AN: Yes, it's a new chapter. But it's short. Just warning you now. I am sorry I haven't updated sooner, but I just haven't been able to write anything for this fic. My mind has been on other projects, I'm afraid. All of the reviews and favs and alerts were VERY encouraging, however. Black-Haired Girl (an old friend of mine) has also been poking me about this and got me moving again. She and I are also working on an AU Gundam Wing fic that isn't out yet. I am writing the Wufie sections and will hopefully have some snippets posted soon for those interested. I'm also working on a HP/Naruto crossover. .;; yes, that probably guarantees me a spot as biggest dork, but I couldn't help myself. I'm holding off on posting that one until I have at least several chapters done.

I will keep trying to write this fic, however. I do know where I am going with it and owe it to everyone who's been so encouraging to finish it. I can't say how long it will take me. I wrote this section a couple of times and wasn't happy with it. Then it all just kind of clicked, and I'm fairly pleased with it. It's short, and not too earth shattering, but it is a part of the plot that has to happen to move on to more exciting things. Like Snape.

Standard disclaimers apply. PLEASE remember that I started this having only seen the first couple of seasons of CSI and it reflects that. So, Greg is still in the lab, there's fewer characters and a lot less drama. It was also written after book 5 of HP, so while bits of 6 and 7 may pop up, it disregards most of those events.

There was something ironic, Harry was certain, about his predicament. There was no way for it not to be. This irony, however, was hard to appreciate as he sat in a small muggle interrogation room and waited. And waited. And waited.

His Aunt and Uncle had always said he'd end up a criminal.

Not that he really believed that. He didn't. Peter Pettigrew had deserved death. Deserved it in a way few people did. No, Harry certainly wasn't going to feel guilty. He'd made that mistake once before and let the traitor live. He was never going to make that mistake again.

No, he didn't feel guilty. But he didn't feel particularly happy either.

He was cold, for starters. The metal chair he sat on didn't do much to fix that, and the thin shirt and pants they'd given him to wear when they took away his pajamas weren't helping much either. But Harry could handle cold. Castles were drafty, after all, and closets under stairs were even worse. He'd long ago grown accustom to cold. He didn't like it, but he could handle it. He kept his arms crossed over his chest and held himself perfectly still. Clenching his muscles that way would help keep him warm without those god-awful tremors.

There wasn't much else to do. He had watched people through the window in the door as they walked by his room, but more often than not, they were looking back at him and he didn't like that. Too much like being back home and living in a fish tank. He hated it when people stared at him. And somehow, being the one inside the room staring out at the people and not one of the people staring in put him at a distinct disadvantage.

He'd stopped meeting their stares early on. Instead he stared carefully straight ahead at his own reflection in the large mirror in the room and thought about the Mirror of Erised and why he didn't feel happy the way he thought he would.

Time-polished wood, fade brown leather and tarnished brass buckles looked archaic and out of place in the sterile white lab of Las Vegas CSI. The trunk was much lighter than anticipated. In fact, it seemed to weigh nothing at all. Which was peculiar for a trunk its size. The heavy wood planks, wide leather straps and decorative brass knobs should have weighed quite a bit. Grissom had seen trunks like this in antique stores and in the homes of older, more traditional residents. They were usually kept as family heirlooms, displayed proudly in the home, and were heavy. Mr. Potter's trunk weighed nothing at all. Which didn't make any sense. Which meant there had to be an explanation for it.

"Could it be that the trunk's just empty?" Greg asked ever so helpfully.

Grissom turned to glance at him. He had carried the trunk in himself, amazed at how light it was, and commandeered an examination room. Greg had wandered over shortly there after and was currently standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed in concentration and eyes bright with curiosity.

"How much would you think a trunk like this would weigh?" Grissom asked in return. "Theoretically. If it was empty."

Greg frowned. "I don't know."

"Guess."

The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "Five pounds? Maybe?"

"Those are pine planks," Grissom pointed out, with a nod towards the box. "And the brass. The lock alone must weigh at least two or three pounds. If not more."

Greg scowled for a moment before brightening suddenly. He took Grissom's invitation and hurriedly stepped into the room and up to the trunk. He walked slowly around the table, studying it from each side. "Alright. How about ten, maybe fifteen? It would be hard to tell without being able to see how thick the wood planks are."

"To do which we would have to be able to open it," Grissom muttered with a sigh before moving on. "Still not a bad guess. This kind of workmanship isn't light. Trunks are made to be sturdy, to take a beating. So why does this one feel like it doesn't weigh any more than a box of tissues?"

Greg's attention snapped back up to Grissom and away from the trunk. "What? Really? It's that light?"

"I nearly fell over when I first lifted it. I expected it to be much heavier and wasn't ready for it." Grissom nodded towards the trunk again. "Try lifting it."

Greg already had clean gloves on, so he didn't hesitate to participate. He didn't make the same mistake as Grissom, however, having been forewarned. Instead he carefully lifted one end. When he met no resistance, his eyebrows raised. "Weird."

Grissom smiled. "Weird only begins to cover it." He sighed and rapped his knuckles on the top. "I can't get it to open; and I've used just about every trick I can think of. The lock doesn't even appear to be in use, but it still won't budge." He glanced down at his watch quickly before looking back up at Greg. "Tell you what, I'm due for an autopsy. Want to take a stab at opening it?"

"Me?" Greg replied.

Grissom grinned. "Yes, you. Give it a try. Consider it a puzzle. I'll be back shortly to give you a hand. Just don't let the lab get backed up."

"No, sir!" Greg answered immediately, all smiles, enthusiasm and optimistic determination. Grissom grinned at him one more time before slipping out of the room. It was good to keep Greg busy and it never hurt to let fresh eyes take a look at a difficult problem. Who knew? Maybe he'd even be lucky and Greg would figure it out before he returned. There certainly seemed to be some kind of magic trick to getting that trunk to open.