(Harry Potter/Sherlock) The Magic Problem for yeomanrand and shinychimera

[aurilly]

Title: The Magic Problem
Author: 55sunsets
Fandoms: Harry Potter/Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Harry Potter, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ron Weasley; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs Hudson
Pairings: Mostly Gen, background Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 9419
Spoilers: None for Sherlock, Set in Present Day after events in Deathly Hallows
Warnings: Minor character death
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Sherlock belong to their respective creators
A/N: Beta'd by the wonderfully amazing, patient and incredibly long-suffering timecake

Summary: When Lestrade is confronted with a series of deaths that don’t seem to have a cause, he calls in Sherlock Holmes.



As soon as Lestrade arrived at the crime scene, he knew it was another one.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. He examined the scene briefly - it was the same as the last three. He had no choice.

"I'm calling Sherlock," he said, out loud, ignoring the looks his words received. He was stuck, and if anyone could solve this, it was Sherlock Holmes.

---

It took little persuading to bring Sherlock to the crime scene in Camden, with Dr Watson following eagerly behind. Unexplained deaths always did get Sherlock excited, and these four were no exception.

"The other three, they were exactly like this?" John asked Lestrade as Sherlock inspected the victim's face closely.

Lestrade nodded. "All killed in their homes, door locked, no sign of forced entry, no apparent cause of death, but there were some signs of a struggle and," he gestured, "they all had that expression."

It was a look of sheer terror. John had seen it before, on some of the bodies of the people he'd served in Afghanistan with. The difference between then and now, however, was that now there was no obvious cause of their deaths.

John had looked at the coroner's reports of the three previous victims. The cause of death for any of them hadn't been found yet. But, people didn't just drop dead of terror with no explanation.

He walked over to where Sherlock was now examining the victim's fingernails.

Their victim's name was Lynn Nicholas. According to her driver's licence, she was twenty-seven years old. The background check on her was taking longer than expected to get back.

John glanced back to Lestrade, who had pulled out his phone and was talking quietly into it. His eyes were screwed shut, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of someone developing one hell of a headache. John didn't blame him. Four suspicious deaths and Sherlock Holmes could certainly have that effect on a man.

"John!"

John's attention snapped back to Sherlock.

"Yes?"

"Look at this." He held up the victim's right hand, palm up.

John frowned and ran his gloved fingertips over the hand.

"Are those- calluses?"

Calluses on someone's hand weren't a big deal normally, but the position of these were odd. There were none on her fingertips, but instead in a line across her palm and the bottoms of her fingers.

Sherlock was also frowning at the calluses. He held his own right hand out, palm up, and slowly clenched it into a fist. Suddenly, he sprang up and began searching the living room where the victim had been found.

"What are you looking for?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock didn't spare him a glance. He dropped down onto the floor and began searching under the sofa.

"Her hand indicates she routinely holds a thin cylindrical object."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Like, I don't know, a pen, perhaps?"

Sherlock ignored him, but a moment later he said, "Aha!" and pushed himself back up. He held out the object he'd found to show John and Lestrade.

"What on earth is that?" Lestrade asked.

"It appears to be a wooden stick," said Sherlock, smirking.

"I got that, funnily enough. I know it's a wooden stick. But what is it for?"

John stared at it. The shape seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn't recall where he possibly could have seen a stick like that before.

Suddenly, he got a flash of memory - when he was twelve years old, his family had been visiting some relations. He remembered going into his Aunt Joanne's bedroom, surprising her. She'd been holding a stick like that, but had quickly put it into a drawer when she'd caught sight of him. She'd smiled at him, then, and taken him outside, and he'd totally forgotten about the strange stick, until now.

John noticed Sherlock frowning at him, but thankfully he didn't say anything.

"That," said Sherlock, addressing Lestrade, "I haven't figured out yet. I have to do some investigating."

He tucked the stick into his pocket and headed towards the door, ignoring Lestrade's protestations of "Wait, Sherlock, you can't take that, that's evidence- Sherlock!"

John smiled apologetically at him, then followed Sherlock outside, where he was flagging down a taxi.

Once safely inside and on their way back to Baker street, John said, "You know, you really should stop just taking evidence from crime scenes. Lestrade's going to stop asking you to come to them."

Sherlock ignored him for a minute, busy tapping out a text on his phone. Eventually he looked up at John and smirked.

"It'll never happen," he said. "Lestrade, while not smart enough to figure everything out himself, knows when he needs to ask for help."

John rolled his eyes.

"So," he said, "we now have... A wooden stick."

Sherlock sent his text and put his phone away. He withdrew the stick from his pocket and studied it closely.

"It's not just a wooden stick," he said.

"What is it, then?"

Sherlock didn't reply for a long moment.

"John," said Sherlock, "this could be a little out of our league."

John looked at him disbelievingly. "That's never stopped you before."

Sherlock grinned. "Just a fair warning. It's also almost certainly going to be very dangerous."

John smiled back. "And that's never stopped me."

The taxi pulled up to Baker Street before Sherlock could reply. He pushed some money through to the driver before climbing out, John following behind.

Mrs Hudson met them at the door.

"Sherlock, dear, there's two guests just headed up to you."

Sherlock hardly looked at her before bounding up the stairs. " It's fine, Mrs Hudson, we're expecting them."

John stared, hurrying up the stairs too. "We are?"

There were two men standing in the living room. John recognised Sherlock's brother Mycroft immediately, but the second man was unfamiliar.

He was average height, with messy black hair and glasses. He appeared to be dressed in - not a dress, as such, but robes of some sort.

"Mr Potter." Sherlock walked up to the man and held out his hand.

"Mr Holmes," replied Potter. "I wish I could say it was good to see you again."

He turned to John, hand outstretched. "Harry Potter."

John accepted the handshake, replying "John Watson. Pleased to meet you."

"You too. Though I wish it was under different circumstances."

Looking at his face, John noticed that the eyes behind the glasses were very green, and there was a thin, lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

Potter turned back to Sherlock. "Mycroft got me as soon as he received your text. You say there's four dead?"

John's brow furrowed in confusion - Sherlock had just sent that text in the taxi on the way here - but Mycroft noticed his expression and, placing a hand on his arm, drew him away into the kitchen.

"I forgot that this might not have been explained to you yet," he said, lips pursed. "I had hoped Sherlock had already told you - but that's moot now."

"Explain what to me?"

Mycroft sighed, his eyes flicking over to where Sherlock and Potter were talking. Sherlock had pulled out the wooden stick and given it to Potter. Lestrade would be very unhappy with that, John thought, giving evidence to someone else - even if Potter did seem to be connected to the case.

"Magic."

"Magic," echoed John, unimpressed. "You need to explain magic. Of course you do. Would you like to borrow a deck of cards? Or maybe a hat to pull a rabbit out of?"

Mycroft returned John's unimpressed look. "Very funny, Doctor."

John shrugged. "You started it."

"I understand your disbelief, but I am going to ask you not to interrupt me while I explain this to you."

And explain he did - about magic, about witches and wizards and that there was a Ministry of Magic in the government, which Harry Potter apparently worked for.

"This is all highly classified," said Mycroft. "If it were ever to get out-"

"I won't be telling anybody," said John. "Not least because I don't believe you."

"That, at least, can be easily remedied." Mycroft turned back to Potter and Sherlock, who were discussing the crime scene from earlier. "Mr Potter?"

Potter turned towards Mycroft, eyebrows raised.

"Do some magic for Dr Watson, please."

Potter rolled his eyes and took out another wooden stick - his own, John surmised - and flicked it. The coffee table in the centre of the sitting room, halfway between John and Mycroft, and Potter and Sherlock, rose into the air and began to spin lazily.

John looked at Sherlock, who didn't look at all surprised by this turn of events. John was going to kill him.

The sound of Potter chuckling drew John's attention away from Sherlock. Potter smiled sheepishly at him.

"Sorry," he said, "it was just - your face was priceless."

"Now, Mr Potter," came Mycroft's amused voice from behind John, "I know for a fact you're capable of far more than levitating tables."

Potter grinned. "Can't do too much in a muggle residence, now. You know that."

With another wave of his stick, the table floated gently back down to the floor. None of the things that had been piled haphazardly on top had moved. Potter turned back to Sherlock, resuming their conversation. John turned back to Mycroft. He felt more sympathy for Lestrade, now. The ability to induce headaches was apparently something the Holmes brothers shared.

"So," said John. "Magic's real. Anything else I should know? Aliens? Is Elvis still alive? Maybe there's dragons out there too?"

"Don't be silly," said Mycroft, giving John a look that made him feel about seven years old. "Dragons are real. Elvis is dead."

John stared. "Dragons are - you know what, don't tell me." He paused. "What about the aliens?"

Mycroft smirked. "That's classified."

John sighed, closed his eyes, and willed his headache to go away.

"Of course it is."

"So, can you do magic, then?"

"No."

"What about Sherlock?"

"He can't, either."

"So, how do you know about-” John made a sweeping gesture with his arm, meaning magic and wizards and goddamn dragons.

"You don't get to be where I am without knowing a few secrets, Doctor."

"And Sherlock? How does he know?" asked John, knowing after he said it that it was a bit of a stupid question. How did Sherlock know anything, after all?"

Mycroft's smirk returned. "It's not just the muggle - non-magic - police that have problems solving crimes, you know."

On the other side of the room, Potter looked at his watch.

"I need to get back to the Ministry," he said. "Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Mr Holmes. I'll contact you again once I know more."

He shook Sherlock's hand, then John's, before he and Mycroft disappeared down the stairs.

John turned to Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

"So," he said. "Magic."

---

Harry left Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs, but not before thanking him.

Mycroft accepted the thanks with a nod of his head. "If my brother finds anything else, I'll let you know."

Harry looked up at the windows of 221b. He could see the silhouettes of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson moving on the closed blinds.

"I'll see if I can get them hooked up to the floo network," said Harry. "It might just be easier that way."

"Maybe." Mycroft nodded again, a goodbye, before flagging down a taxi.

Harry walked quickly to near nearest side street and, finding it deserted, apparated back to the ministry.

---

He reappeared outside the entrance to the ministry seconds later, and made his way to the Minister of Magic's office. On his way, he ignored the people who acknowledged him, instead studying the the piece of paper where he'd written down the four names he'd gotten from Sherlock Holmes.

Lynn Nicholas had worked for the ministry. In what capacity Harry wasn't sure, but he knew he'd passed her in a corridor once or twice. Two of the other names weren't familiar, but the last - third one down, third to be killed- was Louis Greengrass. Harry didn't know him, but he remembered Daphne at school. She'd been a Slytherin, a pure-blood. She worked for the ministry now, too. Harry didn't know what department.

Reaching Kingsley's office, Harry smiled at his secretary, who looked a bit flustered, as her desk was piled high with papers.

"Is the minister free for a quick word?"

The secretary pointed her wand at a device on the edge of her desk, which glowed green, before turning orange a moment later. Message received.

"Go on in, Mr Potter," she said.

"Thanks."

Kingsley was sitting at his desk, which was neatly organised. He greeted Harry with a smile, which faded when he caught sight of the expression on Harry's face.

"Harry! What brings you here?"

Harry sat down in the chair opposite Kingsley. He passed over the list of names, and watched as Kingsley's eyes widened in recognition. Kingsley looked back to Harry for an explanation.

"I got this list from a contact of mine," said Harry. "These people have all been found dead in the past few days. All from the killing curse."

"Why are we only finding out now?"

"Muggle police got there first. They haven't found any link between them yet, other than the cause of death - or rather, that there isn't any."

Kingsley's face was ashen. "Harry," he said, "three of these people-" he glanced down at the list- "Nicholas, Wylie and Broughton, they're Unspeakables."

"What about Greengrass?"

"He doesn't work here," admitted Kingsley, "But there is a Daphne Greengrass working in the department of mysteries, too."

"What were they working on?"

"Hold on-” Kingsley got up from his chair and headed to a nearby filing cabinet.

"Trouvio," he said, pointing his wand at the cabinet, and some files jumped from the cabinet into his hand. He returned to his desk and spread the contents out.

Harry spotted a list of names, and tapped it.

"There."

Kingsley picked up the list and studied it.

"Nicholas, Wylie, Broughton and Daphne Greengrass are all part of the same team," he said. "There's twelve on it, total."

Harry tapped the paper with the four names on it.

"Why these four, then?"

Kingsley shuffled the papers on his desk around until he found what he was looking for.

"Check their personnel files."

Harry lifted the files of Daphne Greengrass and Charlotte Wylie. He checked Daphne's first, scanning down pages until he found what he was looking for.

"Here," he said, passing the sheet over. "Daphne and Louis are brother and sister. Louis is a squib."

He turned his attention to Charlotte Wylie's file. "Wylie's a muggleborn, Hufflepuff, left Hogwarts in 2003.”

Kingsley raised his head to meet Harry's gaze. "Nicholas and Broughton are muggleborns, too."

"Are there any more on the team?"

Kingsley took half of the remaining files, Harry took the rest - there weren't any more muggleborns, just five half-bloods and three more pure bloods.

Harry stood up. "I'll have people find them, and bring them here until we find whoever's doing this."

Kingsley ignored Harry for a moment while he quickly read some more of the documents scattered on his desk.

"This team," he said. "They were working in the Death Chamber."

Harry's eyes widened. He hadn't been in the chamber back in the chamber since the night Sirius died.

"Doing what?"

Kingsley stood up too.

"I don't know. This file only has the outline and the department of mysteries is the only one that isn't required to send me details of everything they do."

Harry frowned, confused. "Why?"

"You know as well as I do that the research that goes on down there is top secret. If they send me details, chances of a security leak increases. All files relating to that research are kept in the department."

He led the way out of the room, telling his secretary on the way out to cancel all his appointments for the rest of the day.

"I'll get the file," he told Harry just before they parted ways, "and you find the rest of the Unspeakables. You might want to arrange a security detail for you contact, too." He added as an afterthought.

Harry nodded, and headed back to his office. He had Unspeakables to find.

---

It was an hour later that Harry headed back to Kingsley's office. Five of the nine Unspeakables had been in the Department of Mysteries, and teams of Aurors had been dispatched to the homes of the other four. He'd also sent a message to Sherlock Holmes, letting him know of his new security detail and floo connection, and he'd sent a message home to Ginny to let her know he'd probably not be back in time for dinner.

Kingsley was waiting for him at his desk. Harry sat down heavily into the same chair he'd occupied earlier, and briefly told the minister of his progress.

"Good," said Kingsley, when Harry had finished. "Now, this file."

He spread the contents out over his desk. Harry picked up one of the sheets - it was covered in complicated arithmancy equations. He put it down again.

"What were they doing?"

"Trying to find a way to reverse death."

Harry probably shouldn't have been shocked, but he was. He tried not to let it show on his face.

"And have they been successful?"

Kingsley shook his head. "Not as of yet."

Harry was silent a moment. There was only one group of people he knew of who would try and resurrect someone, and would kill squibs and muggleborns to do it.

"We're dealing with Death Eaters, aren't we?" It wasn't really a question.

"Most likely."

A thought occurred to Harry. "Kingsley,” he said, "who else has access to these files?"

"These?" Kingsley gestured to the ones on his desk. "No-one outside of me and the Department of Mysteries. But the files I had earlier - all the heads of department have access to the personnel files."

"This means-"

"There's someone on the inside of the ministry involved in these murders." Kingsley finished Harry's sentence, face grim.

---

John had just begun to accept that magic was real, when he heard a tapping noise against the window.

He pulled up the blinds to find an owl perched on the windowsill, a letter tied to it's leg.

John stared at it, and the owl stared back. It hooted reproachfully, as if it wanted inside.

John took a deep breath.

"SHERLOCK!" he shouted. "Get over here!"

Once Sherlock saw the owl, he hurried over to the window to let it in. It hopped in quickly, and held it's leg out to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock detached the note and began to read it.

"Potter's sending us a security team," he said.

"What?" asked John, confused. "Why?"

Sherlock's brow was furrowed as he continued reading.

"He's worried we'll become targets now that we're involved in the investigation." Sherlock threw the letter down on the coffee table. "I don't want a security team."

"It doesn't sound like we have much of a choice - Ouch!"

The owl had pecked at John's hand.

"Feed the owl," snapped Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes before going to the kitchen.

"Feed the damn owl," he muttered. "God knows what we have that owls even eat-”

He found a few slices of ham in a packet at the back of the fridge, and brought them back to the owl. It ate them happily, then flew out the window again.

John honestly couldn't believe his life sometimes.

He made to close the window, but movement on the footpath outside caught his eye. Two men wearing the same sort of robes as Potter were quickly approaching their doorway.

"Looks like our security's here."

The doorbell rang a moment later, confirming John's words.

Mrs Hudson answered the door, and John heard the sounds of a brief exchange of words, followed by the two men bounding up the stairs. Sherlock met them at the top, eyebrow raised and expression unimpressed.

The first man up the stairs grinned at Sherlock and stuck out his hand.

"Hello," he said. "My name's Ron Weasley."

---

Having finally rounded up all nine Unspeakables, Harry arranged a meeting with them and the Minister. First, though, he sent a few aurors to each of their houses, in case whoever killed the three muggleborns and Louis Greengrass tried to attack someone else.

Eventually arriving back at the Minister's office again, Harry found that Kingsley's desk had been transfigured into a large, circular table, with enough chairs for everyone around it. He slipped into the seat beside the Minister and let Kingsley do most of the talking.

According to the results the team had gotten, truly resurrecting the dead was impossible, but Harry already knew that from his experiences with the resurrection stone.

"We gave up on actually bringing people back recently," explained Daphne. She had been shaken by the news of her brother's death - despite him being a squib, the siblings seemed to have been quite close - but her demeanour was professional for the meeting.

"We've moved onto communication," continued one of the purebloods on the team. Harry's notes revealed his name to be Arden Worple. "The implications of a reliable means of communicating with those who have died but not become ghosts are enormous! Think of the effect it could have on murder trials, for instance-"

Kingsley raised his hand in a gesture for silence, and Worple immediately shut up.

"Can you communicate with the dead as of now?" he asked.

Worple shook his head. "Not yet, no," he said, "but several lines of research look very promising-"

A look from Kingsley silenced him again.

"If you cannot either bring back the dead nor communicate with them, why have three of your team members been murdered?"

Daphne spoke again, "It's possible that whoever gained access to the personnel files heard rumours of what we were trying to do, but not that we didn't succeed. I mean, it's easy to come to conclusions as the files list us as working in the Death Chamber."

Kingsley nodded slowly.

Another wizard spoke up, "Do we know why it was those four people that were targeted?"

This question Harry answered. "Based on a quick survey of all your homes, Broughton, Wylie and Nicholas," he nodded at Daphne, "and Louis Greengrass all lived in urban muggle neighbourhoods, and their homes were all warded less securely than yours as a result of that."

The wizard nodded in understanding, before asking another question. "You think it was Death Eaters trying to resurrect Voldemort? Why now? Voldemort's been dead for years."

Harry glanced down at the papers in front of him.

"This team was formed last year," he answered, "and rumours of your research are only getting out now. Its likely that any remaining Death Eaters were underground until they heard this and decided to try and resurrect their old master." Harry glanced around the room. "Any more questions?"

The people around the table shook their heads.

"Right then," said Kingsley, "I'm afraid you can't go home until we're sure you're out of danger, so I'll get a safehouse arranged for you. Until then, if you'll come with me..."

He stood up and led the team out of the room.

Harry stood up too. He yawned and glanced at his watch - it was getting very late, and it had been a long day. Unfortunately, it wasn't over yet. He transfigured Kingsley's desk back to normal, and vanished the extra chairs. Then he headed down to the atrium. He figured he should check in on Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson - and make sure Ron hadn't murdered Holmes out of frustration yet.

---

Sherlock and Weasley hated each other within five minutes of meeting.

John took one look at the two of them sniping at each other and went into the kitchen to make tea. He was followed closely by the other Auror, who, John was pleased to discover, was a perfectly pleasant person. He could do with some sensible conversation, even if it was with a wizard named Dalton Dwerryhouse.

A few hours later, the flat had lapsed into silence that had driven John mad until he turned on the TV. Repeats of QI didn't help with dispersing the uncomfortable tension between Sherlock and Weasley, but it was a valuable distraction.

The sudden appearance of green flames in their fireplace scared the living daylights out of John, who was sitting closest to it. He'd been told how floo powder worked, but it was still a bit of a shock to see Harry Potter emerge from the fire.

"How are you all getting on here?" he asked. "And do you mind if I put the kettle on? I'm dying for a cup of tea."

John stood up. "I'll get that," he said, but Potter had already pulled out his wand. He waved for John to sit back down.

"No," he said, pointing his wand in the direction of the kitchen, "it's no trouble for me."

John heard the click of the kettle turning on and he turned to see mugs and teabags flying out of the cupboards and arranging themselves neatly on the table. He reminded himself that that was one of the less strange things he'd seen that day.

"We're getting on fine, here," said Weasley stiffly. He glared at Potter. "Aren't we, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock also gave Potter a look that could melt steel. "Absolutely."

John saw Potter attempt to hide a smile, and smirked.

"Great," said Potter, "glad to hear it. I've got news about the murders." At this, everybody perked up, Sherlock especially. "I can't give too many details here, but I can give you the gist."

He made tea as he explained the links between the murders and the assumed motive behind them.

"Information on this research?" asked Dwerryhouse.

Potter nodded, taking a sip of his tea.

"And you think these- Death Eater people are behind it?" asked John.

"Yep."

Weasley leaned forwards towards Potter, his face serious.

"That information's restricted," he said, "who works where. That means... Someone's leaking the information to the Death Eaters."

Harry didn't reply to that, but his face said it all. He finished his tea and returned the cup to the kitchen, yawning as he did so.

"You need to go home, mate," said Weasley. "It's late."

Potter looked at his watch, then back up at the four other men in the room.

"Yeah," he said. "You told Hermione you wouldn't be home tonight, didn't you?"

"Yup," said Weasley. "Don't worry about me, go home. Tell Ginny I say hi."

"Will do," said Potter. He surveyed the room one last time. "Night," he said to Sherlock and John. "I'll be back tomorrow."

He took a pinch of floo powder from the hollow skull sitting on the mantlepiece that Sherlock had decided to store it in, lit a fire with his wand, and with a shout of "Potter cottage," he was gone in a ball of green flames.

"You two should probably go to bed, too." Weasley addressed Sherlock and John.

John thought that sounded like quite a good idea - it had been a long day. Sherlock, however, had other ideas.

"No," he said. "I'm going out." He got up and fetched his coat and scarf. Weasley stared, bemused, before recovering.

"Now?" he said. "It's after midnight. And there's Death Eaters out there who are trying to raise the most evil wizard in history from the dead."

Sherlock looked at Weasley as though he were a particularly stupid child. "I know," he said slowly. "I need to meet with someone."

This wasn't particularly strange to John, who was used to Sherlock's odd moods and hours at this stage. "I'm not coming with you," he said. "I'm going to bed." Weasley threw him a thankful look, before turning back to Sherlock, who was heading towards the door.

"Wait! I"m coming with you." Weasley looked determined.

Sherlock, for once, didn't argue. Even John could work out that fighting with Weasley about this was pointless.

"Fine," said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "But for the love of god, stay out of sight."

He disappeared down the stairs, Weasley at his tail.

John stood up from his chair then too.

"I'm off to bed," he informed Dwerryhouse. "Night."

"Night."

Once he was safely in his bedroom, John sat down on his bed, and felt the events of the day weigh heavily on his shoulders. He was tired, but his brain was still buzzing. He thought about his blog - how he couldn't put this on it, remembering Mycroft's words about magic being secret.

He wondered about Lestrade - how much he had put together, if he was driving himself mad trying to figure out how four healthy people could just drop dead of nothing but terror. He wondered if he would have gone back to the other crime scenes, looking for more sticks - wands, John knew now.

At the thought of wands, John pulled open the drawer in his bedside cabinet. His gun was safely ensconced inside, spare magazine and ammo beside it.

A sudden crash and shouts from the living room made him jump. Multiple voices, shouting what sounded like-

”Stupefy!"

"Sectumsempra!!"

John's hands went for his gun automatically, and he quickly loaded it. Those weren't Sherlock and Weasley's voices. Maybe Potter had been right to give them a security detail after all.

He silently moved to the door, and slowly opened it. He swore under his breath as he took in the scene before him - a man in black robes and a white mask lay unmoving on the floor, and Dwerryhouse was shooting spells at another man, also in black with a white mask, who was firing them back.

"Sectumsempra!" roared the man in the mask again, and to John's horror the spell hit Dwerryhouse in the chest, blood spattering everywhere. He fell to the floor and lay still.

The man in the mask turned, and John quickly ducked back behind the door, out of sight. He had to get to Dwerryhouse, somehow.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and John heard a woman's voice call out.

"Sherlock! John! What on earth are you doing up there?"

Mrs Hudson, thought John, oh God no.

Quick as a flash, he pulled his door open and aimed his gun at the man in the mask. The man raised his wand and started to say "Avada-," but John was faster. He fired, and the bullet hit in the centre of the man's chest.

John ran out of his room and over to Dwerryhouse, who was still breathing, but only just. He placed his gun on the coffee table before kneeling down. He ripped his robes open, medical training taking over.

Mrs Hudson saw him run over, and gasped. "John, what happened? Where's Sherlock?"

John ignored her questions. He pulled off his shirt, balled it up, and pressed it down on the wound in Dwerryhouse's chest to try and stem the bleeding.

"In the bathroom," he said. "There's a first-aid kit. Can you get me it?"

As Mrs Hudson rushed to comply, John kept one hand pressing down on his shirt and used the other to pull his phone out his pocket. Sherlcok was on speed dial.

Sherlock answered on the second ring. "What?" he asked, sounding irritated.

"Get back here now," said John. "We've been attacked."

He hung up and chucked the phone away as Mrs Hudson returned with the first aid kit. John gritted his teeth as he looked through it. It was frustratingly small. He was a doctor, he thought. Why didn't he have better medical supplies on hand?

Because nobody expects wizards to get gaping chest wounds in their sitting rooms, he supposed.

A sudden crack interrupted his thoughts - and Mrs Hudson's scream at the noise and the appearance of two people in the room nearly made his heart stop, before he realised it was Weasley and Sherlock.

"Bloody hell," said Weasley, quickly making his way to the fireplace, grabbing the floo powder. John nearly asked where he was going, but Weasley didn't step into the fireplace. He just shouted "Harry Potter!" into the flames.

Potter's head appeared in the fire, face confused until he took in the scene. "Hold on," he said, "I'm on my way."

His face disappeared for a moment, then he fully emerged from the fireplace.

John saw Mrs Hudson faint in his peripheral vision.

"Ron," instructed Potter, "take Dwerryhouse to St. Mungo's. I'll deal with things here."

Weasley nodded, face ashen. He knelt down beside John.

"You go look after her," he said, jerking his head in the direction of Mrs Hudson. I'll take this from here."

John let Weasley take over and moved over to Mrs Hudson. A crack behind him let him know that Weasley and Dwerryhouse had vanished.

He quickly checked over Mrs Hudson, making sure she hadn't hurt herself falling. He made to lift her, but Potter appeared at his shoulder.

"Here, let me," he said. "Wingardium Leviosa."

Mrs Hudson floated into the air, and Potter directed her with his wand to move her over to the sofa.

John looked around the room - it was a mess. There was blood all over the place, the man John had shot was still sprawled on the floor, the other attacker the Dwerryhouse had taken out was lying in the corner, still breathing, and Sherlock - Sherlock was examining the dead man's shoes. He looked up to see John watching him, and John saw a smirk appear on his face.

"Honestly, John. I leave you alone for five minutes and you kill a man in our living room."

For a moment John contemplated shooting Sherlock, too, but he figured Potter would probably disapprove. He rubbed a hand across his face. The adrenaline was draining from his system, and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. He made to go back to his bedroom.

"I'd shower first, if I were you," called Sherlock.

John looked down and realised he was still shirtless and covered in blood. He sighed, and changed direction to go to the bathroom instead.

When he emerged from the bathroom again, the living room was clean and blood-free, Potter and the two Death Eaters were gone, and Weasley was back.

Weasley looked up as John came out. "Dwerryhouse is going to be alright," he said, a relieved smile on his face. "Thanks to you he didn't lose too much blood."

He stood up and offered John his hand. "Thank you, Dr Watson" he said sincerely.

John felt his cheeks heat, but he accepted the handshake. "Any time," he replied, "and please, call me John."

"I'm Ron."

John let go of Ron's hand. "Where"s Sherlock?" he asked.

"In his room. He was a bit pissed when Harry took the Death Eaters away."

John rolled his eyes. "I can imagine."

Ron hesitated.

"If you don't mind me asking," he said, "how the he'll do you put up with him?"

John shrugged. "You get used to him," he replied. "And he makes life interesting."

Ron laughed at that. "I'm not surprised at that one."

John yawned. "I'm definitely off to bed this time," he said. "If any more death eaters attack, tell them to keep it down."

Ron grinned at him. "Sure thing. Night."

"Night."

---

In the Ministry, Harry reread the report of the interrogation of the surviving Death Eater.

His name was Lamont Lund - he'd been a Slytherin four years below Harry at Hogwarts. The Death Eater Dr Watson had shot - Harry had identified him as Gregory Goyle.

Under the influence of veritaserum, Lund had revealed a location where they met - Harry had sent Aurors there immediately, only for them to find that it had been very hastily abandoned. The rest of the Death Eaters must have known something was wrong when Goyle and Lund hadn't come back.

Lund also confirmed their theories - that the murders had been a result of them seeking information on how to raise the dead. Each of the victims had been killed when they refused to co-operate. He named some of the other Death Eaters - there was no-one too surprising on the list, but he hadn’t known everybody’s names. Apparently some of Voldemort’s lessons had stuck.

However, it was the last paragraph that troubled Harry the most. According to Lund, the leak inside the Ministry had been none other than Amos Diggory.

Harry ran his hand through his hair. He had to take the report to the Minister - Kingsley had gone home, too, but had come back in when he heard about the attack on Baker Street. After that, Harry was heading back home to bed.

---

John rose a few hours later than he normally did the next morning, but that wasn't really surprising.

He wandered into the kitchen to find Ron at the table, reading a newspaper, and Sherlock standing staring out the window. Ron looked up and saw him.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," said John, moving to one of the cupboards and getting out a box of cereal. He needed to go grocery shopping again, he noted absently. He shuffled round the kitchen getting everything else, then sat opposite Ron at the kitchen table.

"Anything interesting in the paper?"

"Not really."

John glanced over and saw the headline on the front page was something about the X-factor being fixed, again. Nothing interesting indeed, it seemed.

John finished his cornflakes in silence. He dumped the bowl and spoon in the sink, frowning as something occurred to him.

"How's Mrs Hudson?" he asked.

Sherlock continued to ignore him in favour of staring out the window, but Ron answered.

"I explained everything to her last night when she woke up," he said. "She fainted again when I showed her some magic, though." At John's alarmed look, he hastily continued, "She's fine now. When she woke up again and saw how this place had been tidied she made me clean all her carpets with magic."

John laughed, and something suspiciously like a snort of amusement came from Sherlock's direction.

Green flames flared up in the fireplace again and Potter stepped out. John wondered if he should find it alarming that the sudden flames didn’t even phase him anymore.

“Harry!” said Ron, leaning his chair back and craning his neck to see him. “Any news?”

“Yeah,” said Potter. “Lund pretty much confirmed our theories on why the attacks happened. We’re still trying to track down the rest of the group, though.”

Sherlock spoke for the first time that morning. “Did he say how many were in the group?”

“He thought about fifteen.”

“That’d be thirteen,” said Ron, “Now that Goyle and Lund are out of it. Did you get anything else?”

Potter sat down in the seat John had just vacated, opposite Ron at the kitchen table.
“Yeah,” he said. “The leak - it’s Amos Diggory.”

Ron’s chair came crashing back down. His face paled.

“Amos Diggory?” he said, shocked. “He can’t be working with the Death Eaters - Cedric was murdered by them!”

“It was under veritaserum,” said Potter. “I took a team to his house this morning, it’s empty.”

Ron looked confused. “But where’s -”

“Turns out Amos and Cecelia got divorced three months ago,” said Potter. “There were divorce papers in his office.”

Ron looked astonished. “I can’t believe it. Amos Diggory, of all people.”

“I’m going outside for a smoke,” interrupted Sherlock. The other three men turned to stare at him. “Coming, John?”

It was said casually, but John knew Sherlock well enough by now to know that that tone of voice was anything but casual.

“Why not,” he replied, “I could do with one.”

Sherlock headed for the stairs, leaving the aurors to their conversation. He turned back before he reached the door.

“John, grab your lighter, will you?”

John frowned, but followed Sherlock’s gaze to the coffee table.

“Sure,” he said. He picked up the lighter on the table - and also the gun he’d left there last night. He tucked it into the back of his jeans, and followed Sherlock down the stairs and outside.

Sherlock headed straight for a nearby woman in a familiar red vest and gave her a two pound coin. She handed him a copy of The Big Issue and smiled.

“I hope you find it informative!”

“I hope so, too,” he muttered, distracted, turning back to John. John realised, then, where Sherlock had disappeared to last night.

Sherlock flipped thorough the magazine, then took off down Baker Street.

“Come on, Watson,” he called, sounding positively gleeful, and John hurried to follow him.

---

Harry watched as Sherlock and John left, then turned back to Ron, who still looked gobsmacked.

“Merlin,” he said, “Amos and Cecilia divorced and Amos working with the Death Eaters - what’s the world coming to?”

Harry shrugged. “I checked with Kingsley,” he said. “Amos called in a few days ago and asked for some time off. I checked the times, and it was just before the first murder.”

Ron shook his head. “Amos couldn’t have been involved in the murders,” he said. “No way.”

“Well, there’s a warrant out for him now,” said Harry. “The muggle police have his photo, too. We’ll find him eventually and then we’ll know for certain.”

“Did Lund name any other Death Eaters?” asked Ron, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “No-one too surprising on the list - Nott, Avery - the youngest one, not his father, Rowan.”

Ron stood up suddenly and wandered over to the window. “I take it they’re not at their houses - hell!” He cursed suddenly, and ran back to the table for his wand. “Come on.”

Harry was on his feet immediately, wand in hand. “What?” he said.

“Holmes and Watson have disappeared.” said Ron, rushing down the stairs. Harry was quick to follow.

They stopped just outside the door.

“Did you see what direction they went in?” asked Harry.

“No.” Ron’s expression was like thunder.

“Right,” said Harry, “I’ll track him down, you stay here in case he comes back.”

Ron nodded and headed back upstairs. Harry pulled a mobile out of pocket and quickly dialled a number. It was picked up immediately.

“Mycroft?” said Harry. “I need a hand tracking down your brother.”

---

John followed Sherlock to Baker Street tube station.

"Got your Oyster card, John?"

John searched his pockets until he pulled out his card wallet. "Yeah, why? Where are we-”

Sherlock snatched it out of his hand and proceeded through the barriers.

"Jubilee line to Canary Wharf," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the escalators.

John repressed all the murderous thoughts that occurred to him and ran to the ticket machine, pulling out his debit card.

He caught up with Sherlock at the platform. A train pulled up nearly immediately and he followed Sherlock onto the train, grabbing one of the handrails above his head as it started moving again.

“Why are we taking the tube?” he asked. “We never take the tube. You hate the tube.”

Sherlock smirked at him and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “There’s no signal this far down,” he said.

---

In Mycroft’s office across the city, Harry and Mycroft were watching at a map on a computer screen. ‘No signal found, unable to triangulate’ kept flashing up on the screen.

“They’re taking the underground,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock knows how we’d track him.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “We’ll just have to keep trying. He has to come up eventually.”

It was twenty long minutes, until the computer finally beeped. Harry was up like a shot to the screen.

“Canary Wharf tube station,” he said. “I’ll have a team of aurors there in five minutes. Send me his location if he moves again, will you?”

Mycroft gave Harry a look. “Of course,” he said.

Harry nodded his thanks, then apparated away.

Harry recieved two texts from Mycroft in the few minutes after that, letting him know that both Sherlock and John - or their phones, at least, were both just outside what appeared to be an small, unused warehouse not far from the tube station.

Sherlock and John, when Harry, Ron, and six other aurors appeared by the warehouse, were both leaning against the wall waiting for them.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Took you long enough.” He surveyed the aurors, an unimpressed look on his face. “Only eight of you? You do know there’s thirteen Death Eaters in there, right?”

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, echoing the gesture Lestrade had made the day before. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are nearly more trouble than you’re worth.”

Sherlock didn’t look the slightest bit bothered by Harry’s words. “Are you going to stand out here all day, or are you going to attempt to apprehend the thirteen murderers I’ve so graciously led you to?”

“How do you know for certain they’re in there?” asked Ron.

“I received a tip this morning that led me here.”

Ron opened his mouth to ask who tipped them off, then thought better of it. He raised his hands in an ‘I give up’ gesture. “Harry? Your call.”

Harry stepped back from the wall of the warehouse, and looked up at it. The only windows were set high in the walls, too high to see in. Harry had a quick look around, making sure there were no other muggles about (although, he supposed it would be a bit late now if there were), before conjuring a mirror and levitating it up so it was level with the window. A flick of his wand tilted it downwards, letting everybody below it see part of the inside of the warehouse. There were figures in black robes moving about inside.

“There’s your proof,” said Sherlock, sounding altogether too satisfied with himself.

Harry was silent for a moment, forming a plan of attack in his head. He tilted the mirror from side to side, working out the layout of the warehouse.

“It looks just like one large room, two doors. There’ll be enchantments on the front door,” he said. “At least an intruder detection charm, possibly also some curses. The back entrance probably isn’t as well guarded, so I’ll take-” he turned and looked at his team - “Badger, Owen, Loach and Ramsay, go round the back, and take them by surprise. Ron, come in from the front when they’re distracted. They have the advantage of numbers, but we have surprise on our side. And as for you two-” Harry turned to address Sherlock and John, who hadn’t moved from against the wall. “I know you probably won’t listen to me, but for the love of Merlin, stay out here. Do not go inside. You can’t protect yourselves from magic, and I don’t want to have to worry about looking after the two of you when I’m fighting Death Eaters. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” said Sherlock, and John nodded. Harry and Ron both gave them suspicious looks, but they left it.

“Right,” said Harry. “Let’s get this over with.”

The group split in two and headed to their respective ends of the warehouse, leaving Sherlock and John alone again.

Harry let his men to the back entrance quickly and quietly. A quick charm on the door confirmed Harry’s suspicion that it wasn’t enchanted.

“Alohamora,” he murmured, and there was a click as the door unlocked. “On three,” he said, preparing himself. “One, two, three.”

The door flew open as the five aurors stormed though, casting spells as they went. The element of surprise meant they took down three of the Death Eaters before they realised what was going on. A few seconds later, the sound of Ron’s team attacking from the other side reached Harry, and he noted with satisfaction that another few Death Eaters fell to the floor, stunned.

However, once the Death Eaters realised what was going on, they began fighting back viciously. Harry stunned one in the back, but noted that a few of his aurors were on the floor, too. He soon found himself duelling his old classmate, Theodore Nott. Nott ducked under Harry’s stupefy and shouted “Crucio!” back. The curse just skimmed Harry’s side. Harry cast several jinxes in swift succession, and Nott stopped his barrage of curses for a moment to cast a shield charm. Harry took the opportunity to check on Ron, who was battling a Death Eater called Rowan not far away from Harry. Seeing his chance, he stunned Rowan, and turned his attention back to Nott, while Ron threw himself back into the fray.

Slowly, the tide turned in favour of the aurors, until Nott and one other Death Eater were the last two standing, surrounded by aurors pointing their wands at them.

“Give it up,” Harry said calmly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“You’re not taking me alive, Potter,” Nott spat, turning his wand on himself - but before he could do anything, Harry shouted “Petrificus Totalus!”, and Nott fell rigid to the floor, blinking furiously at Harry.

The other Death Eater was quickly stunned, and Harry stood and surveyed the scene. Four of his eight aurors had been cursed, but there was nothing a few nights in St. Mungo’s couldn’t cure.

Then from the front of the warehouse, came the sound of someone clapping slowly. Harry raised his wand automatically, but lowered it again when he saw it was only Sherlock. John, predictably, was standing beside him, looking impressed.

“Well done,” said Sherlock.

Harry sighed. “I thought I told you both to stay outside?” he said, resignedly.

“You said yourself that you didn’t think we’d listen,” said John. “We were just fulfilling your expectations.”

“Of course you were.”

“Harry?” Ron had gone past Sherlock and John and was looking outside.

“Yeah?”

“We have a problem.”

“What?”

“There’s a hell of a lot of muggles out there wondering what all the noise was.”

Harry swore under his breath. “Go back to the ministry and get a team of oblivators out here as soon as possible.”

Ron nodded and apparated away.

“Get them to St. Mungo’s,” he instructed the rest of the aurors, nodding at the four injured ones. “Except you, Owen. You take those two back home.” He gestured at Sherlock and John. “And you two - I’ll be round later when I’m done here,” he warned them.

Owen approached Sherlock and John, and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Hold on tight,” he said, and apparated away too.

Harry surveyed the fallen Death Eaters after the rest of his aurors had apparated away. There was no sign of Amos Diggory.

---

Arriving back at Baker Street, John thought that he’d be happy if he never travelled by apparation again. It was a throughly unpleasant sensation. Owen dropped them off in their living room, and promptly disappeared again.

“Well,” said John, after he’d made sure all his limbs were present and accounted for. “That was... interesting.”

Sherlock only made a ‘hmm’ sound, wiggling his fingers in front of his face.

“I certainly don’t have any desire to experience that apparation again, either,” he said, eventually.

It was several hours before the doorbell rang. John was closest to the window. Looking out, he saw Harry, Ron, and someone else being ushered inside by Mrs Hudson.

A minute later, the three of them appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Sherlock, John, this is Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley, Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.

The Minister shook Sherlock’s hand first, then John’s. John liked him instantly - Sherlock, on the other hand, didn’t look quite as taken with him. But that was nothing new, really. He sat down in the armchair nearest the fireplace, put his feet up on the coffee table, and stared out the window.

“Er, fancy a cup of tea?” offered John.

“No, thank you, Doctor,” said Shacklebolt. “We won’t be staying that long. We just want to debrief you, then we’ll leave you be.”

Sherlock made a disbelieving noise from his armchair. The three wizards stared at him. John, however, had spent the last few hours watching Sherlock descend into this mood and was used to it by now.

“Ignore him,” he said. “Have a seat.”

The three wizards sat down on the sofa - John took the remaining armchair.

“So, er, debriefing?”

“We want to thank you for your help in this case-” Shacklebolt began, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“You wouldn’t know there even was a case if it wasn’t for us.” He paused. “Well, me.”

“Sherlock,” said John calmly. “Do us a favour and shut up.”

Sherlock glared at John, then returned to staring out the window. Shacklebolt looked at him, then, recognising that anything he said would be ignored, turned to address John for the rest of the conversation.

“Thanks for your help in bringing the case to our attention and helping with it,” he said.

“It was no problem,” said John.

Harry took over speaking. “The first few interrogations are showing that the Death Eaters were planning to try and resurrect Voldemort, and when the first victim - Charlotte Wylie, refused to give them any information, they killed him. And then they kept on going until the murder of Lynn Nicholas yesterday morning.”

“Yes, yes, we know that, that’s boring,” said Sherlock. Harry rolled his eyes.

“All of them have confessed under veritaserum,” he continued, “and the interrogators are just trying to work out the list of all the things they’re guilty of.”

John frowned. “What about, what’s his name, Amos Diggory? You mentioned him earlier.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock got there first.

“Dead.”

“How do you know that?” Shacklebolt asked warily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “When those two were discussing his character earlier, they were very surprised by the news of his recent divorce. I am led to believe that the breakup of a marriage is often a fairly traumatic and painful thing, and someone coming along and talking about resurrection research going on in the department of mysteries and saying that if he gives them information and this works out, he could get his son back - a mentally healthy man would be tempted. One who has recently found himself living alone after a long period of time and possibly suffering from depression might find the offer nearly impossible to refuse.”

“How are you getting ‘dead’ from that?” asked Ron.

“If he was such a good man that the two of you found it nearly impossible to believe he’d work for Death Eaters, undoubtedly seeing someone else die as a result of his actions would bring him back to his right mind. And if he stops helping them - what other choice do they have but to kill him?”

Sherlock moved his gaze from the window to the ceiling above his head.

“He’s right,” Harry said. “Nott confessed to killing him.”

“What else is there to discuss?” said Shacklebolt. “Ah, yes - it was the muggle police that first connected the crimes. We’ve marked the cases in their files as closed, and the cause of death as natural, in case anyone asks.”

John nodded in understanding. Sherlock ignored him.

“And I think that’s all,” said Shacklebolt, standing up. “If you have any other questions or problems or cases you think magic may be involved in, please get in touch. I’d be only too glad to help. Mycroft knows how to contact me.” Harry and Ron stood too.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his brother, but he didn’t say anything.

“Nice to meet you,” said John, “and thanks for coming round.”

“No problem.” said Harry, pausing at the top of the stairs with Ron while Shacklebolt continued down. “Nice to meet you too. Maybe I’ll see you again.” He shook John’s hand, then followed the Minister out of the building.

Ron shook John’s hand too. “He does seem to keep your life interesting, huh?” He gestured back to Sherlock, and grinned. “Personally, he gives me a headache.”

“Well, where would I be without a friend that continually puts my life in danger?” John said, smiling.

Ron laughed. “Believe me mate, I know the feeling.”

-END-

Prompt:
"Things here are not as they seem" (I may have taken that and ran a little far!)