my baby brother, in front of a police detective and a state trooper then you are not as intelligent as your reputation makes you out to be."

The conversation fully devolved from there as Linda refused to cooperate any further.

Leaning her head back against the wall, Hermione focused on centering herself.

Benoit Blanc appearing was not ideal for them. But it could also prove to be an opportunity depending on is she was right about who hired him. Because whoever did was likely reasonably confident that there was something else at play with Harlan's death, but wasn't confident enough to inform the police of their suspicions. Or a more sinister possibility was that they knew something had happened but couldn't speak openly about it out of fear of incriminating themselves. Either way, it meant they knew something, which should be impossible.

The memory of Harlan- of the solid look in his eyes and the steadiness of his hand as he slit his throat right in front of her wide-eyed gaze- pushed to the front of her mind and Hermione instantly opened her eyes, shoving it back down into the box of things-she-wasn't-ready-to-deal-with-yet. The time for panic and mourning was later, after things were settled and Marta and her family were safe.

Richard was brought in next, and Hermione listened as he first made of show of family loyalty before jumping at the chance to rip into Walt and his son, Jacob. Not that she blamed him for the latter because Merlin knew she also hated the little Nazi-sympathizing monster, but Hermione knew that Linda would be incredibly displeased to hear her husband disparaging her 'baby brother' in such a manner.

She stiffened when Blanc started asking about her and Marta. Was it simply because neither he nor Linda had really mentioned them, or did he suspect something?

"Harlan hired Marta to be around to take care of whatever medical needs popped up and Hermione to help do more of the legwork for his books since he was getting older but really, they're like part of the family. Good kids, and they've both been good friends to Harlan. Hermione can be pretty argumentative, and I think Marta gets a little overwhelmed by her at times but they're thick as thieves most of the time."

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't sit back like everyone else and allow you to use Marta as a prop to show how 'tolerant' you are," Hermione hissed, glaring at the floor.

"Immigrants," she heard Richard saying after making an incorrect guess at where Marta was from, "we get the job done."

Hermione silently gagged. Richard was a racist, cheating, coward who never let an opportunity to rag on any non-Americans who dared to step foot in the country pass him by. Yet, he firmly believed himself to be anything but a racist, and, in fact, considered calling someone a racist an incredibly cutting insult. It would have been fascinating to observe if it wasn't so sickening.

Blanc tried again to ask about Walt and the publishing house and had much better luck that time around. Richard was pleased as punch to discuss how often Walt pressed Harlan about being allowed to sell the rights to his father's books. When he mentioned Walt's argument with Harlan the night of the party, Hermione wondered if Blanc would be able to fully untangle the web the family was- unintentionally- unweaving.

Then Blanc began prodding Richard about his argument with Harlan in his study and Hermione couldn't help smirking at how terrible Richard was at lying and how neatly Blanc was able to back him into the corner. He clearly already knew the answer to the question he was asking.

"One secret down," she mused. "Have you figured out the others yet, Mr. Blanc?"

After Richard came Walt, who started off by lying about how he'd injured his leg- as if Walt would ever do anything as pedestrian as ride a bicycle- and then hedged about his fight with his father. Blanc led them on a merry dance, using the nuggets of truth he'd been handed by Richard to get him to spill the tea on Ransom and the argument the youngest Drysdale had with Harlan.

"Look, we all love Ransom. He's a good kid, we love him."

"Lie."

"But?" Blanc prodded.

"But he's always been the black sheep of the family. And I'm not… I'm not trying to… I like to keep stuff like this in the family but with Ransom… he's never had a job. And Dad, for some unknown reason, always supported him."

"That is rich coming from the man who's only job was handed to him by said father, who, incidentally, also ripped it away from him."

"They have this love-hate bond. They fight. But that night, God, they had a blowout."

"About what?"

"We couldn't make it out, really, but it was huge. And it's strange that they went into another room to do it. Usually, they like to stoke up drama in front of the whole family."

That was the one truthful thing Walt had said so far. Harlan loved drama, as evident by the entire house and surrounding woods, and the fact that he decided that the best day to cut off his children and grandchildren would be on his birthday. Hermione couldn't help being equal parts curious and concerned at what Harlan had wanted to say in private to Ransom. What could he have possibly wanted to tell him that he hadn't wanted getting out to the rest of the family then?

"Ransom stormed out afterwards without even saying goodbye to any of us. Not even Hermione, which was surprising since they'd been real cozy earlier in the evening. I know Dad had been hoping those two would get together. Thought Hermione would be able to straighten Ransom out."

"Hey!" Hermione barked, despite knowing it was pointless. "First of all, that's not even remotely true. Second, leave me out of this!"

"Are they together?" Blanc asked, and Hermione dreaded what sort of questions were going to be asked during her interrogation.

"I haven't heard Richard complaining about it, so I guess not."

Meg was next, and Hermione wondered why Donna hadn't been summoned instead. Her interview was the shortest so far- all they'd asked her about was her relationship with Harlan and why she'd left the party early.

"Grandad gives my mom a yearly allowance and he's never missed wiring a tuition payment to my schools."

Hermione smirked.

Joni came in after Meg, and her interview was filled with loving words about the Thrombey's followed up by bitter digs and repeat mentions of her skincare company, 'Flam', being dropped liberally throughout.

She too was asked about Marta and Hermione.

"Marta is such a sweetheart and I know she and Meg are super close. Practically sisters. Hermione's pretty distant though and kind of territorial over Marta. I don't know what all that's about."

"Great," Hermione grumbled. "You make me sound like her jealous lover."

Blanc finally asked the question Hermione had been waiting for. "Richard said you were at the house early. To see Harlan."

"I was at the house early. To see Harlan. Yes."

"What were you seeing Harlan about?"

"… It was just a mix-up with the payment for Meg's tuition."

"I'm sorry to press, but what kind of mix-up?"

"It was just a money wiring issue with the office of the school," she stuttered out before regaining her equilibrium. "So I had to ask Harlan to cut a check for the semester. No big deal."

Lieutenant Elliott suggested they take a break then and, after the others agreed, Hermione ended her spell and sat back.

Joni hadn't fully given herself away there, but between her and Meg, Blanc should be able to piece it all together if he was as good as he was said to be.

Richard and the affair.

Walt being fired from the company.

Joni stealing money from Harlan.

If he was able to figure out those secrets, it wouldn't take him long to ferret out the deeper mess behind them.

Such as the fact that Linda forced Richard to sign an iron-clad prenup before marrying him that would leave him financially ruined if she found out about his affairs and left him.

Or the fact that Walt had been embezzling money from the publishing company to pay off the numerous gambling debts that he had racked up.

And that Joni's company was in the red, it's famed products not just useless, but actually harmful.

If he was looking for a reason why Harlan could have been murdered, any of those would do. Yet, the fact that Harlan had committed suicide was undeniable. But the circumstances behind his death were still clearly in question.

Standing up, Hermione ended her spells and left the room.

She needed to figure out how she wanted to appear to Benoit Blanc. The family had made her relationship with Marta sound like anything from 'good friends' to 'would kill anyone who looked at her wrong'. Which was fair, if Hermione was being honest with herself. She did her best to keep everyone in the family apart from Harlan away from Marta as much as she could. But that was only because they treated Marta horribly and if the kind-hearted woman wasn't able to stand up for herself then Hermione was fine doing it for her. She understood Marta's fears- she knew why Marta kept quiet.

So, did she want to appear as just the casual friend and negate the way the others had described her, or the overprotective mama bear that Marta sometimes teased her for being? Did she want to catch Blanc's attention herself, or do her best to allow herself and Marta to fade into the background, at least until tomorrow?

Stepping down onto the first floor, Hermione glanced around to see if she could spot Marta, but the nurse was nowhere in sight. Knowing her friend, Hermione guessed that she'd headed to the sitting area by the back patio doors and began heading that way. She needed to speak with Marta before the police returned and pulled them in for questioning.

Suddenly, she heard Marta's shaking voice saying, "Yes, I just want to get some Scope."

"Miss Cabrera," Blanc's voice responded, and she heard a door close loudly. Hermione's feet were in motion without a second thought.

Racing around the corner, she saw Marta standing outside on the patio right next to the closed glass door, staring up in fear at a white man in a grey coat who was leaning against the door, keeping her trapped out there. Hermione was at the door in three strides, twisting the knob and pressing forward with all her might, sending the grey coated man stumbling sideways.

"What's going on?" she demanded, stepping outside and shifting to stand in front of Marta.

"Hermione," Marta murmured, sounding relieved as Lieutenant Elliott and the officer from earlier relaxed upon seeing her and the last man who she assumed was Blanc straightened up. "It's okay."

Hermione noted how Marta didn't try to tell her that she was okay, and she leveled a glare at Blanc.

Mama bear it was.

"I take it you're Miss Granger," Blanc stated, studying her with calculating, sky blue eyes.

"I am. And who might you be?"

He glanced between her and Marta. "My name is Benoit Blanc."

Hermione was careful to allow a hint of surprise to show on her face at the name but nothing more. "Really? I would have thought that the 'last of the gentleman sleuths' wouldn't have been so ill-mannered as to literally block the door in order to keep a woman in clear distress from leaving." Then a thought hit her, and she turned slightly to look at Marta. "Did I hear you say that wanted to get some Scope? Did you vomit? Did he make you throw up?"

"Ah." Blanc had the good sense to look slightly abashed. "I'm very sorry about that."

Her eyes narrowed. "Did you know that she threw up when she lied before you started asking her what I'm assuming were uncomfortable questions?"

When Blanc remained silent, she pursed her lips and nodded. "Right." Turning to Marta, she shifted to open the door. "Go get some Scope and I'll come find you in a bit. And make sure to take your stomach medicine."

Blanc stepped forward. "Actually, I just had a few more questions for Miss Cabrera."

Marta hesitated and Hermione placed a hand on her back, firmly ushering the other woman inside. "I'm more than happy to answer any questions you have, Detective." Closing the door firmly, Hermione gave one last reassuring smile to Marta before turning around to meet Blanc's gaze. "In fact, I'd love the chance to chat with you for a bit."

They stared each other down for long enough that Lieutenant Elliott and who Hermione was guessing was his partner began shifting around uncomfortably before Blanc gave her a charming smile. "It'd be rude of me to decline such an offer. Please." He gestured to the small wicker couch with a faded yellow, floral cushion on it and waited for Hermione to sit before taking a seat on a matching chair across from her.

"It would," she agreed, smoothing down her black skirt as she sat and crossing one leg over the other, "but there's no reason in you keeping up a gentlemanly façade at this point, is there?"

He sighed, raising a cigar that she hadn't noticed he'd been holding in his right hand up to his lips but refrained from actually taking a pull. "Despite how it may seem, Miss Granger, I assure you, I did not know that Miss Cabrera would literally be ill if she was dishonest. I would never have put her in that position if I had."

"You'll forgive me if I doubt that," Hermione responded dryly, placing her elbow on the arm of her seat and propping her chin on her knuckles. "After all, I'm sure any detective would be thrilled to be presented with a suspect that has such an obvious tell."

"What makes you think Marta's a suspect for anything?" Lieutenant Elliott asked and Hermione's gaze flicked over to the dark-skinned man.

"The fact that Mr. Blanc is here at all is proof that he, at least, believes Harlan's death to be something other than a suicide. And if it's not a suicide, it must be a murder, which would make all of us suspects."

He huffed. "Clever."

Hermione smirked. "A stupid person doesn't make for a very good research assistant, especially for a mystery writer."

"Fair enough. But we're not here to make any assumptions- about the manner of the death or about any of you. We're just trying to be thorough."

"That might be the case for you," Hermione allowed, gaze returning to Blanc, "but you, on the other hand, aren't so neutral on the subject."

"What makes you say that?" Blanc questioned, finally taking a puff of his cigar.

She allowed her gaze to fall over the detective from head to toe before meeting his eyes again. "Your clothes are close enough to the same color but not exact. If they weren't made of that material- hopsack wool, if I'm not mistaken- and if you hadn't accessorized so nicely, it would be plausible to assume that you're just not that careful with your clothing but that's clearly not the case.

"That material is not often seen for something as nice as a suit, implying that it was custom made and no tailor is going to give their customer a jacket and trousers that only almost match. You packed in a hurry and accidentally grabbed the wrong pants but, since the colors are almost the same, you figured it'd be fine. That combined with your red-rimmed eyes and the faint bags under them tells me that you're feeling just a tad tired right now. I'm guessing you had just wrapped up a case when you were contacted about this one and barely had time to unpack and repack before running off again with no time to catch your breath, let alone a nap. You wouldn't be in such a hurry for a case that you believed likely to be nothing."

"Wow," the unknown officer breathed, and Hermione could see his awed expression from the corner of her eye. "That's amazing."

Blanc's lips quirked. "That was mighty impressive."

"Hardly," Hermione shrugged, relaxing her shoulders. "Nothing more than the results of being forced to spend two days investigating different types of fabric for one of Harlan's literary victims. Not one of my favorite assignments, but not nearly the worst."

"The Needle Game," the officer murmured, and Hermione frowned at him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier. Who are you?"

"Trooper Wagner," he answered eagerly. "I'm a huge fan."

"Of Harlan?" Hermione asked, praying that this wasn't someone from the Wizarding World. Considering he just named the work that was the reason for Hermione's in-depth dive into the textile world, she thought that was the more likely option, but one could never be too sure.

"Yeah! His plots are just… I mean, wow!"

"I take it from that demonstration alone that Harlan used your skillset for a bit more than research, didn't he?" Blanc prodded, pushing the conversation back on track.

"Officially? No. Walt would have thrown a fit if he found out someone like me was helping Harlan come up with plot ideas. Never mind the fact that Harlan loved creating strange and unsettling murders from things that happen in real life because 'that's what makes it so engaging'."

Blowing out a stream of smoke, Blanc questioned, "Someone like you?"

"I'm young, female, foreign, and, most importantly, not family," Hermione listed. Then, without warning, she asked, "What did Marta lie to you about?"

Without missing a beat, the detective answered, "Richard."

Hermione sighed. "Ah. Of course she did. You probably gave her quite the fright when you started questioning her about that; the Thrombey's tend to overlook her as nothing more than the pretty nurse Harlan liked to keep around. She's done her absolute best to appear clueless to them."

"Really? And why is that?"

She knew Blanc could easily deduce the reason for himself, but she answered anyway. "Because if they don't think she knows anything, then they won't ask her anything. As you saw, Marta can't lie without becoming ill and the Thrombey's know that. If they knew Harlan was honest with her about family business, they would never leave her alone and not only is that an unpleasant situation to be in but, for Marta, it could quickly become unsafe."

"Unsafe?" Elliott repeated.

Shifting to look at the lieutenant, Hermione bluntly asked, "If someone were to bring your race into a conversation, what would you do? If someone you viewed as, not your direct superior at work but a person of authority nonetheless, pulled you into a discussion he was having and said, 'See, I'm not racist. I'm standing here with Lieutenant Elliott', what would you do?"

He hesitated, and she felt bad for putting him in such a position, but she needed to make her point. "I would make an excuse to leave."

"Could you do it without lying? Especially if someone started asking where you were going, why you were leaving, if something was the matter?"

Elliott's dark brown eyes lightened with understanding. "Probably not."

"Marta's regularly at risk of turning the Thrombey's against her just because of the situations she finds herself in on occasion with them." The memory of Harlan's birthday party and Richard and Joni's fight flashed through her mind. "It's already a struggle to dodge some of their questions without lying but also without letting them know her actual thoughts. If they knew Harlan told her their secrets, they'd be relentless."

"Is that why you're so protective of her?" Blanc asked, leaning forward. "Because you think she's in danger?"

Hermione also leaned forward. "I'm protective of her because she's one of the best people I know, and I know how cruel the world can be to someone that kind. So did Harlan. She takes care of us, so we look out for her. It's the least we can do. And I don't appreciate when a stranger goes after one of my friends simply because they like seeing what happens when they start pressing buttons."

"That is not my intention," Blanc firmly rebutted. "I am simply here to uncover the truth that's buried at the heart of this whole affair."

That was what she was afraid of. "If you want to uncover the truth about anyone in the Thrombey family, then you should just ask me. I know everything Marta does and, should the family find out that I told you anything, I can weather the storm of their outrage better than her."

Pulling back so she was seated normally, Hermione started, "Marta may have confirmed your suspicions about Richard having an affair, but I'm sure she failed to mention that Richard was terrified of Linda finding out due to the prenup she forced him to sign before they could be married. To say that he would be left destitute if the affair was uncovered and she divorced him would be being generous."

"You're saying Richard might have killed Harlan?" Elliott asked, unconvinced.

"Harlan's death was a suicide," Hermione answered firmly. "What I am saying is that Richard was a desperate man with a lot to lose. He's also a fool though so take that into whatever consideration you give the situation."

Blanc hummed, lips quirking upward before becoming serious. "Was Harlan planning on cutting off Joni's allowance?" he asked, absentmindedly scratching at the skin of his neck right underneath his shirt collar

Instead of outright answering, Hermione decided it was time to begin playing her part and responded, "Tell me what you're thinking, and I'll tell you if you're right."

"I thought you were going to tell us about the Thrombey family?" Wagner chimed in, confused.

Hermione grinned. "First of all, I said you should ask me, not that I would tell you. Second, Harlan would be incredibly disappointed in me if I didn't make this at least slightly fun and, since it is his death we're discussing and his family, I figured I should honor that for old times' sake."

Eyes bright with amusement, Blanc told her, "Meg told us that he paid her school directly for her tuition, Joni said he sent the money to her- I think both were true. She was pocketing the double payment. Harlan found out and cut her off without a cent. Yes?"

"So she bumps him off for the inheritance?" Wagner questioned in disbelief before Hermione could say anything. "C'mon, no. Have you seen her Insta? She's an influencer."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione stated, "Yes, Detective Blanc, you're right. Over the past four years Joni has stolen over $400,000 from Harlan, money that's she's been using to keep her failing business afloat. She needs the business in order to remain Instagram-famous because no one's going to follow a failed business owner that only managed to get this far in life due to having married well, especially once the other Thrombey's publicly cut her, which they would absolutely do if they found out about her thievery."

Wagner persisted. "I haven't heard anything about FLAM having any issues, and her products are super popular."

"Her products have little to any repeat customers," Hermione responded, still watching as Blanc scratched away at the skin of his neck. "Most of the people who use them find they don't quite like the results."

"That's quite the little rash you got there," Elliott commented, also glancing over at Blanc.

"Do I?" Blanc murmured, eyes widening slightly as his gaze snapped to Hermione. "Interesting."

Isn't it just?

Elliott wandered over to Hermione's side of the table. "Look, allowance as a motive? That's weak sauce."

"Granted. But she lied to me. All three of them did."

"Three?" Elliott questioned, pausing by the open seat next to Hermione and raising an eyebrow in question. She gave a half smile and nodded, so he sat down.

"Walter," Blanc answered.

"Ah," the lieutenant nodded. "I see where you're going with this."

"Harlan had turned Walter down before regarding film rights," the detective explained. "But that night, something Harlan said shook him. Now we look at the pattern- Harlan was cleaning house. I wonder…" Looking back at Hermione, he asked, "Did he plan to fire Walter?"

Hermione lightly tapped the tip of her nose with a wink.

"What? No additional information to help our judgement?" Elliott joked.

"Just this: I suppose it's possible that Walt hurt his leg while riding a bike, but you'll find that phrasing a little misleading."

Blanc nodded. "Good to know."

Movement out of the corner of her eye caught Hermione's attention, and she turned to see Marta hovering by the fireplace down the hall from the patio doors.

"Well, gentlemen. If that is all, I'd like to head back inside; it's rather cold to be out here without a jacket." Standing up, Hermione headed for the door without waiting for permission.

"Stay close," Elliott called after her.

"Of course."

Stepping inside, Hermione closed the door softly behind her before striding towards Marta and gently nudging the other woman around and forward. Directing her into the hall bathroom, Hermione shut and locked the door while simultaneously silently and wandlessly throwing up a Silencing Charm.

"You're going to need to give details," she told Marta abruptly, shifting to face her as her mind raced.

Marta blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"When they question you. You can't just repeat what Harlan said- there's no details. Blanc will get suspicious if you don't give details."

"No," she said, rapidly shaking her head. "I can't! I can't lie!"

"You're not lying!" Hermione reassured her. "You can tell the truth just as Harlan laid it out for you, but while also adding in details. You brought Harlan upstairs to take his meds and I came with you because we had come to the party together. Harlan insisted on playing his nightly game of Go even though it was late, and you didn't want to, but you gave in after he and I joined forces and badgered you into it. He was always a sore loser, so when he realized you were going to win, he knocked over the board. I tripped over the pieces- and it's vital you say that, Marta, because without that Blanc might question the noise that Joni heard that caused her to check on us. You gave him his meds and you could tell he'd had a difficult evening, so you asked if he was alright. He told you that he'd done as he'd planned and cut off the family. We left him in his study- alive- and said goodbye to Walt when we passed him on our way out, and then got in your car and left. That's it. Just add a few details into your recount of that night so that it doesn't seem too rehearsed. And try not lie."

"Just try not to lie," Marta scoffed, tone on the edge of hysterical. "Try not to lie about the fact that I-"

Hermione automatically reacted, clapping her hand over Marta's mouth. "Stop it! You did nothing wrong! You are a good person, and I am not going to let you think otherwise."

Pulling Hermione's hand away from her mouth, Marta muttered, "It's a good thing you don't puke when you lie, otherwise you'd be kneeling in front of the toilet right now."

"No, I wouldn't." Leaning in and holding the other woman's gaze, Hermione firmly stated, "You, Marta Cabrera, are one of the kindest, smartest, and steadfast people I know. You are strong, and good, and I will not let you say otherwise. Alright? You're not alone. I'm right here. I've got you."

Marta inhaled sharply, eyes closing for just a moment, before opening again and showing a steady resolve that hadn't been there before. "Okay."

Despite having seen the thing a million times already, Hermione still wrinkled her nose at the gaudy knife display.

"It's quite the piece, isn't it?" Blanc offered, waiting until she seated herself in the throne beside the spiral of blades to settle into a chair in front of her.

"Harlan's obsession with his own creations was a bit much," she slowly responded.

Elliott chuckled. "Yeah, this whole house is like a giant Clue board."

Hermione couldn't help the huff of laughter that escaped her. "Harlan made up his own version of Clue. Several, actually. Created his own characters, weapons, rooms, and even threw in some motives for fun. It's ridiculous and takes forever to finish."

"Is it based off any of his books?" Trooper Wagner asked eagerly. "Because that would just be amazing."

"I believe one of them is, but the rest aren't."

"I'm surprised that Walter didn't try and get it produced," Blanc stated, tone too absentminded to be genuine.

She grimaced. "He certainly tried, but Harlan created those games to procrastinate from working on a plot that wasn't cooperating at that point in time, not as something to be released to his fans. It drove Walt nearly as mad as the lack of adaptation rights did."

Scratching his cheek, Elliott tossed out, "Guess that might change depending on who inherits the publishing company."

Hermione kept her expression placid, well aware of Blanc's eyes on her. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

Meeting Blanc's piercing gaze, she calmly asked, "So, now that we're officially on the record, what questions were you wishing to ask me?"

Lips quirking, the Last Gentleman Detective rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. "The family has given us a rather convoluted idea of what happened the evening of the party, but it's clear you notice more than most. So, in your own words, and with as much detail as possible, tell us what happened that night."

"Please play nice," Marta begged as she parked her car off to the side of the house, near the garages.

"No," Hermione answered flatly, arms crossed over her chest.

Marta groaned, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. "It's Harlan's birthday."

"Yes, and he'd be incredibly disappointed if I didn't cause at least a bit of drama."

"Why must you be so stubborn?"

After she unbuckled her seatbelt, Hermione turned to face her friend. "Look, I know it makes you uncomfortable when I start calling out the Thrombey's, so I promise that I won't do it in front of you. But that's the most I'm going to give you, because if I'm to be forced to attend this farce of a celebration then I'm going to find some way to enjoy it."

Marta finally straightened up with a grimace. "They Thrombey's have always-"

"If you try and say that the Thrombey's have always been good to us one more time, I'm going to smack you. They have not been good to you; they're not even 'good' to each other, let alone to lowly peasants like us. And if they make one more thinly veiled racist comment or microaggression towards you, I'm going to put the fear of God into them and Harlan will absolutely support me in that endeavor."

"That's because Harlan loves drama," Marta muttered, taking a deep breath. "Look, I appreciate you looking out for me. But I don't want you to get in trouble because you felt the need to defend me. I can take care of myself."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione spotted someone headed their way and turned to see Fran walking towards the car. "Let's just agree to disagree on that," she stated, opening her door and stepping out.

"Already plotting your escape?" she called out to the housekeeper, a friendly smile on her face. "Hasn't the party just started?"

Fran grinned. "Just wanted to see what was taking you girls so long. Hugh's already here waiting to talk to Harlan, and I wanted to make sure I get a good view of Linda's face when she sees her precious baby boy get verbally squashed by you."

Hermione groaned loudly, shoulders sagging. "Didn't he just get his monthly handout last week? Why is he back so soon?"

"Because it's his grandfather's birthday," Marta told her, coming up beside Hermione and gently nudging her forward.

"Oh, please," Fran snorted. "The only birthday that asshole cares about is his own. No, I think Harlan asked him to stop by. Linda probably also insisted on it- wouldn't want her family looking bad in front of the others."

Barely able to keep herself from making a comment about how Richard had already accomplished that, Hermione stated, "Honestly, at this point, there's very little Ransom could do that would make him look worse than the little Nazi-in-training that is Walt's son."

Fran made a noise of agreement. "The little troll is already hiding away in the bathroom by Harlan's office."

Hermione made it to the front door first and pushed it open, stepping inside and warily glancing around. "Do you think we could get away with hiding for the evening?"

"You know Harlan's rule," Marta reminded her, following her inside and waiting for Fran to also enter before gently closing the door. "If he has to suffer, we all have to suffer."

"Ah yes, a lesson his spawn took to heart."

"Marta and I came to the house together. We arrived after the party had already started and Fran met us outside. We all went in together and Marta and I checked on Harlan. He'd told us of his intention to speak with Joni and Richard before the party started and we wanted to make sure he was alright."

"Why were you late?" Elliott asked.

"Because I didn't want to go," Hermione stated bluntly. "I tried to convince Marta that it would be fine for us to arrive late since we'd be staying later than usual to give Harlan his medicine before he went to bed. She refused to play along, unfortunately."

"Not a fan of birthday parties?" Trooper Wagner joked.

She gave a bland smile. "Not a fan of bigots pretending to have an ounce of tolerance. And they're certainly not a fan of me."

"Surely you don't feel that way about all of them," Blanc interjected, giving another charming smile. "After all, we've been told that young Ransom holds quite the torch for you."

A bark of laughter escaped her. "Ha! Is that what you've been told?"

Elliott bit back a smirk. "I take it that's not true?"

"How do I put this politely…" Hermione mused. "Hugh Ransom Drysdale is the kind of human being that makes one believe the story of Narcissus is fact instead of fiction."

Blanc let out a guffaw. "Well, that's quite the descriptor."

"I take it you haven't met him yet? Well, when you do, note whether or not he tells you to call him 'Ransom' or if instead says to call him 'Hugh'. You see, only the help calls him Hugh so, if that's the name he gives you, you know where you rank in his worldview."

"And what do you call him?" Blanc asked lightly.

Hermione grinned. "I call him 'Drysdale', of course." At the confused looks she received, she explained, "What else would I call someone who's defining feature is who he's related to?"

Shaking his head, Elliott interjected, "Alright, I think we got a bit off track here. You and Marta arrived at the party. We know Ransom got into some kind of argument with Harlan. Do you know what it was about?"

"I imagine that it was the same thing he argued with the others about," she sighed. "Harlan was getting his affairs in order."

"Did you speak with Ransom before he met with Harlan?" Blanc interrupted.

She grimaced.

"Hermione," Ransom greeted, leaning up against the bookshelf Hermione was standing in front of. "It's good to see you again."

Without looking away from the statue she was studying, Hermione flatly responded, "I wish I could return the sentiment, but I've decided that, for this holiday season, I'll be giving everyone I know the gift of complete honesty and therefore have to stop lying."

He grinned. "Does that mean that you'll no longer be giving me lame excuses when I ask you out?"

Turning to look at him, she smiled sweetly. "Why don't you give it a go and find out?"

"Don't mind if I do." Straightening up, Ransom leaned in and murmured, "Would you like to ditch this sad excuse for a party and go get a drink with me?"

"I would not," Hermione responded bluntly. "There. Now, Drysdale, was that better than being given a lame excuse, or was it just more humiliating?"

Eyes flashing with annoyance, Ransom pulled back. "Still refusing to call me by my name?"

"Still refusing to do something with your life beyond draining your trust fund and asking for handouts from Harlan?"

"Ransom!" Harlan interrupted, walking up to them. "Glad to see you could make it."

Quickly forcing a smile, Ransom turned to look at his grandfather. "Well, I wasn't going to miss your birthday party."

"Of course," Harlan murmured, sharing an amused glance with Hermione. "Your mother was looking for you earlier. I wouldn't keep her waiting."

Scowling, Ransom reluctantly walked away.

"I see you're still keeping him on his toes."

Hermione smiled innocently. "Just trying to find this potential you're so sure he has."

Harlan chuckled. "I'm sure. Please try to remember that Linda will be insufferable if her only son ends up mysteriously disappearing."

"Yes, well, perhaps Linda should have followed the teachings of many an aristocratic family if she wasn't going to bother to raise her child right- always have a spare for your heir."

"Yes, Ransom and I spoke for a bit early on in the evening."

Blanc waited for a moment before prodding, "I'm sorry to press, but what exactly did you two talk about?"

Hermione frowned. "He asked if I would be interested in getting dinner with him. I declined. Then Harlan came over to tell Ransom that Linda was looking for him."

"So, you and Ransom aren't together?" Elliott verified.

She barely managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. "No, we're not. I prefer a man with a bit of humility and self-sufficiency. Attributes that Ransom is severely lacking."

"And then what happened?" Blanc questioned.

"Harlan and I bullied Marta into drinking a glass of champagne with us before he headed back to his office with Ransom. Then the regularly scheduled political debate between Joni and Richard began and I managed to get Marta away before she could get pulled into it, leaving me the only immigrant Richard could use as a platform to justify why Trump's treatment of illegal immigrants was acceptable. Which did not go to his liking."

"For breaking the law!" Richard shouted at Joni, drowning out her comment about immigrants who were trying to come to America in order to get a better life for their children and those same children being locked in cages in the end. "And you're going to hate hearing this but it's true: America is for Americans."

Hermione tugged Marta out of the doorway she was hovering in and shoved her down the hall. "Why don't you go and check on Great-Nana. I think she's still making her way through the cake."

Marta hesitated for a moment just as they heard Richard demanding, "Where's Marta? Is she still here?"

Eyes widening, Marta's self-preservation kicked in and she hurried off down the hall.

"Marta!" Richard called, and Hermione popped her head into the doorway.

"Marta's not here," she told him flatly. "Do you need something?"

Richard grimaced, and Hermione knew he was going to try and wave her off, but Joni spoke before he could.

"Yes! Let's ask Hermione! After all, you said that you would feel the same way about European immigrants, didn't you?"

Hermione gave a savage grin, sauntering into the room. "Well, Richard? What would you like an immigrant to give their input on?"

Turning back to the rest of the group, Richard scrambled to recover. "Hermione came from England and she did it right. I mean, what I'm saying is she did it legally. She did it the right way. You work hard, and you'll earn your share from the ground up. Just like Dad and like all the rest of us."

Walt and Hermione both let out barks of laughter. "What would you know about working hard and going from the ground up?" she demanded, folding her arms across her chest. "Linda was the one who did all the work. She's the one who built her real estate empire. She's the business Titan here. All you've done is sit back and benefit from everything she's achieved." Hermione knew that they'd reached the point in the evening where Linda had consumed enough alcohol to be willing to ignore insults against her husband provided her ego was stroked enough.

Over the sound of Walt and Joni's laughter, Hermione could hear Richard beginning to shout, "How dare-" and quickly interrupted him.

"Oh wait, I may be wrong about one thing: it could be hard work to keep from doing something bad enough your wife divorces you for it. Would you agree, Richard?"

His eyes widened with fear and Hermione made sure nothing more than idle curiosity showed on her face. Let the bastard sit there wondering if Harlan spilled the beans.

When Richard continued to sit there in stunned silence, Hermione turned on Donna. "While I was out in the hall, I thought I heard you saying something about you losing your way of life and your culture? Now, I could be mistaken since my education focused very little on a country that's barely two hundred years old, but wasn't modern America built on the idea of being a melting pot of cultures? There is no 'American culture' to lose because there is no such thing- every bit of your culture was taken from someone- somewhere- else. Unless, of course, you're a Native American. But I think they actually did lose their culture since all the lovely people who originally immigrated to America thought they owned what was theirs."

Donna began to silently stammer, and Hermione raised a brow. "Is something wrong, Donna? I thought this was a topic you felt comfortable discussing. After all, you clearly have no problem expounding on your thoughts and beliefs to your son, who makes sure to repeat them every moment he can even when no one else cares."

Before Donna could come up with a response- or, more likely, before Walt could swoop in to rescue his waif of a wife- the sound of Ransom and Harlan shouting at each other from behind the closed study door reached the group and they all fell silent.

A moment later, Ransom threw open the door and came storming out. Without glancing at any of them, he grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door behind him.

"Not long after that, the family decided it was time to turn in for the night, so Marta and I went upstairs with Harlan so she could give him his medicine."

"Any particular reason you went upstairs with them?" Blanc asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Well, Marta and I did ride together. I also enjoy watching them play Go. Harlan always loses."

Blanc hummed. "I've never been much a fan of Go."

"It's an acquired taste," she agreed, a small smile automatically pulling at her lips. "Harlan enjoys the strategy of it all, and it drives him mad that Marta's focus is never on strategy and winning yet she always beats him."

"Did you ever play with him?" Elliott questioned, looking down at his notebook.

"Once or twice. But games like that were never my forte."

The lieutenant nodded before redirecting the conversation. "You were Harlan's assistant for almost three years, right? How'd you end up working for him?"

"Do you need any help?" Hermione inquired, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb any of the other library patrons. Normally she wouldn't just walk up to someone and offer aid, but the older gentleman had been wandering around the shelves for a quarter of an hour and it was honestly making Hermione antsy.

When he turned to look at her, Hermione was taken aback by the shrewd gleam in his eyes. "No, I'm just browsing."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Browsing for what?"

Instead of becoming annoyed, he just grinned widely. "Inspiration. Unfortunately, this establishment seems to be lacking in that."

"I suppose that depends on what you find inspiring," she responded lightly.

Without missing a beat, he told her, "Unusual murder weapons."

Staring at him for a long moment, Hermione carefully looked over the older man again. "A guitar string," she finally offered. "A quality one could be used to garrote and behead a victim, it's easy enough to dispose of without drawing attention, and it's almost impossible to trace back to someone even if found. Provided it's not in the killer's possession, of course. And that they didn't get blood on it."

Looking back at her with a thoughtful expression, he responded, "That was a strangely quick response."

"And your quest for inspiration could appear to be coming from a rather sinister place to someone normal."

Laughing, he held his hand out to her. "Harlan Thrombey."

Carefully setting her hand in his, Hermione hid a grin at the way the older man shook it firmly. "Hermione Granger."

"We met at a library," Hermione answered softly, digging her nails into her palms in a desperate bid to distract herself from the emotions pressing against her chest. "He was looking for inspiration and I was looking for a way to make him stop wandering in circles around the nonfiction section."

"And he hired you just like that?" Trooper Wagner questioned dubiously.

"Harlan…" she hesitated, genuinely struggling to find the words. "Harlan had found himself increasingly isolated as he grew older and his family became more and more overbearing. Intentionally or not, the Thrombey's kept him cut off from much of the outside world. I think, at that point, he simply wanted someone to talk to that wasn't connected to his family. The fact that I'm an adequate researcher and creatively vengeful was just a bonus."

"And you?" Blanc prodded, leaning forward. "What did you get out it?"

"Besides a job?" she retorted with a raised brow.

"Funny you should mention that," the detective started and Hermione was instantly wary. "I took the chance to review some of Harlan's household expenses- salaries for the people on his payroll and all that- and I couldn't help noticing that it would appear as though no money was ever paid to you for your services."

He moves quickly if he found that out after only just arriving to the area this morning. That's unfortunate. "I prefer cash."

"I found no records of any cash withdrawals being made," Blanc refuted. "There was also no records of his accountants drawing up any W-2 forms being created for you."

Hermione huffed, begrudgingly accepting that she had been backed into a corner. "Did you happen to notice any of the regular charitable donations that Harlan made? Well, several of those were on my behalf in a way. I have more than enough money of my own, I didn't need any of his."

"Then, why take the job at all?" Trooper Wagner asked.

Glancing away, Hermione sighed. "Perhaps Harlan wasn't the only one who needed a friend."

She could feel Blanc's eyes scanning her and Hermione knew exactly what he'd see- the plain black skirt, black heeled boots, deep blue blouse, and no jewelry besides a silver chain necklace with charms hidden by the front of her shirt. All were of good quality, but not extravagant. Nothing that would imply that she was wealthy enough to be able to afford waving away the comfort of a regular paycheck.

"Had Miss Cabrera already been hired by the time you started?" Blanc asked.

Hermione was careful not to turn back to the detective too quickly. She was protective of Marta and he knew that. If she was too… too Hermione about it, his focus would quickly shift to Marta, thinking that there had to be a reason she was so defensive of the other woman. Which there was, of course.

"Yes. She'd been working for Harlan for several months by the time he took me on as an assistant."

"And you became friends soon after?"

Hermione was more than capable of remaining calm under pressure.

Hermione had several years of experience rubbing elbows with uppity, completely out of touch purebloods.

For Merlin's sake, she had spent six years at school with Draco soddin' Malfoy without killing anyone.

If she could manage all that, then dealing with the Thrombey's should be no challenge at all. And yet…

"People can't just walk around expecting handouts," Richard was not-yelling at Meg (because Richard doesn't yell he just gets 'too passionate'). "If you can't afford something then you shouldn't be expecting the government to just help you out!"

"Something like healthcare?" the younger woman shot back. "Are you really trying to say that if someone can't afford cancer treatments or something that they should just roll over and die? When the reason they can't afford it is because the government refuses to stop medical companies and providers from overcharging their patients?"

"Other countries like Denmark are able to afford to give their citizens free healthcare," Joni chimed in. "If we're so great, then why can't America do it?"

"America has far more people than other countries."

Hermione rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. Donna was an idiot and every time she spoke in that soft, pitiful voice she purposefully used to try and keep people from arguing with her because she was far too weak to be engaged with, Hermione wanted to find the highest window and throw herself out of it. Or Donna- if it doesn't bring you joy, throw it out, right?

Donna persisted in her efforts to drive Hermione mad. "Plus, we've spent so many years protecting other countries liberties, which allows them to save their money and use it on healthcare. It's only because of us that countries like Denmark are able to-"

"Able to what?" Meg interrupted. "Able to not waste trillion of dollars on wars they have no business participating in? Able to avoid giving terrorist groups weapons to overthrow governments in order to try and gain access to oil?"

If it wasn't for the fact that Meg considered herself so superior for throwing away thousands of dollars a year in tuition fees for a school imparting the same information she could receive at another university for a far more reasonable rate, Hermione might have liked the girl. But Meg was one of those unfortunate individuals who spent so much time fighting for the less privileged while simultaneously ignoring that she and hers were part of the problem.

"Liberal propaganda," Jacob muttered, and Hermione took another sip from the glass of whiskey Harlan had handed to her right as his family had begun to arrive at the house.

"Isn't Britain a country with universal healthcare?" Joni loudly asked and Hermione just knew that the older woman would be trying to subtly set her phone aside as she pretended to not have been searching online. "Hermione?"

Hermione looked up from the pattern in the rug she was carefully tracing with her eyes, staring at the group now looking at her with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

This was her first event with the entire Thrombey family after meeting a few of them previously during the two months she'd worked for Harlan, and she now completely understood why the old man had extracted a promise from her to play nice. As she studied the family, Hermione knew that was a promise she was going to be breaking because she was going to light these people up pretty hard for a first gathering.

"We do," she stated smiling brightly. "And I have full confidence that your government will follow in our footsteps sooner rather than later."

"What makes you say that?" Walt asked, eyes narrowed. He was so suspicious of Hermione and hated that Harlan had waved away all his concerns regarding hiring her. She raised her glass in his direction in a mocking toast.

"Well, due to your countries rich tradition of copying us, of course. If we do it, sooner or later you will too. Which makes sense, considering how young your government is. It's important to be able to look to your betters for guidance when you're struggling and I, for one, find it inspiring how self-aware you Americans can be at times when it comes to your own… inexperience."

She didn't even believe what she was saying, but she knew it would upset at least a few of these idiots and that's all she wanted at this point. And she had chosen her words very carefully to garner the best reaction.

Harlan was smiling widely at her, so Hermione was reassured that he didn't mind her response too much. Richard, Walt, Donna, and Jacob didn't seem as pleased, though whether that was because of their supposed patriotic feelings or because Harlan had made a few casual comments about Richard and Walt's inexperience when it came to their respective jobs was anyone's guess.

Before anyone could respond, Marta poked her head into the doorway. "Excuse me," she called softly, eyes skittering around the room before landing on Hermione. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Wanetta was looking for you, Hermione."

Blinking at the younger woman in confusion, Hermione slowly straightened up from where she was leaning next to the windows in the parlor. Marta looked nervous and was repeatedly swallowing, avoiding everyone's gazes.

"Well, I shant keep the matriarch waiting," Hermione announced, setting her glass aside and walking towards Marta, who stepped back and began hurrying back down the hallway ahead of her.

Once they were out of earshot, Hermione reached out to stop Marta. Before she could touch her arm, the nurse was sprinting around the corner and slamming the powder room door open. Hermione stood frozen in surprise for a long moment until the sound of retching pushed her back into motion.

Marta was hunched over the toilet when she stepped into the small room, hands clutching the rim so tightly her knuckles were white, and Hermione couldn't help wincing as her mind automatically started wondering how many germs must be transferring to Marta's hands right then. Walking over to the sink, Hermione took a washcloth out of the basket on the counter and ran it under some cool water, twisting it tightly between her hands to squeeze out the excess water, before moving over to Marta.

The other woman sat back on her heels with a sigh, closing the lid of the toilet and flushing it with an oddly blank expression. Sliding down onto the floor next to her, Hermione held out the towel. "Here."

Blinking at her, Marta hesitantly excepted the cloth, shoulders relaxing as she wiped her face with it. "Thank you."

Hermione nodded, carefully studying the younger woman. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you seem more… resigned, I suppose, than I would expect from someone who just threw up. Did you come into work today feeling unwell?" The concept was almost unthinkable to Hermione considering how serious Marta was about watching over Harlan's health.

Marta sighed. "Wanetta isn't looking for you."

Brows furrowing, she said, "I know. Wanetta already stated she wasn't going to help me escape from the family when we had tea earlier."

That seemed to break through Marta's composure, and she gapped at Hermione. "Wait, Greatnana actually talks to you? I didn't think she spoke to anyone besides Harlan. I've just seen you two sitting together before and took a chance."

"Yes, we speak," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. "We usually play a round of Swedish Rummy or Knockout Whist in the morning before Harlan begins bossing me around and then I read to her in the afternoons. We're getting a bit off-subject though."

"Right. Of course." Marta shook her head slightly. "I lied earlier."

"Again, I know."

Marta fell silent for a handful of seconds, lips pursed, before she finally sighed and stated, "I puke when I lie."

It was Hermione's turn to go silent, turning the other girl's words round in her head as she considered them. "You puke when you lie?"

"Yes. Ever since I was little… I don't know why… but yeah, just… even the thought of lying makes me puke."

"So, even knowing that it would cause you to be ill, you still lied earlier? Why would you do that?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "I heard you talking back there. Harlan may like his drama, but he wouldn't be the one who would have to deal with the family later. Your words may have been true, but their response would be… loud."

Hermione sagged back against the wall. This girl… for a moment, she was transported back in time, remembering another girl in a bathroom lying to keep someone else from getting into trouble.

"My words weren't true," she finally settled on saying. "About Britain being America's betters, I mean. We're just the original white trash, wandering into country's we had no right to and declaring them savages because they were different."

Marta snorted. "Spain and France did the same."

"Spain and France didn't steal an entire building from Greece," Hermione responded with a smile. And when Marta gave her the first true smile she'd seen from her in the weeks they'd known each other, Hermione could feel something slotting into place.

She wasn't scared of the Thrombey's, but Marta seemed to be worried about angering them. So, from here on out, Hermione would help protect Marta from them the way she now realized Harlan had been carefully doing. She'd shield this wonderfully kind woman who had lied to help her for no other reason than because she'd thought Hermione needed it from the Thrombey's clumsy attempts at playing tolerant and understanding. Because that's what friends were for.

"It was a few weeks after I had started that we became friends," Hermione stated calmly. "We worked similar hours and she was always willing to lend a hand if I needed it."

"Lend a hand doing what?" Blanc asked, strangely intent and Hermione really didn't like it.

"Anything really. Last time it was helping Harlan and I figure out what a blood splatter pattern might look like depending on the objects that are in the way. Harlan's convinced himself that his murders are getting repetitive and the descriptions of scenes are becoming rote so we spent a week creating crime scenes, inspecting them, cleaning them up, then inspecting them again to see what was missed the first time around because, in his words, 'if any traces were left behind even after our combined intelligence took on the challenge of cleaning the scene, it would take a truly terrifying detective to notice if anything was left behind'."

"Awesome," Trooper Wagner breathed, and Hermione was reminded that she and Blanc weren't the only ones in the room. It was hard to focus on the others when she knew who the real threat was.

"Blood spatter patterns," Blanc repeated, fiddling with a coin between his fingers. "And, if you don't mind my asking, what did you end up discovering?"

Hermione purposefully- obviously- bit back a smile, allowing a hint of amusement to flicker across her expression. "That there is a limit to Marta's willingness to put up with our shenanigans. Also, that it may be easier to clean fake blood off of a smooth surface than it is any kind of fabric-like material, but it's infinitely worse trying to erase all traces of blood from the small crevices' in said smooth surface. Harlan was delighted when he tried to clean a small crack in one of the stones on the patio and ended up cutting his own finger. Marta and Fran were not as happy about it and Harlan and I spent the next two weeks grounded from doing anything other than paper research."

Elliott snorted. "I get the feeling that punishment wasn't all that much safer."

"Then you must have good instincts," she told him, glancing between the three men. "Unfortunately, I think I may have pulled us off track once again. Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?"

Glancing down at his notebook, Elliott nodded. "Yeah. Just wondering how Harlan's demeanor came across to you that evening. Sounds like it was a rough evening for him- for all of them, I guess."

Hermione remembered Harlan pushing them out the door. She remembered Marta shaking on the stair below her. She remembered the dawning realization hitting her and spinning on her heel, swinging the door open. She remembered meeting Harlan's clear, gentle eyes. She remembered the way the overhead light glinted off the knife.

"Everything will be okay," he'd told her softly. "I promise. If anyone can do this, it's you."

She remembered the knife streaking across his throat before she could stop him. She remembered pulling the door closed as quickly as she could before Marta could see anything.

"Yes, it was a rough evening," she agreed dully. "Harlan was quiet. Tired. Perhaps a bit resigned."

"Suicidal?" Blanc asked bluntly and Hermione couldn't help the way her eyes snapped to him.

His flinty blue eyes were solid, intent, as he waited for her answer. "Harlan did as he pleased, regardless of what anyone else thought or wanted. When he made a decision, no one and nothing would change his mind, and you wouldn't know what was happening until he wanted you to. Everything was a story to Harlan, and what's a story without an interesting twist."

It hurt. Her friend, her mentor, the parental figure that she hadn't known she was still longing for even as an adult, was dead. He was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

Something in Blanc's demeanor shifted and Hermione could have cursed because that was more than she'd wanted him to see. "Anything else?" she demanded, swallowing down the need creeping up her throat- to escape from this library that she'd spent hours in with Harlan and Marta, that she'd reorganized sections of whenever Harlan upset her just to drive him mad, that had been her safe haven now forever tainted by the memory of the many interrogations that had taken place within its walls.

"No," Blanc told her softly. "Thank you, Miss Granger."

Nodding, Hermione stood and walked out of the room. Marta was sitting on the stairs outside of the library and her head snapped up as Hermione stepped into view.

Giving her as reassuring of a smile as she could, Hermione murmured, "You'll be fine. You're not required to answer questions you aren't comfortable with and you won't get in trouble if you stop the interview- I promise. And I'll be close-by if you need me."

Marta took a deep breath, expressing shifting to the calm demeanor she always wore when interacting with the Thrombey's at their worst. Before she could lie and say that she'd be fine, Hermione held up a hand to stop her, stepping aside to allow Marta to pass. "I'll be near," she reiterated, holding her friend's gaze until the other woman's shoulders slumped and she nodded.

Once the door closed behind Marta, Hermione walked to the bathroom around the corner- the same one that she'd followed Marta into that first time- and sank down onto the edge of the windowsill.

She knew that she should hurry upstairs to listen in on Marta's interrogation, make sure that she memorizes Marta's version of events so that she knows what her next moves need to be, but she needed a moment. Because Harlan's dead and she's spent a week pretending to be strong for Marta's sake and reassuring her friend that none of the blame for what happened lies with Marta while pretending that the truth isn't that the majority of it lies with herself.

Hermione was shaking with laughter at the exasperated look on Marta's face as she tried to persuade Harlan that it was too late for their nightly game of Go.

"If you're going to put that vile shit in me, you'll have to earn it," he warned her, feigning outrage. "On my birthday!" Marta groaned, tossing her medical bag aside as Harlan continued to taunt her. "Eighty-fifth birthday. So old. I'm so old…"

"Fine," Marta snapped, tossing her medical bag onto the table and sinking down into her usual seat with a glare. "You really love drama, huh?"

Snorting, Hermione perched on top of Harlan's writing desk and asked, "Harlan? Loving drama? Absurd! Outrageous! Inconceivable!"

Marta turned to glower at her, though Hermione could see her friend's lips twitching with amusement. "Must you encourage him?"

"Of course I must. That's what I'm here for. It's what I was hired to do. It's what I was born to do, really."

Turning back to Harlan, Marta grabbed her bag of tiles and pulled out a handful of black stones. "Okay. Let's do this. 9x9. You ready?"

"I'll whip your ass," Harlan promptly responded, sending Hermione into another fit of laughter.

"How dare you," Marta sneered, slamming her first tile down onto the board.

Hermione was filled with warmth as she watched her two closest friends placing tiles onto the board. This was one of her favorite past times now, watching Marta effortlessly best Harlan at the game he took such pride in.

"I know how this is going to end," Marta taunted, watching as Harlan placed a tile on the board with a raised eyebrow. "What is that?"

"Why can't I beat you at this game?" Harlan whined.

"Because I'm not playing to beat you," the nurse answered softly, finally regaining her cool. "I'm playing to build a beautiful pattern."

"That's elder abuse," he told her. "I'm gonna call the AARP."

"Don't make me get the belt, abuelo."

"Now, if she got the belt, that would actually be elder abuse," Hermione joined in, feigning a thoughtful demeanor. "I suppose she could just spin it as 'cultural differences'. Perhaps in Cuba they treat their elders as they do their children- a good swat will teach both a lesson."

Marta laughed. "Careful, Hermione. It sounds like you're making assumptions about my culture. I could be offended."

"Actually, you can't. In this lovely political climate we've found ourselves trapped in, you would need to locate a white person who's willing to be offended on your behalf in order for any possible offenses to be valid. I do apologize for having to be the one to have to tell you that- I thought you would have received the memo sent out two years ago."

The pair had continued their game as she spoke and there were only a few empty spaces still available.

"It's basically over," Harlan sighed loudly. "My only hope is that an earthquake will strike." Marta's head snapped up, eyes flashing. "But what are the chances of that?"

Hermione glanced down and watched as Harlan began shaking the small table with his knee, causing all the tiles to begin shifting out of place.

"Uh oh!" Harlan cried. "Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Get under a door frame!" He lifted the table up, sending the board and tiles crashing onto the ground. Marta's medical bag also fell down with a soft thud, several vials spilling out of it and rolling across the carpet.

"Such a bad loser you are!" Marta chided, shaking her head as she leaned over to gather all her medical supplies. "Meds then bed- I'm done with you!"

Once Harlan's cackles petered out, he unbuttoned the cuff on his left sleeve before rolling it up. "That's fair."

A faint smell drifted through the cracked window and Hermione grumbled, "Walt's smoking one of his disgusting cigars again."

"It's a nasty habit," Harlan agreed as Marta picked up a vial and stuck a needle through the lid, carefully drawing several milligrams of the substance into the attached syringe. Afterwards, she twisted the needle off and inserted the syringe into Harlan's pre-inserted catheter.

"How was tonight?" Marta asked as slowly injected Harlan's medicine.

"Tonight? Tonight was… good."

Hermione hummed, hopping off the table to come around to where the other two were seated, sinking down onto the ground and beginning to collect the fallen Go tiles. "I saw Walt cornering you earlier. I know you weren't planning on speaking with him tonight, especially since he was drinking rather heavily."

"No, I wasn't," Harlan sighed. "But I did it. Cut the line on all four of them. Wasn't easy. This goddamn fortune… You know, sometimes I think that everything I've given my family I've done- maybe without knowing it- may be to keep them beneath me. I certainly should have… I don't know, encouraged Walt to write his own stories, not just be a caretaker of mine, like Marta said I should. Been a father and not just a provider to Joni. And I could have been kinder to Linda and Ransom." Lifting a hand to his forehead, he let out a huff of laughter. "Jesus… Ransom. There's so much of me in that kid. Confident. Stupid. I don't know, protected."

Sitting back on her heels, Hermione joined Marta in quietly watching Harlan, taking in his distant gaze as he considered what he should have done differently in the past. Considered all the paths he'd failed to take.

"Playing life like a game without consequence," he continued, waiting until Marta removed the syringe from his catheter to grab the ornate dagger off the stand beside him and removing the sheath. "Until you can't tell the difference between a stage prop and a real knife." He stabbed the blade into the table in front of them, sitting back with a flourish as it stood upright.

The sound of metal impacting with wood made Hermione flinch, gaze automatically tracking the blade, and she noticed Harlan giving her an apologetic look out of the corner of her eye once he spotted where her attention was directed. He and Marta were well aware of her aversion to daggers, had seen the scars on her arm and neck, and while neither of them said a word about it, she knew that both shielded her as best they could. But Harlan, with his game-like home and obsession regarding bringing fiction into reality, sometimes forgot.

"It's difficult to understand consequences when you never have to face them," Hermione stated, watching as Marta picked up another vial of medicine and prepared to give Harlan one last dose. "From my experience, when someone seeks to protect another from having to endure any fallout from their mistakes, it's generally done to help them, not to keep them subservient. You immerse yourself in a world of horrors, Harlan- is it any wonder that you wanted so desperately to keep your family close and comfortable that you forgot to consider what would be best for them?"

"You've always thought too well of me, Hermione," he told her, shoulders relaxing. "Better than I deserve, if I'm being honest. Which is something I've found much easier to do as I've grown older. Why waste the little time I have left with lies?"

"Must you be so morbid?" Marta chided gently.

He smiled. "I don't fear death," he told them firmly. "God knows I've spent enough time surrounded by it, so I feel more intrigued by it than anything else. But I'd like to fix some of this before I go. Close the book with a flourish. But I guess we'll see."

"I guess we will," Marta agreed.

"Hopefully not anytime soon," Hermione declared, trying to lighten the mood. "After all, considering how long Wanetta has lived, I expect that you'll still be around for at least several more years."

"Yes, my mother is a remarkable woman," he agreed, an oddly intent look in his eyes as he studied Hermione. "Not unlike yourself."

She blinked at him. "If I turn out anything like your mother when I reach her age, I'll know I did something right in my life."

Lifting a glass vial up into the air, Marta gave it a tiny shake and said, "You had a long day. You wanna do drugs?"

Harlan chuckled. "You mean the good stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, come send me to lala land," he sang.

"Are you saying that's not where you presently reside now?" Hermione teased, watching as her friend took a new syringe and plunged the needed into the second vial.

"Lala land is a happy place," Harlan reminded her. "That's not usually where my mind resides. But why did I wait till my mid-eighties to become a morphine user? What a schmuk. What a nudnik. This stuff is the best."

Hermione was about to respond when she noticed Marta freezing in place, staring at the morphine vial with wide eyes.

"Marta?" she asked, as the nurse snatched up the first vial from the table and held it up against the one she was currently drawing from. "What's wrong?"

"Oh my god," Marta whispered.

"Is there a problem?" Harlan asked.

Leaning forward, Hermione tried to read the front of the vials.

"This is what I just gave you a hundred milligrams of," Marta stated, gesturing to the first vial and Hermione's heart skipped a beat as she read the label stating it was morphine. "I messed up."

"You gave me a hundred milligrams of the good stuff?" Harlan verified, as Marta jumped to her feet and stepped over to her medical bag. "Excuse me, but what is the good stuff's dosage supposed to be?"

"Let's not call it that right now, okay?" She dug through the bag frantically, and Hermione also stood. "Three milligrams."

"Oh, that's much less," the author murmured. "So, what happens?"

"I'm gonna give you an emergency shot of naloxone, so that you don't die in ten minutes."

"Oh, well, no pressure."

Hermione turned to glare at Harlan. "You're not helping," she hissed, before turning back to Marta and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Here." Plucking the bag out of the nurse's hands, Hermione knelt down and dumped the contents onto the floor. "It'll be easier to find it this way."

Marta sank down onto her knees and the two women began to quickly sort through the bag's contents.

"You know," Harlan continued absentmindedly, "this is an interesting and efficient method of murder. I need to write this down. So, if someone switched the meds on purpose, I'd be dead in ten minutes. Like stone-cold dead?"

"Yes," Marta gasped, and Hermione could tell she was close to tears. "You'll feel symptoms in five. Sweats, disorientation, and then… Yes. That big dose injected, within ten, your… your brain and… yes, ten minutes."

"Marta," Hermione whispered, shuddering as an unfortunately familiar coldness filled her chest. "Marta, it's not here."

"Yes it is! It has to be! I have it because it comes with the kit, so it should be here. It has to be."

"It was here, but it's not now," Hermione snapped, sitting back on her heels and trying to calm her breathing.

"What?" Marta's head snapped up, staring at Hermione with tear-filled eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I saw the bottle of naloxone last week, after I accidentally knocked your bag over and everything fell out, remember? It was in there. I remember it. But it's not here now."

Why? Hermione asked herself, mind racing. Why wasn't it there? Where had it gone?

"Are you sure you put it back?" Marta demanded, on her feet and heading towards the door. "Maybe it's still in the bedroom. I'll go-"

"I didn't forget it," she responded, also standing. "And if I had, it would have been found when the room was cleaned yesterday. It's not there. It's not here."

She and Marta stared at one another for a long moment before Hermione automatically turned and started walking towards the back of the room. "Shit," she hissed as she tripped over some of the Go pieces still scattered about, barely catching herself on the edge of the desk.

"What are you doing?" Harlan questioned.

"I'm going to call an ambulance," Hermione answered, picking up the green handset and punching in the numbers 9-1-1. Before the call could connect, Harlan pressed down on the plunger.

"What are you doing?" Marta demanded, striding across the room.

Hermione stiffened at the resolved mien on the old man's face. "Harlan?"

"Listen to me," he started.

"Harlan," the nurse interrupted. "We need to call the ambulance."

"Stop this, Marta," he implored, shifting in his seat and reaching out to grab her arm. "There's no time. You have to listen to me!"

Jerking her arm away, Marta stated, "I'm calling the family."

She'd only managed a few steps before Harlan tripped her, causing her to slam into the floor.

"What are you doing?" Hermione demanded, racing over to help her friend up.

Marta was becoming hysterical. "Harlan, we have to call the ambulance. We don't have time-"

Harlan reached out to cover Marta's mouth with his hand. "LISTEN TO ME!" When she fell into stunned silence, he told her, "If what you said is true, I'm gone. There's no saving me."

"Harlan," Hermione breathed, realizing what he was about to say.

"We have got to get you two out of this! Do you realize what will happen to you if you're linked to my death, Hermione? And think of your mom, Marta."

"My mom?" Marta repeated, while Hermione just stared in dawning horror.

A knock at the door caused all three of them to jump, and then Harlan was shoving the two women towards the back of the room. "Get behind me. Don't make any noise."

Hermione grabbed Marta and turned them both to face the wall as they heard Joni calling, "Harlan? Marta? Hermione? Everything all right?"

The door creaked as it opened and then Harlan casually greeted, "Oh, hi, Joni."

"Hi. I thought I heard something. Is everything okay?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see that Marta was shaking, tears streaming down her eyes.

Marta was set to inherit everything upon Harlan's demise- he'd told her that he'd made the changes to his will himself just last week.

If she was found responsible for his death, then the Slayer Rule would apply. She'd get nothing. Her family would be deported.

Hermione didn't care what would happen to her if MACUSA deported her back to Britain. She'd find a way to survive. She'd probably be fine. But Marta wouldn't.

She desperately racked her brain for something she could do, for some way to fix this. But there were no spells that Hermione knew of that could be of use in this situation and she wasn't allowed to bring any magical objects with her to the house as part of her deal with MACUSA. Even if Hermione apparated Harlan to a hospital right then and there, there was no guarantee he would survive. The journey alone might kill him if his system was already shutting down from the drugs and, if they didn't, MACUSA might as punishment for Hermione not playing by the rules. If the rumors were true, they'd done worse for less before.

For the first time in a very long time, there was nothing she could do.

"We're fine," Harlan reassured Joni. "I just knocked over this Go board. Sorry about that."

"But everyone's alright?" Joni verified.

"Yeah, fine," he answered, and Hermione made herself look over her shoulder and give Joni a carefree smile. The other woman seemed to relax slightly as she smiled back. "Go to bed, Joni," Harlan instructed as Hermione turned back around.

"Okay. Maybe we can talk tomorrow about the family-"

"Tomorrow's fine," he interrupted. "Good night. Love you."

"Love you. Bye." And then the door audibly closed.

Hermione and Marta turned around as Harlan hurried over to them.

"Pay attention," he ordered, looking between them before focusing on Marta. "Your mom is still undocumented. And if this is your fault, she'll be found out and at best deported, and your family will be broken. But we're not going to let that happen. But you'll have to do exactly what I tell you." He then looked at Hermione and she held up a hand to stop him.

"I know what you're going to say. I know what will happen to me if I'm associated with your death."

'I'll do whatever it takes to protect her,' were the unspoken words Hermione told Harlan and the relief was clear in his gaze.

"What do you want us to do?" Hermione asked.

She listened numbly as Harlan laid out his plan to them. While the back of her mind was memorizing every detail, the rest of it was trying to piece together everything that was happening.

The naloxone was in the bag just last week. She knew it was. She'd seen it. Therefore, someone must have removed it from the bag. But why? Besides being a treatment for a narcotic overdose, it didn't do anything else. Could someone else have removed it?

Marta's bag was never removed from the house. She administered the medicine, but they were still Harlan's medicine and therefore never left the grounds. Therefore, only someone with access to the house could have removed the naloxone from the bag. But again, why?

It was right there. The truth was right there. Hermione could see all the pieces slowly coming together, but shock and champagne were causing her mind to move at slower speeds than normal, and she was missing something, and it was important.

But what was it?

And then Harlan was shoving them towards the door. "I know I've missed something- there's going to be something that I missed. But I know you two can do this. You have to do what you have to do to beat this and win."

"No, I can't do this," Marta whispered.

"You can," he responded. "And you have to. For me."

His eyes drifted over to Hermione. "You can do this," he repeated, and she nodded.

Hermione would do this. For Harlan. For Marta.

Pushing herself up, Hermione calmly walked out of the bathroom and back to the bedroom she had been hiding in before. Casting the same spells, Hermione settled in to listen to Marta's interview.

"So please, take your time," came Blanc's smooth baritone. "You and Miss Granger took Mr. Thrombey upstairs at 11:30 and left at midnight. Think very carefully and, with as much detail as possible, tell us what happened in that half hour."

When Marta answered, her voice was calm and even. "We took him upstairs. We played our nightly game of Go. I didn't want to because it was late and I just wanted to go home, but Harlan insisted. When he realized he was going to lose, he knocked the board off the table so that I couldn't officially win. Hermione helped pick up the pieces, but she missed a few and ended up tripping, and Joni came up to check on us. Um… I gave him pain medication. He pulled his shoulder last week. We left him in his study at midnight, said goodbye on our way out, and went back to Hermione's apartment."

Hermione winced. It wasn't as much detail as she'd been hoping for, but she knew it was the best Marta could do without totally breaking down. Marta may have only been able to speak truthfully, but Harlan and Hermione had managed to turn her into quite the liar nonetheless.

"What kind of medication did you give him?" Elliot asked.

"Since his injury, I've been giving him a one hundred milligram push of Toradol. It's a non-narcotic analgesic. And to help him sleep, three milligrams of morphine."

"And the family was aware of this?" the lieutenant continued to prod.

"Yes, of course."

"Did you notice anything strange or off about his demeanor?"

Marta was quiet for a moment and Hermione silently prayed that her friend held out a little longer- that she answered this question just as Hermione told her to.

"He seemed tired," she finally told the men. "He had told us that he was planning on cutting off his family and I know that he had been thinking about it for a while, but it took more out of him than he was expecting. I think… I think he thought he failed them."

"Do you agree?" Blanc questioned.

"I… Hermione said that Harlan kept himself surrounded by horrors and that's why he wanted to keep them close. I think he wanted to help his family, but he just wasn't sure how."

Pursing her lips, Hermione wished that Marta had left her out of the conversation. While she did want Blanc's attention on her, Marta offering Hermione's thoughts before her own made her extremely uncomfortable.

"That sounds about right," Blanc murmured, and Hermione grimaced. It wasn't a good sign that the interview ended so quickly after that question. "Thank you, Miss Cabrera."

It would be better to stay for a bit and see if the men said anything once Marta left, but Hermione knew her friend needed her right then. So, Hermione left the room and returned to the bathroom, ignoring the sound of the sink running as she slipped inside and walked over to kneel down next to Marta's hunched form.

Pulling Marta's hair up and off her neck, Hermione numbly waited for her stomach to settle. When the other woman finally sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, Hermione whispered, "I'm so sorry, Marta."

Staring at her with wide eyes, Marta asked, "Why are you apologizing? I'm the one who… you wouldn't even be in this mess if it wasn't for me."

"I'm sorry that Harlan and I placed such a horrible burden on you. I'm sorry that you keep having nightmares. I'm sorry that you just threw up because you think you lied to the police. Most of all, I'm sorry that I didn't do a better job of shielding you after everything you've done to look after me since that first evening you lied to try and help me."

Marta released a shaky breath, blinking back tears. "We help each other. We protect one another. You don't have to be grateful to me for doing what you have done so many times for me."

Hermione almost told her then and there. Almost admitted the truth- or what she thought the truth was. But she didn't have the evidence to back her theory yet, so she simply helped Marta stand, stood next to her as she brushed her teeth, and then pulled her friend into a tight hug.

She didn't deserve Marta's friendship, but she'd take it all the same.

The memorial was well under way when Hermione found Wanetta in her favorite chair by the window in the sitting room outside her bedroom. Padding across the room, Hermione set a tray of salmon puffs down on the small side table as she took her usual seat across from the Thrombey Matriarch.

"Hello," Hermione greeted, forcing a smile on her face. One that fell quickly when all Wanetta did was quietly stare at her.

Wetting her lips, Hermione whispered, "I'm sorry. For not coming by sooner. This past week was… well, Marta was staying with me and I didn't feel comfortable leaving her alone long enough to come visit and she wasn't up to joining me."

Wanetta remained silent, so Hermione forced herself to continue.

"I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for… for not doing more. But I know you know that there's something strange about all of this. I'm looking into it. I'm trying. I promise. I promise I'll figure out what happened."

"Ransom," Wanetta murmured, and Hermione's head snapped up. "Ransom came back. I saw him outside the window."

Hermione's breath caught in her chest. "Ransom," she repeated. "Ransom came back."

It fit. It all fit perfectly. Ransom came back to the house after leaving but managed to get in without the rest of the family noticing. All except for Wanetta, who had spent her evening here, in the sitting room, where she always did, staring out the window towards the forest. If she had spotted Ransom, then he must have gotten in the same way Hermione did.

"Harlan told Ransom about the will, didn't he?" Hermione whispered. "He told him that Marta was going to inherent everything."

Wanetta nodded, reaching out to pick up a salmon puff and popping it into her mouth.

If what Hermione and Wanetta were both thinking was right, then that information combined with the answer Hermione expected to receive from her contact would be enough to conclusively prove that Ransom had tried to set up Marta to kill Harlan. But would it be enough to sway a court of law should the truth ever come to light?

"I promised Harlan I would protect Marta," she admitted, voice catching. "I promised him. I want justice, but not at Marta's expense. This family… you know what they'll do to her if they find out what happened, especially if they can lie and say they're doing what they have to to protect Ransom."

"I know," Wanetta rasped. "But there are different kinds of justice. Ransom will get his without you girls having to lose."

This was why Hermione was so fond of Wanetta- under her senile, dotty image was a woman of steel. There was a reason Harlan was a good soul beneath all his drama-mongering ways and a reason he loved a good puzzle, and all of those reasons rested with his mother.

"It's not your fault," the matriarch continued.

Hermione snorted but, before she could respond, her phone rang. Slipping it out of her pocket, she stiffened upon seeing the Caller ID.

"Go," Wanetta told her, waving her off.

Nodding, she stood and strode out of the room. Quickly dodging around the various family friends and business associates that made up the memorial attendees, Hermione ducked out onto the back patio and answered the call.

"Please tell me you've got something for me."

"Ask and you shall receive," Erin Roth responded cheerfully. "Before I do though, can I just say how much I enjoy the strangeness of this particular question? Whoever you work for is certainly going for an original plot this time around because I don't think I've ever seen or read about a murder like this."

Hermione closed her eyes, thanking any and all deity's that she'd never disclosed the name of the author she worked for to any of her contacts because Harlan's death had made national news- possibly worldwide, though she didn't know that for sure because she'd never checked- and they'd certainly be hesitant to help her if they knew she was asking such suspicious questions without the shield of writing to save her.

"Tell me about it. I have no idea how the idea came to him."

"At least now I'll be able to figure out who you work for once this book comes out," Erin joked. "Anyway, to answer your question: yes, on the surface Morphine and Toradol look exactly the same. But there is a slight difference in color and viscosity between the two liquids. It would take someone with experience handling both meds- a pharmacist like me or a nurse- to be able to tell which is which without the labels. A chemist could also possibly be able to tell."

She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to make a scene. She was right, and she wasn't going to cry.

She wasn't going to cry even though she was right and it meant that she'd killed Harlan.

"Hermione?"

"Thank you, Erin," she rasped, clearing her throat and repeating, "Thank you. That's incredibly helpful."

"You okay?" Erin asked, sounding concerned. "You sound off."

"I'm alright. It's just been a stressful day."

"Okay," the woman replied doubtfully. "Well, hope it gets better. And that my answer helps you."

"It absolutely does. Thank you so much for getting back to me so quickly. I really appreciate it."

Hermione hung up the phone and shoved it in her pocket, sinking down onto a low brick wall.

Marta hadn't killed Harlan. She hadn't. The drugs had been switched. Ransom had switched the drugs so that Marta would kill Harlan and the slayer rule would apply, causing Marta to lose the inheritance. But Marta had switched the drugs back, which meant that Harlan's death was a suicide.

She didn't need to do anything regarding the police investigation now. It didn't matter. They could dig all they wanted, but Harlan's death was a suicide.

Something clicked in the air a few meters away from her and Hermione stiffened, still keeping her head down. Cigar smoke soon filled the air and she let out a huff, slowly looking up to stare at the shadow that was Blanc, sitting in a chair across the patio from her.

"I'd ask if you were here for the memorial but, if that were the case, I imagine you would have at least listened to the toasts at the start."

"I didn't want to intrude," he told her simply.

"Intruding on a memorial is inappropriate, but skulking around in the shadows outside a house is acceptable?"

The end of his cigar glowed orange in the night. "Do you think differently?"

Crossing her legs, Hermione rested her arms on her knee. "I think that it's smart of you to hide from the family considering how several of them wouldn't welcome your continued presence here now that Lieutenant Elliot and Trooper Wagner have left, but it's still awful risky to hang around outside where one of them might stumble upon you. Since I'm sure you're already aware of that, I have to assume that you have a very good reason for still being here."

The door opened, and Marta stepped out. She didn't seem to notice either individual until after she'd closed the door and started down the few steps to the patio and froze at the sight of Hermione.

"Hermione?" she started, brows furrowed, and then the glow of Blanc's cigar caught her eye and she turned to look at him. "Detective!"

"Hello, Marta," Hermione greeted, standing up and moving to position herself next to her friend. "Blanc was just about to explain what he was still doing here."

The Detective also stood, stepping forward into the glow of the porch light. "I was hoping to speak with two of you a little more."

Marta stiffened but Hermione just cocked her head to the side. "Whatever for?"

"Something is afoot with this whole affair," he told them. "I know it, and I believe the both of you know it too."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see that Marta was doing an admirable job of keeping her expression blank. "So, you're going to keep digging?"

Blanc took a pull from his cigar. "Harlan's detectives… they dig, they rifle and root. Truffle pigs. I anticipate the terminus of gravity's rainbow."

"Gravity's Rainbow," Hermione repeated.

"It's a novel," Blanc told her, and she chuckled.

"I know. A bit difficult to get through, but still enjoyable. 'Who, if I screamed, would hear me among the angelic orders? … For Beauty is nothing but the beginning of Terror that we're still just able to bear, and why we adore it is because it serenely disdains to destroy us.'."

He was visibly surprised. "You know, I do believe that you're the first person I've met who's read it."

"Really?" Hermione responded mildly. "I found myself entranced from the very first sentence. 'A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.'. It spoke to me."

A story set during World War II but with characters still caught up in the chaos from the first World War, the effects from which were still being felt by all. How could such a story not resonate with her?

Something shifted in Blanc's too-blue gaze. "I just like the title. It describes the path of projectile, determined by natural law- voila, my method. I observe the facts without biases of the head or heart, I determine the arc's path, stroll leisurely to its terminus, and the truth falls at my feet."

Hermione could hold back her wince. "What's wrong?" Marta asked.

She hesitated, but ultimately sighed and explained, "I know you haven't read the book, Detective Blanc, but, if I were you, I might choose a different way of explaining your method. In the book, Gravity's Rainbow symbolizes the arc of a rocket- it's a symbol of death. And while poetry regarding the truth in death has been waxed by many an author, it may not suit your purposes. Although, in this case, I suppose the truth you're looking for is connected to a death…"

After a moment, Blanc chuckled. "I guess it's a good thing that I don't usually bring up the book when explaining my method, isn't it? I can't help it if the people I'm talking to decide to mention it."

"It's too bad you're not one to put on false airs," Hermione commented, lips twitching. "Otherwise, you might have looked up a summary or review of the book and then both known the major symbology in it and been able to further your cultured appearance."

"What does all this have to do with us?" Marta interrupted, placing the conversation back on track.

Blanc turned serious. "The medical examiner was ready to rule this a suicide, but Elliot agreed to keep it pending for forty-eight hours. Tomorrow morning, I search the grounds and the house, begin my investigation. I want you both to be by my side for it- my confidants, my eyes and ears."

"What?" Marta spluttered while Hermione eyed the investigator. "Why us?"

"I trust your kind heart," Blanc told her before meeting Hermione's gaze again. "And your keen insight. Also, you two are the only ones who had nothing to gain from Harlan's death."

Hermione couldn't help feeling amused even as she knew her friend was panicking beside her. It was truly a game now with Blanc- one with rather low stakes. Harlan's death was actually a suicide- the medical examiner's report would prove that. Because there was nothing to find, Hermione now had nothing to hide. Toying with the private investigator could now simply be an amusing way to pass the time. It would also be fun to see whether or not Blanc was as good as his reputation purported him to be.

Blanc turned back to Marta. "So, how about it, Watson?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to head inside, but Hermione stopped him. "If she's Watson, you're Sherlock, and Lieutenant Elliot is Lestrade, then who am I?"

He glanced back at her. "I guess you could say that I'm still trying to puzzle that out."

A bright smile escaped her, and Blanc blinked. "You'll have to let me know when you figure it out, Detective."

"What is wrong with you?" Marta demanded as soon as they were in Hermione's car and exiting the estate. "Why would you wind up Blanc like that?"

"Because I'm not afraid of him," Hermione stated firmly. "And there's no reason for you to be either."

"No reason-"

"Yes, Marta, no reason. There's nothing for him to find that could incriminate you of anything. Harlan's death will be ruled a suicide. Of that I have no doubt."

Marta took a shuddery breath. "What if you're wrong? What if you missed something? Harlan said that he missed something."

"And whatever he missed, I caught," she responded confidently. "You've trusted me this long, Marta; trust me a little longer. I promise, everything will be clear tomorrow."

Falling silent for a long moment, Marta finally whispered, "You're hiding something. You know something."

Hermione bit her lip. "I do. And I promise to tell you everything after tomorrow. I'd tell you now, but I don't want you to stress about any more secrets until absolutely necessary. And I think if I tell you what I know now, you'd find yourself vomiting quite a bit tomorrow."

"Fine," Marta sighed. "Fine. I trust you. I don't like this, but I trust you."

You shouldn't.

Changing the subject, Hermione asked, "Will you stay the night again?"

"I shouldn't… Alice was texting me that they're worried about me."

"And do you think they'll worry any less with you actually there?"

"Fair point. I'll text them now and let them know I'm staying with you again but tomorrow I go home."

Hermione grinned. "Deal. I hope you're prepared for a night of ice cream with flavored liquor and a fluffy anime. I'm thinking we either marathon Ouran High School Host Club or Yuri! On Ice."

"Why those two?" Marta asked with a laugh.

"Because they're both low-key. We will either relax to figure skaters or indulge in watching a commoner say what we think to rich people."

Marta hummed. "Let's watch Yuri! On Ice. I think I've had enough of rich people for one day."

"Good call," Hermione told her.

Shifting in her seat to face her friend, Marta asked, "So, who do you think Blanc thinks you are?"

"In the world of Sherlock Holmes? Probably either Adler or Professor Moriarty."

"Adler?" Marta repeated. "You mean Irene Adler? The Woman?"

"Yes," she hummed. "Hopefully the book version, not the inane fantasies placed in the most recent on-screen adaptations of a woman who's Sherlock's love interest. I'm not sure if you got to that short story yet in your readings but the original characterization of Irene Adler was a woman who managed to outsmart Sherlock Holmes and escape to America with her lover to live out her days in peace."

"You think Blanc views you as either the woman who will outsmart him or the criminal mastermind who might end killing him?" Marta verified. "And you wonder why I'm so concerned."

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