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.

-:- -:- -:-