Chapter VIII: Of Turned Tables
--
"Get off your butt," Hermione oh-so-cheerfully greeted him, swatting his head with her newspaper after having let herself into his flat with her set of keys and interrupted what he'd intended to be a calm day of pure relaxation.
"But there's a game on," Harry sputtered in indignation, admittedly while getting off of the chesterfield, but purely out of a sense of self-perseverance, as he kept an eye trained on the screen where the football game was playing out. "You can't possibly expect me to leave when Arsenal and Chelsea are playing one another!" He gasped at the sheer audacity of such a preposterous notion.
Hermione, however, was unfazed, and merely raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms and testily tapping her foot in answer to his exclamation. "Wanna bet?" she drawled.
Despite himself, a part couldn't help but be slightly threatened by the look on her face, it was a well-known fact that she was a force to be reckoned with; her treatment of Ron over the years was more than enough proof of that--and the fact that the bloke was most probably a masochist given the situations he purposefully put himself in with her. "Hermione..." he whined petulantly, not in the least bit bothered by the fact that begging may soil his rather manly reputation.
"Oh don't 'Hermione' me!" she stopped him before he even began. "It's not as if you even work for a bloody living so I'll be damned if you complain to me, you berk. We're leaving, now, and that's that so don't give me your bull shit, I don't care."
"You didn't even call!"
"And I don't care, I've made an appointment and we're going, so up and 'attem, you dolt," she ordered him, pointing towards the hall that led to his room in a silent order for him to change out of his boxers and Arsenal jersey and into something suitable.
He huffed and puffed in umbrage, stomping his foot a bit while an ugly scowl marred his face.
"Go!" she repeated nonetheless, his display obviously doing nothing for her.
He growled. "Fine! But just let it be known, I may be going, but that doesn't mean that I'm happy about it, you chit!"
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, I don't care. Just change. We're running out of time, and we can't be late for this appointment as it is." She waved him off, resuming his seat on the chesterfield and turning her attention to the match.
--
"You know the worst part?" Hermione grumbled as they entered the lift of the McMullen Hotel in Notting Hill.
"What?" Harry amusedly asked her, choosing to placate her.
"I had an appointment today; our broker found Ron and I a good apartment and we were going to go see it tonight, now Ron's going to go alone and all I get are some damn pictures. And I'll also probably have to contend with Ron's whining over having to go alone, joy!" she glumly admitted, pouting.
Harry sent her a puzzled look. "Since when are you two looking for apartments?"
She shrugged. "A few days ago I noted on my calendar that our lease is actually up soon and, with everything, we just thought it might be a nice change of pace… get a bigger place, make things a bit easier, I suppose."
"Right," he nodded, turning his gaze to the numbers lining the top of the lift doors, closely watching the light move farther and farther towards the right, a sight that, for some reason totally beyond him, he found oddly riveting.
She, however, sighed, leaning back onto the walls. "Harry?"
"Yeah?" he distractedly asked her, attention still focused on the numbers.
"Do you think it's really what they say it is? That it's the same person?" she asked him, shuffling her feet as she shifted nervously, feeling oddly stupid for asking such a naive and pathetically optimistic question.
He shrugged. "Well, I think that's what we have you and Alex for, to know for sure."
She snorted. "Right, of course, figures really, doesn't it? Poetic irony, I suppose. Here we are trying to solve the case only to have the fact that we're nowhere get thrown in our face."
He smiled. "How the tables have turned, now you're the pessimist? Really, 'Mione, I must admit that I'm a bit ashamed."
She blushed, sending him a withering look. "Shush you, don't be mean. You know how I hate that name!"
He chortled. "Well, anger's a far better reaction than that pathetic self-pity."
"Oh," she scoffed, "because you don't know enough about that one!"
He laughed. "You're rather testy today."
She scrunched her nose as she grimaced. "It's been a piss poor week."
He smiled sympathetically, throwing an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her lightly in a comforting manner. "But who doesn't love to end their day with roasted testicles?" he dryly asked, winking at her, an action that drew a loud laugh from her.
--
"So… Harry Potter is it?" the Muggle man asked him, and Harry had to stop himself from snapping at the man since he saw that the bloke had a file with his blasted name on it.
"I believe that's what it says on the file," he monotonously answered.
"And why are you here, Harry?"
"For therapy," was his clipped reply as he gritted his teeth. That was the best therapist in London, seriously?
The man, Andersen, laughed lightly. "Yes, well that much I realized."
Harry rolled his eyes as he lay on the uncomfortable leather couch. "You know, I appreciate that this blasted thing is expensive and all, but, honestly, what's the point in the excess if it's not even comfortable," he groaned, shifting in the chair as he tried to find a comfortable position, which, in turn, led to many futile attempts and minutes wasted.
He nodded. "I'll be sure to make note of that next time I go shopping for furniture, but how about we turn this back to you now?"
"You're the therapist, your choice."
"How about you tell me about the woman you came here with-"
"Actually," Harry interrupted him, "it's more like she dragged me here despite the fact that I was in the middle of enjoying a fantastic Arsenal versus Chelsea match on TV."
He heard the man chuckle lightly in response and Harry had to restrain himself from glaring at him, and only because the threats Hermione had given him on their ride over was continuously playing in his head. "Besides the technicalities then, she still seemed pretty concerned about you. Would you like to tell me about her?"
Harry stiffened before shrugging, muttering, "If you want… you're the therapist here, not me"
"I do. Now, tell me who she is."
"She's Hermione."
"Original name," Andersen commented.
"Not the only thing about her either," Harry admitted.
"Then tell me what else is."
--
"Potter, late again," a grim, balding man noted with a look of evident distaste sent Harry's way.
Harry smiled cheerfully. "Nice to see you too, Sartre. Ever the arse, I see."
The bloke sent him a dirty look and Hermione tried to stifle her giggle as the grim bloke practically threw the masks and gloves at them before storming away as Harry darkly muttered "I hate the French-particularly that French pillock-"
"Well, if it isn't the lovely Miss Granger. Pleasure to see you again," a cheery Sam Ludlum interrupted Harry's dour tirade. "And you too, Potter," he added, clearly as an afterthought.
"Nice to see you again," Hermione smiled while Harry scowled. "Any chance you can tell us where to go?"
"Straight ahead, third door to the left," he told them, pointing towards the other side of the ostentatious suite. "I have to go handle some press, don't know how they caught wind of this so soon. We were actually trying to keep it low profile," he sighed. "But I'll find you two later to give you whatever notes the crew's compiled."
"Thanks," Harry nodded before grabbing Hermione's latex garbed hand and pulling her towards the room.
"You're awfully cheerful today," Hermione noted as they entered the room, distracting herself with talking to him to avoid acknowledging the fact that it truly was a sickening and repulsive sight.
The body was, once again, lying on the floor and chained to the bottom of the bed posts. She moved towards the corpse, frowning as she had to admit that it was most definitely the same murderer.
"Do you have anything to jot down notes on?" she asked him, eyes trained on the body as he stood at the door way, scowling slightly at the sight.
"Uh, yeah, someone just handed one to me… probably should have thanked him, come to think of it."
Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Naturally... note that the body appears to have been lying here dead for only about three and a half to four hours," she ordered him.
"Well that's better than the ten hours last time."
"Not too sure if that's something to be proud of, given that the bloke still died," Hermione commented with a small grin.
"But still, improvement nonetheless," he defended with a sheepish look, more so out of the principal of the matter than in defense of the Auror department's productiveness.
"What high standards you have," Hermione laughed.
He smiled at her retort. "Anything unusual there?"
"Different spells… at least it looks like it from the scarring. When I see the tracers on the bone I'll be able to tell you for sure, but it could just be a different ratio for all I know," she noted. "Oh god!" she moaned.
"What?"
" I just realized I'm going to have to go through that whole ordeal again. Figuring out the spells, putting up with Wharton, and now I have to figure out the ratio for both of them before sending it to a Spells Master," she bemoaned, pouting.
He chuckled softly. "Way to look at the bright side, love."
She turned around, sending him a glare before returning her gaze to the body. "Well, that's certainly odd."
"What?" Harry asked concernedly, raising his head a bit to try to see the body past her head, an ultimately futile attempt as he didn't really even know what to make of the practically masticated corpse.
"Well, there's a light hand print around the neck… can't really totally make it out…" she told him, squinting as she eyed the marking around the collar. "I'll have to ask Alex to expand it, maybe have an IT see if they can isolate it and find a way to amplify it or something."
"What, you think there's a fingerprint or something?"
"No," she shook her head. "I doubt it. This person's too careful for that."
"Usually, it's the simple things that people slip up on," Harry offered.
"Yeah, but it's hardly difficult to remember to put on some gloves, particularly when dealing with this much blood," she countered.
"Well then, it won't do us much good unless we find a suspect and try to match their hand print against that. Then, look at O.J. Simpson."
She smiled at his example, turning to him again. "True, but a hand print could tell me the sex."
He sent her a puzzled look. "How?"
"Men usually have ring fingers that are noticeably larger than their index while women have ring and index fingers that are nearly the same length," she explained. "That could cut the list in half."
"More if it's a bloke, given the astounding amount of women that he screwed over."
"True," Hermione nodded before returning her attention to the dead Dylan Sinclair. "But given what I can make out of this, it doesn't seem as if we're so lucky. The index and ring finger look like they end at about the same point. I'll have to have picture enhancement to see if the fingers were wrapped around the neck to be a hundred percent sure though."
"Right," Harry nodded, quickly writing a reminder for that.
"Who is he, anyway?" Hermione asked him as she moved her attention onto the scars marring the otherwise rather attractive man.
"You know blue-label firewhisky?"
"Yeah, of course, I don't live under a rock and I'm not nearly that straight-laced. Besides, it's practically Ron's life line… and yours too… before."
"Well, his family owns it."
Hermione's eyes widened a bit at that new found piece of knowledge. "My, my, what a high profile case we have here. Note a change in the length of the scars around the body, they're four centimeters long this time and there's a bit more…"
"Got it."
Hermione turned to her right, eyeing the roasted organ that had, conveniently, been placed right in front of the late Dylan Sinclair. "Phallus was roasted with a simple aduro again."
Sarcastically. "Joy."
"By what I can see, everything except the spells used is the same. Even the incision across the midgut is the same length, unlike the cuts across the body. In all honesty, I can't tell you anything new until we get this to the lab," she admitted, turning to him, but somehow still managing to keep an eye trained on the bloke. "Can you make sure they send it right over, as soon as possible, and tell them that it has to go to Alexandru Ionesco?"
He nodded. "Sure."
"Great," she smiled widely, taking off her gloves and mask as they made their way out the room before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Well I must be off then, seems as if Ron and I can actually make it to the showing after all. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"I'll pick you up instead and then I can drive us to the Ministry and tell you whatever we learn tonight on the ride over," he offered.
She immediately smiled at the proposition. "Perfect, I'll see you then instead. Oh and remember-"
"Coffee and croissants, I know," he smiled.
"Well, actually, I was going to say the file, but that works for me too. Bye, Harry."
--
"She… she's always there for me, despite all of the shite that I throw upon her, she's always there for me… in all honesty, I don't really even know why she stays, but she does. I think she may be a little touched in the head, actually," Harry added lightly.
"Sounds like quite the woman," Andersen commented with raised eyebrows.
"She is… she really is, means the world to me," Harry admitted. "I don't know what I'd do without her."
"So then… care to tell me why it is that she forced you to come here?"
"She wanted me to come because I'm... well I've had problems with drinking, and she's helping me get past that. This is her idea of helping apparently."
"And how do you feel about that?"
Harry groaned, turning in the couch to face his therapist with a pleasing look.. "Please don't tell me you're going to use that cliché line, are you?"
Andersen chuckled. "It's just that you sound rather bitter about it, care to tell me why?"
"Well, I don't get why I need to go to a therapist. In all honesty, I don't really like your lot, think therapy is rather pointless. Plus, I can't understand why I can't work past this on my own," Harry grumbled, the bitter undertone in his words coming across loud and clear.
"Well, it doesn't seem as if that's been working out very well for you as of late."
"Can't be much better with a therapist."
Andersen let out a small snigger. "You know, some people actually think that it's easier to talk to a stranger… that somehow you can say you're deepest secrets to one because, at the end of the day, you don't care what they think of you, their opinion doesn't matter, and you finally got that weight off your chest by vocalizing it to someone."
"Sounds stupid to me."
"Really, so there's nothing that you want to tell me then?"
"Well… I suppose there are one or two things, you know, since I'm already here anyway."
--
"Oi, I come bearing food," Harry announced as he let himself into the flat that Hermione and Ron shared.
"Oh, thank Merlin, at least someone cares for me," Ron cried out as he greeted Harry with a clap on the back before moving to set the table.
"Oh don't be such a baby!" Hermione scolded him as she entered the dining room, limping as she only had one shoe on.
"Nice look there, love," Harry amusedly noted, eyeing her with clear hilarity in his expression as he watched her try to walk with one high heeled shoe on as she wore a rather constricting pencil skirt.
"Don't join in on the `torment Hermione parade,' I have some pointless brunch to attend because donators to the foundation are there," she grumbled before turning to Ron. "Have you seen my shoe?"
"Hermione, you kick them off aimlessly, never paying the slightest bit of attention to where the bloody hell they land. How should I know? Try under the couch, most of them end up there," he offered.
Harry laughed as he watched her limp out of the room. "Nice to know some things never change, she always was terrible with her shoes."
"And we go through this every morning," Ron rolled his eyes, letting out a deep laugh when a distant "Yes! Found it!" was heard from the other room.
"Anyway, how have you two been with the case? Read the paper this morning and saw that there was another one, sounds brutal."
Harry sighed, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose as he sat himself down at the dining room table, grabbing a chocolate croissant from the bag and placing it on the plate Ron had set before him. "It's getting out of hand, and people are starting to freak out, worried that they'll be the next target now."
Ron's eyebrows drew together. "Where the hell did they get that idea?"
"From the fact that we haven't apprehended anyone yet. It's mass hysteria. They're making it sound as if this person's the next Hannibal Lector."
"Loved that movie, too bad Hopkins was only on for about fifteen minutes of it. Shame."
Harry chortled. "It was. Anyway, how did apartment hunting go last night?"
"Terrible, the flat had one bathroom and Hermione refuses to share one with me any longer, claims I'm a pig, but, honestly, you'd think she'd get used to it by now," Ron rationalized, clearly joking.
"Oh don't be so dramatic. You leave wet towels on the floor, Ron. I can handle the rest, but that-that one I refuse to let go," Hermione complained as she reentered the room, seating herself by Harry and across from Ron.
"And they say you have a stick up your arse, no idea where they get that one from," he winked at her.
Harry chuckled, as he swallowed the morsel of his pastry that he'd just taken a bite of. "How are you two still together anyway?"
Hermione shrugged. "It's our shtick."
"Works for us," Ron finished. "How are you and Christina, by the way?"
"We're okay. Nothing serious, but it works for us, I suppose."
"Hermione told me about the dinner you were talking about with the four of us. How about we do that next week? It might be fun."
Harry's eyes bulged a bit despite himself, not having expected that in the slightest given what, regardless of how sparse and vague, Hermione had told him. "Oh I thought-"
"It's resolved," Hermione stopped him, immediately sensing his next comment. "And we thought it'd be nice, it's been ages since we really had a chance to lay back and relax, together. We miss you."
Harry smiled, nodding. "Okay, might be fun, I'll ask Christina. How about Wednesday? She comes in tomorrow from some runway show she had in Milan or something like that."
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