A/N: Bit more explanation as to what this fic actually is. It's structured with seasons and episodes. Each episode (or few episodes in parts) has its own contained story (like an actual sitcom, think The Office), but there are threads that go through the entire season. Each episode will be around 5-6k, but the early ones are around 10k (until around Chapter 5 or so). The Detective Agency will take some time to set up, so please be patient.

Oh, and no baldy Voldy in this one—for this story, Harry killed Voldy as a one year old, parents died so he's an orphan, and still lives with his relatives though they're indifferent towards him, not abusive, so he's not quite the quiet, shy, tentative child in canon.

Also, Hermione's a Ravenclaw and Harry's a Gryffindor. Reason being I wanted them to go from not knowing each other to growing together, a proper slow-burner of a story, rather than having them be best friends from the jump.

Hope that wasn't too long of an A/N!

Without further ado, enjoy!

Season 1 Episode 1 - Trouble at the Den (Part 1)

For Hermione Granger, there was little in life more beautiful than books. Lots, and lots, of books. Spanning all the corners of her home in Crawley, and littered around her home away from home in Hogwarts. As such, being the Ravenclaw she was with a penchant for learning (and my word was it a strong penchant), Hermione holed herself in the library on more than many occasions.

The Hogwarts library, of course, was marvellous. Situated bang in the centre of the building, down the great staircase where even moving steps couldn't deter Hermione's determination to descend, the library exuded an aura of attraction that just pulled Hermione in any time she neared.

She almost salivated at the sight of the library's thick double doors. Then she remembered that other students walked around her, heading off to their own classes, and she wiped the drool from her mouth and continued on. Cheeks blushed red from embarrassment.

Though many in the student population believed Peeves haunted the shelves filled to the brim with thick leather tomes (oh, the earthy smell of old parchment was delightful!), Hermione had the truth revealed to her as a first year.

That the library was magical, in every way possible, and it became her refuge outside her dorm room where she could lose herself away from the world and sink into a good book. Her favourite things to read about were the old goblin wars spanning hundreds of years of history, written directly by those who witnessed them.

Sure, even the studious Hermione could admit that Professor Binns droned on like an incessant news broadcast with a monotonic anchor facing life imprisonment should they inflect their voice a single time, but the real history was fascinating. Battles that raged for hundreds and hundreds of years, with heroes and villains and an air of valiance and honour that outstripped every novel Hermione had ever read.

And the Hogwarts library had an entire shelf of those stories!

Hermione was smitten.

With the history, of course. Not the shelves.

Though a solid oak shelf with a silvery sheen in the sunlight did get her pulse racing—she couldn't deny that.

Still, she held one of those books in hand now. Her arms ached from carrying the book, and she rued not spelling it to be lighter. The tome was thicker than her palm could fit, and so heavy it weighed her entire body down as she lugged it towards her favourite spot in the library.

She'd aptly named the spot Hermione's Den, or just The Den when speaking with her few friends. Because the spot was hers, and hers alone, the table shining in the soft candles hovering overhead. A window to her left, glazed glass shimmering in the natural light, brought in the sun's endless rays to illuminate her book. And the smell of leather and parchment seemed intensified here, as though comforting Hermione whilst she sunk her thoughts into the goblin wars of old.

Whilst her mind raged on the battlefield, her body settled into a blissful trance.

As a younger girl with dentists as parents, Hermione hadn't spent too much time with her mum and dad. She loved them, of course, but running a private practice required countless hours at the office, overtime being a regular occurrence when that one pesky patient just didn't wish to go. Leaving Hermione alone at home to entertain herself, by herself.

So she built dens and forts. Making structures with sellotape and glue, beanbags to boot, sometimes plastic pipes she'd managed to procure from school, before holing up in a corner of her room and pretending that Bilbo Baggins and Luke Skywalker were her real friends and sitting around with her.

She had friends now, though they were few in number, but Hermione would never forget her first allies, in dens and forts that had long since collapsed and been thrown away.

So, when she discovered this scenic spot early in her first year, Hermione's Den it was.

She slipped into her favourite armchair just in front of the table, and let the fabric caress her body. Sometimes, she wondered whether the sofas and chairs in Hogwarts were charmed to massage those who sat on them, since they all felt utterly amazing.

Another topic to research, certainly, and perhaps a chat with Professor Flitwick was in order.

Hermione opened the first page of the book, letting parchment filter through her fingers, then flicked to the contents, and then flicked to page 1553, where the Goblin War of (coincidentally) 1553 was chronicled in agonising detail. Here, a warrior named Fal-brook was the scribe in question, jotting down in little scribbles how he'd forced the enemy back as a commander, his faction's army strong and unwavering.

Fal-brook himself had charged through the enemy's first wave of defence, rupturing their supposed ambush with an ambush of his own. His goblin men had valiantly fought for hours on end that day, in the Battle at Brook Bridge, where Fal-brook's home village fielded the stage for an all-out defensive.

And Fal-brook's men had been victorious that day, largely thanks to the heroics of the scribe himself. But Hermione noted the humbleness of the goblin, his appreciation of his comrades, and his utter willingness to give praise to all but the one who deserved it most—himself.

Hermione wished she could have someone as close as Fal-brook's comrades were to him. Friends-in-arms, the closest bond between them as they tackled the woes of life together.

Of course, Hermione's woes were just a tad less life-threatening—exams and which book to read being her highest worries—but she did wish for someone to call best friend, and not just a friend she only spoke to after four years of sharing a dorm together.

But another woe hit Hermione just then, as she flicked to page 1557. She noticed a scratch in the page, a tear down the middle, slicing the words in two, and her heart did a double take along with her eyes.

A scratch in a book?

It was a sacrilegious act, something that Hermione would wage war over just like Fal-brook had with the attacking of his village. The book's honour had been defiled, and Hermione would see to it that the perpetrator suffered immensely.

But it wasn't just that scratch which alerted her to a darker plot looming over the library's halls.

No, as she lowered a clammy hand, a worried hand, to the side of the armchair, a tear in the velvet greeted her fingers.

"Ahh," she yelped, almost jumping back in fright. Hands leaving the armchair entirely, such was her shock.

It was Hermione's Den, her den, and someone else had come here. Almost certainly, someone else had used her space without her permission, strange since the entire castle knew this spot was hers and hers alone.

She grabbed her bag and fished for a pen, intending to write to Madam Pince about a torn book that needed special repairing spells to preserve its dignity, but the panic seizing her mind dropped the pen for her. It skittered beneath the table, the sound magnified tenfold as though every sense within her was on high-alert.

She bent to pick it up, and as she raised her hand, something brushed against her fingers.

A piece of chewing gum stuck to the underside of the innocent oak wood.

Whilst first horrified even further, Hermione let out a small smile. Though her mind was in somersaults after the revelation that someone else had used her space and torn the armchair and book, she had a few clues to work with.

And she was going to find the person responsible.

And make sure they suffered the consequences.

For Harry Potter, fourth year Gryffindor, his favourite thing in all the world was to fly, and fly damn well. Quidditch was a love of his that never let go since first year, when McGonagall let him onto the team in a surprising twist of fate. Harry had never flown before Hogwarts, having grown up with muggles in the form of relatives that were wary of anything unordinary.

And flying on a broom certainly fit the bill.

Regardless, Harry had fond memories of winning the house cup in his third year after two botched attempts. It wasn't his fault, per se, but the jitters jittered his fingers and, at the last moment, the opposing seeker rammed an underweight boy off the scent and snatched the little golden bugger for themselves.

Marvellous stuff, indeed.

For the opposing seeker, that was, not Harry.

Harry was quite naturally devastated, until Gryffindor lifted gold away from Hufflepuff the next year. Now that was a good moment.

But it wasn't just the beautiful game that bought a place in Harry's heart, it was the feeling of wind parsing through his hair as he soared high above the castle, the smell of clouds that burrowed its way down his throat and to his heart, paradoxically warm rather than cold even in Scottish winters.

It was a high nothing else could replicate, as though everything below him was no longer relevant, and he could sort through his thoughts without the worry of being disturbed. Not that Harry had earth-shattering problems, or a dark wizard gunning for his guts—nothing like that, of course.

But a boy deserved quiet moments once in a while. And compared to the Hogwarts rumour mill and the commotion of Great Hall meals, the rushing wintery air was as peaceful as it got.

But he couldn't fly like that now, and that presented a little conundrum for Harry Potter. Bloody Slytherins were using the Quidditch Pitch for their evening practice, likely working on drills to use for the upcoming game next week, and a lurking Harry Potter was certainly not on the cards.

He'd be snuffed out quicker than a niffler finding gold.

He made his way back into the castle now, cloak-like jacket covering his robes to stave off the worst of the winter chill. He ignored the stares from first years at his forehead—sure, a lightning-shaped scar was cool, and led credence to this 'Chosen One' persona the castle seemed hell-bent on near-deifying, but Harry despised the attention.

All he wished for, amongst the bustle of students streaming through the halls of Hogwarts, was a little peace. A little time to himself, where he could relax and not worry about Dean wishing for a game of Exploding Snap or Ron trying to, for the tenth time that week, smash him at Wizarding Chess. The moving staircases had always troubled Harry, but today they easily formed a path to Gryffindor Tower, as though encouraging him to destress after a long day of gruelling classes. After saying the password to the portrait of the Fat Lady ('Whizzbees' for this month), he entered his favourite place in all the world.

As a first year, Harry hadn't known what to expect from Hogwarts. Sure, in the month-long buildup to entering the castle's halls after receiving his acceptance letter in late July, Harry had seen magic firsthand and even travelled to Diagon Alley to get his required materials.

Now that was a special place, no doubt.

But only after entering the castle, and only after entering the Hogwarts common room, did Harry truly appreciate the wonders of the magical world.

The common room brimmed with a fresh kind of life, even after three years of living in and around it. The red and orange tapestries covering every surface in sight were less like blood and more the feathers of a phoenix. A warm colour that comforted Harry every time he saw it and remembered that the people here, in this common room, were his family away from home.

The sofas and chairs here were utterly amazing, too, fabric sinking in as though cradling your body. A few students even slept on the sofa, cuddled under one of the blankets provided near the fireplace, since it was comfier than the dorm room beds sometimes.

And a lot of couples snogged on the furniture too, though Harry wouldn't know anything about that, of course.

He didn't look, scout's honour.

In any case, the dorm room today was much of the same. Students milling about discussing the classes of the day and gossiping as though privacy didn't exist, others playing Exploding Snap or Gobstones on tables by the far window, and some of them—

Stared at him.

Stared at him with concern in their eyes.

Harry shivered—it wasn't from the cold.

The noise of the common room amplified all of a sudden, as though every sense within Harry heightened all at once. His mouth tasted dry and he needed some water—he sped to the fountain in the common room's corner and downed a goblet. Let the liquid set in his stomach, and gulped down some more.

Just why the hell was everyone staring at him this time? Did he get a second scar whilst flying earlier that day, as though branded by lightning?

He spotted Dean by the far side, already in a heated game with Seamus over a chess board. Though it appeared the game was over. Seamus' king on the board graciously took off his crown, bowed down in defeat, and then not so graciously shattered into a million pieces as the opposing king smote his body to bits.

"Why's everyone staring at me?" Harry asked, settling into a seat near Seamus.

The boy glanced at Harry quickly, before averting his gaze. No greetings, no introductions, just straight talking. "You're in deep, mate. Trust me. You've made an enemy."

Now Harry was utterly confused. "What do you mean? Enemy? No dark wizard after me anymore, in case you haven't noticed."

"Granger, pal," Seamus said. "Hermione Granger, I mean. You ever heard of her? Ravenclaw's little bookworm from what I've heard. She's a looker too, even with her teeth, but don't tell her I said that when she comes for you."

Harry wasn't fond of the way Seamus spoke about girls sometimes, as though he spent his days leering at them from where he couldn't be caught, but there were bigger issues at hand currently.

Like why Harry was in deep crap with someone he'd never spoken to before, and only knew of because she topped the student rankings every year ahead of Dean, who was as studious as they came.

And why was Seamus acting as though this Hermione Granger was Peeves' hunger for revenge reincarnated as a fourth year girl with an insane thirst for knowledge?

Make it make sense, Harry thought, rubbing his temple and sighing.

"How do you know she's after me, anyway?" Harry asked.

"She came in here like an hour ago," Seamus said. "Tried to take the bloody portrait off its hinges, let me tell you. Screamed about some book or something, and about a den."

"A den?" Harry muttered. Just what was this girl smoking? He knew Dudley sometimes went off and got high with his friends behind Uncle Vernon's back. But Granger was smoking a different pack, from the sounds of things. "Reckon I should just go see her and find out what's going on? Not like the whole castle doesn't know she came here. You know how the rumours are."

"You didn't hear her, mate," Dean said. "Shouting and screaming all over the gaff. Bit hysterical, if you ask me, but you know how people can get sometimes. Maybe the stress is getting to her—Binns has an exam next week, and it's scaring even me."

Harry knew what Dean was talking about—he was scared too.

About the exam.

And now, to add to that, an angry Hermione Granger who he'd probably spoken less than three words to in his first three years.

Harry sighed. He needed a place to relax, and the common room with its hooked stares and crooked looks just wasn't it. His dorm room would reveal Ron and maybe Neville too, and they'd talk his ear off about Granger and how she wanted to smite him like a fallen king on a chess board.

No, Harry needed somewhere where none of the boys would find him.

So, he sped out of the common room without another word.

He was going to the library.

Hermione Granger was, well and truly, embarrassed.

No, it wasn't because she'd failed Binns's exam on the goblin wars of the sixteenth century. Although, with the way her revision was going, failing it was highly likely when the test cropped up next week.

No, she was embarrassed because, for some God forsaken reason that eluded her even now, she'd marched over to the Gryffindor common room (those stairs leading to the tower were killer) and demanded to see one guilty Harry Potter.

In no uncertain terms.

In very certain terms, she'd said something about boxing his head off, as though Hogwarts had magically switched to the gym where her father sometimes trained and sparred. He'd taught Hermione how to throw a punch when she was younger, so she had the skills to jab and left-hook a scrawny boy down, no doubt.

And that boy deserved it!

You see, the gum was Harry Potter's fatal mistake. Potter, likely in his hubris from being the Chosen One as all the rumours pointed out (Hermione didn't care for discussing gossip, but she did listen to it), had stuck the gum to the bottom of Hermione's favourite table.

In her den, to make matters worse.

Now, that alone wouldn't have been much of a clue to go off. But, when trying to spell the gum off the underside of the table, it wouldn't unstick. It wouldn't vanish either. It actually repelled the spell, knocking it away and almost vanishing her arm itself.

It was magical gum, not the regular kind that Hermione sometimes chewed when reading a book whilst cuddling with pillows in her Crawley bedroom.

And magical gum meant wizard manufacturers, not muggle since Harry lived with his relatives from what Hermione had heard. And in the middle of the magical castle in Scotland, with Hogsmeade weekends a far cry away, there was only one source—actually two—that the perpetrator could've received the gum from.

So, Hermione had confronted those two sources, who were luckily in the Great Hall, sitting and discussing their nefarious plans before dinner.

The Weasley twins, Fred and George.

"It's Gred and Forge," they'd said as Hermione stood by the Gryffindor table, unwilling to offer them the courtesy of sitting down. She'd been aware of the burrowing stares around her—it wasn't often that a Ravenclaw just up and went over to another house's table.

But this was important.

More important than life and death.

A book, and her sacred space, had been desecrated.

And Hermione sought vengeance.

The candles hovering above the Gryffindor table jabbed down a harsh light, as though mimicking the slices of sanity Hermione gripped onto whilst thinking of how her den had been defiled.

The smell of food, though, was as always heavenly.

"You two sell some kind of gum, right?" she said, feigning nonchalance.

"Who's asking?" said Fred.

Or was it George?

Who cared?

"Just answer the question," Hermione shot back.

One of them—was it George?—gulped, whilst the other dropped his gaze to the table. They were afraid of…her? A fourth year student?

"Now, Miss Granger," the one on the right, whom Hermione decided was Fred, said. "You know we don't just spill our secrets to anyone. If we were to produce such a gum, what would you use it for?"

"To find the killer," Hermione snapped, patience already taut and ready to break.

"Killer?"

Right, normal people don't think scratching an armchair is worse than murder.

"The one who ruined the library." It took every ounce of strength in her body not to strangle the two twins until one of them spilled the beans. "Someone's ruined my favourite table, and I need to find out who it is. There is, also, some stupid magical gum under the table, and I can't get it off." She slammed a hand onto the table, far more emphatically than she meant, and all eyes on the hall turned to her.

Her face went, rather naturally, an embarrassing shade of red, as the echoes of the dull thud permeated the room.

"Tell you what, Hermione," Fred said, coughing to snag her attention again. "How about we strike a deal? You tell us what we want to know, and we'll tell you what you want to know. A give and take, so to speak. How about it?"

"Fine, what is it?" Hermione said. She wanted to get out of there as fast as possible, since the red flush across her cheeks was beginning to travel to her neck too, causing her entire body to roast as the castle's eyes turned inward. "What is it that two pranksters like you would want to know from me?"

"Do you know how to create a magical form?" George said. "Imagine like a shopping list, but with tons of items, and when someone presses a button, it updates a piece of parchment we have."

What kind of plot are they…

"Yes, I know how to do that," Hermione said. Honestly, for sixth year students, they were woefully poor at understanding the intertwining of magics and how to link things together. A dash of a few charming spells to create one 'host' parchment, and then every other parchment would be subordinate to that. Pass the other parchments around, and no one can tamper with it unless they have the host.

Easy.

They're supposed to be pants at that, Hermione, that voice in her mind said. That's seventh year material you're thinking about.

"Well, in that case, let us set up a meeting then," George said. "It'll take us some time to decide on a few things…so how about a month from now, in that esteemed library of yours? Lord knows I need to spend more time there."

Hermione sighed. "Fine, now can we please get to what I need to know?"

"Sure thing," Fred said, dangling a goblet of pumpkin juice in hand before taking a swig. He let it down with a clank. "What is it that the esteemed Hermione Granger, Ravenclaw whizz with more Outstandings than a witch's mirror, needs to know from two 'pranksters' like us?"

"Your gum," Hermione said. She leaned in, lowered her voice a little, aware of the sets of eyes that still wouldn't leave her alone. "Who was it that you sold it to? I need their full name, please, and an address too—house, year group, and dorm number."

"Well, that's a mighty personal set of questions," George said. "But alas, you've agreed to help us, and you don't strike us as the type to skimp on a deal. Heck, you won't even break a rule here or there, let alone flunk on an agreement."

"Rules are meant to be followed," Hermione said through gritted teeth, with eyes narrowed. "Now, the name please."

"Rules are made to be broken," George corrected—or rather, attempted to correct. "After all, they would never be made if someone wasn't trying to stop someone else from doing something."

"The name, please," Hermione repeated, unwilling to engage in these silly games.

"Harry," Fred said. "You know, the really famous one. That's the only person who's got gum from us this year. So that's your target, I'm sure you already know his house and year group."

"Should we send him a warning?" George said, likely noticing the darkened look in Hermione's eyes. "You look like you really are looking for a killer."

"No need," Hermione had said, turning around to face the Great Hall's exit, one thing in her mind entirely. She turned again to face them for a second, as though a spy from one of her father's favourite action movies. "It wouldn't do him any good."

Now, with her mind back in the present, body crouched between two shelves of old goblin stories (she did need to revise for Binns's exam, after all, though strangely the torn book was nowhere to be found), the memory caused a flush of embarrassment to tinge her cheeks.

Had she really gone to Gryffindor Tower and shouted for Harry Potter to come out?

Even now, in the library, away from the haunting stares of her classmates, Hermione shivered from the thought.

Three years, Hermione thought. Three years I've taken to build up my reputation as the smartest student with the best grades, always in control. And now I've cocked it all up in three minutes.

She sighed, flicked through a shelf again, searching for an encyclopaedia of goblin terms, since some of the more obscure books were filled with gobbledygook references that, frankly, looked like gibberish. As though spaghetti had been cooked and the goblin symbols formed from how the noodles crumpled together.

And then a noise met her from the other side of where she searched the dusty shelves. A small noise, right at the far reaches of her hearing.

But it was there.

A shuffling noise, and then a groaning noise.

But it wasn't her armchair that groaned, since the fabric was soft enough to be silent when sunk into.

No, it was a person that groaned.

Right in Hermione's Den, where none dared to venture for fear of meeting the girl herself and attracting her ire.

None except one, it seemed.

And when Hermione saw who it was, her eyes nearly bugged out completely.

All Harry had wanted was somewhere to relax. Somewhere to put his feet up (figuratively speaking, of course) and lean back and let the noise of the world drown out for the silence of his mind.

But of course, life never went his way—evil, parent-killing dark lord, anyone?

And now, life drummed up the worst possible scenario. The scenario he'd been dreading since Dean and Seamus told him how much Granger was gunning for his guts.

The library was a recent discovery in the life of Harry Potter. Sure, he studied when required and did enough to scrape a pass in his exams, but studying didn't necessitate heading deep into the library's recesses. And with the new ordering system Madam Pince cultivated, it meant one didn't need to venture into the hallowed halls to find the perfect book.

Honestly, Madam Pince was a lifesaver with the new book catalogue she'd created.

Though how she created it was a mystery—from all accounts, Madam Pince wasn't a resourceful enough witch to conjure up something like that. A mystery for the ages, it seemed, as mysterious as the woman herself.

In any case, Harry couldn't find one book in the catalogue, a detailed listing of all professional quidditch players in the international league from the seventeenth century to the present. Ron had taken him up on a three sickles bet—"Bet you there aren't any players named Grimaldio in the league, mate."

"Grimaldio," Harry had replied. "What kind of a name is that anyway? And sure there are."

"Hey, random bet then. You find a player named that, and I'll give you three sickles."

Harry didn't need the money, but decided to entertain Ron for a while. And that entertainment had led him deep into the library's second floor, where dust accumulated like pigeons to seeds, and coated every surface in sight. The smell was thick too, like the dust wanted to clog Harry's nostrils, and he sifted through to the shelves in the far corner.

And that was when his eyes fell on the beautiful (and clean, unlike the rest of this god-awful place) armchair and table, and Harry couldn't help but sit down.

He was sitting here now, though the comfort had dissipated from the fabric in the space of a second. Because one, very upset looking Hermione Granger was glaring daggers at him, arms crossed over her chest as she stood there, saying not a word.

Silence.

His heart thumped a few times. Thudded. Pounded.

More silence.

"Erm…can I help you?" Harry said, hoping he could feign nonchalance and not let slip that he knew Granger was looking for him. "You can't just stand there, you know—"

"That's my space," she said.

Harry's eyes blinked twice.

Er…what?

He glanced around the table, then over the side of the armchair. There was a strange tear in the fabric—clearly Granger didn't take good care of it, if it was hers—but the rest of the chair was unblemished.

"Don't see your name here, Granger," he said, sitting back up and handing her a smirk. "Guess this is mine for…say, the next hour or so." He cast a spell to check the time, then smiled. "So, till eight o'clock, I reckon."

Granger scoffed. "This is my den, and everyone knows it."

Harry raised a finger, a technicality forming. "Everyone who uses the library. As someone who doesn't use the library, almost never…it's just another armchair to me. Comfortable, of course, but not much more."

Granger's eyes flashed, and Harry gulped involuntarily.

Her look screamed murder.

His murder.

"That is precisely not an ordinary armchair, I'll have you know," she said, stepping forwards. She wasn't tall, perhaps half a head shorter than Harry, but since he was sitting down she resembled a giant troll.

In height, of course.

Not in anything else.

"Seems like it to me," Harry said, running a finger along the armrest, letting the softness cushion his skin. "And like I said—no name, no claim."

Granger's bushy hair seemed ready to untangle itself and strangle Harry to death. Her cheeks were pale, almost sickly looking, and Harry wondered just how hard she was working herself for the exam next week.

It was still early into the year, and Dean hadn't ramped up his revision yet, but Granger looked ready to snap.

"Are you sure you're okay—"

"You defiled my table," she said, bringing her wand out and letting it drop into her palm. Dangerously, a spell away from causing Harry a lot of embarrassment. She probably knew more spells than Dumbledore at this rate, and could do whatever she wanted to him.

Harry was juggling with fire the longer he stayed seated.

But it was comfortable, and nowhere else in the library, let alone the castle itself, would match the armchair.

Harry would know. He'd been in here once before, after all. A couple days back, when relaxing after a gruelling practice. It was marvellous.

"And how did I defile your table?" Harry asked, just catching on to what the incensed witch had said. "I'm sitting in the chair, not the table."

"You chew gum, don't you?"

The packet lodged in Harry's pocket felt heavy as lead, ready to drag him down into the abyss. Fred and George had given it to him to use for pranks, but the taste was glorious too, so he popped a few whenever boredom struck.

"So I chew gum? What are you going to do—sue me?"

Granger's lip twitched upwards, just a little stretch on the upper left corner, before she yanked it back down into a frown. Her wand rose slightly, almost pointed at Harry, and Harry realised he'd left his wand in his bag.

Crap. I'm defenceless here.

Well done, Sherlock, the other side of his mind said. The more rational side that he rarely, if ever, listened to.

"Can I ask you a question, Potter?" Granger said, eyes still narrowed.

The question was phrased as a statement. And knowing Granger, she'd likely ask it anyway. "Sure."

"Does your bag have your name on it?"

Harry glanced down, where his bag sat against the side of the armchair. "Uh…no it doesn't."

"Then how do I know it's actually yours? What if I just found it and used it without caring who it belonged to?"

Well, she's got me there.

"But you still haven't told me why you're so angry," Harry said. "I'm sitting in a chair that you think belongs to you—you're wrong, but fine. But I heard you came to my dorm and started shouting like a madman. What's all that about?"

A faint redness tinged Granger's cheeks. And she coughed a little, then pinned him with her gaze again. "That was a…lapse in judgement, that's all. But you stuck gum to the bottom of my table, and for that, you must suffer." Now her wand was aimed at him, and a spell lingered on her tongue as her mouth opened.

"Hey hey," Harry said, raising his hands and immediately rising from the chair. "Look, I'm sorry about the gum, I didn't know anyone was using this place. No need to hex my bits off, all right."

"And the book?" Granger said, wand still levelled at him, sparks nearly flying out from her anger. "Did you rip the book? And the chair—was that you too?"

"Look, I might have stuck the gum under the table, but I know the counter to it. I'll do it now and chuck the bloody thing, but I don't have a clue about ripped armchairs or anything."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Granger's wand was still, dangerously, pointed at Harry.

He gulped. "Give me a second," he said, fishing through his bag. His hands reached through textbooks and a toy snitch he always carried. He grabbed his wand and pocketed it, in case Granger really did want a firefight. Past that, right at the bottom, was a vial of liquid. Clear as water, colourless, and odourless.

"I've got veritaserum," Harry said, lifting the vial to show Granger. "I'll just drink a bit of it, and we can see who's really telling the truth, eh."

Granger's wand lowered, and that famous curiosity sprang over her features. "Really? Is that actually veritaserum?" Her eyebrows furrowed. "Isn't it illegal to carry it around like that? I don't want to get arrested alongside you—you are a table-defiler and deserve far worse than Azkaban, after all."

Harry dropped his bag onto the armchair, ignoring the insult. His bag thumped the fabric, releasing puffs of dust into the air that curled as though wisping the secrets of the world in small tornadoes. He turned to Granger, smile on his face.

"Of course it's not veritaserum, Granger," he laughed. "Can't believe you actually thought that." He uncorked the vial, rubbed a little on a napkin from his pocket. "It's the antidote for this gum, obviously. Honestly, you should've known I'd never get into something illegal. Now, just give me a second." He leaned down, wiped the gum with the liquid, and it fell away from the table as easily as it stuck. Harry wrapped the napkin over the gum, then vanished everything just as quickly.

"See, easy as pie," Harry said, pocketing his wand with finesse. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my—"

"Absolutely not," Granger cried, unceremoniously leaping over the table and ramming into the armchair. She was all flailing arms and legs, and the thump as she landed on Harry's bag almost killed his soul.

The armchair was knocked back, about to fall into a heap, 4th year witch and all—

"Immobulus," Harry said, wand out in a flash. The armchair stopped, thankfully, and Harry gently lowered it onto four legs, whilst Granger was left wiping her bushy hair away from a face flooded the same colour as the lining of her robes. And she was still atop his bag, for crying out loud.

"Umm…sorry about that," Granger said.

Harry held his hands up. "Look, it's not that big of a deal. I didn't know you loved this place…that much, but since you do, I'll be out of your hair." And judging by how thick and thorny Granger's hair was, Harry really didn't want to be tangled up in it.

"Oh, and do get off my bag anytime soon," Harry added.

And then something froze his body just as fast as he'd frozen the armchair.

Madam Pince's voice.

Hermione's mind was aghast as Madam Pince came around the corner of a bookshelf, right over Potter's shoulder, and the librarian was not happy. That much was clear from her narrowed eyes, piercing gaze, and spectacles that seemed to enlarge her rage as though a pair of magnifying glasses sat atop her nose.

"What is the meaning of this?" she said, staring at the scene. Her eyes almost pinned Hermione to the chair, her words like ropes locking the young witch in place as fear spread through her chest.

Three years.

Three years she'd survived in Hogwarts without a single infraction to her name, without a single break of a single rule. She was the exemplar student, a role model for the youngsters, a shining beacon that would light up the next four years of her schooling with academic prowess.

And now bloody Potter of all people, as if fate had chosen him for her downfall, was about to tear her reputation as badly as the tear in the book Madam Pince was holdi—

"This book has been ripped, and I have full knowledge that the offence took place here," Madam Pince announced. She marched over to the table, whilst Hermione and Potter stood stock-still, frozen as though encased in ice, whilst Madam Pince near-slammed the tome on the oak wood.

Not another person defiling Hermione's table in the same week.

But, given the fury in Madam Pince's gaze, Hermione was inclined to give her a pass. Very strongly inclined, in fact.

"Now, this book is part of a series of books on goblin wars," Madam Pince said. "Indexed hundreds of years ago, the Hogwarts library serves to protect works like these. Not rip them to shreds, as someone has, rather unceremoniously, done to this particular book."

It was the exact book Hermione had been reading. The book she was about to report to Madam Pince, had it not been for her anger prompting a rushed trip to Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione nodded as Madam Pince spoke, agreeing with absolutely every word coming from the librarian's mouth.

"Now, for hundreds of years, these books have been protected. Not a single tear has stricken the pages of anything in the goblin section."

"Probably because no one reads them," Potter muttered beneath his breath.

Hermione's heart lurched like the armchair had before, but thankfully Madam Pince seemed hard of hearing.

"Therefore, I can only surmise that, of the two of you, one must be the culprit." Madam Pince's gaze circled from the book, to Hermione, to Harry, and the air felt supercharged with her suspicion. A heady smell of danger replacing the calmness the library typically exuded.

The softness of the armchair vanished, with a texture like quicksand in its stead. And Hermione, rather than sinking into comfort, felt like she was drowning in despair.

"It wasn't me," Hermione said immediately, voice harried and hurried. "Yes, Madam, it was not me who ripped it. In fact, I found it—"

"So you were the last person to read this book, hmm?" Madam Pince said.

Hermione had just, well and truly, incriminated herself. Likely booking her place in Azkaban without a trial, along with Potter for his earlier misdeed of defiling her table.

Oh, the horror!

"Initially, I assumed Mr. Potter would have been the criminal," Madam Pince said, swivelling her owl-like gaze to the wizard. "After all, he is known to us for hanging around with miscreants such as those Weasley twins. And, considering how empty this section of the library typically is, was the only soul venturing here in the last week. Other than you, of course, Hermione."

Okay, she's on a first-name basis with me, but not with Potter. That means my chances must be good, right—

"However, your admission to reading this book, whilst admirable in its truth, leaves me with no choice. Unless one of you owns up now, then we shall have to enforce the strictest punishment."

My chances are drat, Hermione concluded.

"But it actually wasn't me," Potter said, and Hermione believed him. The boy wouldn't read a book if his life depended on it—unless the book had something to do with Quidditch.

Well, now his life did depend on a book.

Only in a different sense. A far worse sense.

"I swear it wasn't me," Potter continued. "In fact, I've got veritaseru—" His voice stilled, as if realising the joke would not work with someone like Madam Pince, whose sense of humour was about as dry as the Sahara under a hair dryer— "I've got proof that it wasn't us."

Us? Don't drag me into this, Potter.

"Please procure such proof for me, Mr. Potter," Madam Pince said. Her hand was held out, as though Potter would just drop proof right into her hands. But Potter gave her nothing, said nothing, and Madam Pince slowly retracted her hand back, as though her palm was betrayed.

As was the case for the last five minutes, both Hermione and Potter were as frozen as crows in a field, with Madam Pince the scarecrow.

And the library delved into a pin-drop silence.

Potter had no proof. That was clear to see, with or without his owly glasses.

Unless, like the veritaserum, he had a trick up his sleeve to get them both out of this rather large pickle.

Hermione had gone from rule-abiding Hogwarts student to wishing for a way to trick the librarian into accepting whatever shoddy explanation Potter would no doubt come up with.

Hermione had barely spoken to the boy for a few minutes, and he was already ruining her school experience.

He didn't deserve Azkaban.

He deserved the Dementor's Kiss for all Hermione cared.

"It'll take some time," Potter finally said, and Hermione remembered to breathe again. "You see…just like sometimes you can order a book for this library, but it takes some time to arrive by owl-post, it's the same with my proof."

Madam Pince pushed her glasses up, so far that they pinched her nose. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Meaning that…whilst I do have the proof that we never did it, it may take some…time to procure."

Potter was, well and truly in Hermione's humble opinion, arsing his way through this one.

"Isn't that right, Hermione?" Potter added.

Now he'd just arsed it one time too many. Digging them both deeper into a hole they couldn't escape.

"That's right," Hermione said, as though the circuitry between brain and mouth had malfunctioned, mental wiring torn like the blasted goblin book. She slipped further into the armchair, feeling the crunch of Potter's textbooks beneath her, the hardbacks digging into her butt.

Even Fal-brook, the fierce goblin warrior, wouldn't be able to fight against the fierce glare Madam Pince shoved in her direction.

"We…we have proof," Hermione continued, verbal barrage in full force now, like one of Fal-brook's military charges. "Potter is correct—it will take time to collect everything, but we can prove that we didn't do it."

How, though? that voice in Hermione said, to which she promptly shut that voice up.

"How much time?" Madam Pince said.

Potter coughed, clearing his throat, and tried to arse things some more. "Well, that's the issue—"

"A week," Madam Pince decided in a huff. "A week and not a second more. You have until next Tuesday to procure this…proof as the both of you speak of." She lowered her glasses a little, then near-slammed them up to her eyes again. "And should you overstep the time limit for even a millisecond, a trip to the Headmaster's office will be in quick order."

She picked up the goblin book, and Hermione sprang into motion, nearly falling over herself as she stood from the armchair. She loved books, more than anything, and that book was a valuable resource Madam Pince was about to lock away from the Hogwarts populus.

And more importantly, from her.

Potter's bag inflated like a balloon behind her, letting out an audible sigh as Hermione's weight left it.

"I need that book for the test next week, Madam," Hermione said, nearly breathless. "I…we have an exam with Professor Binns, even this early in the year, and that's one of the most valuable resources."

"I am sorry, Miss Granger," Madam Pince said. "But I must preserve the primary evidence, in the case of tampering by either one of you." At this, she stared hard at Potter, before turning to face Hermione again. "In any case, I want this proof in a week. The only reason I am trusting you two is because Miss Granger has never lied to me. I trust that I can…trust in such trust."

And with those cryptic words, Madam Pince slinked through the shelves, with Hermione's O grade in Professor Binns's exam held in the librarian's hand. Being taken away from her, further and further with every step.

And instead of shouting or screaming unfair to the world, Hermione merely slumped back in the armchair.

Right on top of Potter's stupid bag without his name on it.

As if she cared in the slightest.

Harry Potter was well and truly effed, as his best mate Ron would say. For a number of reasons.

First of all was Hermione Granger. Granger was, understandably after the predicament Harry had placed them in, angry at him, and her crossed arms and narrowed eyes spelled this out a little too clearly. For effect, it seemed, but that was neither here nor there.

Secondly was another witch gunning for Harry. Pince had given them one week, far too little for Harry to come up with something plausible to stave off Dumbledore's punishment. Sure, the headmaster had a soft spot for Harry—but that didn't mean Harry wanted to push the boundaries to their brink.

And thirdly was the way Hermione sat back, as if deliberately squishing his bag under her body, trying to terrorise him as much as possible.

Now Harry understood why she was so vexed after he stuck gum under her table. The defilement of a personal belonging felt as visceral as a bludger to the face—a bludger made of steel.

Still, in the tension-laden library with dust leaning over from every surface to spy on the scene, Harry wanted to get a start on the mission he'd sprouted for them. To find proof of their innocence in tearing the stupid goblin book.

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Hermione said, leaning forwards with head in hands. Her bushy hair wilted like dead flowers over her shoulders. "You know how long it took me, don't you?"

Harry, confused as could be, conjured up a similar looking armchair—slightly different in colour. Whilst Granger's armchair was a deep brown, Harry's was a stark green, as if to signify their very different attitudes about life.

And about their chances of surviving Pince's wrath.

Though Harry wouldn't mention that second part, of course.

"Took you to what?" Harry asked, scooting his armchair over and sitting opposite the witch.

She didn't seem to notice this fact, staring up at him with…were those tears?

"You heard her, didn't you?" Granger said, looking ready to snap and burst into tears at once. A rather comical picture, but Harry held his tongue. "You heard exactly what she said."

She buried her face again, wiped her eyes quickly so Harry wouldn't notice (he did), and sat up again. Not caring one bit for the screams of Harry's textbooks beneath her.

"She said we have a week," Harry said. "That's enough time—"

"No, not that," Granger said. "Solving that's your job, since you shoved us both in this mess. I'm talking about what she called me."

"Called you…" Harry's voice trailed off.

Granger seemed ready to burst into tears, but held them back enough to spit out, "She called me Miss Granger." She wiped her eyes again. "It took me three years—three years—of basically living here, and finally she called me by my first name when leaving for last summer." Her tears turned to a sheeny glare, directed right at Harry. "And now you, in about five minutes, have ruined everything."

Harry wanted to interject that being on first-name basis with Madam Pince of all people was probably not the best thing. But, given how badly his last attempt at downplaying Granger's feelings had gone, he wisely chose to remain silent.

And then something Granger said pricked at him.

"What do you mean it's my job to solve this? We're both in this together, aren't we?"

"Well…if you'd kept your mouth shut, it might have gone a little better."

"That's bull and you know it," Harry said, though he lightened his voice so as not to cause the witch to actually burst into tears. "She was hanging the 'strictest punishment' over us. Could've been a bloody cane for all I know. In fact—" Harry puffed his chest out, as though his actions were something to be proud of (they were not)— "I think we got off lightly because of my quick thinking."

"The thinking was quick," Granger said. "Not much more than that, of course."

Harry recoiled backwards. "You've got a whip of a tongue on you, you know that," he said, and then he laughed, and laughed some more, and leaned back in his chair whilst the guffaws spilled out.

"There's nothing funny about this, Potter," she said.

"Oh, it's not about Pince, Granger," Harry replied, collecting himself before the witch fired a hex at him. "Just…I came here to relax, and now I've got two angry witches and a whole mystery to deal with. Like I'm in some detective agency with bludgers as clients."

Like before, Granger's lips twitched, before she schooled them into a frown again.

"Let up a little, Granger," Harry said, leaning back into the fabric, sinking into it, and letting the charged scents of the library mesh together and line his nostrils in a strange coating. "You're studying so hard it's like you don't know what else to do with yourself. Maybe this mystery will be good for you, you never know."

Harry closed his eyes, not seeing Granger's reaction to his words. Hopefully, she wasn't getting her wand out to hex his fingers off—one by one, that was. Rather, he heard the shuffling of something against the table, and opened his eyes to find Granger with empty parchment splayed out…making notes of all things.

"It's a log of the investigation," she explained. "We don't have much to go off, considering the 'primary evidence' is gone, as Madam Pince called it."

"Yeah, Pince has got us in a scorcher here," Harry said, thinking that a notebook would've served better than a piece of parchment—something to bring up after his tiredness dissipated. "But we've got that tear in the armchair—your armchair—that I noticed before. If that's the same source as the book—"

"You're right," Granger said, noting that down in hasty scribbles before leaning over the armchair's side and checking the tear. She swung herself back around, bushy hair flinging all over the place. "We've got at least one clue, and that's enough."

"Like the snitch in a Quidditch match," Harry said. "We might be down a hundred and fourty, but one little catch is enough to win it. You're the brains, Granger, and I'm the seeker who has the 'quick thinking' to save the day."

This time, Granger did let off a small smile at Harry's tame joke, before leaning over her notes and scribbling some more, whilst Harry decided to get as much relaxing as he could this evening. Tomorrow—that was when the real detective work began, to find out exactly how that rip came to be, and to save them from eternal damnation it seemed.

An investigation for the ages, no doubt, more dire than the Quidditch World Cup in its last moments. And Harry had, somehow, been caught in the middle of mysteries far beyond anything he'd imagined, all after placing gum under a table.

If he failed…Azkaban would be preferable to what the combination of Pince and Granger would do.

And there was just one more thing.

"Oh, and Granger," Harry muttered.

"What's that?"

"In your own time of course, could you get off my bag please?" Harry glanced at his squished bag, everything inside being strangled to death by Granger's butt. "I can hear the textbooks screaming. The thing's practically on life support now, and you're a few seconds away from pulling the plug."

It was a very unceremonious Granger that leapt off his bag whilst Harry retrieved it with…cautious fingers.

And he gave a secret smile at the humour of it all. This arrangement, though out of the blue, could be fun. Far more fun than a little bet with Ron.

Oh, the wonders of mystery solving.

Wonders far beyond his wildest dreams.

If only the wizard knew what awaited him.

A/N: So, first chappie out of the way. How did you find it? I grew up in England, and our style of humour is known for being, as Hermione would put it, drier than the Sahara under a hair dryer. Of course, this kind of writing is far, far different to my usual fare of heavy emotionality and perhaps an existential threat to boot.

But why not a change for once, eh?

Hope you all enjoyed it. I'm posting as I go, so no set schedule for this one. But I will try to get at least one episode out a month, if not two. No promises, but that's a rough schedule at least…roughly.

Swings Memories is not impacted by this fic. That fic is already finished, so no need to worry about me missing a Saturday post or anything.

Anyway, thanks for reading, and bye for now!