My name is Harry Potter. I'm a detective, a good one. I've solved cases that would have stumped the greats, Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, Batman. I'm the best in the business, and I know it. But this case, this one was different. It wasn't just a missing person, it was personal. Hermione was a friend, or at least someone I knew, and I wanted to find her, not because I was paid to do so, because I wasn't (but if I were I would try just as hard), but because she was someone I cared about, and I wanted to see her again, even though we weren't that close, we were still friends, sort of, and I wanted to know she was okay. And also maybe, if I was being honest with myself, I was hoping that she'd be grateful and want to go on a date, or at least hang out as friends, and maybe she'd want to get coffee or a drink or something, and maybe I could ask her about the latest book she was reading, and she'd smile and laugh and we'd have a good time, but that was just a bonus, a fringe benefit, not the real reason I was looking for her, even though it was a possibility I had considered, and maybe even hoped for or dreamed about once or twice, but that's beside the point. I also had a best friend, Ron Weasley, and a mentor, Albus Dumbledore, who were also missing, and I wanted to find them too, for similar reasons, but mostly Hermione.
I was in the office, my office, which was actually Dumbledore's office, but he was letting me use it while he was away.
I was looking through his files, his old case files, his journals, his notes, his personal correspondence, his drawings, naked and clothed ones of my transfiguration teacher and his old flame, Mrs. McGonagall.
She was quite the looker.
"Focus, Harry, focus," I told myself, and tried to ignore the pictures of the cat lady in compromising positions.
I was looking for clues, any clues, that would help me find my friends, and Hermione, but so far I hadn't found anything, and I was getting frustrated, and I was about to give up, when I saw something, a piece of paper, a note, that caught my eye, a note that said something about a Deathly Hallows, a magical object, a powerful artifact that had the power to grant wishes, but at a price, a price that was never specified, but which intrigued me nonetheless.
I knew I had to find this object, gather it, like the dragon balls, or even the super dragon balls, and use it to find Hermione, and Ron, and Dumbledore, and maybe even get a wish of my own, if there were any wishes left over, or if I could find a way to get more wishes, like by wishing for more wishes, or by using the law of equivalent exchange or something. How though? My mom was already dead so I couldn't use her to bring back someone else, unless I used her to bring herself back, but I wasn't sure if that would work, or if it was a good idea, or if I would be willing to sacrifice my mom for a girl I barely knew. I didn't even have a brother, so it would have to be my cousin Dudley and I didn't like him that much, but I probably liked him more than Hermione, unless she was really hot now, which was possible, but unlikely, given her frumpy appearance and overall lack of fashion sense.
I just needed to find out where the Deathly Hallows were, and how to use them, and who I was willing to sacrifice for them, and if I could get a good deal or a discount, and then everything would be okay. But first, I needed to find another lead, and Dumbledore's office wasn't going to be it. He was too smart to leave anything incriminating behind, or too lazy to clean up after himself, but either way, there was nothing useful in there. So I had to think outside the box, outside his office, outside Hogwarts, and even outside the wizarding world, if necessary, but hopefully not since people don't know me there.
I decided to go to Hogsmeade, the local wizarding village, and see if anyone there had seen or heard anything suspicious lately. I walked through the narrow streets, past the shops, pubs and people, and tried to blend in, but it wasn't easy. I was a tall, muscular, handsome man, with a scar on my forehead that looked like a wicked lightning bolt, and a pair of glasses that made me look like a sexy librarian. I was also wearing a long black cloak, which made me look mysterious while carrying a wand, and a gun, and a sword, for good measure. And I had a reputation, a reputation for being the best detective in the wizarding world, and also for being Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the chosen one, the hero of the wizarding world, or at least what was left of it after the war against Voldemort, the dark lord, who was also my uncle, or something.
I wasn't sure how we were related, but we had the same nose, and the same temper, and the same love for murder and mayhem. We also had the same weakness, which was me, or rather, my blood, which he used to resurrect himself, but which also made me very sick at one time, until I got better, somehow. I wasn't a doctor, but I knew that blood was important, and that Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, as he was originally named, was not someone to mess with, unless you were me.
He was my archenemy, my nemesis, my other half, and he was dead, or so I thought, but now I wasn't so sure. Because if he was really dead, why was Hermione missing? And why hadn't Dumbledore or Ron contacted me? And why was I feeling so uneasy? There could be many reasons, but my gut, and my scar, which was hurting, told me that Voldemort, or something like him, was involved. And that meant trouble, big trouble.
I went to the Three Broomsticks, the pub where most of the wizards and witches hung out, and where I sometimes went to get wasted and forget about my problems, or to find more problems. I ordered a butterbeer from Madam Rosmerta, the busty and cheerful barmaid who always flirted with me, even though she was old enough to be my mother, or maybe grandmother. I flirted back, of course, because I was a gentleman, and also because I liked boobs, especially hers. She gave me a wink and a foamy drink, and I gave her a galleon and a smirk. Then I turned around and leaned against the bar, scanning the room for anything or anyone interesting. There were the usual suspects, the drunkards and the gamblers, but only one person caught my eye, or rather, ear. A man with a raspy voice, and a lot of friends, or lackeys. He was sitting in the corner, under a dim light, smoking a pipe, and talking about something that made him excited, or angry, or both. I couldn't hear him clearly, but I could see his lips, and they were moving fast, and forming words, and I was curious, or maybe suspicious. I was a detective, after all, and it was my job to be curious and suspicious, especially when it came to creepy men with friends or lackeys and fast moving lips.
I didn't want to be too obvious, so I waited until he went to the bathroom. I followed him, not too close, I didn't want people to think I was interested in his ass, or anything, but close enough to see where he was going. He went to the second floor, which was supposed to be off limits, unless you had a key, or a wand, which made me even more curious and suspicious since I had both. I was Harry Potter, after all, and I could go wherever I wanted, except for Gringotts, and Diagon Alley, and home, but that was another story.
I waited for him to enter a room, and then I crept up to the door, and pressed my ear against it, hoping to hear something, anything, that would make me less curious and suspicious, or maybe more. I heard voices, voices that sounded familiar, voices that said things that made me even more curious and suspicious. They said things like:
"Voldemort is dead, long live Voldemort!"
"We must find the Deathly Hallows, before the Deathly Hollows find them!"
"Harry Potter is the key, the blood, the one!"
"He must be eliminated, or seduced, or both!"
I didn't like what I was hearing, not at all. It sounded like they were planning something bad, something evil and potentially sexy that involved me, or maybe someone who had the same name as me, but I doubted it. I was Harry Potter, and I was the only one, or at least I hoped so. Plus, it sounded like they wanted the Deathly Hallows, which I still didn't know what they were, or what they did, or how to get them, but I wanted them, and so did they, and that was not good. And they also said something about Voldemort, or maybe Voldenot, which was either his brother or his cousin or something, and I didn't like that either. Voldemort was supposed to be dead, or at least very weak, and I liked him that way. I didn't want him to come back, or to have a family reunion with him and his brother.
I had to do something, something quick and clever and heroic, or maybe just stupid and reckless, but something nonetheless. I decided to do something that would change the course of history, or maybe just my pants, if things went badly, but I was willing to take the risk, because I was Harry Potter, and I was awesome.