"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They normally send out letters to young British-born witches and wizards when they turn eleven, letting them know they've been accepted as incoming students for the fall term." Harry paused, then added, "No one is obligated to attend Hogwarts. Wizarding parents can homeschool their children, and both Wizarding and Muggle parents have the option to hire one or more private tutors to teach the children how to use their magic. But the majority of kids do go to Wizarding schools for seven years of formal magical training, and Hogwarts has built its reputation over the past ten centuries. It's simply the best!" Harry gestured around the table. "We're all Hogwarts graduates."

Sherlock's long fingers tapped restlessly on the tabletop as he thought back to his childhood. Finally, he shook his head. "I truly cannot say. I do remember that the envelope seemed an unusual type of paper, and the reverse side had an engraved emblem of some sort on the flap, and the flap itself was sealed shut with a large, red wax seal. My brother was home from university for the summer, and he snatched it away from me before I could open it."

"Would Mycroft remember?" asked John.

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Would Mycroft even tell the truth if I asked him?"

John shrugged. "You could always try."

"Who's Mycroft?" asked Ginny.

"My older brother," Sherlock said drily. "And I don't speak lightly when I advise all of you to steer well clear of him. There's no telling what he might feel compelled to do to people who possess genuine magic."

"What do you mean?" Hermione frowned. "Not a witch hunt, surely."

Sherlock compressed his lips. "It depends. If your magic is powerful enough, Mycroft is exactly the sort of person who would try to figure out how to subvert it to his own purposes. Or worse, the government's."

"Like, what - kidnapping and enslavement?" scoffed Ron, before he realized that nobody else was laughing with him. "But he's just a Muggle, isn't he?" he finished weakly.

Sherlock nodded seriously. "Yes. But your guess was spot on. If there is any way for him to gain control over your magic, Mycroft would find it and use it. Ultimately, he would abuse it."

Ginny shook her head, looking worried. "That's why we live behind the Statute of Secrecy. Normally, very few Muggles ever learn of the existence of real witches and wizards. Sometimes, they intermarry. Their children may or may not be magical, though the odds favor magical. Other times, a magical child is born to a Muggle family, and the family is sworn to secrecy. Of course, when a child performs accidental magic in public, difficulties can arise. The Ministry of Magic sometimes has to send people to reverse the magic and to Obliviate the memories of the non-family Muggle witnesses."

"Obliviate?" asked John.

"To wipe out the memory of the incident," Ginny elaborated. "They won't ever remember that anything untoward happened. But we keep to ourselves, mostly, even if we do occasionally mingle with the Muggle world. A long history of fear, persecution, torture, and murders, as well as abduction and enslavement by Muggles, has made our secret existence a necessity. Muggles fear what they don't understand, and their instinct is to either destroy it or else twist it to serve their own purposes. The Wizarding world went into hiding several centuries ago, and we remain there to this day."

Sherlock and John stared uneasily at each other.

"So," John ventured slowly, "this is a huge responsibility, isn't it? Having knowledge of the magical world?"

"Absolutely," Hermione agreed. "You now share the secret of our existence. You can either swear to keep it secret, or I can Stun you and Obliviate you, and when you wake up, you won't remember any of this ever happened." And suddenly, her wand peeped over the rim of the table, aimed toward John Watson.

The Muggle raised both hands, palms forward, and said, "I swear."

The wand disappeared under the table. John had to wonder whether it might still be pointing at him ... lower down ... and what might happen to him, lower down, if it went off. There had been talk of accidental magic, after all...

"Back to your letter," continued Harry, looking at Sherlock. "I believe you told John it had been addressed to Mr. S. Holmes, The Southeast Bedroom?"

"Yes," agreed Sherlock, although John scoffed, muttering something under his breath.

"Sorry?" asked Harry. "I didn't quite catch that?"

"I said, it still sounds utterly ridiculous," John replied in a slightly louder voice.

"But that's the way the Finding Quill addresses children's Hogwarts letters," Ron assured him, grinning widely. "Mine came to Mr. R. Weasley, The Bedroom Beneath the Attic. Ginny's was addressed to - what did it say, Gin?"

Ginny smiled. "Miss G. Weasley, The Bedroom On the Crooked Landing. Our twin brothers each received letters addressed to them at The Bedroom Beside the Clanking Bathroom - the pipes in that bath were awfully loud!"

"Mine said, Miss H. Granger, The Darkest Bedroom. My window faced due north, you see. Harry?"

Harry groaned. "Must I? Oh, very well. Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs."

"What? What does that mean?" asked Sherlock. "Why not your bedroom?"

"Well, it's still kind of embarrassing to admit it, but I slept in the cupboard under the stairs at my relatives' house. They hated magic and they hated me, and they made me sleep there for nearly ten years until I got that Hogwarts letter. The way it was addressed, they figured wizards must be watching the house, so at long last they moved me upstairs to the smallest bedroom."

"That's awful!" sympathized John.

"It was years later that I learned about the Finding Quill - the magical feather that clues in to a child's magical signature - and how it automatically addresses the letters to the child's usual sleeping quarters. If my aunt and uncle had ever realized they'd been outsmarted by a mere feather... " Harry laughed, and the others joined him. "So you see, John, The Southeast Bedroom is really a rather mundane address, compared to others!"

John ruefully shook his head. "Okay - I think I get it. But you believe Sherlock actually did receive a letter from this Hogwarts School?"

Harry nodded. "I'd be willing to be some gold on it."

"How much?" Sherlock asked shrewdly.

"He's like that," John excused his friend's query. "Ignore him."

"How much?" persisted the dark detective.

"How much can you afford to lose?" countered Harry.

Sherlock smiled. "If you're that certain, I'll take your word for it. So - apparently I received a Hogwarts letter, and Mycroft gave it to our mother, who read it and completely freaked out. But I don't know why."

"Based on what I overheard, she telephoned someone? And later that night, a strange man came to your house. A man I believe may have been Albus Dumbledore."

"Hey!" shouted Ron. "I know - did he look like this?" And he rummaged deep in his pockets and came up with a handful of cards, rifling through them impatiently. "I know he's in here somewhere... Here! Did he look like this?" And Ron passed a Chocolate Frog card across the table to Sherlock.

The dark man's jaw dropped as he stared at the holographic image of the man from his childhood memory. "That's him exactly! How did you know?" he asked Harry.

"Well, from your description, it really couldn't have been anyone else," Harry replied. "Dumbledore was the Headmaster of Hogwarts back then. And somehow, your mother made a phone call to someone who arranged for Dumbledore to come. Therefore - "

"My mother must have known someone connected to the Wizarding world," Sherlock finished Harry's supposition. "But whom? And how?"

They all sat in silence for a long moment, allowing Sherlock to think. Ron reached for another chicken sandwich. Hermione kicked him under the table. Ginny snickered at her brother's outraged grunt of pain.

"I just don't know," Sherlock said at length.

"Okay - answer this," Harry requested. "You told John things had happened when you were a child, things he wouldn't believe. Could they have been incidents of accidental magic? For example, even before I learned I was a wizard, I caused things to happen - without knowing how or why - when I was angry or upset. My primary school teacher was shouting at me one day, falsely accusing me of something I'd never done, and suddenly her blonde hair turned bright blue. My cousin, Dudley, was in my class, and he told his parents when we got home, and they blamed me for the blue hair, though I didn't know how I could be at fault, and they punished me.

"Another time, Dudley and his gang were chasing me at school, planning to beat me to a pulp, and when they had me cornered, suddenly I ended up on the school roof. I thought the wind might have blown me there, but I realize now that my desperation caused me to accidentally Apparate a short distance. Normally, underage wizards aren't capable of Apparating without learning through formal instruction, but I just HAD to get away, so I did!"

John frowned. "That Dudley sounds like a piece of bad news."

Laughing, Harry assured him, "Oh, yes! But he finally got his just desserts! On his eleventh birthday, no less. We'd gone to the zoo and were in the reptile house when he began shoving me. He knocked me over and before I knew it, the glass window on one of the snake displays suddenly disappeared, and Dudley toppled into the display with a gigantic snake! The snake escaped and then the glass reappeared, with Dudley trapped behind it. His parents were frantic for him ... and furious at me."

Sherlock's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Now I don't feel so bad! The types of incidents in my case were never quite so diverse as yours, but yes - I suppose it must have been accidental magic."

"Like what?" John looked expectantly at him.

"Does it matter - at this late date?"

"Of course it matters! It's magic, Sherlock! What did you do?"

"If I told you, you might move out."

"I couldn't possibly be worse than the head in the fridge."

"HEAD!" squealed Ginny.

"The head wasn't magic, John. It was just a head."

"You're afraid of my opinion, aren't you?"

"And you might be ... afraid of me."

"No, I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would."

"Guys - just ... tell us, Sherlock. Get it over with." Hermione smiled at the dark detective encouragingly.

"It's just that ... every time I walked past a bathroom door ... the ... loo would flush. Even if someone else was sitting on it." Sherlock's high cheekbones had gone an interesting shade of pink.

"Is that all?" John burst out laughing.

"No, it's not all!" Sherlock snapped. "It was humiliating to have to pass by a row of ... automatic urinals."

"I wonder what Freud would make of that," Hermione mused, hiding a smile.

Sherlock's cheeks brightened to fuchsia. "And then there were the drinking fountains going berserk - spurting if I even got near one!"

Ron laughed. "I'd love to see that!"

"And I'll never forget the day at Trafalgar Square, when the fountains went crazy. And the lake in Hyde Park? I was running along the verge, and a ... there's no other way to describe it ... miniature tsunami built up and followed me. I remember Mother grabbing me by the elbow and rushing me away from the lake at right angles to the shore. I'll never forget the look on her face. She KNEW it was my fault."

"So, most - or all - of your accidental magic centered on water?" Ginny asked. At Sherlock's nod, she added thoughtfully, "You may have been gifted with a form of elemental magic."

Sherlock shook his head. "But nothing has happened in years. Not since the night that ... your Dumbledore came."

Harry looked at the older man. "Well, it certainly does sound like accidental magic, but we still don't know what Dumbledore did that caused it to stop."

"Is this Dumbledore still Headmaster of Hogwarts today?" asked John. "Would it be possible to - "

But the four younger people were all shaking their heads, expressions of sadness crossing each face. "He died at the end of my Sixth Year at Hogwarts," Harry explained. "I was sixteen. He gave his life to help defeat Voldemort."

"Who's Voldemort?" asked Sherlock.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, who decided to call himself Lord Voldemort, became the Darkest - that is, the most evil - wizard of our time. He's dead now, but he and his followers tortured and killed many people, Wizards and Muggles alike. Speaking of followers - " Harry pulled his copies of the café photos from a pocket in his robes. "These pictures show Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort's right-hand man for many years. Magical Law Enforcement consider him to be the Darkest living British wizard, although he is suspected to have been holed up somewhere in France for at least the past decade. Do not approach him under any circumstances."

"Let me guess - he can kill me with a single word," guessed Sherlock.

Ginny shook her head. "Actually, the Killing Curse is two words."

"I was joking."

"I wasn't," Ginny informed him soberly.

"Right," Sherlock said slowly, accepting the information as he accepted the fact that these witches and wizards genuinely felt concern for him. He seldom found himself floundering out of his depth, but all aspects of this magical world seemed to have him at a serious disadvantage. He realized he couldn't assume anything at all, for he would likely be wrong in his assumptions. "So, we don't approach him. But the police consider him suspicious because he appears in two photos taken seconds apart in locations over a hundred miles apart. You believe he ... Apparated?"

Harry nodded. "Simplest explanation."

"For wizards," Sherlock pointed out. "But the Muggle detectives are a different matter altogether."

John spoke up. "Back to the other topic? How does this Killing Curse work, then?"

Frowning, Harry said, "The two words are ‘Avada Kedavra', and when the Curse is wielded with sufficient intent, often fused with intense hatred for the intended victim, the killer's wand emits a blast of green light, and the victim instantly falls dead. My parents were murdered by Voldemort when I was barely more than a year old. That's how he killed them"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," John apologized. "I didn't mean to dredge up tragic memories."

"It's okay," said Harry. "You couldn't have known."

"How does this Curse actually work, though?" Sherlock repeated the gist of John's question. "How exactly does it kill? Do the victims get vaporized or charred to a crisp?"

"SHERLOCK!" John punched the taller man's arm, HARD, looking furious enough to do even worse. "Harry's parents!" he hissed, glaring at his friend for his thoughtless speculations.

"But it's a valid question," Harry inserted quickly, "and the answer is, they just die. It's supposed to be painless, and they simply ... drop dead... There's no sign of what killed them." He swallowed hard, remembering the shock of Cedric's sudden death, even after all these years. That memory still had the power to affect him far more than Harry's own experiences at the business end of Voldemort's wand ... and he was not sure - to this day - whether Voldemort had actually, truly killed him in the Forbidden Forest that fateful night of the Final Battle. He added, "The Killing Curse normally leaves no mark upon the victim. In the Wizarding world, we recognize the absence of any other cause of death as possible evidence that the victim may have been Cursed. Muggles, of course, would be mystified." Harry hesitated only an instant before deciding there was no need to mention he'd survived the Killing Curse twice, since there was no telling how the newcomers might react. Even some wizards still viewed his survivals with suspicion...

"No cause of death - Lestrade's phone call!" John exclaimed.

"Exactly!" Sherlock leaned forward. "We've been investigating several cases - "

"The stabbings," Harry said, nodding knowingly.

Both non-Gryffindors looked taken aback. "But how did you know?" asked John.

"I followed you to the scene of a double homicide."

"I never noticed another taxi following us," said Sherlock. "I do keep my eyes open."

Harry chuckled. "I was on my broom, flying above and behind your taxi. Disillusioned, of course."

"Anyway," Sherlock waved the broom aside for the moment, "Detective Inspector Lestrade informed us just before we spotted your wife today that there was no apparent cause of death in several of the cases. The victims had been stabbed only after they were dead. I'm wondering - could this be the Killing Curse at work? If so, who might have killed these ... Muggles, why, and could this Lucius Malfoy have any connection to the case? One of the photos of him was taken very near to one crime scene."

"I don't know," said Harry. "But I'm investigating a similar case in the Wizarding world, although certain aspects look as if the murderer tried to make it appear to be a Muggle killing. Take a look at these pictures." He de-stasised his mobile and called up the crime scene pictures. "Look familiar?"

Sherlock and John studied the close-ups of the details Harry had photographed.

"Very familiar," agreed Sherlock. "And was the Killing Curse used?"

"I don't know yet. The scene was still being processed when I left the cottage. MLE Forensics has not yet given me the particulars. But I suspect that the Killing Curse is a good possibility. There's so little blood coming from the knife wound itself, it would indicate that the victim could have been stabbed after death, just like in your cases."

"Exactly." The dark detective nodded. "Well, Harry, we may need to join forces on this one, since I can't reveal anything magical to the police."

"I agree," said Harry. "But whether it's Lucius Malfoy or another Dark witch or wizard, casting Avada Kedavra is considered an Unforgivable offense in the Wizarding world. Anyone who flouts that decree is extremely dangerous and absolutely ruthless. Let OUR people catch the killer and take him or her into custody, but I will agree to exchange information with you, and you can pass on whatever non-sensitive material you feel is appropriate to your D.I. Lestrade."

Sherlock remained silent for a long, pensive moment. Finally, he ventured, "I know you won't want to hear this, but we may have to risk taking Lestrade into our confidence at some point. He'll wonder how I'm getting information in the first place, and why there's some that I can't share with him. He's not going to believe I deduced that the victims simply dropped dead before being stabbed by the unknown killer. It's too incredible, literally."

Harry sighed, but before he could reply, Hermione spoke up. "Could you trust this Lestrade to adhere to the Statute of Secrecy?"

John scoffed. "Rather him, than Sergeant Donovan, eh?"

"Who's Sergeant Donovan?" asked Ron, who had followed the discussion with interest. He'd really not met many Muggles, and he found Sherlock and John far more interesting than Harry's relatives.

"The bane of Sherlock's existence," John said with a smirk. "She always addresses him as ‘Freak', and she did her best to have him arrested for a double kidnapping he didn't commit."

"Don't exaggerate, John. The bane of my existence is Mycroft, as you well know. But I do agree that Sally Donovan is the last person to trust with any sort of sensitive information. Lestrade, on the other hand, could probably be trusted, but he would need to be convinced that magic is real, and he's a skeptic at the best of times."

"Well, we'll deal with it, if a situation arises where we need to," decided Harry. "Definitely something to keep in mind. We could always remind him that if he goes around spouting off about magic, two things will happen. Number one, the powers that be in the Muggle world will probably decide that Lestrade needs to be locked up and the key thrown away, and two, the Memory Reversal Squad of MLE will Obliviate him, so he won't even remember why he was locked up in the first place. That should be enough of a threat to keep a lid on him!"

Sherlock, John, and Ron all laughed, although Ginny and Hermione kept their reactions to a smile.

"Seriously, though," said John. "If your MLE capture the murderer, will he be punished in your world?"

Harry nodded grimly. "A life sentence in Azkaban Prison, at the very least, or possibly the Dementor's Kiss."

At the Muggle's questioning look, Ron explained, "Dementors don't actually ‘kiss' someone. They put their mouth over the victim's and suck out his or her soul. Definitely not painless, and terrifying until the victim's soul leaves the body behind. Pretty gruesome."

John and Sherlock stared at Ron, feeling sickened.

Then, Sherlock closed his eyes, frowning in concentration. "Azkaban... " he whispered. "I know I've heard that word before... " But in the end, nothing came to him. He did, however, have other questions. "Who is this ‘we' who has been trying to find out what happened to my magic? Your group here?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I've been working with the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Filius Flitwick, who was our Charms professor at school. Also, a retired Hogwarts professor, Severus Snape, who is an internationally-renowned Potions Master. The reason I was searching for your birthdate, I was trying to determine if you received the Hogwarts letter in 1987."

"What is significant about 1987?"

"Professor Flitwick discovered that several names had been magically deleted from the Headmaster's magical roster of all witches and wizards born in Britain, who automatically qualify to enroll at Hogwarts. I could only guess at your age, but 1987 seemed to be a closer match for sending a Hogwarts letter than the next two dates, one on either side of it. If I'd found an indication of your birthdate, I would simply have added eleven years to reach the year you should have received your letter."

"So someone magically erased Sherlock's name? That's what you're saying?" asked John. "Why?"

Harry shrugged. "We're not entirely sure. But the professors suspect that Dumbledore did so after doing - whatever he did - to Sherlock that night. And whatever he did, apparently he didn't want for there to be any evidence, including that Sherlock's name had ever been on the Headmaster's roster."

John stretched a bit, then mused, "This roster goes back beyond 1987?"

Hermione laughed. "According to ‘Hogwarts, A History', the Headmaster's list was created by the Four Founders of the School, and it's been added to for the past one thousand years! So, yes, it definitely goes back a long way!"

"That's ... ancient! It's hard to believe," admitted Sherlock. "Not that I doubt what you say, but hard to believe a roster is kept for so long." A thought suddenly occurred to him. "How long do wizards live?"

Ron snorted. "Dumbledore was at least a hundred and fifty, wasn't he? And if it hadn't been for that Cursed ring, he might have gone on for another fifty or so, right?"

"Possibly," Ginny agreed. "And there have been a few who are slightly over two hundred years, and I'm not even including Flamel."

"Flamel?" asked John.

"Nicolas Flamel," said Hermione. "He lived to be six hundred or so, but he had magical help. His source is no longer available."

"Absolutely unreal!"

"At any rate, Snape and Flitwick are trying to determine what magic Dumbledore actually performed on you, and what side effects might occur if someone else cast a spell, etc., on you now. Speaking of which, I'd like to take a picture of both of you to give copies to MLE."

"Why?" asked Sherlock, staring suspiciously as Harry pulled out and de-stasised his mobile once more.

"I want to make sure that all of the Aurors and other members of MLE, as well as certain Ministry members who handle Obliviations, know who you and John are, so they'll know NOT to Obliviate either of you if you were to get caught up in one of their crime scene investigations. I'll inform them that you two are our contacts working with the Muggle police. If Obliviated, John would probably lose only his memory of that particular incident, unless someone decided to wipe ALL memories of anything magical, which would include today's meeting. Sherlock, you could lose ... everything that matters to you. Permanently."

"His genius intellect, you mean," clarified John.

Harry nodded. "Like I said, we don't know for sure, but we don't want to take chances. The problem is, when the Wizarding officials start Obliviating witnesses, things move pretty fast. I'll give you permission - both of you - to use my name to try to talk them out of it, if necessary. ORDER them to double-check with me PERSONALLY before they Obliviate you, okay? It might be the only thing that saves you. Remember - don't hesitate! Speak up! Seconds count!"

He aimed the camera. "Smile pretty!"

He took several shots of both men wincing. "Okay - don't smile." John and Sherlock laughed at that and Harry got the shot. Then he captured more neutral expressions as their faces relaxed from the smile. "Great. Thanks!" He re-stasised the mobile.

"Could I ask a question?" Ginny inquired cautiously, looking at Sherlock.

"I suppose."

"I know it's really none of my business, but Harry's comment earlier - I can't help thinking about it. You fell seventy feet onto concrete? What was that about?"

To her surprise, both men suddenly looked rather sickly.

"I'm sorry!" she blurted. "I shouldn't have pried. It must have been awful... "

"Yes, it was, rather," Sherlock said quietly. "It's also private - my reasons, that is. So I would prefer for what I say not to go beyond this room."

"We've trusted you with the entire Wizarding world," Harry said. "You can count on us to keep a confidence."

The other Gryffindors nodded.

Sherlock glanced at John, who nodded to him encouragingly. "I was under duress," he began. "Someone ... evil ... whose path had crossed ours on multiple occasions ... who had orchestrated various murders for his personal entertainment ... who had threatened to publicly disgrace me ... made good on that promise. He employed three gunmen to kill the three people who meant the most to me - thankfully, he did not know of the fourth. But before he took his own life on the roof of St. Bart's hospital, he told me that if I did not jump to my own death, the three gunmen would kill my friends. The only way I could save their lives was to sacrifice my own."

"So you jumped," said Harry.

Sherlock stared at him. "You don't sound the least bit surprised."

Harry smiled at Sherlock, and for some reason, the dark detective had the strange feeling that Harry Potter actually understood why he'd taken the plunge. Nobody else had.

John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even poor Molly Hooper - all had stared at him without comprehension when he'd tried to explain.

Maybe Moriarty had only been bluffing, Lestrade tried to rationalize - a suicidal psychopath might say anything. Mrs. Hudson had sobbed tears of anger, claiming that even if there had been a gunman - not that she'd seen one, mind you - Sherlock shouldn't have jumped to save her; she'd lived a good life, after all. Molly had tried to act understanding, but betrayal kept creeping across her features, perhaps because she hadn't been on Moriarty's hit list? Could she feel betrayed by the fact that Sherlock had jumped to save three other people, but he'd effectively left her behind?

John... John probably came closest to understanding. John had already risked his own life for Sherlock. John was a soldier. But the doctor in him had never understood how Sherlock could leap off a seventy-foot-high building, knowing the obscene physical trauma that the landing would cause in that split second before death claimed him.

Except ... it hadn't. Was that due to magic, as Harry had suggested?

Harry quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Now that you've found your way into our world, I suspect it'll be hard for you to stay away. One of these days, you can play catch-up on my life story. Then you'll understand."

"That should prove interesting, then," Sherlock said, studying the younger man speculatively.

"HA! You have no idea!" grinned Ron. "You can look up Harry under the Boy-Who-Lived!"

"Ronald! You're embarrassing Harry."

The redhead shrugged. "I've always embarrassed him."

"Shut it, Ron," ordered Ginny.

John waved a hand to get a word in edgewise. "Earlier, Harry, you seemed to imply that magic somehow helped Sherlock survive that fall?"

"It probably did. Neville - the one with the orchid - fell out a window - "

"Third floor, wasn't it?" asked Ron, trying to remember.

" - when he was quite young. He hadn't done any accidental magic up to that time, so his pureblood family was afraid he might not have any magic at all. But when he hit the ground, he bounced! Not hurt in the least."

Sherlock grimaced. "I do not recall bouncing when I hit."

John nearly swayed. "No - you smashed flat onto the concrete... " he whispered.

"But I survived, when I shouldn't have, suffering far less physical injury than one should expect under those circumstances, and I healed much faster than the doctors could explain." Sherlock looked at the Gryffindors. "Was that the result of magic?"

Hermione nodded. "Almost certainly. You were extremely fortunate, all things considered. If your magic had not been tampered with, you might have gotten off with such minor injuries that witnesses would have needed to be Obliviated."

John and Sherlock exchanged amazed glances.

"What about the gunmen?" Ginny asked. "Are they...?"

The newcomers looked at each other again, before Sherlock responded, "We're not certain. No attempts have been made on their targets' lives, so we're hoping that my attempted suicide fulfilled the requirements of their contracts. I jumped, and it's not my fault that I didn't die. Hopefully, with Moriarty dead, they will have no further incentive. We just ... take it one day at a time."

"That's a horrible cloud of uncertainty to live under," sympathized Ginny.

John just nodded.

"Oh, my! Look at the time!" said Hermione, glancing at the mantle clock. "We have to pick up the kids, Ginny, or your mum will go spare!"

"Right! See you at home, Harry." Ginny pecked Harry's cheek and pulled on her coat.

"'Bye, ‘Mione! See you at home!"

Ron's farewell seemed just a tad too enthusiastic to Hermione, and she looked suspiciously at her husband. Then she got it. "Have you gentlemen finished with the sandwiches?" she politely asked John and Sherlock. When they nodded, Hermione pointed her wand at the platter. "Evanesco!"

The platter Vanished, taking the remaining sandwich halves with it. Another flick of her wand cleared the table of the garnishes and condiments.

"Aww, ‘Mione... "

The brunette witch flung a stylish shawl around her shoulders. "You had plenty, Ron. And I'm not even going to start about the number of chocolate frog cards you're carrying. Don't be late."

"Right." Ron slumped in his chair.

"You'll have to go all the way downstairs to the courtyard if you want to Apparate," Harry advised the women. "The upper floors are all warded for security."

Ginny groaned. "Those stairs... I think we'll probably just Floo home from the pub's grate. That's where we were heading when we bumped into them," she said, nodding at their new acquaintances.

"Flue?" asked Sherlock.

"Did you notice green flames in the Leaky Cauldron's tall fireplace?" Harry asked. "Well, it's the Floo Network - spelled F-L-O-O - which is an array of fireplaces and flues all connected together for traveling or even talking to someone at the other end, like a Muggle phone call. You have to use Floo Powder to make the connection, either way."

"I'm getting culture shock," admitted John, "but it's absolutely fascinating!"

"Okay, we're ready to go," said Hermione, adding with a smile, "It's nice to have met you both!" Ginny echoed her farewell before unwarding the door so the witches could take their leave. As the door closed behind them, Harry re-warded it.

Sherlock stared speculatively at Harry's wand. "Would that wand work for me, do you think?"

After a moment's hesitation, Harry passed his wand to the detective, handle first. "Point it at the corner and give it a wave," he instructed.

Bracing himself for the unknown, Sherlock waved the wizard's wand...

-:- -:- -:-