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?"

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