Chapter Text
The rain hammered against the frosted glass of the London District Attorney's office. Inside, surrounded by towering stacks of financial ledgers, tax returns, and encrypted hard drives, sat Hermione Granger. At twenty-three, she was the sharpest legal mind the city had seen in a decade, and she was currently signing her own death warrant.
She had done what the entire police force had failed to do: she had found the paper trail.
Tom Riddle, the city’s most elusive and terrifying mob boss, had practically owned London's underground for years. He operated in the shadows, leaving no fingerprints, no witnesses, and no evidence. But Hermione had tracked his shell corporations, tying the blood money directly to his personal accounts. The moment she filed the indictment, Riddle had vanished, going completely off the grid. But his absence didn't mean safety. It meant war.
Riddle’s top lieutenants—the slick, untouchable Lucius Malfoy, and the utterly psychotic hitwoman Bellatrix Lestrange—had been unleashed with one singular objective: eliminate Hermione Granger before the trial.
"You can't stay at your apartment, Hermione," the District Attorney had told her earlier that day, his face pale. "They firebombed your lobby this morning. You’re moving to the St. Walburga Girls' PG. It’s a heavily fortified, women-only paying guest house. High security, no men allowed past the front gate. You'll be safe there while we figure out a protective detail."
Now, sitting on a narrow bed in the ascetic, strictly monitored boarding house, Hermione clutched her briefcase to her chest, listening to the thunder, wondering how long the reinforced doors would actually hold.
Across the city, the bustling bullpen of London's elite Major Crimes Unit was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and stale printer ink. This was the home of "The Six"—a squad of the youngest, most brilliant rookie cops the department had ever seen. They were clean, incorruptible, and fiercely loyal.
At his desk, Harry Potter was fiercely typing up a report. Shorter than average but incredibly athletic, Harry had dark, messy hair and a quiet, brooding intensity. A jagged, angry scar slashed across his forehead—a permanent souvenir from the night he had come face-to-face with Tom Riddle during a botched raid two years ago.
Beside him, Neville Longbottom was mapping out a web of crime syndicate connections on a massive whiteboard. Neville was a mountain of a man, built like a tank but possessing the intellect of a master tactician. He worked with a quiet, relentless fury; his parents, two veteran detectives, had been murdered by Riddle’s gang when Neville was just a boy.
The heavy precinct doors swung open, and the bullpen noise momentarily dipped as Ronald Weasley walked in.
Ron was a walking contradiction that baffled the entire department. He was an incredibly skilled marksman and hand-to-hand combatant, but he certainly didn't look the part. He had a cascade of long, incredibly well-kept red hair that fell past his shoulders, brilliant cerulean blue eyes, and a light dusting of freckles over high, aristocratic cheekbones. His face was delicately structured, undeniably beautiful, and his uniform clung to a lithe, surprisingly curvy figure that drew stares wherever he went.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the department's top model," came a booming, teasing voice from the water cooler.
Angelina Johnson, a tough-as-nails senior detective and the protective big sister of the squad, leaned against the wall, a smirk playing on her lips.
Ron sighed, aggressively dropping his duffel bag onto his desk. "Good morning to you too, Angelina. And for the record, I was up until three A.M. chasing down a smuggler by the docks. I am not in the mood."
"Could have fooled me, gorgeous," Angelina laughed, walking over and playfully tugging a lock of his long red hair. "You look like you just stepped out of a salon. Seriously, Weasley, it's unfair. You’re entirely too pretty for this line of work. I know women who would kill for your bone structure."
Ron swatted her hand away, his ears turning a bright, defensive red. "I am a highly trained officer of the law, Angelina! Stop calling me pretty! It’s infuriating."
"I think you look very handsome, Ron," a breathy voice interrupted.
Ron groaned internally. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the final two members of their elite rookie squad, were leaning over the partition of their desks, both batting their eyelashes at him.
"Thanks, Lavender," Ron muttered stiffly, turning back to his computer screen and actively avoiding eye contact.
"I bought you an iced latte," Parvati added, sliding a sweating cup across his desk. "And I was wondering if you wanted to go over the patrol logs together later? In the breakroom? Just the two of us?"
"I, uh... I have to polish my service weapon," Ron stammered, frantically looking at Harry for a rescue. "Right, Harry? We have to go to the armory?"
Harry didn't look up from his screen, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're on your own, mate. You know how it is, Parvati. His beauty is a curse."
"Shut up, Harry," Ron hissed.
"Alright, rookies, knock it off! Stow the banter!" a gravelly, authoritative voice echoed through the room.
The bullpen instantly fell dead silent. Stepping out of the Captain's office was Albus Dumbledore. Though technically retired, the legendary former Police Commissioner still pulled the strings in the city's highest-stakes cases. When Dumbledore walked into a room, everyone listened.
Dumbledore slowly paced to the front of the room, his piercing eyes scanning the six rookies.
"As you all know," Dumbledore began, his voice quiet but commanding, "we have a situation. A civilian, a young law student named Hermione Granger, has managed to do the impossible. She’s built a watertight racketeering and murder case against Tom Riddle."
Neville gripped his whiteboard marker so tightly it snapped in half. "Riddle. Where is he?"
"Gone to ground," Dumbledore said gravely. "But he hasn't left the city. And he has ordered Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange to ensure Miss Granger never makes it to the courthouse. They are actively hunting her as we speak."
Harry stood up, his jaw set. "Where is she, sir? We can lock her down in a safe house."
"She is currently residing at the St. Walburga Girls' PG," Dumbledore explained. "It was the only secure facility the D.A. could arrange on short notice that offered impenetrable perimeter security. However, perimeter security is not enough against the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange. We need eyes on the inside. We need our absolute best standing between Miss Granger and Riddle's assassins."
Dumbledore paused, his gaze landing squarely on the desks of the two youngest men in the room.
"This department has a duty to protect her," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling with a sudden, calculating intensity. "And that is why I am assigning this detail to my two most trusted, capable officers."
Dumbledore pointed a long, steady finger across the room.
"Ronald Weasley. And Harry Potter. You're up."
The manila folder hit the metal desk with a heavy thud, scattering a few loose crime scene photos across the scratched surface. Harry leaned over the file, his green eyes scanning the dense pages of Hermione Granger’s background check, her academic transcripts, and the terrifyingly long list of threats made against her by the Riddle syndicate.
"Alright," Harry said, tapping a pen against his chin. "She’s holed up at the St. Walburga Girls' PG. We need to go down there in person, assess the security flaws of the building, and brief her on the protection protocols. Grab your jacket, Ron."
Ron, who was currently attempting to balance a pencil on his perfectly straight nose, let it drop and let out a long, exaggerated groan. "Do I have to? Look at her file, Harry. She’s president of the debate club, valedictorian, runs three different legal clinics... she’s a total nerd girl. You know exactly how this is going to go. She’s going to lecture us on jurisdiction and penal codes for three hours. I can’t deal with that today. My head already hurts from the docks."
"Ron, Dumbledore gave us a direct order," Harry argued, throwing his hands up. "We are her primary detail!"
"Yeah, but she doesn't know that yet," Ron countered smoothly, kicking his boots up onto his desk. "Take Angelina. She’s intimidating, she’s authoritative, and most importantly, she’s a woman, so she can actually get past the front desk of that fortress. I’ll stay here and run background checks on the PG's staff. It’s a flawless division of labor."
Harry scowled, knowing Ron was just trying to get out of dealing with a difficult civilian, but he also knew dragging a reluctant Ron into a delicate first meeting was a recipe for disaster. "Fine," Harry muttered. "But you owe me."
An hour later, Harry and Angelina found themselves standing in the sterile, heavily perfumed parlor of the St. Walburga Girls' PG. The matron had practically strip-searched Harry with her eyes before allowing him into the visitor's lounge. When Hermione Granger finally descended the sweeping oak staircase, Harry was slightly taken aback. She wasn't just some mousy bookworm; she had a fierce, intelligent fire in her warm brown eyes, a riot of bushy brown hair, and a posture that commanded the room.
"Miss Granger," Harry stepped forward, flashing his badge. "I’m Detective Potter, and this is Detective Johnson. We’ve been assigned by Commissioner Dumbledore to handle your case."
Hermione’s face brightened momentarily. "Oh, thank goodness. Have you arrested Malfoy yet? I sent the D.A. the offshore routing numbers yesterday, it should be enough for a warrant."
"Not exactly," Angelina said gently. "Riddle and his top people have gone underground. They're actively looking for you, Miss Granger. We are here to discuss your protective detail."
Hermione's smile vanished, replaced by a stubborn frown. "I don't need a babysitter, Detectives. I moved to this facility precisely because it is secure. I have my final exams next week, and I am preparing for the biggest trial in this city's history. I cannot be dragged off to some miserable safe house in the middle of nowhere."
"You don't understand the severity of the threat," Harry pressed, stepping closer. "Riddle’s gang doesn't care about the reinforced doors on this building. If they want you dead, they will find a way inside."
"And I am telling you, I am not afraid of Tom Riddle or his thugs," Hermione said, her voice rising with indignant defiance. "I refuse to let them terrorize me out of my own life. I am perfectly safe here. The gates are locked at eight, no men are allowed past the lobby, and the windows are barred."
"Hermione, listen to us," Angelina urged, her tone turning sharp and urgent. "You are the key to Riddle's total collapse. If you die, the case dies with you. We *have* to protect you."
"Then post a patrol car outside," Hermione stated coldly, turning on her heel. "I appreciate your concern, but my answer is no. I am staying right here, and I will be working alone. Good day, Detectives." She marched back up the stairs without a backward glance.
Harry and Angelina returned to the precinct an hour later, their faces identical masks of defeat. Ron took one look at them and let out a bark of laughter. "Told you. Nerd girls are the most stubborn creatures on the planet."
"It's not funny, Ron," Harry snapped, slamming his hands onto his desk. "She completely shut us out. If we can't put a detail on her, she's a sitting duck. We need a new plan."
The six rookies gathered around Neville's whiteboard.
"The only way to protect her without her throwing a fit is from the inside," Neville reasoned, his deep voice carrying a grim weight. "Someone has to move into the PG. A roommate."
"It has to be a woman," Angelina pointed out. "Their rules are absolute. And it can't be me. She just saw my face, she’d make me in a second and kick me out."
All eyes turned to the remaining two female officers in the squad.
Lavender Brown immediately held up her hands, her manicured nails catching the fluorescent light. "Absolutely not. I read her file. She studies until four in the morning, doesn't watch reality television, and probably talks about tax law for fun. I am not living in a tiny dorm room with a textbook-hugging nerd. I’d lose my mind."
Parvati Patil rolled her eyes at her partner. "You’re so dramatic, Lav. Fine, I'll do it. I can handle a few late nights of studying. Tell the Captain to prep my undercover alias."
The squad breathed a collective sigh of relief, but the victory was tragically short-lived.
The very next afternoon, a frantic call came over the dispatch radio. Parvati had been patrolling near the courthouse when a sleek black town car had tried to run down a young boy crossing the street—a boy whose father was set to testify in a minor smuggling case connected to Riddle. Parvati hadn't hesitated. She dove into the street, shoving the child to safety, but took the brunt of the impact herself. She survived, but with a fractured leg, three broken ribs, and a severe concussion, she was immediately confined to a hospital bed.
The mood in the bullpen turned venomous. The remaining five rookies were consumed by a quiet, burning rage. Riddle’s gang was getting bolder, and they were running out of options.
That evening, the team relocated their war council to the suburbs. Harry and Ginny had been married just a few months prior, and their cozy, slightly cluttered home had become the unofficial sanctuary for the squad.
In the warm, brightly lit kitchen, Ron was aggressively chopping carrots. Ever since Ginny had moved out of the Weasley family home and married his best friend, Ron had become horribly, overbearingly overprotective. He missed his little sister fiercely, and he used any excuse to hover around her.
Ginny, who ran a highly successful independent fashion label, was leaning against the counter, amused by her older brother's frantic culinary energy. "You're going to slice a finger off if you keep hacking at those poor vegetables like that, Ron."
"I'm fine, Gin," Ron grumbled, violently sweeping the chopped carrots into a simmering pot. His long, brilliant red hair kept slipping over his shoulder, getting dangerously close to the open flame of the stove.
Ginny sighed, walking up behind him. "You’re a hazard to yourself. Hold still." She reached up, gathering the thick, silky mass of his red hair into her hands. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving the long strands into a neat, tight French braid that fell perfectly down the center of his broad back. "Honestly, Ronnie, your hair is prettier than half the models I work with. It's completely unfair."
"Don't start with that," Ron warned, his ears flushing as he stirred the stew. "Angelina already gave me enough grief about my face this week. I just like it long, alright?"
"Well, at least now it won't catch fire," Ginny smiled, patting his shoulder. "Thanks for helping me cook. I know you guys are stressed."
"Stressed doesn't even begin to cover it," Ron muttered, his blue eyes darkening.
In the adjacent living room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Harry was pacing holes into the rug, while Neville sat on the sofa, his head in his hands. Angelina was leaning against the wall, rhythmically tossing a coaster into the air and catching it. When Ron and Ginny finally brought the steaming bowls of dinner to the large oak dining table, the conversation immediately snapped back to the crisis at hand.
"We have no one left," Harry said, aggressively stabbing a piece of potato with his fork. "Parvati is out for at least six weeks. Lavender flat out refuses and wouldn't pass as a student anyway. Angelina is burned. And we can't send a man in. Riddle is going to get to Granger, and there is literally nothing we can do to stop it."
Angelina took a sip of her water, offering a dark, sarcastic chuckle. "Well, unless you want to volunteer, Ginny, I think we're out of female cops."
Ginny paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked around the table, seeing the absolute exhaustion and despair on her husband's and brother's faces. "Okay," she said calmly. "I'll do it."
The dining table erupted.
"Absolutely not!" Harry yelled, slamming his hands down on the wood so hard the silverware rattled. "Are you insane? You are not a cop, Ginny!"
"Over my dead body!" Ron bellowed simultaneously, his face turning an angry shade of crimson. He stood up, towering over the table. "You are not going anywhere near Tom Riddle's people! Do you have any idea what Bellatrix Lestrange does to people?"
Ginny slammed her own hands down, rising to meet her brother's furious glare. "Don't treat me like a child, Ronald! You just said you have no one else! A girl’s life is in danger, and I can blend in perfectly at a girls' dormitory! I can be her roommate and keep an eye out while you guys watch the perimeter!"
"No!" Harry yelled again, his voice cracking with panic. "It’s too dangerous, Gin. I won't allow it. I’d rather lose my badge than put my wife in the crosshairs of a cartel hitwoman!"
"I don't need your permission, Harry Potter!" Ginny fired back, her eyes flashing fiercely. "If it saves her life, I am doing it! If not me, who? Tell me! There is literally no girl left on your team to do this!"
"There are other ways!" Ron shouted, pointing a trembling finger at his sister. "We’ll figure it out! But you stay out of the cop world, Ginny! You stick to your dresses and your fabrics, do you hear me? You are not getting involved in this!"
"You arrogant, overprotective jerk!" Ginny screamed, throwing her napkin at Ron's head. "I am trying to help!"
"By getting yourself killed?!" Harry roared.
The three of them were shouting so loudly over each other that the windows seemed to vibrate. The kitchen was a cacophony of overlapping yells, panicked curses, and the sound of a family terrifyingly desperate to protect one another.
"I have an idea."
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried a strange, heavy resonance that cut through the screaming match like a knife.
Harry froze, his mouth hanging open. Ginny stopped mid-yell. Ron stood frozen, his chest heaving with adrenaline.
Slowly, the three of them, along with Angelina, turned their heads.
Neville Longbottom was sitting quietly at the end of the table, his hands folded neatly over his plate. He wasn't looking at Harry, or Ginny, or Angelina. His eyes were fixed entirely, and unapologetically, on Ron Weasley. He looked at Ron's face.
A slow, dangerous silence settled over the dining room.
"Neville..." Ron whispered, a cold sweat suddenly breaking out on the back of his neck as he realized exactly what his friend was staring at. "Whatever you are thinking... don't."
To be continued...