"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."

-:- -:- -:-