In Vegas and In Trouble

Harry Potter was in deep trouble yet again.

He sat outside his apartment, watching the muggle investigators walk away, leaving him with one of the uniformed officers. This was not good.

He'd moved to the States after the final fall of Voldemort. It seemed like a good idea to get away from everything for a little while, and try just living a normal life. That meant no wizarding world, and no Britain. He'd never have escaped all of the attention of the British wizarding world if he had stayed anywhere in the country.

So he moved to the States, got a comfortable small apartment, an easy job busting tables at a restaurant down the street, and was just beginning to relax into his new life.

And then Peter Pettigrew crossed his threshold, setting off every ward Harry had put up.

It hadn't taken any thought on Harry's part. He'd been up and out of bed the same moment the wards rippled. His wand had been sitting on his nightstand next to his glass. In seconds the glasses were on his face, the wand in his hand, and himself positioned besides his dresser so that he'd have a clear shot on anyone who came through the door, while at the same time having some protection for himself. The wards weren't set up to be able to warn him of who had entered, just that someone had. A renegade Death Eater was the obvious explanation. He'd had some trouble with them just after he defeated their leader, but most had either been caught, or were hiding as deeply as they could.

Harry had always been prepared, however. He knew they weren't going to just let him lead his life peacefully like that.

He'd planned on restraining whoever it was, and sending them back to Britain to be questioned. The Aurors could take care of that. See if the person knew anything of interest before sentencing them.

But then the door had swung open, and Harry saw just who it was, and he didn't think about it.

Peter Pettigrew. Alive, and more or less well. While Harry's parents and god-father were not.

It seemed like an imbalance that needed to be corrected.

And then he had a dead body on his bedroom floor.

It was not a good situation.

But he managed not to panic. He managed not to abuse the body any more than one swift kick to the head as he moved out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He needed to call someone. Report the incident. Have someone with authority come and clean things up for him. He couldn't jus wallow in all of the anger and frustration he'd been repressing. He had thought killing Pettigrew would have been more satisfying, but all he really wanted to do was sit on the floor and flounder in all the bad memories and feelings. But he hadn't let himself do that after the war and he wasn't going to start now. There had been thing to be done.

So he did what he'd been instructed to do if any problem should arise, and he used the telephone (a radically muggle thing by most British wizarding standards) and called the wizarding British embassy.

After getting transferred from one secretary to another, he was finally told to just wait in his apartment, and someone would be sent over shortly.

He'd assumed that meant a wizard.

He hadn't expected the Las Vegas police department.

And here Harry was, in deep trouble yet again.

He watched the two investigators leave, and he knew they didn't believe him. Hell, he wouldn't have believed himself if he was in their place. It was the type of story Snape would have bought from a Slytherin, no exactly a ringing endorsement of veracity.

He didn't know what was going on, he didn't know why there were all these muggles here and not a wizard in sight, but he was getting to the point where even Snape would have been a welcomed sight.

"Mr. Potter?"

For one brief deluded moment, Harry thought he might have gotten his wish. And then his brain kicked in and he realized that not only was the voice not Snape's usual sarcastic mocking drawl, but it was also female and polite.

Harry turned slightly to face the blond woman walking over to him. She had some kind of metal case in one hand, and a black vest on that read CSI Las Vegas. She was most likely not a witch then, and not there to get Harry out of this mess. He sighed.

"Yes?"

"Catherine Willows," the woman said bluntly, but without exactly being rude. "I'm with the Las Vegas crime lab, and I going to have take your clothes, sir."

Well, that wasn't something Harry had expected. He coughed slightly to hide his embarrassment and hoped he wasn't blushed too much. "What?"

The woman took a little bit of pity on him and smiled slightly. "Your clothes. They're now evidence. I'm going to have to take them into the lab," she explained.

"Oh." That kind of made sense. That's what muggles did, wasn't it? They had to rely on physical things like finger prints and such to prove any thing. Just like in the movies. Still, part of Harry wanted to say no quite firmly. One of the few things Harry had learned in potions was that any kind of personal belonging could be used against you in a number of different kinds of potions. Usually the more personal the more powerful the potion. His clothes weren't terribly personal, but enough to make him hesitate.

The woman was staring at him, however, he head tilted to the side slightly, and that polite smile starting to look a little thin. "Is there a problem?"

Harry grimaced. There wasn't much for it. And she was just a muggle, after all. Not a threat. He had to repeat that in his mind one more time before he could muster up a shy smile for the woman. "Um, how exactly...um..." He trailed off, not needing to fabricate the awkwardness.

The woman's expression lost some of its edge. "This gentleman right here," she said, nodding towards the policeman. "Will escort you somewhere more private so that you can change. He'll have to stand with you, I'm afraid. That won't be a problem, will it?"

Yes, yes it would. Harry's wand was still in his jean pocket. How the hell was he supposed to transfer that from one pair of pants to another without it being noticed?

Harry hesitated. He was praying desperately for the promised ministry agent to show up. The one time he'd want them around, and they were no where to be found. Just a ton of muggles that didn't believe him, suspected him of murder, and that he couldn't explain anything to properly without breaking some very serious laws about secrecy. Not good.

"Will there be a problem, sir?" the woman repeated, her voice again growing demanding. It reminded him of Aunt Petunia, of Mrs. Weasley after the incident with the Ford Angelica, of Professor McGonagall. Of trouble. Which was what he was in.

"No, ma'am."

Someone had better come quick and get him out of this!