Well.

This is certainly unfortunate, Bryony thinks to herself as she stares into the bright flashlight blinding her, her hand still at the neck of the recently deceased Oscar Lewis.

She'd demanded a break – in maybe not quite so polite words – from Death and he had laughed, a cackling, raspy thing, and she'd been here before she could blink.

Damn it. Hermione was right. Bryony had never learned to respect authority figures – even those who could crush her like a bug – and even now, a few centuries in, she had yet to learn how to keep her damn mouth shut. She'd always thought she'd get wiser, as she got older, like Dumbledore. But apparently not.

The instinct to run and flee rises quickly and her legs cooperate before she even has a thought about the stupidity of running from a muggle copper with a gun pointed at her.

But there you go.

Bryony was apparently the exception and being immortal also meant she never grew up.

The hand reaching out and grasping her is like bands of steel – it doesn't budge an inch and while Bryony has always been slight and somewhat underweight, the fact that he can haul her up in mid-air without even breaking a sweat is, kind of, insulting.

"You little worm- that man was a marvel and a delight, and you killed him – for what? Money?"

Bryony opens her mouth to defend herself but blinks rapidly when his entire face flashes into fire-red, burnt and she stares. There's a tug, deep inside her, on her soul and she can almost hear souls screaming in never-ending pain before she blinks herself back to reality and his face is back to looking like a rather handsome man in his twenties.

Did she just… imagine all that?

"Are you alright?" She finds herself asking him, because that face had looked like it hurt.

He raises an eyebrow.

"That's new," he hums, looking intrigued. "No babbled apologies, begging for mercy, telling me I'm the Devil."

"Well, that's just rude," she tells him, ignoring the hypocrisy of her own earlier one-sided shouting match at a – what? A deity? Death? And immortal construct beyond human comprehension?

He laughs, sounding delighted, before he shakes his head and the smile falls away as the blonde female copper joins them.

"Hands behind your head," she says in a cold tone, gun still pointed at them.

"Really, detective? Do you think she can escape me?"

The detective looks exasperated but appears to concede, tucking away her gun and brandishing handcuffs – which, well, fair enough. Bryony's feet are still dangling mid-air, the man's grip on her shirt tightly – and insultingly easily – holding her aloft.

Things progress quickly from there – more police arrive (Bryony is starting to think she may be in the US going by the colours of the cop cars and the prevalent accents she hears around her, despite the once-red-faced-now-disguised-as-a-muggle man who had a far more English tint to his words), the body is looked at and taken away and so is she – with the blonde copper and the English guy-person-magical-creature?

The most interesting thing, though, is that it's clearly not the year she died in (2107 – disgustingly young for a powerful witch such as herself, but, well, childhood malnutrition had not only stunted her growth but affected her organs, her heart and her bones; St Mungo's staff had told her that had she not been as powerful as she was, she would have been lucky to make it to fifty (or to adulthood at all, really)). Everything is not as technologically advanced as muggles had been when she died, which makes her wonder if she is in the past, somehow.

Since Death is the one who sent her here and even centuries of working with him haven't really given her a full understanding of his (its?) powers, she's not as surprised as she could be.

"Sorry, but could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?"

It's been centuries since she'd had a human body with human needs, and the dry throat and thirst she feels are both familiar and not, but at least easily rectified. She gets a plastic cup with water which she drains promptly.

"What's your name?" Asks the blonde copper as soon as she's finished the water.

They have her fingerprints, pictures and everything on file now, interestingly enough. Back when she'd run from Voldemort they'd never taken mugshots or anything, so the experience was kind of fun, especially being back in this same position (she's always everyone's number one suspect – it's funny, now that she'd older and has enough experience dealing with them).

"Bryony Potter."

The man nods as if to confirm her words.

"And may I ask who you are?" She interjects before they can continue their interrogation.

Her words are directed at them both, but she could care less about the blonde copper and is more interested in the magical creature/person working together with the muggles.

"Detective Decker and this is … our consultant," she grits out, looking frustrated as she has to introduce the man in the fashionable suit looking both pleased and relaxed (and polished to the nth degree, like Draco, posh, rich, good-looking and knows it). "Lucifer Morningstar."

Bryony blinks and raises an eyebrow, fully turning her attention to the man.

"Did you choose that name or was your family making a statement?"

He laughs. "Another first," he hums, looking pleased. "God-given, I'm afraid, and as for the latter – well, quite possibly, yes."

The detective snaps her flat hand on the table, the loud noise jerking Bryony's attention back to her – which was clearly as she intended.

"You were found standing over the victim," Decker starts and Bryony interrupts with her best dealing-with-slimy-politicians' smile.

"Well, kneeling by, but close enough. Yes."

Lucifer's lips twitch up and he leans back, eyes flitting between them but he remains quietly observant rather than intervening.

"So why did you kill him?"

Bryony huffs out a sharp breath. Typical.

"I didn't," she asserts calmly.

Now Lucifer is leaning forward, eyes fixed on her intently. "Tell me, my dear," he interrupts the Detective before she can do more than open her mouth, his hands reaching for and holding Bryony's in his.

For a moment she's stunned – human contact, warmth, on her bare skin is something she hasn't felt – in… centuries. Hasn't had her own body, own skin, to feel any such skin. She's surprised by the goosebumps forming, the slight shudder running through her body as she simultaneously wants to yank her hand the fuck away from all the sensations and also hold on and never, ever let go. She doesn't even realise there are tears running down her face until Lucifer uses his other hand to pull the handkerchief, neatly folded, out of his jacket pocket for her.

"I-sorry," she apologises, wiping away tears and feeling abruptly flustered. She doesn't remember the last time she cried in front of, well, anyone. She sniffs one last time and focuses back on the now-rather uncomfortable looking Detective and the man who still hasn't let go of her hand.

"Touch starvation," Lucifer notes, voice soft and quiet, and Bryony nods. No point denying it when her body – when she reacted to clearly. The smile he offers her is pained but empathic and Bryony shakes her head firmly. She has no intention of breaking down a second time in front of these strangers.

"Sorry about that," she says again, voice firmer now, and offers the handkerchief back despite Decker's disgusted look. Lucifer merely curls her own hand around it.

"Keep it," he tells her.

"Thank you."

It's such a small thing, such a small gesture, but Bryony feels genuine gratitude because he didn't do it for the girl-who-lived, for a reward or publicity, but rather simply because he was being kind. It's been… a long time and far from the behaviour Bryony has come to expect from anyone, muggle, wizardkind and creature alike.

She still hasn't quite figured out what creature he is. Seems almost like a Veela, turning to that red-face when angered, except it had seemed almost painful, like his skin really was burnt, charred. And working in the muggle world with a Detective seems, well, risky at best. Or maybe she knows?

"So, my dear, what is it that you desire."

Bryony feels the urge to confess, the pressure, like Veritaserum and Imperio combined – one to tell the truth and the other to urge her to speak. The fog, the pressure, it's familiar for its discomfort. How do you tell your classmates that the reason the Imperio is so easy to buck off – to recognise – is because she doesn't know that state of peace and happiness and finds it therefore rather discomforting and unnatural.

But, for once, she is actually curious about the answer herself. Wants and desires have always had to be suppressed – her duties to kill Voldemort, to help people, to be the Woman-who-conquered, to do what was asked of her, rather than give in to her own needs, has followed her into the afterlife where her duties to Death have taken precedence.

Now she is back on Earth (she thinks, it certainly looks a hell of a lot like it), in her own body and… is without any apparent duties or obligations on her. So what the hell does she want? Introspection and analysing her own needs is not something she is familiar with – or comfortable with – so letting the magic take root seems harmless for her own curiousity's sake, at least.

"To live," she breathes out and blinks in surprise and recognition the moment the words leave her mouth.

Of course. Her life has never been her own – now she is in a position where she can, actively, choose her path, her career, everything. Her hands clamp around the tissue in her hand, a reminder to herself not to burst into tears, again, in front of them.

The edges of Lucifer's mouth soften further but the Detective scoffs.

"So what, that's why you killed him?"

It helps her gather herself – disdain is a rather familiar sentiment directed against her.

"As I mentioned earlier, Detective Decker, I did not kill Mr. Lewis."

"But you knew him?" The Detective quickly jumps in.

"Well- no. I know his name. And that he's dead."

"So why were you in his apartment?"

"A-" Well, what to call Death? Her servant? Her Master? Acquaintance? Friend? Frienemy? "kind-of maybe-friend dropped me there and I wanted to check if he was still alive."

Brows furrowed. "The name?"

Bryony tilts her head. "Didn't we already have this talk? Oliver Lewis."

"Not the victim's name," the Detective says, jaw flexing, teeth gritted, "your friend's name."

Oh. Well… Maybe Bryony should have lied. But she's never really been good at that – only how to…

"Well, I don't really know their name. I call them Death."

That, at least, is the truth.

Narrowed eyes, another scoff.

"Fine," the Detective bites out. "where are you from, then?"

"England," she says automatically. Although- maybe Scotland? It is where she spent a lot of her time.

Lucifer's eyes narrow.

"That's not quite the truth, is it, Ms. Potter?"

The silky undertone of his voice, ironically, reminds her of Snape, along with the prodding and pushing (and seeming capability to read her mind).

"Well, no, not quite. Scotland as well, I guess."

Lucifer leans back, surprised but satisfied.

"What's the difference?"

Bryony hums, unoffended.

"England conquered Scotland and is keeping it, kind of, punished. Has since conquering it. Did you know that electricity generated in Scotland has to be sent down to England – and you know how much is lost on the journey there – and is then sold back to Scotland at extortionately higher rates? Yeah, just one example of many. But yes, so I view them and keep them separate, but I have lived in both."

"What address are you staying at in LA then?"

Bryony shrugs, unconcerned.

"Haven't figured that out yet. I only arrived today."

"Passport? Visa?"

Well, this could be tricky.

"My friend, the one I mentioned, he flew me here." She shrugs. That is true.

Another frustrated sigh from the Detective.

"When were you born?"

Oh shit. She's figured out it's earlier, but how much earlier?

Licking her lips, she stalls for a moment but cannot think around it.

"What… What year is it?"

Both Decker and Lucifer raise their eyebrows at that question.

"How is that relevant? Answer the question."

Bryony winces and hopes it's close enough her age doesn't seem outrageous compared to her body.

"31st July 1980."

Decker raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed.

"You want me to believe you're thirty-six years old?"

Ah, yes, just what she'd been hoping to avoid. At least she now knows it's 2016.

"Yes," she says firmly.

Lucifer hums again, looking intrigued.

"She's telling the truth, Detective," he confirms.

So he is like Snape. Not reading her mind, likely, but has another way of telling if she's truthful. A sort of human Veritaserum – makes sense with his earlier desire question and the magic he'd used then. She is really curious now what magical species he is, but in case the Detective is unaware she really cannot ask him under her wary eye.

"I am a terrible liar," she confirms with a slight smile.

"This-" This time the Detective is interrupted by the door opening and another man making his way into the interrogation room.

"Chloe, why didn't you call me?" He asks in a low voice, looking hassled and rushed of his feet, tie askew and hair rumpled.

"I did," Decker hisses, giving the new presumably-another-detective a rather impressive glare.

"Detective Douche," Lucifer says gleefully, smirk pulling at his lips which earns him a glare from the new man.

"And what is he doing here?" The man asks, still looking at Chloe.

"Ask the chief," she grits out, trying to turn the focus back on Bryony who has been watching the byplay with a lot of amusement. Decker – Chloe – and Douche were / are maybe a romantic couple? They rather strike her like Ron and Hermione, fighting like cats and dogs.

"Douche is a rather unfortunate last name. Maybe going by your first name and Detective would be better?" She offers under the scrutiny of Detective Decker. Both detectives are taken aback but Lucifer has no such restraint and bursts into wild, free laughter.

"Oh, that is perfect."

There is a slight tinge to the Detective Douche's cheeks as he glares at Lucifer.

"My name is Dan Espinoza – Detective Espinoza. I'm sorry for not introducing myself sooner." He gives her an amiable smile as he shooes Lucifer off the other chair and sits down opposite her. Lucifer leans against the wall, a wide grin on his face still and looking remarkably unbothered by being unseated – not that he looks any less authoritative at a distance, if anything, he looks more in control than the bickering couple of detectives in front of him.

"Nice to meet you," she offers, out of habit more than genuine sentiment. "And sorry for my comment about your last name."

"No offence taken," he assures her, taking the moment to send another glare at Lucifer but, apparently, refusing to send him outside and completely override his captain's (chief's?) authority. "Now, I presume you know your rights?"

Decker scoffs and hisses something at Espinoza under her breath but Bryony is too surprised to try and listen.

"Rights?" She asks, voice high, eyes wide, "I have rights?"

There's an incredulous pause on their end but they likely don't understand – Bryony has never had rights. Not as an eleven year old child when she had been assaulted with intent to kill by her own teacher and forced to kill him, not as a twelve-year-old when an entire school, students and staff alike, had turned against her and vilified her, not as a thirteen-year-old facing prison guards intent on sucking out her soul, as a fourteen-year-old forced into a contract and tournament intended for adults – not any of the times she had been called in, as an adult, to the Ministry to answer to one spurious charge after another, not when called in front of the Wizengamot. Not as a child abused and mistreated at home in the Muggle world.

This can't be right. Bryony has never had rights. Rights applied to other people. She feels discombobulated, like her world's just been upended.

"I- You read her her rights, right, Chloe?" Espinoza whispers rapidly at Chloe after turning away from her.

"Of course," she says with certainty, then pauses and hesitates, brow furrowing. "I… think?"

Lucifer makes a negating noise in the back and they all turn to him.

"Actually, after you handcuffed her – berated me – and checked her for weapons, backup arrived and you briefed them while taking her outside to the car and calling for CSU to arrive. After that you had to intervene on the rookies because they wanted to cover the victim and close his eyes. Then you told me to watch her in the car while you watched over the crime scene and then you assigned another cop to watch me. So, no, all in all. No rights read to anyone at any stage."

"Chloe," Dan hisses out, "anything we got until now is meaningless and she will have to be released."

"We didn't get anything anyway," Chloe says bitterly. "Besides, who assigned rookies who don't know basic crime scene protocol anyway?"

"Well, Ms. Potter, it would seem you are free to go," Decker says out loud.

Bryony winces. Reprimands, formal ones on file, are never fun.

"Look," she says, voice pitched in a conciliatory tone. "I wouldn't have been much help anyway. I arrived moments before you and the body was already cold by that point."

Decker stalks out, much like Hermione, all offended dignity, and Espinoza rushes out after her.

"Well, that was interesting," she tells Lucifer.

"You're telling me," he says, sounding delighted. "You didn't lie once."

"Like I said," Bryony offers with a casual shrug, "I'm terrible at it. There really wouldn't be a point to it."

"Interesting. I really wouldn't have pegged you as a day over twenty-four and yet, according to your date of birth, you're thirty-six."

Another shrug. "I age well?"

"Still honest," he asserts, intrigued. "Well, as you haven't settled on staying anywhere, maybe I can help? I have a beautiful penthouse and enough room for interesting guests."

His smile is wide, genuine, as he offers her his arm but the instant the words are out of his mouth, her hackles are up. There are not many who would offer their home to a stranger for free – and a male offering a female stranger their home without immediate discussion of rent, recompense – yeah, no matter how nice and kind he seems, Bryony has no intention of letting her guard down or putting herself in his debt.

"No, thank you," her voice is distanced now, cold, as she steps back and puts some space between them. "I will find my own way."

She doesn't know if she has any money on her, but she can always use magic, if necessary, or apparate to London and talk to her past-self or past-Hermione and sort things out.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you," Lucifer offers after a momentary pause, looking confused.

"I-" Bryony is on the backfoot – if he is feigning, he is doing it remarkably well. "You would just offer a room in your home? Without knowing me? Without any kind of return for it? Forgive me, but that seems rather suspicious."

"Ooh," he lights up. "a deal then – I'm rather familiar with making deals." There's a smirk on his lips and, given the unnecessary emphasis on the word 'deals', Bryony can't help but roll her eyes.

"Ah, yes, presumably another facet of being named after the brightest of God's angels."

It's remarkable just how much sticks with you, even years later, but the bible and Sunday mornings at church were really the only storytime she'd ever gotten as a child, so much as she should be surprised for retaining such information, she really isn't.

He laughs, loud and bright. "Actually, it really is."

"Alright," she concedes, hooking her arm into his. "Let's talk deals."