LONDON – October 2013

“All gone,” Albus Potter declared obstinately, shoving away the plate which still held the second half of a large ham-and-cheese sandwich. When his father made a move toward his place setting, Albus glared at him. “Nope,” he said with finality, pushing out his lower lip. Unlike his voluble five-year-old sister, Lily, Albus was still a child of few words, even at age seven.

Harry Potter chuckled. “Don’t worry, scamp. I was just going to help you finish it off. He wrapped agile fingers around the remaining portion of his son’s sandwich and bit carefully into it, trying not to let tomato juice drip down the front of his white shirt.

“You still need to drink another inch of milk, Albus,” Ginny reminded her son, sliding the partially-drunk tall glass to the boy. “Just down to here,” she added, indicating the level with her fingertip.

Albus obediently raised the glass and began to sip. “Say when,” he commanded, his upper lip frothed with white bubbles.

“Keep going,” Ginny advised.

Harry’s emerald eyes danced as he observed his son taking the tiniest sips he could. “The faster you drink, the sooner it will be over,” he whispered loudly across the sturdy café table.

Albus snorted, causing a messy overflow, which Ginny quickly blotted up with a paper napkin. “You two…” she murmured, shaking her head ruefully. But she blushed when she caught her husband smiling fondly at her. Even after nearly ten years of marriage, Harry could still make her blush with just a smile…

For a moment, the Muggle café around them seemed to fade away, leaving the island of their table as the sole reality. Ginny lost herself in her husband’s emerald gaze until an impatient tugging of her sleeve jerked her back to the real world. Suddenly, the Muggles at the other tables reappeared, their low conversations punctuated by the clink of flatware against crockery, the gentle thuds of coffee cups upon the plain tabletops, and the hum of London traffic beyond the bright windows facing the street.

“Mummy! Am I done?”

“Hmm?” Ginny glanced down at her rumple-haired tyke. The level of milk had actually dipped below the goal she had set for him. “Yes, Albus, you’re done. Good job!”

Having downed the rest of the sandwich, Harry now reached across the table for the milk glass and drained it dry.

“Good job, Daddy!” piped Albus, grinning brightly at his father.

Harry grinned back. “You’re getting to be such a big boy, Al,” he stated with pride. “It won’t be long until you can eat a whole sandwich and drink an entire glass of milk. Just like your Uncle Ron.”

“Don’t encourage him to take after my brother,” Ginny admonished. “Have you seen how he’s growing a ‘pot’?”

Harry rolled his eyes, briefly noting the menu boards posted on the café wall. He wouldn’t mind dessert, but after Ginny’s comment concerning Ron’s rapidly-expanding anatomy, he’d be wise to skip it, lest she began lecturing him about the evils of too many sweets. Recently, Ginny had begun to pat her hips every time she peered, frowning, into the bedroom mirror. Not that Harry could actually see anything wrong with her hips, but given the patting … he’d probably be better off not mentioning dessert.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Home?” Albus’ eyes lit up. “Can I play with my red train?”

“Home it is,” Harry agreed, pushing back his chair with a metallic scrape across the tiled floor. But just as Ginny ushered Albus into the aisle between the rows of tables, Harry’s mobile went off. He glanced at the incoming caller I.D. “It’s Hermione,” he said in response to Ginny’s unasked question. “I’d better take it here, since I won’t get a signal at home. You two go ahead – I’ll catch you up.”

Ginny nodded and steered Albus toward the front door, while Harry wandlessly de-stasised his mobile and punched the key to take Hermione’s call.

“Look, Mummy! My fingers are all tied up, like the giant squid!” Albus held up his hand, showing how he’d twisted his fingers around each other to form a fleshy knot.

“That’s nice, Al, but make sure they don’t get stuck that way.”

She turned his head to face forward and kept gently propelling him toward the bright windows, catching snippets of conversations from the tables they passed.

“ – convinced she stole his bank card – “

“ – missed that sale on duvets – “

“ – sorry, did I splash you – “

“ – but with Scotland Yard and Interpol at his fingertips, what does Lestrade expect you to do about it?”

“Obviously, John, he expects me to deduce how the same man could possibly be in two places simultaneously.”

“Mummy, they’re STUCK!” Albus’ face was screwed up, ready to burst into panicked tears, as he waved his small, tangle-fingered hand.

“Oh, Albus,” Ginny sighed, grasping her son’s wrist. “Hold still!”

“See for yourself,” said the tall, dark-haired man in her side vision as she gently tried to undo Albus’ stuck fingers. The man slid two photographs across the café table to his shorter companion. “Taken seconds apart. One in Norwich, the other in Blackpool. Tell me – is that the same man?”

“OW! Mummy!”

“Or identical twins,” offered the second man, studying the photos. “Do they have identification on him?”

“Nothing official. Even facial recognition came up negative.”

Ginny gently rubbed circulation back into the small, cramped fingers. “Why don’t you quit playing squid, honey. We’ll go home and you can play with your train, okay?”

“Okay, Mummy.” Albus beamed up at her, and as Ginny smiled fondly down at her son, her eyes strayed to the photos on the table beside them. Her breath caught sharply, and she felt the café whirl…

“Do you know him?”

The abrupt query brought Ginny to her senses, her shocked eyes meeting the intense narrow stare of the dark man. His pale blue eyes seemed to burn a trail across her psyche.

“Are you quite all right?” asked the second man, his brow furrowed with concern as he half turned in his chair to peer up at Ginny.

“Mummy?”

“I – “ Against her will, Ginny’s eyes were drawn once again to the photos – those pureblood features may have aged, and the shoulder-length hair had grayed, but unmistakably… “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” And grabbing Albus by both shoulders, she shoved him ahead of her to the café door.

The dark man twisted around to face the front windows. “She recognized him, John. She knows exactly who he is.”

A man passed by their table, and the Child-Who-Had-Played-Squid waved delightedly back at him. “Mummy! Daddy’s coming!”

The red-haired woman turned to look back, but her obvious relief got cut short when she realized that the two men at the table with the photographs were both observing her intently. The lean man with black hair and glasses who joined her began to speak, but the woman grabbed his arm and whispered frantically to him for several seconds.

Her husband’s head whipped around, and the two men at the table noted that this other man instantly placed himself between the child and their scrutiny. Even backlit as he was by the outside sunlight, the seated men could tell that this man presented a force to be reckoned with. Well under six feet tall, his wiry build bespoke an alert confidence as he poised on the balls of his feet, as if ready for battle. From behind innocuous spectacles, the man’s eyes stared sharply at them, as if memorizing their every feature.

Harry kept his wand arm free, ready to drop the holly wand from its holster into his grip at a second’s notice. He didn’t know quite what to make of the men staring back at him. The shorter man with light brown hair appeared to be an ordinary Muggle, but the black-haired man with the turned-up coat collar and piercing blue eyes – could he possibly be a wizard? Given the fact that he apparently possessed photos of Lucius Malfoy … a former Death Eater, even? Who WERE they?

“Ginny – did the pictures move?” he muttered just loudly enough for his wife to hear him.

“What? Why – “

“Were they Muggle pictures – or ours?”

“Er – Muggle. I’m pretty sure,” she affirmed. “Lucius was shown in mid-stride, but he never moved.”

Okay. So … Muggle photos. But if these men were Muggles, what were they doing with pictures of a wizard? One of the Darkest wizards that Harry had ever known…

“We need to get out of here,” he said decisively. “Back to the alley. Open the door and get Albus outside. I’m right behind you.”

Behind him, he could hear the café door opening, and his peripheral vision caught Ginny’s hair, coppered brilliantly by the sunlight, as she quickly herded Albus along the sidewalk past the windows. Harry continued to stand at the doorway, staring down the two mysterious strangers. He wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating the smaller man; the tension in his seated posture revealed that the Muggle was ready to spring into action. Ginny had mentioned Scotland Yard and Interpol – was he a cop?

But the other one … unruly black hair framing rather Fey features … and those piercing blue eyes… Automatically, Harry had Occluded the very first moment that those eyes had stared into his own. He couldn’t feel any obvious attempts at Legilimency, but neither had he in the old days, when Snape had subjected him to his finessed probing. This unknown dark man posed the greater danger of the duo; of that, Harry had no doubts. And both men would follow his family … he had to get them safely away…

Two more customers exited the café, both glancing curiously at his immobile figure in passing. Other customers had begun to take notice of this psychological standoff, some nodding toward him, while their companions turned to see what they were nodding at.

Ginny and Albus were probably about two-thirds of the way down the block toward the little alley by now. Although he continued to stare down the dark man, Harry’s peripheral vision picked up a group of university students approaching along the sidewalk. Come in here, he mentally urged them, come in here… And as the first student reached for the door, Harry whirled and squeezed past her in a flash.

“Oi!” shouted the startled bleached blonde, before she shrugged and entered the café, followed by her crowd of chattering companions.

As Harry dashed past the windows, he could see the two men inside lurching into pursuit.

“Quickly!” urged the dark man, sweeping up the photos from the table. “Don’t lose him!”

But the students milling around the door delayed them by several precious seconds, and by the time they’d shoved their way past, with the shorter man calling, “Sorry! Sorry!”, they glimpsed the wiry man already far ahead, his feet pounding the sidewalk as he dodged through the pedestrian crowd.

“Hurry!” shouted the dark man, his long coat flapping roughly behind him as he gave chase.

A bit of empty sidewalk opened up, and they began to gain on the wiry man, who didn’t waste time throwing constant glances over his shoulder – he simply ran as if his very life depended on it. And ahead of him, they caught sight of the woman’s coppery hair…

The wiry man caught up to his wife and child, scooping the boy up in passing, and now the red-haired woman was running apace of her husband, while the boy’s high giggles added an incongruous note to their frantic flight.

“We’ll have them!” shouted the dark man, as the trio darted around the corner of a building mere steps ahead. “It’s a dead end!”

The man and his shorter companion rounded the same corner and found themselves facing –

“They’re gone!” gasped the shorter man, breathing heavily after their dash. “It’s empty! How could they possibly get out of here? There’s no exit…”

But the dark-haired man was already striding to the nearest door.

“No disturbance in the dust on the latch.” On to the second door. “Cobwebs across the doorjamb.” A tall pile of opened boxes and other junk completely blocked the final door. “Obviously did not go through there.” He moved to the first of two fire escapes coming down from the adjacent buildings. Leaping up, he grabbed the steps by the sides and allowed his weight to pull the flight down to street level. “No evidence of recent use,” the dark man declared, running his finger across the surface to show the depth of the undisturbed dust. “So it must be the other one…” But to his disappointment, the second fire escape proved to be as fruitless an answer as the first. “Where the devil DID they go? There’s not even an entrance to the sewers…”

The shorter man had caught his breath, and after carefully considering the trio of tall brick walls topped by a brilliant blue October sky, he called out, “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” The dark man had begun to pace the length of the short alley cul-de-sac, his open navy coat flapping agitatedly against his calves.

“Remember what Lestrade told you? That same man in those photos apparently vanished without an explanation? Just went around a corner and disappeared?”

“Quite. And now a woman recognizes the pictures of that man, and then she and her husband and son go around a corner and vanish.” The dark man whirled, his eyes burning with a pale blue fire of desire – the desire – the NEED – to KNOW. To comprehend. “There’s a connection here, John. But what…” He steepled his fingers together against his chin and resumed pacing, but more slowly now. Thoughtfully. “How…”

After several more lengths of the alley, the dark man stopped abruptly. “Let’s return to the flat.”

The shorter man looked taken aback. “But – we haven’t eaten. We didn’t even order – “

“Later.” And striding beyond the alley’s entrance, the dark man flung his impatient demand over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Sighing in resignation, the other man followed. He had expected his hyper friend to shout for a taxi, but to his surprise, the dark man suddenly returned to the alley and stood for a moment, staring intently down the grimy cul-de-sac before calling out, “I know you’re still there. I KNOW IT!”

The shorter man’s jaw dropped momentarily, before he gabbled, “Wha – Sherlock!”

“TAXI!”

And from beneath his father’s Invisibility Cloak, Harry Potter watched the black London cab swallow the two mysterious men.

Once the taxi had moved out of sight, Harry didn’t hesitate before using his wand to Disillusion himself and his broom, a three-year-old Solar Flare, which he’d had shrunk in his pocket. After casting a Notice-Me-Not Charm and stuffing his invisibility cloak into his pocket, he lightly kicked off and went in pursuit of the black cab. Only two others had passed the end of the alley, so he located his quarry without difficulty and flew slowly above and behind it as the vehicle negotiated the London streets.

He’d ordered Ginny to Apparate Albus home the second they reached the alley, so Harry now had the freedom to learn more about these strange men.

Staying high enough to avoid hitting any electrical lines or other hazards, Harry followed the cab until it disgorged its passengers in Westminster, and they entered a door partway along Baker Street, which bore the designation 221B.

“No, wait until we get upstairs,” the tall man was saying between the taxi and the door.

Harry hovered indecisively for several moments. Should he follow them in? All he knew of them were the names John and Sherlock. How would he explain his presence if he knocked? And if he were to Apparate in…

But movement at a tall, second floor window caught his attention – the dark man had flung open the long draperies. Harry maneuvered the Solar Flare near the window and cast a Sound Amplification Charm to allow him to hear the conversation taking place behind the glass.

“Fairy tales?” came the shorter man’s voice.

“Yes, John. That’s what I asked. Do you believe in fairy tales?”

“Well … they’re all make-believe, aren’t they?”

“ARE they?”

An uneasy chuckle. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Mm.”

“Perhaps if you had some supper – “

“What sort of people vanish?”

“Guilty people?”

“Think!”

“Hungry people?”

“What?”

“They waste away, don’t they?”

A snort.

“YOU’RE ready to vanish, Sherlock. You’ve practically gone transparent from not eating.”

A silence. Then…

“I remember eating.”

“Right. Two days ago.”

“No. When I was a child.”

“A child?”

“Before IT happened.”

Another silence.

“Would you like to tell me about … ‘it’?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“But you’re dying to tell me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you wouldn’t mention it otherwise.”

A much longer silence.

“But you will listen.”

“Of course.”

“You’d better sit. This may take a while.”

Harry could not see beyond the glint of reflected outside light on the windowpanes, but he could discern the unmistakable sounds of two men settling into place farther back in the room. Sherlock’s voice dropped in volume, but its intensity increased as he launched into his tale.

“We were outside, Mycroft and I, when the letter arrived. I’d only just turned eleven when the letter came. And that night, the strange man came. And after that, things were very different for me.”

“You wouldn’t care to add a bit of detail, would you? Just for clarification?”

“Mycroft and I were outside. He was home from university for the summer – had just finished his first year – and was indulging me in playing at pirates, I believe. For once, we were getting along rather well. Until the letter came. It was addressed to me, but I wasn’t allowed to have it. Mycroft grabbed it and ran to show Mother. She turned white as a sheet when she saw the seal on the back of the envelope. She ripped it open and I thought she’d faint as she read the letter.”

“A seal?”

“Yes. Very impressive, but like I said, after reading the letter, she locked the envelope away and made an urgent phone call. She sat by the phone for hours that day, and finally someone returned her call. I’d been told to run away and play, but I hid where I could watch her from the next room. She was furious over the phone – absolutely furious – kept saying, ‘But this has to be fixed! I’ll never allow it! It has to be fixed TODAY!’”

A long silence.

“When my father came home from work, she told him, ‘The man is coming tonight. He’ll take care of it then.’ And I knew that whatever ‘it’ was, ‘it’ had to do with me, since the letter had been addressed to me.”

“So, the postman delivers a mysterious letter, your mother freaks – as if she had received really bad news, and she made arrangements for someone – a man – to fix ‘it’ that same night?”

An exceedingly dark chuckle.

“She freaked because, in her opinion, her SON had received really bad news.” A pause. “And you are mistaken. The postman did not deliver the letter.”

“Who did?”

“An owl.”

Silence.

Astride his Solar Flare, Harry suddenly felt his heart began to pound…

“You did say, ‘an owl’?”

“I did. It just swooped out of a clear blue sky and dropped the envelope at my feet.”

“How was it addressed?”

“Mr. S. Holmes. The Southeast Bedroom – “

“WHAT! You’re having me on, Sherlock! You really do need to eat.”

“Don’t you want to hear about the man who came? The one who fixed ‘it’? You’d better say yes, or you’ll be missing the best part.”

“Oh, you mean it gets better than an owl delivering an envelope out of the clear blue sky?”

“Yes.”

“The blue sky is suspect, you do realize.”

“Because owls only fly at night? Well, I assure you, John, this owl arrived midday. But I digress.”

A long-suffering sigh.

“Do you promise that I can eat, if I let you finish?”

“Of course. I’ll even keep you company.”

A scoff.

“Every time we go to a restaurant together, we always end up suddenly rushing out the door before I’ve managed half a dozen bites.”

“The MAN, John.”

“Yes, yes. The man. Go on, then. Get it over with.”

“I was sent to bed early, but I refused to fall asleep. I wanted to be awake when the man came. I kept listening for the clock to chime – the one in the hall – and it was half past midnight when my bedroom door opened. I lay facing away from the door, but I could see by the light coming from the hallway. A stand mirror was angled across the corner of my room, so I could easily see the reflection of the man who had come. My parents stood with him as he looked at me, so small, curled on my side in the large bed. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’ he whispered. Both my parents nodded emphatically. The man’s shoulders slumped. He seemed defeated for a moment, and I could see sadness etched upon his aged features. Obviously, he regretted his actions, but my parents gave him no choice. He took a small stick and waved it about in fanciful patterns, all the while murmuring words which I could not understand – they sounded quite foreign.”

“Sherlock…”

“You should have seen him, John. Dressed in flowing robes, with a white beard to his waist and white hair cascading endlessly down his back.”

“Sherlock – “

“I’ve almost finished. Here comes the best part – after he had done, I felt something wash over me, like a gentle wind which blew hot and cold simultaneously. I could feel my very blood tingle, like a sleeping foot coming awake, but it was my entire body tingling. My blood continues to tingle, John, to this very day. It’s settled a bit over time, but I can still feel it. It’s the source of my energy – “

“Sherlock!”

“ – and why I don’t need to eat or sleep as much as other people – ORDINARY people – do – “

“SHERLOCK!”

“ – and when he left the house, I ran to my window to see him go, and he walked several steps away from the front gate before he turned on the spot and VANISHED.”

Stunned silence.

“So I ask you again, John – what sort of people vanish?”

As the silence continued, Harry shifted restlessly on his Solar Flare. Dumbledore. It had to have been. But what had he DONE – to a child?

“You see, John – I’ve always known I wasn’t ordinary. Even before the man came. When I was a child, things would … happen. Odd things for which there was no logical explanation. They seemed to be centered around me. I began to read about the paranormal, but even that didn’t seem to shed much light on the situation. I used to have a normal appetite – I could eat any time, any place – but that changed after the man came. And the odd things that used to happen… I hesitate to say, for you truly would not believe me, but would you believe Mycroft? He witnessed some of the odd happenings, but then again, he might lie to protect his personal reputation today, if you were to ask him, so no.

“But I shall say that after the man came, the odd things ceased to happen, and in their place, my intellect caught fire! I began to see things as I’d never seen them before, to perceive things that others could barely glimpse – details, patterns, objectives, motives… It felt as if my former world had switched from sepia to neon! I couldn’t turn it off! I had to THINK, John, and I couldn’t stop thinking. THINKING became my LIFE. My very existence is comprised of thought. I don’t know what that man did, but I’ve felt as if I’ve been under a spell of some sort since the night he came. What he did to me – whatever he did – IT completely transformed my mostly-normal life into something utterly extraordinary.”

Sherlock got up and strolled to the window. “I saw him vanish, John. All those years ago. With my own eyes. And now, these photos of another man who vanished, although nobody actually witnessed his disappearance – but there was nowhere for him to go, just like the people in the alley today. These pictures show what appears to be the same man in two different locations over a hundred miles apart, and the time/date stamps show that the photos were recorded mere seconds apart. How did he manage it?” Black brows drew together over intense blue eyes. “And how did that family disappear today?”

“But Sherlock, just before we left the alley – you said you knew they were still there? How?”

“SOMEONE was still there. Couldn’t you FEEL it? Someone was watching us. I don’t know from where, or how, but someone was definitely still in the alley with us the entire time we were there.”

“Invisible? Not likely.”

“And vanishing is?”

Silence.

“Either they were invisible, or else they had completely vanished. Those are your choices, John. Take your pick.”

A long sigh.

“Sherlock, I don’t mind if you come with me, but I HAVE to eat.”

“Fine. But we’ll need to find that red-haired woman.”

“We’ll talk about it AFTER we eat.”

“Chinese then?”

“Anything! Let’s just go.”

Harry continued to hover until the men had exited the building and headed on foot toward the end of the Baker Street. Then he landed, still Disillusioned, on the sidewalk, before Apparating up into the flat upon which he’d just been eavesdropping.

Immediately upon arriving in Sherlock and John's sitting room, Harry spotted two photographs lying on a low table in front of a leather sofa. After Finite-ing the Disillusionment, he Lumosed his wand and carefully studied each picture. Lucius Malfoy – without a doubt. Two different shots in two obviously different locations – quite possibly from security cameras or traffic cameras – but like Sherlock had said, the time/date stamps were mere seconds apart. Lucius had apparently Apparated over a hundred miles without putting a single hair out of place. His clothing, shockingly Muggle-style, appeared identical in both photos. What had he been up to, and why was he being hunted by Muggle law enforcement?

Harry frowned. Lucius Malfoy had dropped out of sight less than five years after Voldemort's defeat. At first, immediately following the Final Battle, it had appeared that the blond Death Eater was trying to turn over a new leaf, as if he hoped to somehow leave his past behind. But few in the Wizarding world accepted his actions at face value. Only the fact that he had not actively fought against the Side of Light in the Battle of Hogwarts kept him from being sentenced to Azkaban simply for being seen in Voldemort's entourage that fateful day. For reasons known only to Cornelius Fudge, Lucius' earlier pardon following the Department of Mysteries debacle had been irrevocably universal – he simply could not be charged with any crimes committed prior to his first conviction and sentencing to Azkaban prison.

Civil litigation was another matter, however. Lucius' personal fortune connected to any British holdings and his estate at Malfoy Manor were lost in legal proceedings, as he was found liable and forced to make substantial restitution to various families of victims and certain survivors of Death Eater attacks through the years, all of whom identified their tormentor by his trademark blond hair. It was rumored that the disgraced aristocrat had finally fled to the Continent, where he quietly lived off the international remnants of his vastly-reduced fortune, which were inaccessible to seizure by British Wizarding authority.

The Wizarding world had seen neither hide nor hair of him since. But now, he suddenly appeared in Muggle police photos? Harry chewed the inside of his lower lip, considering. He'd better make copies of the pictures. Wand in hand, he whispered, "Geminio," as he tapped each photograph in turn. A duplicate photo appeared for each, and he tucked the copies into his jacket's roomy inner pocket.

Next, he studied the flat's main room. Large enough to be comfortable, without wasteful sprawl. High ceilings helped stir the air, while the men's belongings were scattered below in such casual disarray that Petunia Dursley would have despaired. Besides the leather sofa, Harry took note of a lounge chair draped with an inviting plaid throw, a music stand, and an open laptop computer glowing upon a cluttered tabletop. When he deactivated the screensaver, the notation, "The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson," appeared at the top of the screen. Harry scrolled down a bit, but the current blog entry was incomplete, stopping mid-sentence. Yet, it did make a reference to one Sherlock Holmes, and the dark-haired man had addressed his companion as "John". His eyes roved further around the room. A violin case, a skull on the mantelpiece, and – through an open doorway – what looked like a chemistry set-up in what passed for a kitchen.

Before investigating the chemistry experiment, Harry sidled over to the built-in bookcases and perused the titles by wandlight. Nothing of a Wizarding nature, he quickly noticed. But from what Sherlock Holmes had described to John Watson, it certainly sounded as if Sherlock had experienced incidents of accidental magic as a child. Then, when he'd turned eleven, a letter had arrived by owl – possibly a Hogwarts letter. The letter's contents had thrown Sherlock's mother into a panic, and later, a man answering the description of Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had arrived by night to – do WHAT? What sort of magic had Dumbledore performed on the child, Sherlock?

Based strictly on what Harry had overheard, the adult Sherlock was not a Wizard, not in the fullest sense, as in being able to perform magic himself. Furthermore, it sounded as if he really didn't know about the existence of the Wizarding world. He was getting close, though – Harry could see that quite clearly. The realization of magic lay just beyond the fringes of Sherlock's knowledge. And, quite obviously, the tall man was straining to push the limits of that knowledge. It was only a matter of time until he made the breakthrough.

The question remained, however: what would happen when Sherlock learned that magic was real? And if he wasn't a full wizard, what then? Could he be trusted with the knowledge of magic, even if he couldn't use it himself? Would Sherlock Holmes be willing to adhere to the strictures of the Statute of Secrecy, or would his newfound knowledge pose any kind of risk to the Wizarding world? Might he need to be Obliviated? Definitely, Sherlock bore close watching.

Harry moved on toward the kitchen. He'd need to notify Snape about the police photos. If Lucius Malfoy had returned to the Kingdom, Severus Snape could be in danger. Still, this Sherlock Holmes might prove a possible link to locating Lucius, if only the Aurors knew who Sherlock's police contacts were.

What Harry found more troubling than anything else was the question of Dumbledore. How could the old Headmaster have made a wizard child not a wizard? Would Snape have any answers – or ideas – about that? Would Dumbledore have told him, as the succeeding Headmaster? Or, what about McGonagall? Sherlock appeared to be barely a handful of years older than Harry himself. Had he gone to Hogwarts, he and Harry might have known each other from their school years, and Professor McGonagall, as Deputy Headmistress of that era, might have knowledge of Sherlock's situation directly from Dumbledore.

As Harry passed by the lounge chair once again, his Solar Flare bumped against a newspaper folded over one of the arms. The paper slid to the rug and sprawled face up. The wizard's emerald eyes bugged out when he read headlines announcing, "Genius Detective Solves Antique Book Heist", adjacent to a photo of Sherlock Holmes sporting an odd hat, staring into the camera lens with his piercing blue eyes. A genius detective? Was it possible that Dumbledore had worked some sort of magic to … refocus? … Sherlock's innate magic into a genius-level intellect? If the boy's parents had not wanted a wizard son, had they gotten Dumbledore to transform their child into an insatiable genius? Or, if that had not been their choice, was the genius intellect simply a side effect of whatever magic Dumbledore had wrought that night? After a moment's hesitation, Harry duplicated the front page with its glaring headlines and photo. Something else to show Snape.

In the kitchen, he could make no guesses about the chemistry experiment. It seemed to be producing a thick green liquid, which dripped slowly, drop by viscous drop, into a beaker sitting on the table. Turning his attention elsewhere, he waved his wand to open all of the cupboard doors. A quick glance told him that the men must eat out on a very regular basis, since few of the cabinet shelves contained anything edible. Most were stocked with science laboratory items and equipment. This kitchen was obviously a scientific workspace, rather than a culinary center.

Just because it was there, Harry opened the refrigerator.

"Aaaaghhh!"

He recoiled violently from the sight of dismembered human hands neatly bagged and arranged on a metal tray.

What the HELL?!

"Sherlock? Is that you? I thought you boys had gone out."

Harry's head whipped toward the sound of a woman's voice coming up the stairs from the ground floor of the building. Merlin! And he also registered the fact – much delayed by the shock of finding the hands in the fridge – that he'd recoiled against the kitchen table, knocking the beaker receptacle to the floor with a crash.

"Sherlock?"

Harry shut the refrigerator door as quietly as possible, then waved his wand, using Reparo on the broken beaker. He couldn't save the spilled green liquid, so he Vanished it, but the rest of the experiment seemed undisturbed. Quickly, he shoved the empty beaker back beneath the continuing drip, before flinging the invisibility cloak over his head and slowly retreating into a far corner of the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" The kindly voice traveled ahead of a woman in her late middle years as she moved from room to room, finally entering the kitchen with a puzzled expression on her face. "I would have sworn… " She paused, looking around, but her gaze filled with trepidation when her eyes landed on the fridge. "Oh, dear... Do I dare?" After seeming to fight an internal battle with her better judgment, she squared her shoulders, obviously steeling herself. "After all, I am their landlady… " And she tugged open the refrigerator door.

"Merciful heavens! Hands!" She slammed the door upon the dread spectacle. "Before that, it was ears. And before that, thumbs. And John told me he'd found a head … said Sherlock had told him it was something to do with saliva… " Shuddering, she scurried out of the kitchen. "Really, I should raise that incorrigible boy's share of the rent!"

A HEAD? Surely not! But after the hands… Harry swallowed hard. This was getting way beyond his comfort zone. He'd just come to 221B Baker Street to investigate Lucius Malfoy's pictures, and he'd gotten so much more than he'd bargained for…

Deciding to skip searching the men's bedrooms on this visit, Harry prepared to get home to Ginny. To his family. And away from the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. At least, for a while. Sherlock definitely needed to be watched by Wizarding authorities, and after he'd had a chance to recover from and analyze this initial encounter, Harry was planning to stand the watch.

Stuffing the invisibility cloak into his pocket, he followed standard Auror procedure and Disillusioned himself and his broom once more before Apparating homeward.

-:- -:- -:-

Sherlock and John had strolled home along the shadowed street in early evening, John feeling pleasantly full for once. By some miracle, he'd gotten to actually finish his supper, and he'd thoroughly enjoyed his Moo Goo Gai Pan, although Sherlock had, predictably, pronounced his choice "boring". Declining to order a full meal, the dark man had indulged in a small bowl of hot-and-sour soup, made to order with additional hot pepper. John thought it a wonder that steam didn't whistle out of Sherlock's ears.

They'd barely regained the downstairs hall when their landlady rushed to greet them.

"Mrs. Hudson? What's happened?" inquired John, noting the concern written on her face.

"John! Sherlock! I thought you'd gone out! That's why I was so startled when I heard a shout and a crash from your flat."

Both men cast their eyes upwards, as if they could see through ceilings and walls. "Stay here," John ordered the woman as he charged up the stairs after Sherlock's lanky form.

"But I already checked," she called after them, "and nobody was there!"

"Somebody's been here," Sherlock said quietly, after carefully examining the flat. "The photos have been shifted, your newspaper is out of place, and in here – " he moved swiftly to the kitchen, "the beaker has far less liquid than it did when we left. In fact, it is nearly empty."

John felt the hairs rise on the nape of his neck, an involuntary response to realizing someone unknown had invaded his personal space. Somehow, it never hit him that same way when Sherlock took him along to go invading other people's personal spaces… "But who?"

"Let's find out, shall we?" Sherlock bounded back into their sitting room. Before John could even assimilate it, Sherlock had spun the laptop around and called up a familiar image onscreen.

"That's – HERE!" exclaimed John. "That's us. Here and now. Are we being bugged again?"

"No. I decided to set up surveillance of our flat some time back. Figured it might be useful someday."

"Bugging ourselves?"

"Perfect!" Sherlock's lean fingers tapped a string of commands into John's computer. "Now, we backtrack … and THERE he is! The man from the café."

John gaped. "How'd he get in?"

"Backtracking further… Okay – this is when we left for supper. I have views in this room and in the kitchen – "

"Wait a minute. Are the cameras always on?"

"No. I turn them on whenever I leave," murmured Sherlock, staring intently at the screen.

"But they're on when I'm here? Alone?"

"You're usually with me."

"Not always! You spy on me?"

"No, of course not."

"But the cameras are on."

"John, you've nothing to worry about. When you're alone in the flat, you don't do anything remotely interesting."

"But you HAVE spied on me, haven't you?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Briefly. Gave it up. Dull."

"That's hardly the point."

"What is?"

"The cameras are always on."

"I'll show you how to turn them off. Will that satisfy your paranoia?"

"It's principle I'm concerned about, not paranoia."

"Really? I don't see the difference."

"Sherlock – "

"THERE! Watch… I'll back it up… "

The two men stared, heads together, at the astounding sight of the wiry man from the café suddenly appearing onscreen, apparently materializing from thin air.

"Are you SEEING this?" whispered John, his eyes riveted to the laptop.

"Yes." Sherlock's response was little more than a faint breath.

Together, they watched the wiry man examining the photos of the long-haired man.

"What's in his hand? A long penlight of some sort?" John wondered.

But then –

"Did you SEE that! He – he – HOW did he do that?"

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't answer John's question, but it was obvious that the wiry man had duplicated the two photos, and he'd stuck the copies in his jacket.

Fascinated, they watched as he carefully examined the sitting room, and nearly burst with excitement when he duplicated the front page of John's newspaper.

"It's some kind of a trick," John whispered. "Some sort of scanner/printer? Is he one of Mycroft's people?"

"No … it's more. It has to be MORE," declared Sherlock, his eyes blazing azure with excitement.

The wiry man headed for the kitchen.

"What's he carrying?" John frowned. "It looks like a broom, but it doesn't appear very functional – those look like twigs, rather than straw… "

"LOOK!" gasped Sherlock, as the wiry man waved the stick in his hand, and the cupboard doors all opened in unison…

"This defies all rational explanation." John was shaking his head violently. "Unless he's an extraterrestrial of some sort."

The wiry man opened the refrigerator door, recoiled against the table…

"So that explains the near-empty beaker."

"It didn't just spill, Sherlock – it broke. See?"

But the wiry man waved his stick, and suddenly the beaker was restored. Another wave, and the spilled green liquid vanished. The man shoved the beaker beneath the drip, flung a piece of fabric over his head, and VANISHED! Mrs. Hudson came and went, and the wiry man emerged from beneath the suddenly-visible fabric, which he shoved into his back pocket. With a final wave of his stick, the wiry man disappeared, along with his broom. Nothing further appeared before Sherlock and John entered the flat.

The men retired to the leather sofa and lounge chair, sitting silently as they contemplated what they'd witnessed.

"Was that … real?" John asked at length. "You weren't just pranking me?"

"Not a prank." Sherlock's eager eyes searched his friend's frowning countenance. "But I'll ask once more – do you believe in fairy tales?"

-:- -:- -:-

Staring pensively at the image of Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape kept tapping his long, pale forefinger against the streak of silvery hair smoothed back over his temple. Though the wizard was now in his mid-fifties, the rest of his hair remained ebony, aside from two quiet argent streaks, shining like graceful brushstrokes above his ears. These days, of course, he habitually wore his long hair tied back, unless he wished to make a frightening impression on someone. Then, he'd remove the hair tie, lengthen his robes, and sweep through a crowd for the sheer pleasure of seeing people scatter in alarm, just like in the old days at Hogwarts.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Snape said abruptly into the silence, causing Harry Potter to jump slightly in the comfortable lounge chair reserved for guests. Snape smirked.

"I wish I could tell you more," Harry replied, "but all I know are the general locations of the cameras – Norwich and Blackpool – and Lucius could have Apparated anywhere from there, and he may never return to either city." He shrugged. "Not much to go on, I'm afraid."

"Except we now know that, first – he is still alive, and second – he has somehow come to the attention of Muggle law enforcement, which, of course, has no idea what a dangerous individual they're dealing with."

"Yeah," sighed Harry. "That's the scary part."

Snape grimaced in agreement, then snapped his fingers. A few seconds later, a house elf popped in with a tea tray. Harry didn't know what startled him more – the fact that Snape had suddenly acquired a house elf, the fact that she was wearing a pretty pink floral tunic, or the fact that Snape appeared to be planning to feed him. Normally, if he offered tea at all, the Potions Master brewed it himself and served it plain – a high-quality Assam, to be sure, but no additives like sugar, milk, or lemon. Absolutely no food to accompany the tea.

Yet, today, the house elf bore a tea tray fully loaded, not only with a complete tea set, including sugar bowl and creamer, but also with plates of sandwiches and iced cakes. Harry decided not to presume any of it was actually for him. Safer that way. Better than to reach for a sandwich and have Snape remonstrate with him for his groundless presumption. Snape may be long retired from Hogwarts, but he'd never lost his penchant for snarkily deriding lower life forms, such as his former students, for committing a blundering faux pas, whatever the given situation.

The Potions Master poured out and passed a cup and saucer to Harry, who offered a quiet "thank you" and sipped carefully at the plain, steaming liquid. The younger man contemplated the older, remembering the shock he'd received when he returned to the Shrieking Shack after Voldemort's defeat. Harry had gone, with several others, to retrieve Severus Snape's body and give it a proper burial with all honors due the bravest spy for the Side of Light, but they found only a coagulating pool of blood on the dusty floor. Snape had gone missing for over a year, and to this day, nobody had ever heard how he'd managed to survive Nagini's attack. Harry himself had privately asked him if he'd made a Horcrux, which Snape vehemently denied under the effects of Veritaserum. At times, Harry wondered if Snape even knew the answer to his existence; at others, he couldn't help but think that – SOMEHOW – Dumbledore must have had a hand in it … from beyond the Veil.

At any rate, Snape had returned to the Wizarding world, was hailed as a hero but refused to be feted as such, and went into a well-deserved, quiet retirement from teaching young dunderheads. These days, he concentrated on his true passion, and his scholarly articles on Potions research were regularly published in multiple languages in Wizarding journals around the world. Likewise, his textbooks for all levels of school brewing had become standard issue in every Wizarding institution in the world, and he had established the current criteria for earning O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s in Potions in Great Britain.

"Well, go on," Snape ordered impatiently.

"Go on?"

"Eat up, Potter. Daisy would be offended if you failed to appreciate the effort she put into preparing your tea."

"Daisy … oh, your elf. Yes, thank you, sir. I wouldn't want her work to go to waste." Harry gratefully helped himself to a thick sandwich – sliced turkey breast, various crisp leafy things, and bright tomato flavor blended splendidly with carefully-selected herbs, which Harry knew must have come from Snape's personal herb garden. "Wonderful," he mumbled appreciatively around the first mouthful.

"And do use your napkin."

"Yes, sir." Harry didn't even feel an urge to protest being treated as if he were little Albus' tender age. The food was too good, and Snape was Snape, after all.

A second cup of tea and two cakes later, Harry leaned back, happily replete.

Snape was already studying the copy of the newspaper article featuring Sherlock Holmes. "And you searched their flat, when?"

"Day before yesterday. Ginny and I discussed the situation, and while it was obvious you needed to know about Lucius Malfoy, for your own safety, we weren't really sure what, if anything, you could recommend to do about these men. Detectives, apparently, if this newspaper article is more accurate than anything we'd see in the Daily Prophet. And John Watson is also some sort of doctor. They're obviously looking for Lucius, and now they want to find Ginny, too, because they saw that she recognized the pictures of Lucius."

Harry sipped the last of his tea before adding, "Then there's the issue of Sherlock Holmes himself – what on earth could Dumbledore have done to him as a child? Almost certainly, he was born a wizard. But today – I don't know how to accurately describe him. The newspaper labeled him a genius detective, and he knows something drastic happened to him the night Dumbledore came. Did Dumbledore change him into a squib, do you think? At any rate, my gut instinct is that we must keep a close eye on this Sherlock Holmes. He's on the verge of figuring out that magic really exists."

Snape shoved himself out of his nicely-worn lounge chair. "I cannot imagine that the twinkling fool would have gone to the extreme of creating a squib. He would have had to initiate a complete burnout of Holmes' magical core, and from what you've described hearing him tell this Watson, that simply did not happen. The symptoms are inconsistent with a burnout. But I'll admit I'm clueless as to what DID take place that night."

"What about asking Dumbledore's portrait?"

Snape's black eyes flashed. "Something tells me that the old Headmaster would sidestep the issue, if asked. You know what he was like, Potter. Always playing both ends against the middle. Prevaricating where he could, lying where he had to – all in the name of the greater good. He would sacrifice anyone and anything to achieve his ends."

"But, the Side of Light won, in the end," Harry protested. "Surely that must count for something? After all these years – "

"After all these years, I see black and white far more clearly that I ever did in the hazy gray days of my distorted youth," Snape stated flatly.

Harry fell silent, massaging his temples thoughtfully. "And what would Dumbledore have considered Sherlock's 'greater good' to be? If the boy's parents didn't want a wizard in their family, what would Dumbledore do to … placate them, without turning the boy into an actual squib? Did he even think about the long term? What might happen when Sherlock began to figure things out?" Harry stared up at Snape, struck by a sudden thought. "Is the process reversible? Could Sherlock regain full use of his magic, do you think?"

The Potions Master groaned. "That, in itself, might open an entirely different can of worms. One which I would prefer not to think about at this moment."

"Okay," Harry said quickly. "We'll think about that later, if it becomes necessary. In the meantime, would there be any records of Dumbledore's doings? Official school records, personal diaries, or journals? There must be something we could investigate… "

Snape stared out the window at the autumn leaves coloring his back garden. After long moments of concentrated consideration, he said slowly, "When I was Headmaster – "

"Yes?" The younger wizard sat forward alertly.

" – there was a trunk among his personal effects … one which Dumbledore ordered me to leave locked."

"And did you?"

"Yes, actually." Snape frowned thoughtfully. "He assured me that the trunk contained only a century-and-a-half's worth of personal mementos, and there was nothing within which would be useful in the war or in defeating Voldemort."

"But there could have been something else – something he didn't want anyone to know about? Something that could possibly reflect badly upon him, if it were to come to light?"

Snape smiled without humor. "He always did set store by his personal image, which he'd spent over a century carefully cultivating. The benevolent Headmaster. The greatest wizard of our time. The culmination of his carefully-stylized living self-portrait, complete with uncontested, highly visible small flaws. Hmphh."

Harry frowned. "He once told me that his errors – when he made them – could be even larger than the average person's, simply because he was who he was."

Snape hmphhed again and began to pace the length of the smallish lounge. Although dressed informally in plain navy slacks and pale lavender shirt, Severus Snape yet exuded the image of the voluminous black robes of his teaching days, aided by a powerful turn on his heel at the end of each pacing pass. "I got the distinct impression that Dumbledore intended the contents of that trunk strictly for posterity's posterity."

"Sorry? What do you mean?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Albus Dumbledore did not want that trunk opened for two hundred years after his death."

"What!"

"Exactly." Almost as if he perceived some sort of unconscious threat on the verge of raising its ugly head, Snape withdrew his wand and began gently stroking its length. "It would appear that Dumbledore hoped nobody he'd known in this life would ever live to see that trunk opened."

Harry gaped at the Potions Master for a long moment. Then, once his initial shock passed, he grinned.

"What are you laughing at, Potter?"

"It's perfect, Professor! Don't you see?"

Snape cocked his head. "You mean – "

"Blackmail him!" The Gryffindor laughed aloud. "Ask Dumbledore's portrait to cooperate in telling us what we need to know about what he did to Sherlock Holmes, and if he refuses, blackmail him. Tell him that you'll invite the Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, the Skeeter Independent, Witch Weekly, and every other publication you can think of to witness the opening of the personal trunk of Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard we ever knew!"

The Potions Master flopped inelegantly into his lounge chair, not even attempting to stifle his mirth. "Merlin's hangnails, Potter! The Sorting Hat had you so WRONG!"

Harry just grinned.

-:- -:- -:-

Three days later, Harry received an owl from Snape. Eagerly, he unfolded the thick parchment, only to feel as if someone had suddenly dashed cold water into his face. He read the letter a second time, his anger growing with every word:

Potter,

I regret to inform you that our twinkling "friend" has fled his frame. I had Flooed Headmaster Flitwick and informed him of our "situation", and of my intention to come to Hogwarts to confront the portrait in question. I had planned to Apparate to the castle after picking up an Apothecary order in Diagon Alley. However, by the time I arrived in the Headmaster's office, the portrait in question was empty, much to Filius' surprise, since the subject had left quietly and without his knowledge. Given the nature of my conversation during the Floo call, I suspect that the departed one was not sleeping, but eavesdropping, and took the opportunity to absent himself so as to avoid being interrogated. Filius believes it would be a waste of time to search the portraits in the castle, since the fugitive could simply hide out inside the walls until he is ready to reappear. Instead, we have decided to concentrate our efforts on perusing old records, to see if there is any indication of a Sherlock Holmes. It would help narrow down our search if we knew in which year he would have turned eleven, and thus received a Hogwarts letter. Your assistance in this area would be appreciated.

Severus Snape

Harry slapped the letter flat on the kitchen table.

A COWARD! Dumbledore was a COWARD!

Fleeing his frame...

What HAD he done to Sherlock? Was it illegal? Or, could Dumbledore, leader of the Light, possibly have performed some heinous DARK magic on a helpless child? Was that why he'd high-tailed it into the castle walls? Fear of the discovery? Shame for his actions? Could ... could punishment be exacted upon a mere portrait? In his mind's eye, Harry suddenly saw the Head of the Wizengemot incanting "Incendio" while pointing an accusing wand at Dumbledore's painted face...

"Problem?" Ginny's hand rested gently on Harry's shoulder.

Harry told her the latest news in short, clipped sentences. "So Snape wants me to see what I can learn from this end," he concluded.

"Are you going to talk to this Sherlock Holmes?"

"No. Not yet. We need to learn as much as we can before bringing him into the picture in a personal sense. But I can follow him. And I could always search his flat again. Find something listing his birthdate, maybe. Muggles often keep personal information handy, and as far as his lifestyle goes, he apparently lives like a Muggle. We need to figure out what year he had his eleventh birthday. As it stands, Snape and Flitwick are having to search through reams of parchment over a number of years."

Harry suddenly thought of something. "You got a much closer look at him than I ever did. How old did he seem?"

Ginny frowned, thinking back to that day at the café. "Thirty-something. Maybe a few years older than we are? But I'm really not sure. I wouldn't put him in his forties, though."

Harry sighed. "It's something, I suppose. I'll tell Snape mid-thirties to forty. But he's probably already figured that from the newspaper photo. Whether or not he and Flitwick find any trace of Sherlock, we'll still need to question him at some point. I just don't know what his reaction would be if wizards tried to take him away for a little chat."

They sat quietly, considering.

"I have an idea," Ginny said at last. "But it doesn't have anything to do with his birthdate. It's just in case you need to ‘capture' him to question him, if you think he might not come quietly if you tried to approach him directly."

"What's that?"

"Set a trap for him."

"What kind of trap?"

She folded her hands and smiled mischievously at her husband. "He fancies himself a detective, right? He'd follow a trail, if he thought it led to me."

"You must be joking!"

"Think about it, Harry. We could set something up, I'm sure of it.

"Well... "

-:- -:- -:-

Four days later, Harry was just about ready to concede to Ginny's idea of a trap. He'd staked out 221B Baker Street, only to discover that the dark detective had taken to playing his violin nearly non-stop. Day, night, day, night... Sherlock seldom even glanced at food, although the other chap kept bringing home various types of take-away to tempt him.

"I'm THINKING, John! You know I don't eat when I'm thinking!"

The shorter man sighed and settled down to his laptop, while Harry hovered outside the window, sighing himself. He could not enter the flat unless they were gone, and Sherlock, at least, seemed disinclined to leave.

Harry was just about ready to call it an early night when a police car pulled up to the curb at an awkward angle, lights flashing. Within seconds, a man that Ginny would describe as handsome had pelted up the inside steps to the flat shared by Sherlock and John. Harry practically pressed his Disillusioned nose against the outside of the sitting room window as the newcomer addressed Sherlock.

"There's been another one," he announced without preamble. "A couple this time - double homicide. Will you come?"

Yes, GO, thought Harry. Give me a chance to search the flat.

But as the detective hailed a cab so that he and John could follow the police car to the scene of the crime, curiosity got the better of the Auror, and he banked his broom to follow the cab as it wove its way through the tangle of street traffic. Streetlights, headlamps on cars, colorful traffic lights, bright signs on businesses - all combined to create a glowing carpet of constantly-changing illumination beneath the flying wizard, and it was all he could do to watch out for mid-air hazards hidden in the darkness above street level while pursuing the black cab. Afraid that he might lose it in the river of similar taxis, Harry quickly aimed his wand at the top of the vehicle, and a For-Wizard-Eyes-Only glowing yellow spot appeared on the black paint. Relieved, he now concentrated on flying safely, hoping not to break his neck on a suspended power line before they reached their destination. Hurtling around a sunlit Quidditch pitch while dodging Bludgers seemed as tame as a play park swing, compared to flying through London after dark.

When they arrived, Harry Finited the glowing spot on the taxi, thinking ruefully that his Solar Flare could have made the trip in mere minutes. As it was, the taxi had taken more than an hour to cross several sections of the moderately congested city. Sherlock and John entered a modest one-story house after the former exchanged brief barbs with a pretty brunette police sergeant, who addressed the taller man irreverently as "Freak".

"Dining room," indicated the handsome man, leading the way. "Neighbor found them when she came over to return a casserole."

Soundlessly, Harry Apparated into an unoccupied corner of the room, partly shielded by an open French door to the lounge. Even with the ceiling lights on, his Disillusioned form would be hard to detect, and unless somebody tried to push the door flat against the wall, thereby bumping against him, he would go unnoticed.

The murdered couple had been positioned facing each other across the dining table, each one's wrists bound to the other person's by a supple, braided cord, so that, even in death, they had not slumped completely to the floor, but remained supported by each other's weight. A single narrow-handled, thin-bladed knife protruded from the woman's back; a small bloodstain on the man's shirt surrounded the first knife's twin.

"The signature?" asked Sherlock.

"Both of them," nodded the handsome man. "A hundred-dollar bill, American, in each of their mouths. Just like the other murders."

From his corner, Harry watched as Sherlock sprang into action, examining the bodies, the cords binding them together, the knives, the rug, the table, the chairs, the windowsill - everything, really.

"How did the murderer get in?"

"Uncertain," the handsome man admitted unhappily, running his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "The neighbor used her key when nobody answered the bell. She routinely watered plants and picked up mail when the deceased couple traveled, which was frequently, so she kept a key to the house. We found no sign of forced entry. The chain was on the back door as well as the front. The neighbor says these two normally kept both chains on whenever they were in the house. I suppose it's always possible that the owners let the murderer in themselves, though I don't think it likely."

"If the chains were on, how did the neighbor get in?"

"She didn't. She tried her key in both doors and hit both chains. Then, since no one had responded when she called through the doors, she tried to look through the windows. She found a slim gap in the dining room curtains and could see the couple sprawling across the table with their hands bound. That's when she called us."

Sherlock looked sideways at the handsome man. "I don't suppose there were witnesses who saw anyone coming or going?"

"We're still canvasing the neighborhood."

So far, the examination of the crime scene bore a superficial similarity to several unfortunate murders which Harry himself had processed as an Auror, and he could not imagine why the police had called in a "genius detective" to look things over.

"Anything else significant, Lestrade?"

The handsome man quirked an eyebrow at the dark detective's query. "All the windows were latched from the inside. Manual latches. Nothing automated."

"Wait a minute," John inserted. "You're saying that both doors and all the windows were secured from the inside?"

At Lestrade's sharp nod, John posed the obvious question. "How did the murderer get OUT?"

"That's what we need HIM to work out," Lestrade jerked his head toward Sherlock, who had exited the dining room to closely study the doors and windows throughout the rest of the house.

When the tall detective reentered the dining room, he launched into a lightning-fast monologue of analysis, which left Harry catching about every fifth word of it, describing the victims, their habits, their hobbies, and such a slew of other sundries that it left the wizard's head spinning. Harry listened with open-mouthed astonishment as Sherlock, posed questions, offered alternative possibilities, rejected some, then some more, explaining why they didn't work, and finally narrowed the field to a few more likely probabilities.

Neither John nor Lestrade appeared at all startled, as if Sherlock's intense breakdown of the crime scene was commonplace indeed. The other men simply waited until the dark detective had finished, although John did scribble a few quick notes on a pocket pad.

At length, when Sherlock fell silent and contemplated the windows once more, Lestrade ventured, "So, how did the murderer get out?"

"No idea," Sherlock stated bluntly. "But all the previous crime scenes had obvious entry and exit?"

"Yes."

"So he's becoming more clever," said John.

"Or extraordinarily stupid," countered Sherlock. "I'll be in touch." With that, he whirled, his long dark coat caught by surprise and taking a moment to catch him up, flapping against his calves as he walked rapidly toward the front door.

"I suppose he'll be off food for another week until he figures this one out," John said, shaking his head. "Good night, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade simply sighed, waving John toward the front door.

Harry silently Apparated to the tiny front lawn, keeping clear of the police presence. It only took him a couple of seconds to locate Sherlock and John. The former had borrowed a torch and was now shining the beam along the ground next to the house's foundation, paying special attention to the areas in the vicinity of each window and near both exterior doors.

"Any footprints?" inquired John.

"Plenty," said Sherlock, "but none that match."

"Match what?"

"The shoeprint on the dining room rug."

John looked taken aback. "There's a shoeprint?"

"There was."

"Then why didn't you tell Lestrade?"

"He's a police detective, isn't he? He should already have seen it before I arrived at the scene. Besides, by the time I returned to the dining room, he'd already scattered it."

"Scattered ... the footprint?"

"Sugar, John!" A shoeprint in sugar. And he'd already trodden upon it. Or someone else had."

"And the sugar is significant, how?"

"On the kitchen table, an empty sugar bowl, the lid removed for refilling."

"And a container of spilled sugar on the floor, I take it?"

"No."

"No?"

"No sugar at all in evidence."

"Except for the footprint on the dining room rug."

"Exactly."

"Sherlock - "

"TAXI!"

Feeling way out of his depth, Harry hesitated, watching the black cab shrinking into the distance, before he shrugged and decided to Apparate home to Godric's Hollow and his family. In all likelihood, the men would stay in their flat all night now, so there would be no opportunity to search it before the morrow, anyway.

-:- -:- -:-

"Dumbledore is still lying low," Snape growled, his dour features distorted by the green flames of the Floo call. "Headmaster Flitwick and I are still digging through old records. He had the idea to check the magical school roster and discovered that some tampering had taken place in 1987, where someone's name had been magically obliterated from the Headmaster's list."

"Was that the only incidence?" asked Hermione, sitting next to Harry on the sofa in the Potter cottage. Ginny stood in the kitchen doorway, listening, while Ron sat cross-legged on the braided rug, noisily crunching an apple.

Snape shook his head. "Oddly, once he discovered how to detect the tampering, Filius came across multiple instances of obliterated names, although we believe the 1987 date is most likely, given that the next two closest, one in 1971 and the other in 1995, would be too far off the mark for a man who is currently in his mid-thirties."

"I agree," said Harry, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "And these ... erasures ... occurred during Dumbledore's tenure as Headmaster?"

"The most recent ones did," acknowledged Snape. "There were none during Headmaster Dippett's time in office. However, when you go back even further, several other Heads of School apparently inflicted alterations upon the roster during their own years."

"What does it signify?" asked Harry, after exchanging glances with Hermione.

"That is open for debate," returned Snape, looking displeased. "Each individual instance could have different underlying circumstances. If a parent chooses to homeschool a child instead of enrolling him or her at Hogwarts, the roster reflects that option. The Founders simply created a perpetual roster to record every eligible witch or wizard born in the British Isles. Whether or not they attended Hogwarts at any time, their names have been recorded, along with their dates of birth and death."

"Death!" blurted Ron, dropping the apple core on the rug.

"The roster goes back ten centuries, Mr. Weasley," Snape reminded him dryly.

"Oh. Right." The redhead's freckles nearly vanished as his face flushed with embarrassment at being caught out over something so simple. And by Snape, of course.

Harry chuckled, while Hermione just shook her head.

"But for anyone's name to be magically obliterated... Quite frankly, I was not aware that such an action was even possible. The Hogwarts roster is supposed - was DESIGNED - to be definitive. Absolute." Snape's glare looked rather sickly when shaded with green flames.

"And there's no way to actually restore the destroyed entry?" Harry frowned. Muggle raised, he still marveled at magic after all the years he'd used it, and he still found it hard to believe that there couldn't be a magical solution to nearly every problem in the Wizarding world.

Snape shook his head. "Not that we've been able to discover. Yet. A reversal of magic of this magnitude requires more than a simple Finite, you must realize."

Actually, Harry felt a bit embarrassed to realize that he'd been thinking along the lines of a simple Finite.

"What about the other Heads of School?" Hermione wondered. "Have you or Professor Flitwick consulted their portraits? The ones who also had erasures, that is?"

Despite years of retirement, Severus Snape had never lost his ability to sneer, and he did so now with undisguised contempt. "The Heads in question unexpectedly took leave of their own frames."

"What!" All four Gryffindors leaned toward the fireplace, as if they weren't certain they'd heard Snape correctly. Ginny even walked over from the kitchen so as not to miss a word.

"I've no doubt they've all gone off to consort with Dumbledore SOMEWHRE in the castle walls." For a long moment, Snape looked completely at a loss. Then he added, "They're probably trying to come up with some sort of strategy to explain their actions, something which will allow them to come off smelling like roses..."

Harry thought quickly. "What about the Heads who are still in their frames? Even if nothing suspect shows up during their years, would they have any knowledge of what the other Heads might have done?"

Snape snorted, causing the green flames to flicker. "Some deny knowing anything at all, while the others are determinedly sleeping as hard as they can."

"Refusing to wake up and talk, you mean."

"Just what I said, Potter."

The room fell silent and still, the only movement the dancing green flames surrounding Snape's perturbed visage.

"So," Harry said at last, "what do you suggest we do, Professor?"

Frowning, the Potions Master said slowly, "I believe we shall need to speak to Sherlock Holmes himself."

"Right," said Harry, nodding once. "I'll go."

Snape gave a sharp nod of his own and vanished. The green flames died upon the grate.

But when Harry Apparated to 221B Baker Street moments later, he discovered that Sherlock's flat was empty, and the men's own fireplace grate had gone cold.

-:- -:- -:-

Disappointed, Harry stared around the comfortable flat, wondering where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had got to. They must have been gone for some time already, since the fireplace held not the faintest trace of heat in the bricks. And when were they planning to return?

Sighing, he decided he might as well make use of their absence, and he began a systematic search of the flat. He worked efficiently, but quietly. Mindful of the landlady's keen hearing, he'd cast a Muffliato before starting, and he made sure to keep his own ear alert for any footsteps coming up the stairs. After his untoward discovery in the fridge on the previous trip, he opened furniture drawers and closet doors warily as he searched the sitting room and the bedroom adjacent to the kitchen. Previous surveillance had alerted him to the fact that Sherlock slept in that main bedroom - on the rare occasions when he actually did sleep - while John kept his own bedroom one floor up. Neither bedroom turned up anything enlightening, in terms of Sherlock's date of birth, and the varied contents of the sitting room - while fascinating - proved equally unrevealing.

Once again, Harry stared reluctantly at the doorway into the kitchen.

The refrigerator almost seemed to be leering at him. Merlin only knew what Sherlock had stashed in it this time...

Realistically, he'd probably not find anything useful in the kitchen, since few papers had turned up during his previous search, and he absolutely refused to consider opening the fridge again.

Of course, he thought, swallowing hard, the body parts might have been put there deliberately, in order to deter casual intruders against investigating any further. If Sherlock really wanted to hide something...

NO! NOT happening!

And surely, Sherlock would never have hidden documents bearing his birthdate in a refrigerator anyway, with or without body parts.

As for John's computer -

The men had left it behind, turned off and unplugged, but it was a simple matter for a Muggle-raised wizard to reestablish power and then use his wand to coax the laptop into revealing its password. Quietly, Harry pulled out a hard-backed chair and sat down at the table.

One of the first things he'd done after Voldemort's defeat was to purchase a computer and become proficient in using it. He knew that, as a future Auror, he would need to move in the Muggle world as well as the Wizarding, and technology and the knowledge of how to use it would prove invaluable. Also, since hiding in plain sight was often essential to maintaining any type of cover while on assignment, computer literacy would aid him in appearing to be an ordinary Muggle as he pursued Dark witches and wizards who were attempting to hide among Muggles. If nothing else, his upbringing at the Dursleys' had given him a serious advantage over the wizard-raised Aurors in moving fluently between both worlds.

While many modern-thinking wizards never bothered with computers, believing them useless around magic and its residue, open-minded Harry had been delighted to discover that certain limited types of magic, especially when he restrained his powers, could be applied to computers with great effect. The Password-Revealing Charm had been his own invention, and aside from his trusted closest friends and selected members of the Hogwarts teaching staff - specifically Filius Flitwick and Severus Snape - he'd kept all knowledge of the charm to himself, not even telling Kingsley Shacklebolt, who continued to serve as Minister of Magic, winning three uncontested elections since Voldemort's fall.

Harry had originally bought a desktop computer, but while it worked well enough in a deeply-buried chamber far below the protective wards surrounding his cottage, those same wards precluded any possibility of receiving Internet service at home. He'd pounced on a laptop the moment prices became reasonable, since he could simply Apparate it to an unwarded Muggle Wi-Fi spot to go online.

His years of experience made it child's play to gain access to John Watson's laptop, and he began to search for online information concerning one Sherlock Holmes. Amazingly, Sherlock had his own website dealing with "The Science of Deduction", which Harry skimmed through quickly. Fascinating, yes, but he'd need to revisit it at his leisure - maybe even turn Snape onto it, since its intricacies seemed the sort of thing that the Potions Master might indulge in for some light reading. Oddly enough, it had been Harry's own success with computers which had inspired Severus Snape to take the plunge, and now he was every bit as proficient with the technology as the average Muggle, although he preferred to print out and read from hard copy, rather than squinting into the computer's lighted screen.

Harry moved on to a more general search, and it was the media reports about Sherlock which really caught his attention. He skimmed a few articles, then decided to copy them to his memory stick, which he removed from a sealed, shielded box in his pocket. He'd learned the hard way that memory sticks could end up permanently erased if they lingered in close contact with his personal magic for extended periods of time. Merely handling them posed no difficulties, but carrying them unshielded in his pockets was a good way to lose information in less than a month. Once a memory stick's memory faded, it could not be restored or reused. Necessity had led to Harry's developing of a stasis shield box to preserve the memory sticks which he routinely carried on his person.

Plugging the memory stick into a USB port on John's computer, Harry quickly began to save article after article. He would read them carefully at home, where he didn't have to worry about a landlady popping in unexpectedly. He might even print them out for Snape and Flitwick, and the thought made him consider once again how much he needed to develop a Charm that would produce hard copy directly from a computer.

Then, he paused.

Suicide?

Sherlock?

But the man was alive!

Yet - multiple reports of his death after he had apparently jumped from St. Bart's Hospital rooftop, his body crashing bloodily onto the concrete sidewalk far, far below. Other headlines referred to Sherlock as a "fake genius" in reporting his supposed demise, a fact which confused Harry even further. It appeared that Sherlock Holmes had, for some reason, been discredited around the time of his "death".

But later, the media seemed to relent, and more recent articles boasted headlines heralding the return of the genius detective, featuring the now-famous photo of the man in the deerstalker, his dark collar turned up beneath prominent cheekbones.

Utterly bemused, Harry saved everything to his memory stick and took care to delete his searches from the laptop's History file. He closed the computer, quietly replaced the chair, and Apparated back to his cottage, where - unlike 221B Baker Street - a welcoming fire had been lit to stave off the evening chill.

-:- -:- -:-

"Surviving a seventy-foot fall onto concrete could be indicative."

"You think?" Harry almost - but not quite - scoffed at Snape's unerring statement of the obvious.

The man's dark eyes glowered at the younger wizard. Hard to believe that Potter was now older than Snape himself had been when the boy had come to Hogwarts for his Sorting. So help him, Merlin - he still saw Potter as that same young boy, although he'd made quite a successful career for himself in the Aurors' Department for more than a decade. He could hear the boy - er, Auror - trying to rein in his sarcasm. It did not do for the young to disrespect their elders' opinions...

"If I might continue," Snape said, his tone taking on an edge, which caused Potter to nod quickly. "Perhaps, if Holmes' magic had not been tampered with, he might even have suffered a lesser degree of injury."

Harry nodded, more slowly this time. "Yeah. I'd kind of wondered about that. Especially after Neville told us that when he was a kid, his family thought he might be a squib until he fell out of a - what was it? - a third story window? - and just bounced when he hit the ground."

Snape listened, turning thoughts over in his mind. "Also, if Holmes had been treated by the Healers at St. Mungo's instead of by Muggle physicians at St. Bart's, he might have had a faster recovery." Snape mouse-clicked yet another file about the detective's supposed suicide. "But nothing explains why the press announced his death. Or why he went missing for months afterward."

"Well, gee... Look who's talking," muttered Harry, not bothering to hide his sarcasm this time.

Through the ominous silence at his elbow, Harry could feel a threatening frisson of angry magic suddenly brushing across his sensitive skin. The underground computer chamber abruptly felt far too small, too claustrophobic, somewhat as if Snape had crowded with him into Harry's old cupboard under the Dursleys' stairs.

"My POINT," enunciated Snape, in tones which Harry long remembered from the depths of countless dungeon detentions with the Potions Master, "is that the majority of reputable Muggle news publications do not engage in yellow journalism. The same could hardly be said for the Daily Prophet, as you well know. So, why report his death? By fake suicide, no less."

The Gryffindor shook his head with a shrug. "I suppose that's something else we'll need to ask Sherlock, once he gets back from wherever he went. And there's no telling how long he'll be gone."

Snape finished reading in silence, while Harry patiently waited. When the Potions Master sat back, frowning pensively, Harry checked his Coming-of-Age watch. Almost dinnertime, although the cooking smells seldom made it down this far.

But here came the sound of footsteps pattering down the long, sloping passage, preceding the appearance of five-year-old Lily. She smiled cherubically and climbed into her father's lap, and the aroma of Ginny's cooking clung to the child's clothes. Harry hid a smile when he saw Snape's nostrils twitch discreetly as the man inhaled deeply.

"Would you like to stay for supper?" Harry invited. "I think Ginny has a chicken roasting. I'm not sure what else we're having."

"Peas ‘n' taters," piped up Lily. "Smash taters. They're good. But peas is only good for throwin'. That's what Uncle Ronnie says. At Gramma's house, he throws peas at the gnomes. They throws ‘em back!"

Snape smirked, which didn't disturb Lily in the least, and the man's eyes sparkled as the little girl smiled brightly up at him. "Good for the gnomes! I hope their aim is accurate."

"Yup!" agreed Lily, before Harry could say anything. "Las' time, a gnome throwed a pea right up Uncle Ronnie's nose! It got so stuck, he couldn't get it out. So Gramma zapped him wif magic, an' the pea popped out like a big green bogey."

"Lily!"

"It did so!" avowed the little girl. "An' it was kinda smushed ‘cause of Uncle Ronnie stickin' his finger up - "

Harry's hand quickly covered Lily's runaway description. "That's quite enough about the bogey - er, pea, sweetheart. Run along and tell Mummy we'll have a guest staying for dinner." He raised an eyebrow at Snape to verify the man's acceptance, and Snape nodded through silent laughter.

Lily's head swiveled around toward Snape. "How far can you throw peas?"

The Potions Master's ribcage was shaking with repressed mirth. "I really couldn't say. I don't ever recall trying."

"That's okay," Lily assured him, hopping off of her father's lap. "I'll have Mummy save you some to practice wif. That way, if you ever come to Gramma's house, you can throw ‘em at the gnomes." Then she giggled. "Or at Uncle Ronnie. Bye!"

And then she was off, running at full speed up the long passage, leaving the two men laughing in her wake.

"Bless Merlin for little girls," Snape gasped, trying to catch his breath a minute or two later. "So help me, Potter, she reminds me so much of your mother. The same irrepressible spirit. The same sense of humor... " And for once, the shadow of regret did not cross his features as he remembered his childhood friend, his only love. Instead, he appeared ... content. "Lily would be so pleased with her granddaughter. With all of her grandchildren, in fact. Pleased, and very proud."

Harry felt his heart clench a bit, and he fought down sudden, welling tears. "Thank you for saying so, sir."

Emerald eyes met ebony, and the two men shared a moment of mutual understanding.

In the years since Snape's return, Harry had witnessed a gradual mellowing of the man's general personality, but only in private. His public persona remained sharp and unyielding, as if Severus Snape still needed a shield between himself and the rest of the world. Every now and then, however, as now, he seemed to truly let down his hair and enjoy a few precious moments before withdrawing into the protective folds of his virtual robes. Harry felt privileged to be one of the few with whom Snape had formed a quiet bond, close enough for him to relax his guard. For when he did, the unexpected could happen. Bless little Lily!

Eventually, Snape looked back at the computer screen. "Could you print all of this out for me? I'd like to share what you've found with Filius."

"Fine," said Harry. "It'll take a while, so I'll owl it to you. I'll probably use a Shrinking Charm after I bundle it all together."

"Right. Now," said Snape, his black eyes glittering, "shall we go throw some peas?"

Harry laughed aloud as they ascended the passage to his cottage, where Ginny and young James, Albus, and Lily were waiting supper for them.

-:- -:- -:-

"A copycat, do you think?" asked John as the black cab sped through London in slack traffic. "One murderer who goes noticeably in and out through doors and windows, and - "

" - a second killer who somehow manages to conceal routes of ingress and egress?" finished Sherlock. "Or, perhaps the same killer playing at being a copycat."

The cab swung to the right and John nearly pitched across the back seat into Sherlock's lap. "Sorry!"

"Not your fault. But let's examine the facts: Seven murder scenes so far, with nine victims in total. Four scenes we know how the killer came and sent, the other three we don't. All involved murder by backstabbing with a thin-bladed knife, and aside from the first two individual murders, where two different types of knives were used, all of the remaining murders were committed with identical knives."

"So, he's settled on a favorite kind of knife?"

"Perhaps."

"And always, the hundred-dollar bill in each victim's mouth."

"Relevance unknown."

Sherlock's phone rang. He glanced at the incoming I.D. "Lestrade." He clicked to answer. "What have you got?" He listened for a moment, then said, "Right. Keep me informed." He listened, then scoffed and added, "You know what I mean, however you choose to take it." He hung up.

"Well?" asked John.

"Lestrade says some of the American money is counterfeit."

"Counterfeit!"

"Yes. Quite odd, in fact. The fake bills all passed the usual authentication tests - paper, ink, security features, etc., but they all shared the same serial number. If not for that, they never would have been spotted as counterfeit. The overall quality is the highest Interpol has ever seen, and the U.S. Treasury is extremely concerned, with good reason."

John blew out his breath. "I don't doubt it. If counterfeit currency of that quality can be mass produced, it could quickly destabilize the American economy, then the world's, putting us right back to the crash of 2008. Or worse. Probably far worse."

"Precisely. But there's an interesting link between the fake bills and the murders."

"What is that?"

"Care to guess?"

But even as John opened his mouth to respond, Sherlock interrupted, saying, "Don't bother. You'd get it wrong."

"Would I!"

"Of course you would."

"Did YOU get it before Lestrade told you?"

A scoff.

"I didn't have all the facts. How could I possibly ‘get it' before I had facts to work with?"

"Meaning you didn't get it."

"Don't be rude, John."

"Okay. Fine. But I'll guess anyway."

"Nonsense."

"The fake bills all showed up in the victims' at the scenes where nobody could tell how the killer came and went."

Silence.

Stunned silence.

Then -

"I'm impressed, John. You might make a detective yet."

"So, I'm right?"

"Indeed. That's exactly what Lestrade told me."

"This case gets weirder all the time."

"But tell me, how did you work it out?"

"You told me to guess."

"Lucky guess."

John gave a satisfied chuckle.

The cab braked to a halt outside 221B Baker Street.

Upstairs, the men dropped their cases on the floor and flopped into the plaid-covered lounge chair, in John's case, and into the depths of the leather sofa in Sherlock's.

"So, now that we've traveled to visit the other murder scenes, what do you make of it all?" John propped his heels atop a slightly-worn ottoman and leaned back, closing his eyes. The ottoman was his recent purchase from a neighbor's moving sale, and he relished being able to put his feet up. He'd long envied Sherlock his ability to stretch out his length upon the leather sofa cushions.

"Tea."

"Sorry?"

"Making, you said. We need to be making tea."

"Your idea."

"I'm tired from the trip. I need caffeine."

"I'M tired from the trip, and I'm not your housekeeper."

"I need energy."

"Just use a nicotine patch."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, John."

"Fine! I'll make the bloody tea." John shoved himself out of his comfy chair.

"A couple of biscuits, too."

"You don't mean you'd actually EAT them?"

"Energy, John."

"You're hyper enough without refined sugar."

"Hmphh."

Several minutes later, John carried the tea tray out of the kitchen and set it on the low table before the leather sofa. He'd been tempted to put it on the high table next to his laptop, but in Sherlock's current mood, the man would bitch and moan about having to walk across the room. John poured himself a cup, added a dash of milk, and took the cup and saucer back to his lounge chair.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

"Well what?"

"Haven't you forgotten something? Two things, in fact."

"No."

"No? You forgot to pour out for me, and you forgot to put the biscuits on the tray."

"I did not forget to pour your tea, and I'm serious about the refined sugar. You already take sugar in your tea, as it is."

"You fixed it. Therefore, you should pour."

"Stop being such a damned nuisance!"

Sherlock swung his long legs off the sofa and sat up, seriously disgruntled. He reached for the teapot.

"Sherlock... "

"Oh, shut up."

"Sherlock, someone's been in here while we were gone."

The tall man looked across the room and saw John slowly setting down his cup and saucer on the ottoman, staring intently at something low on the wall.

"How do you know?"

"I unplugged my laptop before we left. It's been plugged in."

The two men approached the wall beyond the end of the tall table, staring at the power strip's plug firmly inserted into the wall's electrical outlet.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Get real! She hasn't a clue about computers."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I meant she might have come in to pick up. Saw the power strip unplugged, and thought she was being helpful by plugging it back into the wall."

"Or... " John glanced at the taller man. "Do you think our ‘visitor' returned?"

"Let's find out!"

Sherlock whipped open the laptop, waited impatiently for the command, then rapidly typed John's password into the machine. "You really should change this, you know," he said, as the computer accepted the password.

"To what purpose?" John countered. "You'd just hack the new one, too."

"True."

His lean fingers dancing lightly over the keyboard, Sherlock quickly tapped commands into the computer, while John watched the screen from over his friend's shoulder.

"I don't know how you do this," John murmured as Sherlock called up the data recorded by his sitting room and kitchen cameras.

"I'm a genius, John. It helps."

John Watson rolled his eyes. "Right."

And then -

"Yes! You were right! He did come back... " And Sherlock ran the image in reverse to catch the wiry man's arrival.

"How does he DO that?" breathed John as the intruder materialized.

"The same way, I should imagine, that other people manage to vanish into thin air."

John stared at Sherlock. "You think ... this is all related?"

"Possibly."

And they watched as the wiry man carefully rifled through their belongings, this time doing a far more thorough search than during his first visit.

"What is he looking for?" wondered John, while Sherlock stared unblinkingly at the computer screen, his narrow eyes blazing blue with an insatiable desire to KNOW.

"Whatever it was, he doesn't appear to have found it," Sherlock stated, adding with amusement, "And he certainly doesn't seem inclined to revisit the refrigerator."

John chuckled. Then... "Why - he - he's USING my computer! He didn't just plug it in - he's USING it! How the hell did HE hack my password?"

The wiry man spent a fair amount of time seated before the laptop, and Sherlock finally noted, "He appears to be searching the internet. You can just make out the image of the online directory... "

"Now look!" John's outrage went up by several notches. "He's COPYING! From MY computer! And saving it - what NERVE!"

At length, the wiry man unplugged his memory stick, closed the laptop, and vanished from the flat, apparently having forgotten to unplug the power strip from the wall.

Sherlock quickly checked the History file, but John just shook his head. "Those entries are all mine. He must have deleted his own searches."

"So, he's clever. And cautious. But far from infallible."

The two men ruminated in silence for a bit, before John asked, "What now?"

"Find the red-haired woman."

"How?"

"No idea. Aside from staking out that café."

John scoffed. "Do you honestly think she - that ANY of them - would ever go back there after being chased down the street by the two of us?"

"Unlikely."

"You got that right."

-:- -:--:-

"Mum has agreed to take all of the kids so Hermione and I can spend the day shopping," Ginny announced the next morning.

"ALL of them? Ours AND Rose and Hugo?" Harry gaped at Ginny. "ALL day?"

His wife laughed. "You know mum. She'll be happy to have a handful of little birdies back in her nest. Her five youngest grandchildren, cheeping away!"

Harry shuddered. "Screaming down the walls is more like it. How does she manage? Without losing her sanity, that is. The last time you and I both had those five... " He shook his head. "I was ready to take a flying leap into the Black Lake, giant squid and all! Just listen to our three right now - " and he gestured toward the exuberant shouting over a game of Exploding Snap in the next room.

Draping her arms around Harry's neck from behind as he sat at the breakfast table, Ginny whispered into his ear, "I think she uses a combination of magic and a wooden spoon."

Chuckling, Harry sipped at his second cup of coffee. "So, what does your day look like?"

Ginny slipped into her own chair and warmed up her coffee with a flick of her wand. "We're planning to hit Muggle London shops first, then have lunch, and finish in Diagon Alley. We'll probably make it back to the Burrow by three or three-thirty. I'll Floo mum if it looks like Hermione and I are going to run later than that."

"Right." Harry drained his cup. "I'll be spending most of my day doing legwork in the field. If I have time this afternoon, I may drop by Hogwarts and see what Snape and Flitwick have come up with." Frowning, he added, "They haven't been overly optimistic. Looks like Dumbledore and his colleagues intend to stay underground, so the research is stuck with a skimpy paper trail to follow. I think they're planning to search the library to see what information they can uncover concerning altering a wizard's magic."

"Okay." Ginny sent the breakfast dishes flying into the sink, then initiated the washing spell she'd learned from her mum. She knew her husband's fondness for seeing the dishes scrubbing themselves, as they'd been doing when he first set foot in the Burrow after being rescued by the twins and Ron on his twelfth birthday. "I'll get the kids into the Floo, and then I'll be off."

"Have a wonderful day," Harry said, kissing her. "I love you always."

His wife's eyes sparkled. "I love you back."

Three minutes later, Ginny and the kids vanished in a burst of green flame, and the sudden silence left in the cottage nearly made Harry think he'd gone deaf.

-:- -:- -:-

"I've never seen you eat fish and chips."

"Try spending a month on field rations, Sherlock. Even you wouldn't be picky after that."

"I'm not picky. And those are deep fried."

"No deadlier than bullets."

"They'll slow you down."

"Oh, so we'll be running home instead of taking a cab?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just eat." He drummed his fingertips on the table.

John blew on the piece of fish, trying to cool it enough so he wouldn't get scalded by the steam. "What do you think of the crime scenes themselves?"

The drumming abruptly stopped. "Sorry?"

"I've been thinking - "

A scoff.

" - that the sixth one was different from the rest."

"Large house, wealthy people."

"Right. So why did the killer choose a different type of target? All of the other houses were quite modest, whether the murders were committed by a single killer or by the original and a copycat, too. Why change his pattern?"

"Excellent question."

"Any ideas?"

"Of course."

"Care to share?"

"I never knew it took so long to eat fish and chips."

"They'd go faster if you ate some of them, too."

"Boring."

"There's vinegar. That should liven up the taste."

"Hurry up." The finger drumming recommenced.

-:- -:- -:-

"Auror Potter is here. He'll take over, ma'am."

Harry Potter studied the stone cottage surrounded by a wild tangle of rose brambles. The blossoms had finished for the season, but in summer, the atmosphere around the comfortable home would be fragrant with their sweet scent.

"Wards?" he asked an aging witch who kept dabbing tears from her red-rimmed eyes.

"Just the usual," she choked out. "Keeps out casual trespassers. All were keyed to family members and a couple of trusted friends. Never needed anything more. We never bothered anyone. Lived quiet lives." She sobbed into her handkerchief. "Now my son is dead. Murdered in his own home. Who would have done such a thing?"

Harry rested a gentle hand on her frail arm. "Could Muggles see your cottage?"

The white-haired witch shook her head. "No. It had to be someone magical who broke through the wards. You can still see the smoke in the air."

Harry nodded solemnly as he studied the vaporous traces of the annihilated wards. On this misty afternoon, the fading smoke was barely darker than the cool fog surrounding the cottage. Some form of powerful magic had literally fried the family's protective barrier.

"My daughter-in-law has collapsed," whispered the witch. "She's devastated. Two children, and another one due in a month." She sobbed again. "Who? WHO?" Her voice rose in a raspy scream of despairing anguish.

"We'll do all we can," Harry said. "You need to get to St. Mungo's to be with your daughter-in-law. My assistant will Side-Along you, if you like. We don't need you getting splinched on top of everything else."

The elderly woman nodded gratefully. "Yes ... please," she managed through her tears.

Harry nodded to Joey Jasper, a recent graduate of the Auror Training Program, and the younger man whisked the old witch away, only to return alone mere seconds later.

"Sad situation, Auror Potter," he said quietly.

"Indeed," agreed Harry, slowly examining the exterior grounds of the cottage.

"People are approaching, sir."

Harry looked in the direction Joey indicated, then quickly waved his wand. The area beyond the small property hazed very faintly as the anti-Muggle ward domed overhead to conceal the structure from unwanted attention. Both wizards watched a Muggle-clad young woman and a little boy walking down the stony lane pause, then shrug and walk on.

"Looks like they may have seen the cottage, sir."

"I'll Obliviate them," Harry said quietly, carefully aiming his wand at the Muggles' backs. "We don't need gossip or speculation."

After completing his external examination, Harry slowly entered the cottage, followed by Joey. The younger man kept clearing his throat, as if trying to dislodge an uneasy lump.

"First murder for you?"

Joey nodded. "It's all been theory and paperwork ... until today, sir. I've never seen... " He cleared his throat once again.

"Don't touch anything," Harry cautioned.

"I won't, sir," Joey promised. "You can trust me on that."

"Where's the body?"

"Kitchen, sir. That way."

Harry took careful stock of each room he passed through, and the cheerful, homey atmosphere embodied by the small dwelling's design and comfortable furnishings made the prospect of a murder in such surroundings an obscenity. His heart went out to the surviving family members. This home had radiated abundant love and fulfillment; now, it would be forever darkened by senseless tragedy.

At last, they reached the kitchen, bright from the yellow-painted walls, even on this foggy day.

When Harry saw the victim's body, a queer chill ran up his spine. The wizard, probably in his early thirties, lay sprawled forward across the kitchen table, his hands bound together and tied with supple, braided cords, which had been wound around the table legs on the opposite side. A thin-bladed knife protruded from the man's back, surrounded by a small bloodstain.

"Merlin!" whispered Harry.

"You can say that again, sir," Joey agreed quietly, staring with morbid fascination at the body. "You'd think it was a Muggle murder, wouldn't you? Except no Muggles could have seen through the original wards."

Harry leaned down to study the knife at close range. From what he could tell, this knife could be a twin - or triplet, as it were - for the knives at the double murder he'd visited while following Sherlock and John.

"Odd, sir, to use a knife. Very crude, when there are so many other ways for a wizard - or witch - to commit murder, even without using Unforgivables. The Suffocation Curse, the Blood-Letting Curse, the - "

"Thank you, Auror Jasper. I catch your drift."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll need to get official photos of the scene, but I'll take some quick ones now, for my personal files... " So saying, Harry removed his Muggle mobile from a pocket of his dark blue-and-green camouflage Auror's robes, cancelled the stasis field surrounding it, and took several pictures, including the body's position, close-ups of the knots in the cords, the knife hilt and blade, and its position in the victim's back. Finished, he reapplied the stasis and tucked the mobile back into his pocket.

Joey Jasper watched him, wide-eyed. If the situation hadn't been so tragic, Harry might have grinned. The Auror Training Program focused almost exclusively on Wizarding methods of crime solving and Dark-wizard apprehension. By the time Joey got promoted to working solo, Harry hoped to have indoctrinated his bright young assistant into the usefulness of certain Muggle methods, as well.

Remembering the double murder, Harry glanced around. "Any sign of how the murderer got in and left?"

Joey pursed his lips. "Funny thing, that. The front door looked to have been kicked in."

"Kicked in?" Harry repeated, startled.

"Yes, sir. You'd think, once the wards were down, the killer could've simply Apparated in, but the door had a heel scuff below the latch, and the jamb itself was splintered by the force."

"Show me - no, wait a minute." Harry leaned down to study the dead wizard's face. "Accio teaspoon." A drawer opened and a clean teaspoon sailed across the kitchen into Harry's waiting hand. Gently, he worked the bowl of the spoon between the dead lips, carefully coaxing the mouth to open slightly.

"What IS that, sir?"

Harry cautiously extracted a hundred-dollar American bill from the dead wizard's mouth. "Our killer's signature," he said grimly. "I've seen this before - in the Muggle world."

Joey shook his head in disbelief. "But, sir - it couldn't have been a Muggle who committed this murder. The wards - "

"I think we were meant to believe it was a Muggle. On a sunny day, the smoke from the fried wards would have dissipated quickly enough, especially with a breeze. But on a still, foggy day like today, the smoke continued to hang about, something the killer may not have taken into account. Or perhaps he thought the fog might disguise the smoke. In any case, with the wards gone, a Muggle could have seen the cottage, kicked the door in, and killed the occupant. Provided, of course, that the occupant was a defenseless Muggle, instead of a wanded wizard."

Harry looked around suddenly, frowning. "Where is his wand?"

"I don't - I'll look for it, sir."

While Joey was searching, Harry used his own wand to unfold the hundred-dollar bill, after first photographing it folded. Then he took pictures of both the front and back of the bill, before photographing the scuff on the front door and the splintered jamb. Just as he re-stasised his mobile, Joey returned, looking puzzled.

"No sign of his wand, sir."

Harry's lips compressed. "So, our killer would seem adept at disarming his victims, but you'll need to follow up with his family to make sure there's no other explanation for his missing wand."

"Yes, sir."

"Is the coroner here? And the Auror photographer?"

"Yes to both."

"Fine. Get all angles of his crime scene photographed, including all doors, windows, and locks, and the grounds around the outside of the house, especially beneath the doors and windows. Also, tell the coroner I want a full examination, both physical and chemical, including magical scanning inside the body and out. Anything unusual, notify me straightaway."

"Yes, sir."

-:- -:- -:-

Hermione plopped down into one side of the booth, while Ginny sat opposite. Their colorful Muggle shopping bags took up the rest of their respective benches.

The brunette witch grinned at her sister-in-law. "It's been ages since I've had a day off, just to be me! Your mum is an angel to put up with all of the kids at once."

Ginny smiled ruefully. "She'd probably be willing to do it more often, but I really hate to take advantage of her good nature."

"Well, as long as you don't abuse her generosity... "

They both laughed happily.

The Muggle server set glasses of ice water on their tables and handed them menus with a smile. "I'll be back in a moment to take your order, but first, what would you like to drink?"

"Diet Coke, please," said Hermione.

"The same for me," added Ginny.

Smiling once more, the server went off to fill their beverage requests.

Opening the seafood menu, Hermione murmured, "What looks good?"

"Everything!"

They both laughed again.

"Just remember to save room for ice cream at Fortescue's - that's been our tradition since we were kids," Ginny said, running her finger down the selection of salads.

"I'm definitely doing shrimp scampi," declared Hermione. "And look - they've got crab panned in butter for you."

Ginny shook her head. "Not with my hips. Especially if I'm going to do ice cream later."

"Harry didn't say something, did he?" Hermione stared at Ginny across the top of her menu. "I'll hex him into next week!"

"No, but I can tell in the mirror."

"Tell what?"

"I'm starting to look like Mum from the waist down."

"No way!" Hermione reached across the table to squeeze Ginny's hand reassuringly. "Your mum had seven children. There's a HUGE difference. Er - well, that came out a bit wrong."

Ginny giggled in spite of herself. "'Huge' is why Harry and I are stopping at three."

"Tell you what - to burn off some calories, we'll walk all the way to the Leaky Cauldron."

"With this lot?" The red-haired witch gestured toward their numerous shopping bags.

Hermione leaned forward and whispered, "What are wands for?"

-:- -:- -:-

Up on the seventh floor of Hogwarts castle, Harry frowned at the gargoyle's denial. "Not here? Where did they go?"

The gargoyle gave a grating shrug. "Headmaster Flitwick did not inform me of any particulars. However, just before they disappeared around the corner, I caught the echo of Professor Snape saying, ‘restricted', Mr. Potter. You might want to check the Restricted Section of the library. Of course, he could have been referring to something else entirely."

"Right," said Harry. "Thanks."

As he strode the stone corridors and descended the marble staircase to the third floor, Harry delighted in being back inside Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The familiar nooks and crannies, a few distinctive stones in various walls, the tapestries and paintings he'd passed a thousand times during his student days... It all looked so familiar, and yet, he felt almost like a stranger in the castle. The stone structure felt akin to a shell which he'd outgrown and left behind, instead of an extension of his own body and mind, as it had during the seven years he'd resided here.

Through an arched window, he caught sight of the smoking chimney of Hagrid's hut. If he had time, after speaking with Snape and Flitwick, he might just run down and say hello to his first-ever friend. Maybe even pop into the greenhouses on the way and touch base with Neville. His fellow Gryffindor had been promoted to full Professor of Herbology four years ago, after Professor Sprout had relocated to the tropics to broaden her botanical horizons.

"Mr. Potter."

"Madam Pince, it's good to see you're still here," Harry said politely, greeting the stern librarian, who seemed more angular than ever, with grizzled hair which was beginning to whiten at the temples.

"And where else would I be, Mr. Potter?"

Harry refrained from speculating aloud, asking instead, "By any chance, would Professors Flitwick and Snape be in the library today?"

"They're in the Restricted Section. You may go in."

"Thank you, ma'am." Harry headed off to the tall gate separating the main part of the Hogwarts library from the stacks restricted to N.E.W.T students and the rare few others who had written permission to enter. He followed the murmur of male voices and quickly located the wizards he sought in a back corner.

Harry hid a grin when he spotted Severus Snape. Despite his long retirement, the Potions Master had not completely thrown over his former teaching attire, although he usually dressed far more casually these days, especially in the comfort of his own home. Harry understood that the "dungeon bat" image of yesteryear had been primarily that - a deliberate image. One that frightened young dunderheads and held fearsome Death Eaters at a cautious distance.

But today, Snape had chucked his "Muggle casual" look and donned familiar severe black trousers and boots, the high-collared many-buttoned knee-length black coat, and over it all, the long black teaching robes which trailed dramatically across the floor several feet behind him.

Well, thought Harry, the castle did hold a permanent chill, so Snape had probably focused on the practical aspect of his sartorial layers. Still, the Auror found it amusing to see Snape suddenly looking like his old self, and he had to wonder how many students had scattered out of the man's way as he swept through the echoing halls of Hogwarts. The war hero's reputation preceded him, his stern image familiar to today's youngsters from chocolate frog cards, and the billowing robes simply completed the overall visual effect.

"There you are, Potter," said Filius Flitwick, peering up at Harry over the gold rims of wire-framed reading spectacles. "Good to see you. Have a seat." The diminutive Headmaster was standing on the seat of a library chair, leaning forward over a broad volume opened flat upon the table.

Harry slid into an empty chair and looked at his former teachers expectantly. "What have you found out?"

Flitwick gestured to Snape, who glowered in response. Having learned so much more about Snape's self-expression through the years since Voldemort's defeat, the younger wizard realized instantly that the news was not good.

"Very little, actually," Snape said with a sneer, which Harry correctly interpreted as disgust at the fruitlessness of their research. "Headmaster Flitwick has done an admirable job - with Madam Pince's invaluable assistance - in narrowing down the sources which deal with altering the state of a magical being."

Harry glanced around at the tall shelving surrounding the three wizards. The countless tomes - both ancient and modern - towered up into the gloom below the library's vaulted ceiling. "So, how many of these do we need to go through?"

The Potions Master snorted. "The relevant volumes are already on the table."

Startled, Harry looked at the nearly-empty tabletop. "These? That's - THREE!"

"Plus this roll of parchment, Potter," added Flitwick, using his wand to levitate a thick roll of yellowed layers of parchment to the center of the scarred oak table.

"You're joking," breathed Harry, staring at the scant source material in dismay. "You have to be joking, right? In a library this size? With ten centuries of recorded magical history?"

Sighing, Snape pulled out a chair for himself. "Sadly, we are quite serious. And do bear in mind, Potter, that the topic itself would have to be relatively obscure, else more material would certainly be available. Also, the very concept of altering a witch or wizard's magical nature skirts - at the very least - the fringes of Dark magic. Depending on the actual process involved, such action may prove incalculably Dark indeed."

Harry shifted his focus to Flitwick. "And you agree with Professor Snape's assessment, sir?"

"I do concur, Potter." The tiny Headmaster's squeaky voice sounded extremely grave. "I could not, in good conscience, ever consider undertaking performing such magic on a fellow witch or wizard."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Dumbledore seemed more than capable of selectively following his conscience, as we all know."

"So long as the end justified the means," Harry added, with a trace of sudden, reluctant bitterness, remembering the shocking revelation that Dumbledore had kept him alive just so he could die at the right moment.

"Precisely." The Potions Master extended his legs, resting one booted heel on the polished wooden floor, while crossing his ankles, as he leaned back in the hard chair. His endless robes puddled blackly on the floor in graceful folds, draping down all around the chair. "In the case of Sherlock Holmes, we know only his own description of what he witnessed as a child and what he appeared to experience as the result. We do not know why Dumbledore - if it was, in fact, Dumbledore - undertook such action, apart from an apparent request from Holmes' frantic mother."

Harry shrugged. "Well, from Sherlock's description, it certainly sounded like Dumbledore. Also, the fact that Dumbledore avoided your confrontation - to the point that he's now hiding out in the walls - seems to implicate him."

"It's still circumstantial, Potter, however much I am inclined to agree."

Flitwick turned a page in the broad volume and suddenly blurted, "Oh, I say!"

Snape's black eyes darted to the aged parchment pages. "What did you find?"

"Sorry - what?" Still half-lost in thought, the Headmaster peered at Snape.

"What did you find?" Snape repeated. "Anything useful?"

Flitwick shook his head. "Nothing applicable to altering the nature of a wizard's magic, but I must try this - I simply must!"

Bemused by the tiny Headmaster's open enthusiasm, Harry and Snape watched curiously as Flitwick placed a sparkly green pencil with a bright purple eraser on the floor. "One of my Muggle-born students left this in my office earlier, and I couldn't resist carrying it with me. Muggles love to brighten their world with the most mundane of objects, don't they? I suppose it's because they don't have magic..."

The small wizard backed up a bit and aimed his wand at the pencil, concentrated hard, and gave a complicated reverse spiral with his wand's tip before thrusting forward like a duelist.

Abruptly, a full-sized, sparkly-green ostrich took up a lot of room in their isolated corner of the Restricted Section.

Harry's chair fell over backwards with a loud wooden BANG, and even Snape recoiled slightly in shock. As he scrambled to his feet, Harry realized that his wand had appeared in his hand by total reflex and was now pointed pre-emptively at the ostrich. Said ostrich speculatively blinked bright purple eyelashes at Snape, seeming to find something of great interest in the Potions Master's appearance...

"Headmaster - "

Harry's jaw dropped as the ostrich lowered her head a long way and zeroed in on the front of Snape's coat... PECK! The green ostrich's bright purple bill struck forcefully at one of the many buttons...

"Filius!"

PECK-PECK-PECK!

"Bloody bird!"

PECK!

"Useless FOOL!" Snape leaped up and grabbed his wooden chair by the backrest, holding it out ahead of him like a lion tamer to fend off the eager ostrich.

Flitwick had doubled over with laughter and continued to gasp in mirth as the ostrich's sparkly green head bobbed, ducked, and wove back and forth, trying to outwit the protruding chair legs.

"MR. POTTER!" Madam Pince suddenly appeared at their table. "What in Merlin's name do you think you're DOING?"

To his chagrin, Harry realized how much the culprit he appeared, since he was the one pointing his wand at a purple-legged green ostrich. "I - I - " he stammered, thinking that even though he was an adult in his early thirties, these other adults still made him feel like a Third Year at times.

"Get RID of that creature, Potter. Immediately!"

"But I didn't do it ma'am," Harry denied as he finally found his voice. His laughter joined Flitwick's as he pointed at the short Headmaster. "HE did!"

Annoyed with having to dodge Snape's chair legs, the ostrich picked that moment to seek an easier target, latching onto the chortling Headmaster's wide sleeve. One good tug had the small wizard tumbling nearly beneath the great bird's horny purple feet.

"POTTER!" Madam Pince's indignant shout nearly shook the high rafters.

"Evanesco - " But before Harry could say "ostrich", the plumy bird squatted slightly, popping out a large, sparkly purple egg, which rolled over to thud against the base of a bookshelf. Harry's wand hand faltered as he burst out laughing again.

"Avis evanesco!" thundered Snape, determinedly pointing his own wand, and the ostrich Vanished, leaving behind the purple egg.

"Oh, my!" gasped Flitwick, wiping the corners of his eyes with the tip of his sleeve cuff. "I haven't had that much fun in years! I'm so glad to have found this book!"

"And the students wonder why we call it the ‘RESTRICTED' Section," sniffed Madam Pince, compressing her lips tightly in disapproval. "Really, Filius - you ARE the Headmaster. You should set a proper example for the students."

Flitwick squinted down a passage between the stacks. "Did anyone see that?" he asked, still chuckling. "Besides us?"

The librarian shook her head. "The majority of students are in their last afternoon class now, and the two who were doing research went to the kitchens for a late lunch."

"No harm done, then," chirped Flitwick, bustling cheerfully around the table to retrieve the sparkly purple egg. "My, this has some weight to it"

Snape repositioned his chair rather forcefully and sat down with a scowl. "IF we could return to our previous topic..."

"Quite right," agreed Flitwick, levitating himself back up to stand upon his own chair.

Harry righted the third chair and sat, trying not to cast sideways glances at the purple egg. "We were discussing... "

"The fact that we don't really know who did what to Sherlock Holmes," growled Snape.

"Right."

Flitwick pointed at the scroll. "I've not yet had the opportunity to read through that lot, but the books themselves are not too enlightening. This one - " he pointed to the thick tome which had prompted him to produce the ostrich, " - deals only in generalizations. It would appear that the writer possessed certain knowledge, but he seems determined not to discuss relevant details. In other words, we know that such a magical process exists, but we don't know how to reproduce it or how to counter it. If a counter even exists. It's entirely possible that it may not."

Snape leaned forward. "That's extremely important, Potter. Whatever else we must discuss with Holmes, we do NOT - under any circumstances - lead him to believe that we can ‘put him right', as it were. It may not be possible. His current state may well be permanent."

"I understand," said Harry, frowning thoughtfully.

"Furthermore," Snape continued, "even attempting to change anything about his magical state may destroy it entirely."

"And turn him into a squib?"

"We have no way of knowing at this time."

"Right." And then, a horrifying thought occurred to Harry. "His mind - his genius intellect - he could lose that ability, too?"

Snape nodded and Flitwick looked at Harry grimly.

"Very possible," said the Headmaster, "since this gift of genius appears to be the result of ... Dumbledore's - let's just say Dumbledore, shall we? - interference with natural magical order."

"Oh, Merlin," whispered Harry. "I've seen him in action. His mind is truly amazing. To lose that ability... It might ruin him psychologically and emotionally. We - we can't let that happen. Not ever!"

"I'm glad you understand," nodded Snape. Then he looked thoughtfully at Harry. "You say you've seen him in action? How? When?"

Harry told him how he'd followed Sherlock and John to the scene of the double homicide.

"Show me," Snape requested softly.

With complete trust, Harry met the Potions Master's black eyes and brought the memory of that astonishing night to the forefront of his mind for Snape to examine. This level of trust had taken a while to develop between the two men, but Harry would never doubt Snape's loyalty or sincerity ever again. Nor did he fear that the man would abuse his powers of Legilimency.

"Quite ... outstanding," Snape pronounced after many long moments of viewing Harry's memory. His voice registered respectful surprise. "I will admit, I thought I had trained myself to be observant and analytical, but Holmes' talent surpasses anything I could have ever dreamed of." He met Harry's eyes seriously. "We must protect that, Potter. At all costs."

Harry nodded. "I absolutely agree, sir."

Snape stood up and stretched. "Filius, I'll leave you to go over the information in the small volume. If you'll both excuse me, for the time being, I need to be ... excused." With a brief nod, the Potions Master swept away between the stacks, exiting the Restricted Section.

"Now, Potter, we have this tiny book," began Flitwick. "It dates back to 1548 - "

"HARRY! HARRY!" A muffled voice sounded from within Harry's pocket.

"Excuse me, Professor. It's my wife calling, and she sounds upset." Harry took out a small mirror set in a sturdy wooden frame. "I'm here, Gin. What's up?"

Ginny's worried face peered at him from the mirror. "Harry, you have to come quickly! They're here! In the Leaky Cauldron!"

"Who?"

"The men from the café!"

-:- -:- -:

"Say that again?"

John looked intently at Sherlock. He'd never seen that degree of disbelief on the other man's face.

"How is that even possible?" The dark detective's fingers clenched around the edges of his mobile. "You're having me on. This is your idea of revenge, isn't it, Lestrade? As if giving me that hat weren't sufficient."

A longer silence.

Finally, "Very well. Let me know if something else turns up. Oh, and tell Molly I'd like blood samples and tissue samples from the actual wounds of those particular victims." A pause. "Right." And Sherlock hung up, glaring at his mobile.

"Lestrade, I take it."

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

Sherlock scoffed. "That there was no cause of death."

"What? With the stabbing victims?"

"Yes, but they weren't stabbed to death. They were dead before they were stabbed."

Now, John's face reflected the same disbelief that that covered Sherlock's. "He's certain?"

"They've repeated the post mortem twice. Same result every time. Presumably healthy people died for no apparent reason, and then they were stabbed in the back. That's why there was so little blood around the wounds, it seems."

"I'd wondered about that, actually."

"Did you?" Sherlock glanced at John, then looked beyond him out the taxi window. "STOP THE CAR!"

The driver had to get across a broad intersection before he could stop, and Sherlock bolted from the cab, leaving John to pay the driver. The shorter man had to run to catch up, but got caught at the traffic light, waiting impatiently to get back across the intersection. Once he had, he couldn't see Sherlock for several long moments, until the tall man emerged from a narrow side street, adjusting the scarf around his neck.

"I saw her, John! The red-haired woman from the café. I know where she went."

John followed Sherlock's rapid footsteps as he retraced the route down the side street. "You're certain it was her?" he asked, ignoring Sherlock's impatient sideways glance.

"Of course. She was with a brunette woman about the same age. Each of them carried a bunch of shopping bags. And they went in there," Sherlock announced triumphantly, pointing.

"In where?"

"Into the Leaky Cauldron."

"Where?"

"The Leaky Cauldron, John. The sign is just above the door." Sherlock pointed again.

"Ha ha! Good one. A joke for the day."

"What?" Sherlock stared at his companion. "What joke are you referring to?"

John scoffed. "There's no door in the first place, and no sign in the second place."

"Of course there is."

"Of course there isn't."

"Is too."

"Is not."

"John - "

"Sherlock - "

"What DO you see?"

"Er ... a grimy brick wall?"

"But no doorway?"

"No. Just a solid brick wall."

"And no sign?"

"No sign."

"Well, that's peculiar."

"So are you."

"Don't be insulting. I'm trying to figure this out."

Sherlock studied the length of the buildings all the way down the street. "Tell me - do you see any businesses at all on this side of the street?"

"Well, of course. There's a shoe store on the corner where we entered the street, then a florist. We're standing outside a used-book store. Down at the other end of the block, I see signs for a tanning salon, some sort of dress shop, a pharmacy, and it looks like a greengrocer at the far corner."

"But here - just beyond the bookstore - you see only a brick wall?"

"Right."

John blinked. Two women wearing long capes had suddenly appeared, heading down the sidewalk away from the puzzled men. "Where did they come from?"

Sherlock glanced sideways at John. "Out of the Leaky Cauldron, of course."

The shorter man opened his mouth to deny it - but then, if there was no other alternative, they must have popped through the solid brick wall...

"You CAN see the women?" asked Sherlock, a tinge of sarcasm coloring his tone.

"Of course, I see the women!" snapped John.

"But you still can't see the doorway."

"It's a WALL, Sherlock. A solid brick wall. A very dirty solid brick wall. No doorway. No sign."

"Touch it."

"What?"

"Touch the wall. Here." Sherlock laid his hand upon the bricks.

"Sherlock - "

"Just do it."

A long-suffering sigh.

"Right. I'm doing it. Now what?"

"Keep doing it, John. Just pat your way down the wall, touching the bricks until you get to the doorway."

"There IS no doorway."

"Just do it."

"Fine! I'm doing it."

John patted the bricks for several feet until he realized that Sherlock had stepped back to observe him. "Why aren't you patting the wall?"

"I don't need to pat the wall."

"Why not?"

"Because I can see the doorway."

"Sherlock - "

"Keep patting."

"But they're watching me!" John muttered from the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock swiveled his head to see a couple of teenage boys with multiple piercings and other tokens of self-expression laughing at them from across the street.

"Ignore them."

"Sherlock - "

"Fine. I'll get rid of them." The dark man swept across the narrow street, the sides of his high-collared coat flapping out like a pair of angry wings. "Yes! Look at him," he called out to the teens. "LOOK at him! LAUGH at him! Just a few short years ago, he was just like the two of you. Thought he knew it all. Nobody could tell him anything. He tried absolutely everything. EVERYTHING! And now, look at him - pitiful. PITIFUL! Spends his days patting walls because he doesn't even know what he's doing anymore."

Sherlock swooped down upon the gaping teens, his narrow eyes blazing blue fire. "And you're NEXT!" he shouted, thrusting an accusing finger into their fearful faces.

One boy broke and ran, and his wide-eyed friend pounded after him, disappearing around the far corner as Sherlock strolled back across the street.

"Simple enough. I told them you were cracked."

"They thought YOU were cracked. That's why they ran. I would have."

"Would you?"

"Of course. Everyone fears aggressive abnormals. It's human nature."

"Keep patting, John."

"I really don't see what you're hoping to prove."

"I believe that, even if you can't see the doorway, you'll be able to feel it when you get there."

"Oh."

"By the way, what do you see on the other side of the street? Any stores?"

John glanced both ways up and down the narrow street. "No. Just the side of a brick building. No doors at all over there."

"Well, at least we're agreed on that. Keep patting."

John shook his head and kept patting, patting, patting his way along the brick wall.

But suddenly, Sherlock stopped him. "You've gone too far," he stated, sounding astonished. "Didn't you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The open space in front of the recessed door."

"No. All I felt was solid brick the entire way."

"Amazing!"

"Sherlock, the joke has gone far enough. Why don't we grab a bite somewhere? It's well past lunchtime."

"No."

"Okay. We can go back to the flat, if you prefer. Order in pizza or Chinese."

"No. I'm going into the Leaky Cauldron."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation. "There IS no - " He broke off, staring at the empty sidewalk in front of him. And behind him. He checked both sides of the street. "Sherlock?" He'd closed his eyes for all of two seconds, and now Sherlock had vanished into thin air. Just like the wiry man from the café.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, thankful that nobody was actually passing along the sidewalk. "Sherlock! Come back this instant! I really don't want to report this to Lestrade... " John turned in a quick circle, desperately scanning the street in all directions, even to looking upwards for a possible fire escape.

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

John spun around to see the dark detective standing right behind him. He sagged against the bricks. "WHERE did you go?"

"I told you I was going into the Leaky Cauldron."

"But you disappeared completely!"

Sherlock stared at John thoughtfully. "Let me experiment." He took one step backwards. "Can you see me now?"

"Yes."

Sherlock took one step sideways.

"Sherlock!"

For the taller man had disappeared. Once again, John turned on the spot.

"John." Sherlock was suddenly back.

"What the hell is going on?"

"You could not see me?"

"Of course I couldn't! One moment, I could see you. The next, you vanished!"

"Odd. I could see you the entire time."

"You - what?"

The two men stared at each other.

Finally, John asked, "Could you hear me calling you?"

"Yes, although your voice sounded a bit faint. Somewhat muffled. Could you hear me?"

"I ... don't know."

"Let's experiment."

"Let's wait until these people go past," suggested John, stepping back against the wall to free passage along the sidewalk. He smiled and nodded at a couple of pretty girls dressed in office attire as they walked by. But a middle-aged man who looked as if dressed for an old-fashioned costume party excused himself to get by Sherlock, and suddenly he vanished, startling John all over again. "Did you see? You must have seen! He vanished the same way you did!"

"He didn't vanish, John. He went into the Leaky Cauldron."

"There's really a Leaky Cauldron? Behind a solid brick wall?"

"Yes."

"And you've been in it?"

"I opened the door and looked in."

Silence.

"Why can you see it and I can't?"

"Close your eyes."

"I can't see anything at all with my eyes closed, so why am I closing my eyes?"

"Pretend you're a horse."

John's eyes popped open. "A horse!"

"Pretend you're a horse being led from a burning stable. Close your eyes and I'll lead you in by the hand."

"My hand - Sherlock!"

"Your wrist, then. Close your eyes. Or shall I wrap my scarf around your eyes so you can't see?"

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "This is not going to work... "

He felt Sherlock's steady pull on his wrist and stepped forward, felt a shivery sort of breeze whispering quickly over his skin, stumbled up a slight incline, heard the squeak of rusty hinges, and suddenly sensed he was no longer outdoors. He could smell pipe smoke ... and the scent of ale and coffee ... could hear the murmur of conversation - a small number of people in a large area - and a burst of male laughter a distance away to his right... The smell of food made his stomach rumble...

"Open your eyes, John. Can you see where we are?"

John Watson opened his eyes to a scene which made him feel as if he'd been transported to some period in the distant past. A tall ceiling with exposed, thick wooden beams topped a room dominated at the far end by a massive, smoke-stained chimney rising above a long, low fireplace. A quiet fire burned on this autumn afternoon, but he could imagine the flames leaping high in mid-winter. Thick-walled casements framed leaded windows grimy with soot; the filtered daylight penetrated only so far into the large room, and the darker corners glowed with the golden light of oil lamps, even during the day.

Just ahead of the two men lay the length of a long, sturdy table constructed of solid wood planks. Several smaller round tables were situated throughout the room, where maybe a dozen or so people occupied plain wooden chairs. Most had beverages at hand, a few were conversing over a light meal, and one woman with incredibly frizzy blonde hair kept feverishly scribbling onto a long roll of what looked like parchment, using a bobbing feather. A quill? Really! The costumed man who had passed Sherlock outside the door had seated himself at the bar, one heel hooked casually over a rung of the dark wooden stool.

Suddenly, a green flash directly to their left startled John and Sherlock, and both men's jaws dropped in unison as a young woman and a little girl emerged from brilliant green flames, which died down upon the cold stones of a much taller fireplace. "Honeydukes! Honeydukes! Honeydukes, Mummy!" chanted the little girl as she pulled impatiently at her mother's restraining hand. The pair quickly passed along the left side of the room, then turned the corner beyond the bar, with an exuberant "Honeydukes!" still sounding after they'd gone out of sight.

"See you, Tom!" called one man as his companion dropped several thick coins onto one of the round tables.

The stooped bartender lifted his hand in farewell. "Later, lads." He raised a small stick, waved it, and the men's empty glasses and coins flew through the air to land behind the bar. With another wave of Tom's stick, a damp cloth popped into the air just over the table, dropped to the wooden surface, whirled speedily around several times to wipe the table clean, then vanished once more into thin air.

As if that weren't enough, the departing men themselves had walked toward the tall fireplace, dropped another coin apiece into a slot in the covered top of a cauldron-shaped container, and scooped up a small amount of some glistening gray powder from a second open cauldron. "Same time next week, then, Albert?" said the man who had paid for their drinks, extending his hand. The other grasped it, saying, "Right, Bob. Take care!" Albert stepped into the tall fireplace and called out, "Estrella's Strand, public grate!" He flung the powder down at his feet and vanished in an eruption of emerald flames. Bob then stepped into the now-vacant fireplace, called out, "Shadow Moor, Miller home," tossed down his own handful of powder, and went up in the green fireburst, leaving the grate cold and empty once more.

Before John and Sherlock could draw breath, the dark fireplace spewed forth green flames, this time disgorging a set of arguing, black-haired identical twins, about twelve years old. "Did not!" "Did too!" Did not!" "Did too!" A second burst of green produced a man who looked like an older version of the twins. "Boys! Keep your voices down! Or else, I swear to you both - in front of witnesses - " and his handsweep included John and Sherlock among those witnesses, " - that you'll not be seeing the inside of Quality Quidditch Supplies today!" Both boys instantly clammed up, though they shoved each other a few times as the family passed the bar, disappearing around the same corner that the Honeydukes girl had.

Finally, John drew a gasping breath, even as he heard Sherlock inhaling deeply at his elbow. "Is this ... real? Or ... did you put poisoned sugar in my coffee again?"

"This is fantastic," breathed Sherlock. "It somehow feels as though it should be familiar, but I've never seen the like!"

Now that he'd had a second look around the room itself, John suddenly began to study the people populating it. "I'm starting to feel underdressed."

"What? Why?"

"Well, you could pass - with your long coat and turned-up collar. But I really appear to be the odd one out."

Sherlock's blue eyes darted from one pub customer to another. "Old-fashioned clothing, hats from a previous century - or two - long capes on many of them... "

"And don't forget the quill."

Both men stared at the scribbling feather wielded by a woman wearing shimmery, wide-sleeved robes in royal blue. Tiny animated starbursts kept erupting like fireworks across the broad expanse of fabric. A tall, pointy hat with a wide brim perched rakishly atop her frizzy blonde hair.

"You didn't drink coffee today, John."

"So, this is actually real?"

"I wonder what's around that corner."

"Where the children went?"

"Let's find out." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. "Might be dangerous."

"After you, then."

"That's not amusing."

John gave a thin smirk in response.

After making certain that the collar of his dark coat was turned properly up to project an air of forbidding confidence, Sherlock squared his shoulders and deliberately slow-walked past the long table, with John following somewhat dubiously in his wake. Only a couple of the Leaky Cauldron's patrons glanced up as they passed by the long, long table, and those two studied John more closely than they did Sherlock. The bartender had his back to the room as he busied himself reshelving tankards, so the interlopers passed the bar without garnering Tom's notice, but they never made it to the mysterious corner.

Without warning, the red-haired woman from the café and her brunette friend came laughing around that same corner from the opposite direction.

"I'll be eating rabbit food for a week after the ice cream," declared the redhead, "but it was soooo good!"

Then she spotted Sherlock.

And before he could blink, Sherlock had the redhead's stick pointed directly into his face.

He stopped short, causing John to bump into him from behind, and suddenly John himself was facing a second stick, this one aimed by the brunette.

"Ginny? What on earth?" The brunette had followed her friend's lead, but she obviously wanted an explanation as to why they were both pointing sticks at two strangers.

The redhead glared at Sherlock with grim determination. Her stick never wavered. "They're the ones I told you about, Hermione. Get Ron. NOW!"

Hermione set down her shopping bags, never taking her eyes off John, whose hands had automatically risen to shoulder height, palms forward. Hermione pulled something from her pocket and said, "Ron! RON! Answer me!"

Sherlock glanced sideways at John, saw that the other man had raised his hands as if facing a weapon, and slowly raised his own hands. The redhead didn't relent an inch. Given what they'd already observed people doing with their sticks, and not knowing the full extent of what the sticks were capable of, caution seemed the best option at the moment.

A tinny voice seemed to respond to the brunette, and she ordered, "Drop everything and get to the Leaky Cauldron. NOW!" She tucked the small, flat communications item back in her pocket.

Tom leaned over the bar, watching the proceedings. "Shall I call the Aurors, ma'am?"

"My husband is an Auror. He'll handle it," said Ginny, pulling a small mirror from her own pocket. "HARRY! HARRY!" And after a pause, "Harry, you have to come quickly! They're here! In the Leaky Cauldron!" Another pause. "The men from the café!" And then she tucked away her mirror.

From behind them, John could hear the rusty hinges squeak as the door to the street opened. Footsteps entered, paused, then made a beeline toward their position. A man's friendly voice cut through the thick silence of the pub. "Hi, guys! What's up?"

"Hello, Neville," said Hermione. "We're waiting for Ron and Harry. These two men chased Ginny, Harry, and little Albus through Muggle London a week or two ago."

The new man's voice suddenly sounded less friendly when he said, "Did they really? That wasn't very nice of them, was it?"

When John cautiously turned his head, he wasn't at all surprised to find this Neville pointing a stick at Sherlock and him in turns. In the newcomer's other arm nestled a potted orchid.

A swoosh, which the two outsiders had quickly come to associate with the green-flaming fireplace, sounded behind them, and both men half turned to see the amazing spectacle once again. This time, they spotted a tall, red-haired man with a bit of a paunch emerging from the flames, and he walked toward them bouncing a banana in his right hand.

"Hey, Neville! You're looking good! Got another rare orchid for Greenhouse One, I see."

"Yeah - "

Hermione butted in. "Excuse me, Neville. Ron, these are the men who chased Ginny, Harry, and Albus."

Without hesitation, the tall redhead aggressively pointed the stem end of his banana at Sherlock. "FREEZE!"

Sherlock froze.

After everything else they'd witnessed since entering the Leaky Cauldron, he wouldn't be at all surprised if the banana fired poisoned darts...

Hermione sighed. "Ronald... "

Ron suddenly realized he was aiming a banana at a complete stranger in a turned-up collar. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He tucked the banana under his armpit and struggled to free his wand from its holster inside his sleeve. When he finally pointed it at Sherlock, who seemed the greater threat, the tall dark man grinned and chuckled, his blue eyes sparkling with dry amusement.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded Ron, his face starting to darken with embarrassment.

"For a moment," said Sherlock, "I honestly thought the banana might go off."

Neville began to laugh, causing his orchid to jiggle, and Ron joined in. Chuckles sounded around the pub from the seated spectators, breaking the tension in the room, and even John relaxed enough to give a short laugh. He noticed, however, that neither the men nor the women lowered their pointing sticks.

The tall fireplace swooshed once more, and the wiry man from the café strode from the emerald flames, his stick already thrust forward as his eyes swept the perimeter of the large room. Supple robes in narrow camouflage strips of deep forest shades of blues and greens draped his trim physique to his ankles. As he approached, John and Sherlock could see a round, pale-yellow patch with a blood-red border on the front of his robes, just below his left collarbone. The patch was embroidered with a black skull crossed diagonally - lower left to upper right - by a red stick with red sparks shooting out the upwards end.

"It's Harry Potter!" someone whispered loudly, and the Leaky Cauldron was suddenly filled with an overlapping chorus of "Harry Potter Harry Potter Harry Potter... "

Sherlock and John glanced at each other, realizing that whoever this Harry Potter was, he must enjoy some sort of celebrity status amongst the people who frequented the Leaky Cauldron, perhaps similar to Sherlock's own fame in greater London. Though neither man could begin to fathom the reasons behind Harry Potter's instant - and obviously respected - recognition, they felt consumed by curiosity.

"Harry, I'm so glad you're here," said Ginny, relief obvious in her voice.

Harry continued to point his wand at the men from Baker Street, looking each of them in the eye in turn. He spoke quietly, keeping his voice below eavesdroppers' level. "Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. We need to have a chat. But I would prefer to do so in private. I'm going to ask my friends to lower their wands, because I don't want for there to be any accidents."

"But Harry - what if they make a break for it?" asked Ron, somewhat unwilling to give up his wand, now that he had it out.

"They won't," said Harry. "Because if they do, I'll be forced to use mine on Mr. Holmes, and if that happens, there's every possibility that he could lose his genius intellect as an unfortunate side effect."

"Wands," said Sherlock, his blue eyes fixed on the emerald pair staring steadily at him. "So ... this is - say it! I need to hear the word."

"Magic," said Harry, smiling slightly. How well he remembered his own moment of revelation!

"Magic's real?" the dark man whispered, his soul begging for the truth.

"Oh, yes."

"And your threat," said John. "About using your wand on Sherlock. Would it really destroy his genius?"

Harry sighed. "We're still investigating, trying to discover exactly what was done to him as a child." He shook his head. "But to play it safe, we want to avoid exposing Mr. Holmes to any applications of magic."

"We?" asked Sherlock. "Who is ‘we', Mr. Potter?"

Harry glanced around the pub, realizing that Sherlock must have heard his name whispered by the onlooking patrons. "Trusted mentors and colleagues. Something else which requires a private discussion. I'll see if I can get a room where we can all sit down. Do I have your word that you will come quietly?" He paused, then added, "I have the authority to arrest you, if you don't. Both of you."

Sherlock and John looked at each other, before Sherlock spoke for both of them. "We'll have our questions answered?"

Harry nodded. "To the best of my ability, Mr. Holmes. Unless, of course, something concerns classified information."

"Then you have my word."

"Mine, too," added John.

When Harry nodded to the others, they tucked away their wands, causing Sherlock and John to heave twin sighs of relief as they finally lowered their hands.

"Tom," Harry addressed the bartender in a louder tone of voice, "I'd like to rent a room for all of us for an hour. Do you have anything available upstairs?"

"Now, now, Mr. Potter," replied Tom, giving Harry a bit of a leer. "I run a respectable establishment, I do, and I'm not accustomed to renting rooms by the hour."

"OI!" shouted Ron. "This is my WIFE!"

"And mine," grated Harry, suddenly pointing his holly wand into Tom's face. "What exactly are you implying?"

The stooped bartender cringed and held up his hands. "Nothing! Nothing! Nothing at all! A - a bit of a joke, like."

Harry blew out his breath in irritation. "We just want a private room in which to talk." When Tom hesitated, Harry reached into his pocket and slapped a handful of gold coins on the bar. "I'll pay for the full day so you don't lose custom."

Sherlock and John gaped at the gold gleaming in the lamplight.

"The key, please," demanded Harry, holding out his hand.

Tom rummaged in a drawer under the bar and handed over an ornate, antique skeleton key, which bore an oval metal tag with the number 14 inscribed upon it. "Room fourteen. End of the hall. Two floors up. Will you be wanting any refreshment, Mr. Potter? Butterbeer? Firewhiskey?"

Harry quickly considered. Something to drink would not go amiss, but... "Better to keep clear heads. Seven butterbeers, please."

But Neville suddenly spoke up. "Er - Harry, I'd love to hear what this is all about, but I need to get my orchid to the greenhouse before the temperature drops. Speaking of which, I'd better apply the stasis shield for traveling." He flicked his wand, and suddenly, a glowing blue dome encased the orchid and its pot.

"Oh. Right," said Harry, then corrected his beverage request to Tom. "One bottled butterbeer to go, and you can send six up to the room."

Neville beamed. "Thanks, Harry!" He picked up the capped chilled bottle which Tom passed across the counter.

"Thanks for your help, Neville. See you soon."

"Right. Bye, guys!"

Amidst a chorus of "Bye, Neville", he turned on the spot and Disapparated with a sharp snap, causing Sherlock and John to jump a foot.

 "I've TOLD people not to Apparate in and out of the pub!" groused Tom. "That's what the courtyard is for! Keeps the noise away from the paying customers... "

John kept staring at the spot where Neville had been standing. "Is he really ... not there, anymore? Or is he invisible?"

"Oh, he's gone," said Ron.

"Where did he go?" asked Sherlock.

"Northern Scotland," explained Hermione with a smile.

"How long does it take to get there? Like that?" John asked, thinking to himself that Hermione was very pretty, even though she did wear a wedding ring.

The brunette witch smiled again. "He's there already."

"That far... In mere seconds?" John looked at Sherlock. "That might explain those photographs that Lestrade gave us."

Harry nodded, his expression suddenly serious. "Yes, those photos definitely need discussing. Let's climb."

-:- -:- -:-

Harry led the group to an open flight of rough wooden stair treads, which led upwards past thick walls, some of which had shed plaques of old plaster, revealing ancient brick beneath.

"I've often wondered," mused Hermione, "why they even bother with room keys, when everyone locks and unlocks their doors with magic."

"Tradition," Ginny called over her shoulder.

"Besides," added Ron, "according to Dad, when someone drinks too much firewhiskey and has to take a room to sleep it off, if they didn't have a key in hand to remind them what room they were supposed to be in, they'd just keep wandering the halls all night, or until they passed out."

"So, with a key, they just keep going until the numbers match up?" guessed John, laughing.

"Right," said Harry. They'd all reached the top of the first set of stairs, and they peered down the dark corridor which Harry remembered from his stay during his flight from the Dursleys just prior to his Third Year at Hogwarts. A worn, red runner thinly covered grimy gray floorboards in a crooked, shadowed hallway winding between awkwardly-leaning walls. "One more flight to climb," he directed, pointing at an extremely narrow single-file set of steps, which was so steeply pitched that the climbers groaned, pulling themselves up by the side railings, which proved surprisingly sturdy. Occasionally, someone would gasp in pain, or utter a muffled expletive, when a shin banged upon the front edge of a wooden tread.

At length, the group reached their designated floor and set off down a corridor even less prepossessing than the one on the floor below.

"Blimey, Harry!" growled Ron as he brought up the rear. "For what you paid him, Tom should have given you the Minister's Suite."

"Number 14," Ginny announced with trepidation as Harry turned the key in the lock. But when he pushed open the door, his wife unexpectedly beamed with pleasure. "Oh! This is actually nice!"

The group looked around at the usual rough plaster walls and ceiling, but these had been freshly painted cream, while the exposed wooden beams, window and doorframes, the inside of the door itself, and the full width and breadth of the floor had been stained to a rich shade of mahogany. The floorboards gleamed with a polished sheen, which reflected the cheery golden flames in the fireplace. A huge, ornately-carved four-poster, which could comfortably have slept four adults, took up a fair amount of floor space, and it was flanked by sumptuous Persian rugs. A mirrored dresser, also boasting ornate woodwork, contained six roomy drawers, while a matching washstand proudly displayed an exquisite, hand-painted china washbowl and pitcher. Plushy guest towels lay waiting for use, and extra blankets had been neatly stacked upon a wide bench below the crystal-clear skylight in the slanted ceiling. An additional narrow leaded window stretched up the full height of the far end of the room, bordered by heavily fringed draperies, which matched the fabric in the bed hangings and the twin upholstered lounge chairs. A tray of six butterbeers in chilled glasses waited upon the occasional table between the chairs.

"Amazing!" Harry grinned at Ginny. "We should come back here for our second honeymoon! I had no idea the Leaky Cauldron had a room like this. Everything I've seen downstairs is gray walls and grayer wood. And dust bunnies in every corner, like the chambermaid couldn't be bothered..."

Ginny laughed. "Maybe it really is the Minister's Suite!"

"What suite?" asked Hermione, ever the analyst. "I don't even see a door to a private bath. And - what's this? - lurking beneath the bed? Ah HA! A genuine chamber pot!"

They all stared at it.

Ron crouched down to peer under the other side of the massive, high bed. "Hey, there's not a matching one over here." He straightened up with a grin. "They'll expect you to SHARE!"

For some reason, everyone looked at Ginny, and she played along, speaking to her husband in her most coaxing voice, "Harry, dear, would you mind terribly if we went somewhere else for our second honeymoon?"

And they all burst out laughing.

"A chamber pot!" chuckled Sherlock, his eyes full of amused disbelief. "What sort of world do you people live in?"

Ron smirked. "Believe it or not, most witches and wizards do have bathrooms in their own homes, just like Muggles. The Leaky Cauldron is just a bit behind the times."

"By at least a century," agreed Ginny.

"Witches and wizards," said Sherlock, just as John asked, "Muggles?"

Harry held up a hand to forestall an immediate discussion. "Let's get ourselves comfortably seated first."

"But there are only two chairs," John pointed out.

"Not a problem," Harry assured him. "Hermione can organize a table and six chairs in no time, but if you're unaccustomed to magic, it may be a bit startling."

"Go for it," Sherlock said eagerly, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

After gesturing everyone to stand back, Hermione transfigured the four-poster into a large round table, causing even Sherlock to step back involuntarily. Next, she levitated the six dresser drawers and arranged them around the table before transfiguring them into comfortable ladderback chairs with thickly-padded seats.

Ginny levitated the tray of butterbeers to the new table and motioned for everyone to take a seat.

Ron sat down and promptly produced his banana. He'd already peeled down one strip of skin before he caught Hermione glaring at him. "What?"

"We're here to talk, Ron. Not to eat."

"Fine," he grumped, and pointing his wand at the banana, he magically re-zipped the skin.

John stared at the newly-whole banana. "You... " The scent of the banana still lingered in the air, and John's stomach suddenly rumbled.

"Let's get room service before Ron faints from hunger," Harry suggested, trying to lessen John's obvious embarrassment. "I missed lunch myself - went straight from working a crime scene to the Hogwarts library." He looked around the table. "Cold sandwiches okay for everyone?" Nods came from the men, but Hermione and Ginny demurred. "Any allergies?" Head shakes. "Good."

Raising his voice slightly, Harry called out, "Room Service, please."

A house elf popped into the room, attired in a clean tea-towel toga. "Good afternoon, sirs and missies. I is Brella, and how is I serving yous?"

Harry caught Sherlock and John staring at the house elf, their own eyes nearly as round as the cheerful creature's. "Hello, Brella. We would like a tray of cold sandwiches - meats, cheeses, with lettuce, tomato, and cucumber garnishes, a selection of pickles, and condiments."

"Yes, sir! Is there anything else I is bringing?"

"Not right now, Brella, thank you."

"Then Brella is bringing it right away." The elf popped out of the room.

John stared at the spot where she'd been. "What was that, and where did it - she? - go? Not to Northern Scotland for sandwiches?"

Sherlock snorted. "Really, John ... the - she? - probably just went downstairs to the pub kitchen." But his eyes looked to Harry for confirmation.

Harry nodded. "Brella is a house elf. A type of servant in the Wizarding world."

"A slave," inserted Hermione.

"Oh, don't start, ‘Mione." Ron nodded toward John and Sherlock. "They're not here for that speech."

"What speech?" asked Sherlock.

"The same one she's been giving us about freeing house elves ever since we were fourteen."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "With all respect, you are correct. That's not why we're here."

Brella popped back, bearing a platter piled high with a variety of sandwiches, plus plates of bright lettuce leaves, rosy tomato slices, crisp strips of dark-skinned cucumber, dill pickles and sweet Gherkins, and a variety of condiments. After settling the laden tray in the center of the round table, she snapped her fingers, and a complete place setting appeared before each person. After ascertaining that nothing additional was required, Brella disappeared once more.

Ginny warded the door, then extended the spell to encompass the entire room, explaining, "This spell not only locks out intruders, it also prevents our conversation from being overheard."

"Chicken and ham," Ron announced happily, helping himself to one of each kind of thickly-meated sandwich. "Dig in," he encouraged Sherlock and John. "The Leaky Cauldron really does have good food, even when it's just sandwiches!" He piled tomato slices, lettuce, and cucumber strips on his meat, then eagerly dipped his knife into a pot of brown mustard before slapping the top slice of bread over everything.

John quickly followed suit and was soon munching away.

Sherlock, however, suspiciously eyed the food. "Is there magic involved in its preparation?" At Harry's nod, he asked, "Would it be harmful to me to eat it? And really, should I even be sitting on this magical chair?"

John paused in mid-chew, his glance darting from Sherlock to Harry and back again.

Harry smiled reassuringly. "No, it's not going to hurt you - neither the food, nor the chair. What I said downstairs referred to someone actually casting a Spell directly upon you. Or a Curse, a Hex, a Jinx, or even a Charm. The food is fine, so enjoy it!" Harry took a bite of his own ham sandwich.

"In that case... " To John's astonishment, Sherlock helped himself to a roast chicken and asiago sandwich, adding thinly-sliced cucumber and a scant smear of mayonnaise. A quick twist of black pepper... "Why are you looking at me like that, John? Sometimes, I do get hungry. And I've felt hungry ever since I set foot in the Leaky Cauldron."

At the questioning looks from the others, John explained, "Sherlock will go days without eating." He shrugged, adding, "He says eating slows down his thought process."

"Actually, it's the digestion that slows everything down," the tall detective corrected, helping himself to a couple of sweet pickles.

"I ... see... " said Harry, smiling slightly. "I suppose this is coming a bit late in the game, but I think formal introductions would be in order. I'm Harry Potter, and this is my wife, Ginny Potter. Her brother, Ron Weasley, and his wife, Hermione Granger-Weasley. We've all known each other since we were kids."

"John Watson and Sherlock Holmes," John offered, since Sherlock was occupied with chewing.

Sherlock swallowed, then asked, "And you're all witches and wizards?"

"Yes. Ron and Ginny were born into a pureblood family - they have an all-magical family tree - while Hermione is a Muggle-born witch."

"There's that word again," noted John. "Muggle. What's that?"

Hermione smiled at John, causing Ron's knife to pause over the mustard pot. "'Muggle' is the Wizarding world's term for a non-magical person. There are no magical ancestors in my family. Both of my parents are Muggle dentists."

"Then how are you magical?" asked Sherlock.

Hermione shrugged. "I was born that way. Some people have magic, most people don't. And while magic often runs in families, it sometimes shows up out of the blue. We who get it unexpectedly just consider it a gift."

Sherlock frowned suddenly, looking thoughtful.

Harry hesitated, remembering what he'd overheard while hovering on his broom outside the windows of Sherlock's flat. Then, he continued, "I'm considered a half-blood, although both of my parents were magical. My father was a pureblood wizard, my mother a Muggle-born witch. There was no prior magic in her family. In the magical world, I'm labeled the same as if my mother were strictly a Muggle. But she was a highly-talented witch."

"So... " Sherlock said slowly, "without any magical ancestors, I would be a Muggle-born wizard?"

Again, Harry hesitated before speaking, then said, "Based on what I've heard you describe, I believe you were born to be."

The dark man looked sharply at the Auror. "What exactly have you heard me describe?"

Harry glanced between Sherlock and John. "Before I answer that, could I ask how the two of you got into the Leaky Cauldron?"

The two men looked at each other, before Sherlock replied, "I was following your wife. I saw her as my taxi passed by, recognized her as the woman I'd seen in the café, leaped out of the taxi and followed her down the street. I saw both of these women go into the Leaky Cauldron."

"You actually saw them go in the door?" asked Harry, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, the door beneath the sign that said the Leaky Cauldron."

"You could see the door and the sign, then?"

Sherlock nodded.

Harry looked at John. "Could you see the door and sign?"

Shaking his head, John said, "All I saw was a solid brick wall. It felt solid, too, even where Sherlock said there should be a gap leading to the recessed door. He finally had me close my eyes, and then he pulled me in by my wrist."

"Really?" Harry was dumbfounded.

"That's how I always got my parents in through the barrier," Hermione explained. "All they could see was solid brick, so I took them by the hands and pulled them into the Leaky Cauldron. We experimented and found out they could walk out through the barrier without me, though. No problem. They said they couldn't even see the bricks from the Cauldron side. I think Muggles just need to be in contact with someone magical to get in through the barrier."

"I never knew that!" exclaimed Harry, even as Ginny and Ron nodded in surprised agreement. "I've seen your parents in Diagon Alley, but I never stopped to wonder how they got there!" Turning to Sherlock, he said, "You obviously possess a magical core. That explains why you could see the Leaky Cauldron and pass through the wards designed to repel random Muggles."

John winced. "So that's what I am, then? A random Muggle?"

"But you have a magical friend," Ginny pointed out.

"Right," said John. "And he'll never let me live down the Muggle bit."

"Honestly, John," smirked Sherlock. "I find the ‘random' bit more amusing!"

"You would," muttered the other, shaking his head ruefully before taking an experimental sip of his butterbeer.

Despite the muted response from John, Harry could sense a verbal sparring match in the making, probably due to his lifelong association with Ron. He cut short the visitors' repartee by asking Sherlock, "Did you never wonder how you survived a seventy-foot fall onto concrete with relatively minor injuries?"

"What!" gasped the other three Gryffindors.

"You know about that?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "How?"

Harry chuckled. "Just because I'm a wizard doesn't mean I can't research people and events in the Muggle world. I'm rather adept with computers."

"With MY computer, you mean," John pointed out, glaring at Harry. "How on earth did you hack my password so quickly?"

"How - what do you mean?" Harry mentally kicked himself for the slip.

"You've been in our flat - " accused Sherlock.

"Twice!" blurted John.

" - and you used John's laptop." Sherlock smiled without humor. "We don't need magic to spy, Mr. Potter. We have hidden security cameras. Just in case someone like you decides to break in - or get in, however you did."

Harry felt his cheeks heat slightly. "I see."

"Why did you search the flat?" demanded Sherlock. "What were you looking for?"

Taking a stabilizing breath, Harry admitted, "Information about you, Mr. Holmes." He added, "I was specifically trying to find some indication of your date of birth, to aid in my colleagues' research regarding what happened to your magic when you were a child."

"And you came by that information how?"

"I was - er - eavesdropping outside your sitting room window."

"What!" Sherlock stared Harry in disbelief.

"That's on the second floor," John pointed out. "How was that even possible?"

"I was ... hovering on my broom," Harry informed them, wondering how these two men would react to that statement.

But rather than another outburst of disbelief, Sherlock and John digested the news in silence, frowning thoughtfully.

"So, that's what the broom was for?" John asked tentatively. "Flying, rather than sweeping?"

Harry nodded, realizing the security cameras must have recorded the Solar Flare in his hand as he'd wandered through their flat.

Sherlock studied him carefully before saying, "I presume I couldn't see you through the window because you - and the broom - were invisible? Of course you were! It would be rather obvious to passersby if a man were hovering on a broom well above the sidewalk!"

Grinning, Harry agreed. "It doesn't surprise you that wizards can Disillusion themselves?"

"We didn't know what it was called," John said, "but we saw you do it in the flat. And there was a piece of fabric - "

"Harry!" admonished Hermione. "You really need to be more careful!"

"I am," he defended himself. "Usually. In modern settings, that is. I always expect security cameras in all public buildings and on streets. And everyone has a camera in their mobile nowadays. But their flat just looked ... comfortably old-fashioned. Lesson learned."

Sherlock laughed aloud, his good humor restored. "Comfortably old-fashioned, you say?" His eyes glittered with dangerous glee. "We did notice you had an ... issue ... with the refrigerator... "

Harry jerked back at the mere memory. "Merlin!"

John shook his head reassuringly. "Don't worry, Mr. Potter. Even I have issues with the refrigerator!"

"So does your landlady."

"What's with the fridge?" Ron asked, interested in anything that might pertain to food.

Harry grimaced. "There was a tray of ... hands. Dismembered. In plastic bags."

"Gross!" Ginny's face screwed up. "Why?"

"Sherlock likes to experiment," explained John. "Once, the cops came on a drugs bust - "

"They were merely harassing me - "

" - and they found human eyes in the microwave - "

"EWWW!" Hermione nearly retched.

"What's a microwave?" asked Ginny.

"You know - " Harry mimed punching buttons on a vertical surface. "That electric box thing that Muggles use to cook stuff really fast."

"EYES?" squealed Ginny, rearing back in her chair.

"It was an EXPERIMENT!" Sherlock growled. "Really, John!"

"It's not easy living with you."

"Then find another flat share."

"I didn't say I wanted to move."

"Then what were you saying?"

"Just that you need to keep random body parts away from our food!"

"Where else would I put them - "

"AHEM!" Harry cleared his throat with a volume that would have put Dolores Umbridge to shame.

"Finished venting?" asked Sherlock.

"For the moment," said John.

"You know something, Harry?" Ron stared at his friend. "They're even worse than we were."

"ARE," corrected Hermione, scowling.

"And that's saying something!" declared Ginny with a grin.

Sherlock smirked, and even John chuckled.

"I believe we were discussing my date of birth, Mr. Potter."

"'Harry', please," said Harry. "I think formality would be laughable now, don't you agree?"

"So, call me ‘Sherlock'."

"Sherlock, then. And John?" Harry quirked an eyebrow at the Muggle, who nodded back. "Right. Your birthdate. Let me see... Would you, by any chance, have turned eleven in 1987?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And you received a letter, delivered by owl post, on your eleventh birthday?" At Sherlock's nod, Harry asked, "Could you tell whether the letter came from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Sherlock stared at Harry. "What ... did you say?"

-:- -:- -:-

"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...

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