Title: Ashes to Ashes: P.I. Granger: Beginning
Author: rayne_slave
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own or have invented either the Ashes to Ashes series or the Harry Potter series.
Rating: M
Crossover fandoms: Ashes to Ashes : Harry Potter
Pairing: Gene Hunt/Hermione Granger (Hermione is in her mid thirties)

Ashes to Ashes: P.I. Granger is a series of oneshots and drabbles set out in semi-linear order and telling of the adventures of Hermione Granger and her growing relationship with DCI Gene Hunt.

My name is Hermione Granger. I have just been cursed by Rodolphus Lestrange and that curse sent me back to 1981. It was supposed to kill me, but here I am breathing and living. Am I alive or is this death? After being an Auror for ten years in the new millennium this time and place may as well be an alien planet…

He didn't even look at her, he looked through her. When they used the term, cold dead eyes of a killer, she knew exactly what they were talking about. One second was all it took to lose control. A fumble, a slip and as she looked at the Death Eater standing above her there was fear and there was loss that she could never put into words.

But there was also relief. For one split second she wanted it just to be over. To not have to fight any more, to never have to face monsters like Rodolphus Lestrange again… But only for a second. Her mind flicked over everything she'd seen, everything she'd done. Fighting by Harry's side, Kissing Viktor, Kissing Ron, years of Auror training, hunting down dark wizards, Seeing Ron making love to Lavender in their bed. So much hurt and love and danger, so much passion and loss.

"Please…" She heard herself plead.

"You know your mother died in much the same way; That blood traitorous whore should have stayed in her place." He bent forward slightly as though he intended to tell her a secret. "But do ya know why she really died?"

"I don't understand. Both my parents were muggles; everyone knows that. You bigoted sycophants have been reminding me of the fact since I was a child."

Rodolphus grinned but it didn't reach his empty sky blue eyes. "I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to say. But I can see it's not okay..." he sang under his breath then pointed his wand and his lip curled as he uttered the killing curse, "Avada Kedavra."

The green bolt hit her chest and Hermione stared at Rodolphus wide-eyed. It shouldn't have been a shock; but it was. Her breath hissed out and the world began to darken and fade…

Bright light. In her eyes. Smell of damp and pee and faeces. Hermione retched and rolled onto her side only to fall of the tiny bunk with a yelp.

On the hard, cold concrete floor she finally opened her eyes and everything flooded back. Rodolphus. The killing curse. A song. Was this death?

Hermione had no idea what death actually involved, after the actual being killed part, but she was pretty damn sure that it wouldn't involve a grey concrete cell. Looking around she saw a tiny window up high, a filthy toilet and a barely useful single bunk.

Slowly she climbed to her feet and nearly cried out when she looked down at herself. She was wearing a tight burgundy mini skirt, an oversized navy-blue shirt hung off one shoulder to reveal the strap of a hot-pink bra and a pair of stockings were held up by a very visible garter belt. A gaudy belt pulled in the shirt around her slim waist and on one hand she wore a lacy black fingerless glove.

"Why am I dressed like Aunt Phyllis in the early 80's?"

Hermione flew at the heavy metal door and hammered it with her fists. "Let me out of here! I am High Auror Hermione Granger and you will release me this instant!"

Her fists were sore and bruised by the time she heard footsteps coming closer outside. Licking her lips, she flexed her fists and got ready to run. No way was she waiting to find out just what those bloody Death eater rejects had planned for her. Considering how they'd dressed her it couldn't be anything good.

The lock clicked, the tumbler turned, the door started to swing outwards and Hermione sprang into action. Throwing herself at the door she shoved it open wide and threw whoever was behind it flying. She ran down the hall, ignoring the yell of her jailer, and shoved through another set of doors till she found herself in a wide open foyer.

"A police station?" she mumbled, confused.

Around her she could see Formica and desk lamps, electric typewriters and too many cross looking men smoking and processing what looked like a horde of pimps and hookers. One man sat handcuffed to an old wooden chair, he was staring into space with bloodshot eyes.

She picked a rather innocent looking woman with large brown eyes, a small pixy-like face and short hair in a smartly pressed police uniform.

Hermione planted her hands flat on the constable's desk. "What the hell am I doing here and who the hell stripped and then redressed me as Madonna-barbie?"

"And you would be?" she asked, looking even less interested then she sounded.

"I would be the woman who was dead one moment and the next alone in a filthy stinking police cell."

A husky man with a moustache and short curly hair stopped and gave her a leery grin. "I don't know what you're on luv, but you're welcome to slip me some after my shift." He laughed, a cackley sound, then went on to sit at his desk on the other side of the room.

"One," the constable said, leaning forward over her desk. "Those cells wouldn't be so filthy or smelly if you people didn't piss all over the place. And two, I'm busy right now but as I'm sure you can see the prostitutes are being processed by Ray and Chris over there." She pointed to the two other desks with a line of scantily dressed women sitting or slouching.

"I am not a hooker!" Hermione yelled.

"Alright!" The Constable held her hands up in mock surrender. "Who are you then?"

"I'm… I'm Hermione Granger and I…" But she stopped. This was a Muggle police station how could she explain who she was? "I'm sort of a police officer too."

"Oh are you," the woman said, looking if anything more sardonic. "Well that's sorted then, feel free to pull out a gun and a badge from the box and get started."

"That's not what I meant, and there's no need to be sarcastic. I'm just trying to_"

"I'll tell you what you're just trying!" The constable jumped to her feet and leaned over the desk, getting in Hermione's face. "You're wasting my bloody time. Look around, ya dim tart. We're run off our feet here and you're making insane comments about being dead and what the hell is your problem with Madonna anyway?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but before she could draw breath she was yanked backwards by an arm around her shoulders.

"Anyone moves and this dumb slut dies!" The man holding her yelled out to the crowd of shocked police and others.

"I am not dumb!" Hermione snapped. "And I'm no slut."

She felt something cold and hard press against her back and whimpered when the man holding her leaned in and sniffed her hair.

"Well that won't make you any less dead if you don't do as you're told." He growled and Hermione shuddered at his tone. There was something chillingly familiar about his voice.

Right then the whole station seemed to spring to action. The office door at the far side of the station engraved with the words, DCI Gene Hunt, slammed open and a tall, strong looking detective stepped out and both on his left and right two other detectives moved to his side and all three drew whopping great magnums and pointed them squarely at her attacker.

The larger than life detective could only be Gene Hunt. He was tall and strongly built. A silver suit and long black duster coat hung on him like he was born in it. This was a man of action.

Stepped forward and without lowering his magnum he said, "Today my friend, your diary entry will read, "Took a prostitute hostage before being shot by three armed bastards."" His voice was deep and gruff and he left no room for argument.

"Oh," Hermione whispered, having trouble breathing when the man behind her tightened his grip. "Let's just all stay calm." She was on autopilot. She could feel herself talking and hear the words but felt very far away. "Now I know you; your name is Scabior, isn't it?"

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Don't go making him mad, luv." The Chief Detective said. "This is one man you don't want blowing his load."

Ignoring the police, Hermione kept talking calmly. "How I know isn't important, what's important is that you're in a police station full of Muggles; ignorant, stupid, violent bloody Muggles and they will shoot to kill. They're just looking for a reason."

"I bloody hate Muggles… But you have a point." He loosened his grip and said to the detectives, "Alright, I'm putting my gun down."

Scabior moved away and slowly lowered his gun to the floor. Moments later he was surrounded by three uniformed officers, handcuffed and pulled away.

Finally free of Scabior's grip Hermione let out the breath she hadn't realised she was holding and felt her legs turn to jelly beneath her. Her world began to spin and she could feel herself falling but before she hit the floor a set of strong arms caught her around her waist.

"You're right, luv, I've got you." Gene murmured. "But if you throw up on my coat I'll shoot you."

He carried her through into his office calling out to his officers, "I'll have you know that I don't normally allow prozzies into my office… Unless it's a party."

Hermione struggled and kicked until he let her down. She stumbled back and glared at him bleary eyed. "I am not a prostitute!"

He looked her up and down, slowly appraising and obviously appreciating what he saw. "My mistake." But his dry tone showed that he didn't believe her.

She made a rather childish face at him and turned on her heel and marched into his office. She turned on the television by clicking the various buttons. "Why do you have such an old tele?" she asked. "I mean I wasn't expecting wide flat screen plasma or anything but this thing looks like it's from the eighties… I'm surprised it even works; supposed to be all digital now."

She wasn't really talking to anyone but the words just kept coming out as her eyes adjusted to what she was seeing. Adam Ant was singing and swaying. She flicked again.

"The colour on this thing is pathetic… Is that Margaret Thatcher?"

"Ah yes, the honourable Mrs Thatcher," Gene Hunt answered, coming up behind her. "Voted in last year by the fine and intelligent people of our Great Britain." His tone was dry and sarcastic.

Hermione spun around to look at him. Her head was starting to feel light again and the world was starting to spin making her feel nauseous.

She looked back at the television and flicked again: Angry rioters fought on the streets, Adam Ant was still singing, a news report spoke about the upcoming nuptials of Prince Charles and Lady Di."

She spun away again and sat down in front of an ancient looking computer.

"Don't pretend that you know how to fly that thing," Gene said, but he was watching her curiously as she clacked keys with little result.

"All this thing will give me is the time and date? What's the good of that…" But even as she spoke her eyes glazed over and read the date and time again and again. "1981… 1981?"

"Right, that's enough of that." Gene Hunt finally had enough. He yanked her to her feet and stuck his hand in her coat.

"Wh...What are you doing?" held against his chest she could feel how impossibly warm his larger body was, she could feel his heart beating, she felt it spike when his hand brushed her breast.

"Relax, luv," he growled, but his pupils dilated as his hand fumbled around inside her coat. "It'll all be over in a… Ah there it is."

He grinned down at her and his tone was obscene but all the same Hermione felt her face flush and her nipples pebble against his chest.

Gene pulled out her ID card. She had an ID card? As he looked down at it she watched his face go slack. He handed her ID back to her and walked to the door of his office.

"It looks like the private Dick we called for has arrived." He looked back at her and sighed. "P.I. Granger is apparently missing a certain appendage but I'm sure she'll be useful for something."

"Excuse me!" Hermione glared at him but all the same looked down at her ID.

It was hers. Her photo, her name. It said she was a Private Investigator. With a shaky hand she held up her licence for the Station to see. She wondered if they'd all think less of her if she threw up.

So what do you think? Would you like to read more? Because this will mainly be a series of linear drabbles and oneshots I am open for prompts and/or requests :D