Part 3

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to JKR. I make no money.

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I woke the next morning to the sound of sirens. The downside to living near a motorway is that one often finds himself waking to sirens as yet another careless driver meets his maker upon the slippery tarmac. This occasion, I found out later, was no exception.

The bed felt empty, though it often was. As much as I wished otherwise, Hermione had never slept here. I had never quite plucked up the courage to ask her to spend the night. Or even for a simple kiss. I am more of a coward than most historians will have you believe.

---

Regret, that is to say, is one of life’s more troublesome demons. It gnaws away at your insides, at your soul, without you even realising, until one day you find that all your humanity has gone. That you are left a mere husk of a man, with only the tired concept of love to see you to the end.

Perhaps, in retrospect, that is the reason why I so longed to find Hermione’s killer. I had nothing else. You may call me sentimental, and rightly so, but love is the most important thing in the world. And I loved her.

---

I was walking towards the kitchen when the phone rang, the loud wail echoing down the empty hallway like a Banshee. A Muggle device, I realise, but the Ministry seemed to have become a lot more reliant on Muggle devices. Well, the useful ones, at any rate. Besides, it was far more convenient than the Floo: no fireplace was required.

Still drowsy, I answered, surprised to hear the voice of the Head Auror reply. Hermione’s case had been given to the Dayshift, rather than Night, like the Lab. And, apparently, they had been doing some detective work of their own.

---

They had two prime suspects: the patient, and the secretary. The first had gone missing on the night the murder was assumed to have taken place. The man, James Turner, had filed a malpractice suit against Hermione after a complication arose in surgery. The case was to go to court the following Thursday, but the outlook wasn’t good. Perhaps James had taken justice into his own hands. The motive certainly fit.

The second, a meek woman named Rebecca Dawes, had been the last person to see Hermione alive. But the established motive, I thought, was rather too trivial for murder.

---

Talks with the woman had revealed nothing particularly interesting. True, there was certainly no love lost between Hermione and Rebecca, but something told me that this woman was not a killer. Her objections seemed more likely to be voiced through words than actions.

Rebecca, it appeared, disagreed with Hermione’s personal life, rather than her professional one. She was very much of the opinion that a widow should act like a widow.

It had been almost eight years since Ronald’s death. But, unlike Rebecca, I couldn’t blame Hermione for trying to get on with her life. Nobody wants to be alone.

---

Of course, it rankled somewhat that she never gave me a chance. But, looking back, I suppose it would have hurt more. One night, one week, one month; her relationships never lasted any longer. And I very much doubt I could have given her up once I got a taste of life with her. Friendship, for all of its drawbacks, had some advantages.

I said goodbye to the Head Auror and put the receiver down. My head buzzed with thoughts and ideas, all of them about Hermione. I had to solve the case. My sanity seemed to depend on it.

---

After a breakfast of coffee, I changed and made my way to the Lab. A pile of paperwork awaited me, as did the evidence to be processed, cluttering up my usually immaculate desk. As it was, I found myself in too much of a state to care. I knew that the key to Hermione’s killer lay somewhere amongst the mess. It was now a question of finding it. Time was of the essence.

Then, you see, I believed that every second counted. That the killer was running. Of course, it was only later I found out how wrong I was.

---

Nothing of any note had been revealed in the Autopsy, save that Hermione had had surgery. Not recently, as her medical records soon confirmed, but about four years ago. Her nose, forehead and left cheek had been remodelled, skin and plastic recreating that flawless finish she’d once had. Beauty is entirely superficial, and it seemed that she could no longer live with her scars. I thought no less of her for it. The war was hard on all of us, and perhaps it helped her to forget. It is terrible to be reminded each time one looks in a mirror.

---

I ran the nail scrapings first, only to find a mixture of dirt and her own DNA carefully locked away in epithelial cells. The slightest trace of acetone came up on the slides, identified by the spike in the Magi-Spec reading. A common chemical found in nail varnish remover. The Muggle variety.

Hermione was of Muggle descent, so it did not seem unusual for her to use Muggle remover. What did seem unusual, however, was her need to use it. She never wore nail varnish. I dimly remembered her saying it gave her a rash.

Something else that did not fit.

---

The wand had not been tampered with. It was as pristine as ever, without even a scratch on the handle, almost as if it had never been used.

But it had.

Out of the five spells cast, only the Unforgivable had been identifiable as out of the ordinary, the rest relating to her work: healing spells, most of a more complex nature than those ever used by our dear departed Poppy.

It would have taken hours to unravel their precise nature, but their general description gave me enough of an idea. Sometimes it pays to be vague. Sometimes it doesn’t.

---

I spent three hours processing, checking every fibre, every substance, and still nothing had flagged up as unusual. No foreign DNA, no abnormal fibres, no fingerprints. I was left with nothing but the theory that, perhaps, in the last couple of hours before her death, she had worn nail varnish, and subsequently removed it. Which left the problem of the rash. Surely, if she was allergic, there would have been some sign of anaphylactic shock. But no. Her skin remained as pristine as ever. It was vexing, to say the least.

There was only one option that remained open.

Polyjuice.

---

I took a strand of her hair, one with a skin tag, and began to process, slicing it in two and feeding the half without the skin tag under the microscope. The rest would go to DNA.

Polyjuice is an amazing potion. It can change the appearance of a man so completely that even his own mother would be fooled. A seemingly flawless potion then, frequently used; the opportunity to change victims at will has its appeal for several reasons.

However, Polyjuice like all other potions, has its tells. It is easily enough identified, providing you know where to look.

---

Polyjuice cannot alter the keratin structure. It can only give the appearance of altering it. And, whilst keratin can be found in many places, the easiest to use is hair. The microscope would reveal its true nature.

I looked through the eyepiece, down to the hair below. The hair was interesting, but not in the way I imagined it would be. No Polyjuice. No potions at all, in fact. But that didn’t make it ordinary.

I picked up the phone. My heart was thumping in my chest. Suddenly, everything made sense. I had only one question left to answer.

‘Why?’