Leaky Caldron

A memory lingered on the fringe of Sherlock's mind. A constant companion on all his adventures.

Memories he kept to himself, ones that he never spoke of or acknowledged existed.

But there were times his head would whip around, his heart beating frantically in hope until his eyes beheld the crashing disappointment that always followed. That was the worst part of it because, just as he once more began to accept the logical conclusion, something would spark that disillusion irrational want of hope. He would never get closure, and because of that he could never completely let her go, no matter how many years passed in every crowd, in every case he was still searching for his childhood summer friend.

He had known her for a grand total of six weeks of his life. One week a year for six years he had a friend until she and her family vanished without a trace never to be seen or heard from again. That was ten years ago, ten years of searching, ten years of disappointment, and ten years without one lead or clue because as far as anyone in England was concerned Hermione Granger did not nor ever has exists.

Yet he had known her and could not stop seeing her just out of his eye line in every crowd in every case.

Over time he began to wonder if Hermione only lived in his imagination.

His parents claimed he had an active imagination as a child, something he purged from his adult life. Still there were times he would recall more of the elusive memory like her eyes deep, brown, so kind and intelligent. She always wore dresses, the skirt swaying in the breeze like a delicate bell. The way she would bite her lower lip when she was in deep concentration. And that first day in the forest, her crouched down in boots, skirt tucked into her belt as she examined a little beetle she held delicately in her hand. Other memories surfaced through the years, memories of the girl, recollections he couldn't possibly have dreamt up.

He was sitting in a bar his thoughts turning back to the man he was surveying, his very own potential stocker. This man had been watching him for weeks now, and Sherlock was determined to find out why.

The man was the same age as Sherlock himself, untidy black hair and unkempt clothes made him appear disinterested of his surroundings. At first glance the man looked approachable completely unthreatening, but all one had to do was look at his eyes. They were filled with death and a hardness that could not be mistaken. The easy smile on the man's face made him look friendly but he had seen war, had killed and would do it again.

Sherlock waved the bartender over ordering another drink as the target waved someone over. Sherlock casually looked behind him observing the gangly red head that was strode over to the dark haired man. They greeted each other with a friendly hug and the red hair man ordered himself a drink as he took the chair next to the dark hair man with glasses.

They talked and ate for twenty minutes then they got up and walked to the back of the establishment. Sherlock followed keeping to the shadows stalking them through an open arch way and into a crowded alley.

Truth was they must have known they were being followed both vanishing into the crowd before the detective's eyes he couldn't track either and the more he searched the more the oddity of his situation became apparent.

Because he was lost.

No really Sherlock Holmes was lost somewhere in central London. A city he knew like the back of his hand, every obscene little back alley, and secret archive he had made himself familiar with so that there was nowhere to hide, not from Sherlock Holmes: or at least so he thought.

But in the back of an obscure little bar and through a brick arch way were old and cobbled roads familiar yet unique in the irregularity of the path, little shops smashed up against one another of brick, wood, glass, and stone. A whole knew universe that Sherlock had scarcely imagined existed in such a compact area. Many of the shop's architectural structure simply made no sense, logically there was no way many of the building should be erect particularly the large marble white one that read Gringotts Bank at the end of the alley way. The people were just as odd as the buildings, dressed funny in colorful cloaks and pointy hats. A woman with a purple hat a slick black cat in her arms, a dark haired man in an emerald green robe gripping a broom like he intended to ride it like a stick horse, a child with yellow hair gesturing excitedly at sweets in a window as his parent drags him past.

The air smelled of potent herbs and animal waste Sherlock turned taking in all the little shops; the sweet shop was Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, there was also a shop that had strange looking creature in its window named Magical Menagerie, a book store with a fascinating display window of motion book covers, an apothecary, and shop that sold only brooms each claiming to be faster than the last.

It's the red hair that catches the detective eye as Sherlock weaves through the crowd ducking into a joke shop of unparalleled quality. It's packed from wall to wall with children eager to spend money. Their excitement buzzing around the room. Sherlock's attention never wavering from the red head man that had been with his suspect. The man hoists himself up sliding over the counter skillfully, before donning an apron. An employee, Sherlock muses, surveying the shop for his suspect, the red head man no longer important.

There were too many people, not just children but adults ranging in shape and size. Sherlock pushed through the crowd looking at every face, as he did so. He had lost the suspect completely; this wasn't a first but it certainly did not get easier with time.

He turned deciding that perhaps the suspect worked in a different shop and the two men had met for lunch, pushing his way back up to the door. A woman stood there her brown hair pinned up, and when Sherlock caught himself from nearly bowling her over he stopped short staring at her in disbelief hope. The pretty heart shaped face and big quizzically brown eyes looked as startled as he must. She was wearing a dress, a sweater dress with leggings and boots. She looked beautiful and more importantly alive and very real.

Just like that his mission was forgot. He takes a step forward his hand raising as if to touch her just to prove he wasn't dreaming. He began to whisper her name, a name he had not put voice to in such a long time, "Her…" Sherlock is cut short, at a man yelling, "Stupify!" behind him, the detective crumples to the ground unable to stop the full impact of the fall.

1988- Good Morning

He was purposely getting the crap beat out of him by Karl Price. A boy twice his size and only slightly his elder. Karl knew how to throw a punch and Sherlock knew how to take one.

Mycroft had saw to that.

Sherlock was nine and wanted nothing more in the world than to have friends. Karl Price, however, wanted nothing more than to torment the town outsider. Being home schooled did not endear the young Holmes boys to the other children, they lacked social niceties that one learns with proper socialization that neither boy had received from their parents.

This particular fight was an experiment; how far would Karl go before stopping on his own accord.

Sherlock had been a punching bag for the last four minutes and 43 seconds, and Karl was showing no signs of fatigue let alone compassion. Karl's goons had stopped their encouraging taunts 30 seconds ago, their facial expressions ranging from morbid curiosity to outright disgust. Sherlock decided to give it another two minutes before he proved just how capable he was compared to this stupid jock.

The only sound was of Karl's fist hitting a young Sherlock. He staying quiet refusing to put voice to his pain as fist pounding into him again and again. Sherlock's silence only seemed to encourage Karl and when Sherlock smiled up at the bully, blood running down the younger boy's face, the rage that blossomed in Karl's expression was a precious treasure that young Sherlock would cherish for a long time.

Sherlock heard the little footstep on the gravel, saw the small girl with wild brown curls clinching a large book to her chest approaching from behind the bully. "Stop!" The girl's voice was loud and demanding, not an ounce of fear showed on her pretty little face.

Karl turned his body coiling in an unnatural way as if he had no control over obeying. His fist paused mid hit, his grip still on Sherlock as he looked back at the girl.

"Let him go." She commanded and surprisingly Karl obeyed releasing Sherlock. The bullie's expression scared and angry as he looked down at his shaking hands then back up at the girl.

She smiled haughtily, her straight posture with an air of superiority. "You will not touch him again. You will leave him alone." She demands and Karl's expression went from bewilderment to seething rage.

The girl began to tap her foot impatiently waiting for the bully's confirmation, seemingly ignorant of her own peril as she raises her chin defiantly at the bully.

"Who the hell are you?" Karl sneered, popping his knuckles menacing.

Her eyes flashed and her haughty smile turned down right arrogant. "Jean Reau's granddaughter."

The bullies' face paled and he took a few step away from the girl.

Sherlock shook his head, picking himself up off the ground as the bully and his goons turned tail and ran away.

The girl was suddenly there at young Sherlock's elbow, her hand on his arm invading his personal space without permission as she attempted to help him up.

He shrugged her off not needing her help of sympathy.

She glared at him stepping away as if hurt by his silent rejection.

"You shouldn't pick fights. Violence doesn't solve anything. Whatever your quarrel with Karl Price can hardly be worth the beating you just took." The girl's know-it-all tone encouraging Sherlock to smile ruefully.

"What I should use my words? That is what got me in trouble to begin with. Karl takes office when people use words he doesn't understand, like the, a, of, and to. Besides what would a girl know of such things with your dolls and nail polish. I didn't need your help I had everything under control." He bites out still unbelieving that Karl would give up so easily.

The girl tilted her head eyeing him shrewdly. "No doubt, but I was more concerned about your plans for Karl." She didn't seem as offended as Sherlock had hoped.

This took young Sherlock by surprise. "Why would you concern yourself with him?"

She was taking his measurements. It was a look of scrutiny Sherlock was all too familiar with and put him on defense.

This girl had no right to look at him like that.

"My grandma likes to remind me that people peak at different times in their lives. Karl Price is still a little boy, you however…" Her words trail off and she is shaking her head, turning as if to walk away without another word. "An infant."

"Am not!" He shouts at her. "The witch you mean, your grandmother." He snickers. "The idiot bully still believes in magic and make belief and you defend him when I'm that one that was getting knocked around? Well neither you or your crazy grandmother concern me. In fact, next time you can mind your own business and keep walking."

"Oh Sherlock, for such a smart boy, you are incredibly stupid." She tells him turning her back on him, leaving him to contain with his own wounds.

It doesn't dawn on him until he is sneaking in the back door of his home, trying to stay out of his mother's eye line that while the girl had known his name, no introduction had been made, and he did not know hers.

The next day Sherlock sneeks out of the house before his parents can see him and ultimately the proof of his fight. He puts Redbeard on a leash deciding to take his best friend on a walk. It was a cover as he made his way through the field behind his house and up the road towards the coast where Jean Reau's little cottage sat.

It was said the old woman was a witch brewing potions and cures for anything from the common cold to a broken heart. Only the most desperate or foolish set foot on her door step. Sherlock had seen her a few times in town, she was younger than he supposed a witch ought to be, perhaps fifty. She had dark brown hair with the slightest streak of gray at her right temple.

Sherlock was fascinated with the mystery she posed. Why was she deemed a witch and what was it that people feared about her because there was certainly no such thing as magic.

If his mother had always been an older mother, this woman a young grandmother. There was an authority in the witch's air and a shrewdness about her that reminded young Sherlock of the girl he had run into.

From the similarities in the swoop of the nose and color of hair, the depth of knowledge in the eyes, and the girls bravery that must have come from a touch of her grandmother's own madness.

Jean Reau was already in the garden behind her house at work, a gray cat stalking mice close by. The woman had a sun hat on, her hands gloved as she worked pulling up weeds as she hummed to herself. Redbeard strained against the leash; the hound's eye on the cat and an idea formed in his head as he let the leash slip from his grip.

Redbeard darted off straight for the cat, who turned with a mean hiss and swat of its paw standing it's ground. Jean swooped in grabbing the dog's leash holding Redbeard back as the cat arched it's back and makes another brave swat with its front paw claws drawn.

Redbeard ducks back clearly a coward, allowing Jean to restrain him. "That was a cruel trick, boy." The woman observed looking over to where Sherlock is running up as if to intervene. "No need for games, all you had to do was say, Good morning." The woman locked her gaze firmly on Sherlock and he felt properly scolded. He nodded silently taking the leash of his dearest friend from the witch woman. "There, there. Pat him, pet him. Let him know you are sorry for his distress. Show him you care." Jean instructs watching with shrewd eyes as Sherlock does as she instructs.

"She is not here." Jean states when Redbeard has stopped shivering turning her attention back to her garden.

"Who?" Sherlock ask not wanting to put into words what he refuses to acknowledge. The witch seems to understand.

She sighs exasperated. "I told her the story of how the beetle got her colors this morning. She will be in the wood just down there were the fallen birch lays." Jean points to the west and dismissing the boy and dog.

Sherlock stands there arguing with himself watching the mean old cat dart under the house, before making his decision. Turning abruptly and marching towards the woods, Redbeard at his side.

Addict

He awoke with a headache, a pair of polished black shoes in his eye line. The detective curses as he pulls himself up off the floor wiping the saliva off his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Where is the list?" Mycroft asks sternly leaning on his knees hand out stretched expectantly. Sherlock looks around the floor, checks the breast pocket of his coat, where he normally puts it only to find it empty. The detective doesn't recall taking anything but the nasty headache and sharpness of the dream he suffered suggested otherwise.

He had gone down deeper than he thought possible. It had felt so real, he touched his face expecting to find dried blood and a dull throb from bruising. He was fine, no bodily harm.

It had felt so real.

Sherlock shrugs absently running a hand through his hair.

Mycroft clears his throat, preparing for a well rehearse lecture for his baby brother. "The system is there for a reason. How am I supposed to help you if you don't make a list?" Mycroft bites out, the inquiry controlled and harsh.

It was how his brother showed he cared.

"NO list, no drugs." Sherlock barks back, Mycroft's voice only hurting his head more.

Mycroft sits back in John's chair his beady eyes assessing.

"I didn't take anything, now get out." Sherlock shakes his head not needing this right now.

the detective needed to keep a hold of his dream, and figure out what the hell did happened last night. He was out chasing a lead, but other than that he remembered nothing and the dream was slipping from his conscious mind.

He stood abruptly and marched into his room, searching for the hidden note book. He needed to record it all while it was fresh. He slams his bedroom door to cutting off whatever Mycroft was preparing to say.

Sherlock pulled a text book from the shelf and opened it up quickly scribbling down the pieces he remembered exactly as he recalled, even the parts that seemed ridiculous. It all meant something. He read over the last entry, then he places the journal back in its hiding spot grabbing clean clothes and heading for the shower.

The front door opened then close, Mycroft letting himself out of the flat.

John is sitting in his chair with a sharp expression when Sherlock emerges fully dressed intending to once more visit the name of the bar in the journal. He pauses mid-step looking to his friend, "Rinelle." Sherlock says aloud comprehending the reason for John's silent senor.

"I waited four hours, by myself. I knew after the first half hour that you forgot. But I kept expecting for you to show up, Rinelle wasn't happy and like an idiot I kept making excuses thinking you would remember and eventually show up. Did you lose your phone?" The doctor asked, standing digging into his pocket pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock pats himself down realizing he must have; his phone was gone. "What's this?" Sherlock asks holding the paper up shaking his head, hoping he lost his mobile in the pub.

"The receipt." John states monotone.

Sherlock shrugs tucking the receipt in his pocket, he will have Mycroft reimburse his friend.

There is silence between the two men, Sherlock observes John's attempt to calm down before the doctor speaks, "No list. Mycroft, told me…about this morning. What good are safe guards if you don't follow them?" John spits out angrily. That ferocious expression as he points at the detective.

"No list, no drugs." Sherlock states plainly, internalizing his irritation. "I assure you I am clean. I was on my way out to retrace my steps; I seem to have miss placed my phone."

John raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Then where were you last night if not blacked out here like Mycroft claims?"

It's Sherlock turn to be silent thinking of how to answer this, because for the life of him he can't remember. Last night is gone, not just a foggy mess of vague recollections. He had completely blacked out, yet there had not been a list. This was not the first time but in the past year it was curiously becoming more and more frequent.

The safe guard had been actively in place for ten years, Sherlock had never once forgot the list since that first time. Not until a few weeks back.

Now it was becoming habit. But theses black outs were different than anything he had experienced before.

"I don't remember." He finally puts voice to and John now looks not only disbelieving but furious.

"Isn't that convenient."

"Amnesia is hardly convenient. I have taken to keeping a journal. Last night's entry implies I had a lead on a stalker case and went on a stake out only to wake up this morning with no recollection of what transpired and rather nasty headache that your shrieking is not helping."

John is shaking his head. "Molly is one her way." The doctor states as calmly as a worried friend can be given the circumstances.

"Why?" Sherlock bellows, but with a pointed look from his friend it's isn't a huge leap of imagination to assume why the coroner was on her way. Once more Sherlock gets to piss in a cup.

Survey Says

The courtroom was packed with magical officials; the three department heads for Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office sat with sour expressions, twelve officials from improper use of Magic office sat with quill in hand ready to take down notes, a group of Aurors sat to left of the proceeding including the head of the department, Harry Potter, and all fifty members of the Wisengamot sat in their plum colored robes to the right. In the whole congregation was a single representative of muggle relations; she sat straight back in the middle of the room under the scrutiny of her peers most of which were traditional idealist with old prejudice and a short sightedness that never seemed to change no matter how hard she worked at opening their eyes. The proceedings were being over seen by Marcia McDonald the newly appointed head of Magical Law enforcement, a position that Hermione had turned down twice, which given her circumstance had probably been a wise decision.

They didn't like to be questioned their traditions challenged and it's because of this Hermione Granger, herself was facing the courts.

"It has come to our attention, that you have conspired, multiple times to cover up a threat to the Statues of Secrecy." Marcia's voice is loud the whole room on the edge of their seat as she begins the proceedings.

"One muggle man hardly seems a threat to a traditional system that has been around for thousands of years." Hermione replies an arrogance in her tone that does not go unnoticed.

"I have it on good authority that he has breached the magical barriers no less than three times in the last few weeks, all said breaches were handled by you, Miss Granger. Please tell the courts, how a simple muggle man with a supposed memories wipe keeps stumbling into our world. Since these incidents were not taken through the proper channels you can see how one might become suspicious of your involvement." Marcia asked in a no nonsense tone, the accusations blatant.

Hermione tried not to huff, the indignity of the unspoken accusations was ridiculous. "Obviate, as is standard practice. A suitable memory to take its place. I did consult the Auror department."

"Hum… yes I see here you reported the latest incident to Harry Potter. You know of course that the Auror department does not handle muggle mind wipes, nor does your own." Marcia comments thumbing through the papers on her desk. "Now can you tell the courts your relationship with the muggle. What put him on the path of his pursuit of our world?" Hermione knew she was being lead, next this woman would bring up her parents.

"My relationship?" Hermione scoffed. "He was a boy that lived in the same neighborhood as my grandmother, we played together once or twice as children. He saw me in a shop having tea with Minerva McGonagall and tracked me down to my apartment. I wiped his memory the moment I realized what happened."

Marcia's eyes narrowed and several of the Wisengamot cast her suspicious looks. "Why wouldn't you have just talked to the man, the exchange seemed simple enough. He knew nothing of magic at the time."

Hermione glared, if they just considered the question for a moment they would know the answer. Her personal affairs were not well-kept secrets, thanks to her ex, still they were going to make her say it. She looked out in the crowd for Harry only she could not find him and Marcia cleared her throat impatiently.

"Because as far as the muggle world is concerned, I was never born." Hermione tone is decisive, challenging.

Several people nodded putting the pieces together understanding the complexity of this case.

The courts murmured and there was a moment pause as the court quieted back down.

"Yes Miss Granger, but could it be that you are purposely suppressing these memories instead of erasing them all together. We are all familiar with your history, why you turned down the Law enforcement position. It would be fair to assume you would not want another incident like your parents."

And there it was…the shot to the gut. The allegation that would hang her out to dry, they did not want reason and logic they wanted an excuse to disband her.

Hermione sat biting her lip, pushing her temper down so not to make these proceedings worse. Marcia McDonald's cruelty was not without merit.

The department of Law enforcement head was not about to let this opportunity pass her by. She was an ambitious woman, though direct and honest, she certainly wasn't about to let corruption go unpunished.

And right now Hermione Granger had stepped outside of the rules, jeopardizing the very structure of the organization she worked for, war hero or not, she was not above the law.

The Statues of Secrecy was the top priority of the Ministry of Magic, any security threat could not go unpunished.

There is something in the muggle born witches' expression that puts the court on edge. Harry Potter stood in the shadows watching the proceeding all the while muttering to himself, willing his friend to keep the words buzzing in her head to herself. Now was not the time to voice unshared opinions no matter how righteous. For in this moment they would fall on deaf ears.

"Miss Granger, it is with great consideration that you will be suspended from your duties at the Ministry of Magic until the pending investigation concerning the muggle in question is concluded. If what you claim is the truth you will be reinstated, if not, well I suggest you reevaluate your priorities, and what little options remain open for you." Marcia McDonald states.

"There is a whole world of options out there that these halls choose to ignore." Hermione whispers, the court hears her all the same. "A whole world that I gave up to be a part of this corrupt one."

Marcia raises a finely plucked eye-brow. "Ignore? Not at all Miss Granger, we are far more aware of that world's dangers than you seem to be; persecution and accusations, bon fires in the streets, loss of innocent life due to ignorant based fears. Joined histories filled with suffering that we do not wish to repeat. We take all pending threats to our way of life very seriously."

"Sherlock is not a threat to anyone but himself." Hermione screeches, a plead, one that Marcia thinks she understands even if the young woman before her does not.

"Your mockery of our traditions have not gone unnoticed. Unlike parts of the community, this court recognizes the good intentions of your youth. If you wish to take responsibility for this muggle perhaps the court could grant him pardons, allow him the knowledge of our existence. You have three months to persuade us that Sherlock Holmes is not a threat to the wizarding world. At which time you will be granted a pardon or he will be taken into custody." Marcia bangs her hammer concluding the meeting.

Sometime later Hermione is in her office putting final touches on a report before her suspension. Harry is sitting across her desk reading his inner office mail. There is a comfortable silence as they work.

"You're being cruel." Harry says breaking the silence. She looks up shocked by his statement he is not looking at her.

"How exactly am I being cruel?" Hermione asks, "I'm keeping him safe."

Harry put the memos in his pockets leaning forward, "There aren't very many people you would give up a career you have worked your whole life for, you proved that with Ron. So why now…why him?"

Hermione sighed leaning back in her chair. "Two in fact."

"So why him?" Harry asks again, picking up a paper weight tossing it from hand to hand.

"I had a happy childhood. One filled with love and adventures. I gave it all up and I'll never get it back." She has tears in her eyes. "Making him forget completely…that seems cruel…this way at least he had one friend. Even if he believed she was imaginary."

"Is this muggle man worth it?" Harry asks, unjudging it is an honest question from a well-meaning friend.

Hermione shrugs a flash of hurt in her eyes. "I made my choice, long ago. I chose to stand at your side, I chose the magical world."

Harry scrutinized her with assessing green eyes. "Sometimes life gives us second chances to make different choices. He isn't like other muggles." Her friend observes.

Again she shrugs, but it's all a ploy, to hid the hurt of this particular conversation. "What do you know of normal muggles? He is my friend, the silly man that I protect in what ways I can."

"By erasing his memories? I wonder who you are really protecting. I still think's its cruel and perhaps a bit selfish. It doesn't matter what memories you steal; he always tends to find you." Harry observes.

She huffs, "Steals." She is shaking her head. "I don't steal them, I am always careful, I simply change his perception."

"And in doing so breaking the law. It seems you could potentially drive him insane with these half memories."

She shakes her head again. "No, like I said, I am always careful."

"Perhaps too careful?" He questions.

"So I go from being cruel to selfish and now careless. I can't help but wonder what you are really asking, Harry?"

Harry is quiet and when she looks up at him his expression seems troubled. "You are gifted at memory charms, so gifted that you can't retrieve your own parent's original memories. So why does he always find you? There is always a ghost of recognition, a desperation in his eyes when he catches sight of you. A compulsion to seek you out. So is it him who is unwilling to let you go, or is it you who is unwilling to give him resolution."

She rubs her hands over her faces and through her hair sighing. "I don't know." She finally whispers and it startles Harry because that was not the answer he was expecting.

"I take what I can without damaging his personality, I don't want to make the same mistake I did with my parents, but I take it all, everything I can find, I take it and lock it down deep. Somehow he always finds it and picks the lock, letting the memories leak out in slow dawning association. There is nothing I can do, for a muggle he had his own protective barriers, it's like he hides a trigger something that I can't seem to find and take."

"Why? Why does he fight so hard to keep you?" Harry asks.

"I don't know." Is her quiet answer.