He opened the wardrobe and took a box from the bottom shelf. The box contained an old set of wizard's robes-three sizes larger than he needed. Putting the box on the table in front of him, he sat down, took out a pack of cigarettes, and after counting them, lit one. Having lost himself in thought, he completely forgot to use an ashtray and dropped the whitish column of ash onto the dully gleaming tabletop. That made him decide that this was a good opportunity to recall the old days. The cleaning spell was fairly successful the first time. Then he took up the robes and, after a second attempt, reduced them to the right width.
The car provided by his workplace transported the gentleman to an inconspicuous alley with an old telephone booth. Putting on the robes over his business suit, he entered the booth and dialed a number.
"Ministry of Magic", a pleasant female voice whispered, "please state your name and the purpose of your visit, sir."
He stated them and the floor of the booth started to glide downwards. Soon he beheld a huge atrium with a fountain in the middle. After the war, the golden statues were remade, taking into account the current fashion. The figures of the witch and wizard were surrounded by the statues of the elf, goblin, and centaur, and the entire group was looking in the direction, so to say, of the common goal.
Our gentleman looked askance at the fountain and continued walking towards the lift. Passing witches and wizards were glancing at him curiously-despite his wizard's robes, he looked very Mugglish.
It took him some time to find the right office. A young red-haired man stood up from behind the desk to greet him.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Weasley."
They shook hands.
"Is the portkey ready?"
"Yes, sir. So is the one in Hogwarts. When you return, you'll arrive back at my office."
"Very well. How is your family?"
"Thank you sir, everything is all right, everyone is well."
The red-haired man pointed to the cup which was surrounded by a faint blue shimmer. As soon as the gentleman touched it, an invisible hand grabbed him somewhere around the navel and dragged him away.
"Ah, there you are, my boy," he heard a woman's voice. "Oh, but you don't feel quite yourself, do you? Has it been a while since you've used a portkey? Please do sit down. Perhaps some tea?"
He was finally able to see clearly.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. Thank you, I would like some tea."
"She's gotten noticeably older," thought the guest, looking at the Headmistress, who was dressed in a tartan robe, as was her custom.
"You've turned into quite an imposing gentleman, my dear boy."
The Headmistress seated herself at her desk and rang the bell. A large tray appeared out of thin air.
"Help yourself. Let me pour you some tea."
"I'm flattered," muttered her guest, while thinking, "I wonder what she needs from me."
"Judging by your successfully shrunk robes, you have not forgotten what you'd studied in school."
"Necessity forced me to remember."
"Yes, you've lost a significant amount of weight. I'd even say that you've grown rather too thin. Do you have so much work to do, or are you on a diet?"
Her guest gave a longing glance at the cream cakes and buns. But it seemed impolite to refuse.
"I do have a great deal of work to do, you are right in that, ma'am."
"The school desperately needs your help; the case is an extremely secret one."
"All the cases I handle are."
"A murder occurred, but the aurors weren't able to handle it."
"A murder? In the school?"
"In Hogsmeade. But, you see...it was Filch who was killed."
"What?" the guest moved his teacup aside.
"Yes… just imagine."
"But why did the aurors not find the criminal?"
"Because the murder was committed entirely without magic. Filch's head was just stove in. And we can't give Veritaserum to every resident of Hogsmeade and every person in the school. That's impossible."
"So how would I be able to help?"
"Not you-your brother. He's the best at what he does, isn't he?"
"No, I'm sorry, but that's out of the question."
"But why?"
The guest sighed.
"As you know, he was born a Squib-the first in many generations of our family. My parents and I were very careful to conceal from him who we actually are. He didn't know what school I was attending, and we never used magic in front of him. In fact, he had never even seen a magic wand.
"By the way, where is yours?"
Her guest pointed at his umbrella.
"How amusing. Just like Hagrid's."
"The comparison is not quite an apt one, ma'am. Hagrid has only a piece of a wand in his umbrella. I, on the other hand…"
He lifted his umbrella and sketched in the air a bouquet of flowers, already in the vase, which smoothly lowered itself down onto the Headmistress' table.
"Excellent magic, my dear Mycroft!"
"Thank you, ma'am. But you realize that I would have to explain to Sherlock that magic exist. He's not too fond of me as it is, and if I tell him…"
"Out of all the Slytherin graduates, only you were my favourite…"
"Ma'am, you're not playing fair…"
"Please help us, Mycroft. There is nothing bad in your brother's learning the truth about his own family. I don't think that his not having magic will be a great shock to him. He is a...genius, as it is."
"A genius...Can you imagine what will be left of Hogsmeade, if we let Sherlock run through it? And what about the school? Have you thought about what would happen to the school?"
At that point, a squeaky coughing sound issued from the direction of the portraits on the wall.
"You've been obstinate long enough, Holmes!"
The headmistress gave a start.
"Merlin! He spoke! For the first time in so many years! Even Potter wasn't able to…"
"It's enough to make anybody speak!" grumbled a gloomy-looking black-haired man in the portrait. "Holmes, enough already. Even my patience has run out. You fuss over your brother just as much as the entire wizarding world fusses over Potter."
"Professor Snape, my brother isn't just somebody…" Mycroft began.
"That's quite enough! How long does one have to talk you into this? You've buried your talent as it is-here you are, working for Muggles, and you had shown such promise! Why, you could have become the best expert on poisons in this century! Even...even better than I was." The man in the portrait grimaced.
"Oh, come now, Severus," said the headmistress. "You're being unnecessarily harsh on the boy."
"He's hardly a boy, is he now?! Holmes, march straight off to London with you and don't return without your brother! And, Minerva, if you don't like the way I speak to one of my former students, then I can stop talking for another ten years or so!"
"May I at least finish my tea?!" pleaded Mycroft, hastily taking a bite of his bun.
"You may finish your tea," Snape kindly allowed.
"Hello, John." Mycroft stopped in the entryway, looking hesitant. "How is Sherlock today?"
"Lying on the couch, face to the wall, and sulking," answered Dr. Watson.
"All right. He might be interested in this case...John, do you have anything to drink?"
"Drink? In the early afternoon? Are you in some sort of trouble, Mycroft?"
"Not yet, but I will be."
"Let's go upstairs," John said, sympathetically.
Sherlock didn't even stir when they appeared upstairs. Although he did shrug his shoulder a bit when his brother sat down by the fireplace and John handed him a glass of whiskey.
"Do you want to take a new case, Sherlock? You seem to be bored."
"Government again? I refuse to play their games."
"Oh no, not the government this time. The caretaker of my former school has been murdered."
Sherlock turned to face them, and then even sat straight up, and stared at his brother.
"In your former school? That school you went to, over in Scotland?"
"Yes...I have spoken with the headmistress, Professor McGonagall. She was very much hoping for your assistance."
"My assistance? Why not yours? You would have been able to sort it out, no less than I would."
"She considers you to be the better specialist of us two."
"Pardon me, Mycroft…" John interrupted. "What did you say the professor's name was?"
"McGonagall."
"Ah…" John opened his mouth slightly. "You're joking, aren't you?"
"No, John, I am not joking. I would like to make a joke, if I could, given the situation. But I doubt I could have come up with such a witty remark."
Sherlock looked surprised. John thought that if Mycroft's aim was to stir up his brother, he succeeded.
"John, you seem to know more about it than I do. What is he talking about?"
"Well, actually, just about every person in Great Britain, and many people in other countries, have heard the name of Minerva McGonagall," John laughed. "I must say, you've quite a sense of humour, Mycroft."
"John. I. Am. Not. Joking."
John stared at Mycroft.
"You must have worked a lot of hours lately," he began.
"Thank you, I don't need to see a psychiatrist. Nor a doctor. I am perfectly all right."
"You said the caretaker had been murdered?"
"Yes."
"Pardon me, was it Mr Filch?"
"John, what the hell?" Sherlock could no longer restrain himself.
By now, Watson was looking at Mycroft with barely-concealed pity. Mycroft, meanwhile, kept sipping his whiskey, looking perfectly calm although he was trembling inside.
"The thing is, Filch was murdered in a perfectly banal way. He was hit on the head. It happened in the village near the school at which he was working."
"Perfectly banal…" John muttered, mechanically.
"Yes, and the aurors weren't able to find anything out."
"Good heavens...Mycroft, have you been to work today?"
"No. As I told you, I was asked to visit the Ministry of Magic."
At this point, Sherlock leapt off his seat and hopped over to the armchair. Pale, he was looking at his brother, and Mycroft thought that he should have discussed Hogwarts before this-if only for the purpose of seeing this expression in his younger brother's eyes.
"Mycroft!" yelled Sherlock, shaking his brother's shoulders so hard that Mycroft dropped his glass, and whiskey splashed out onto the carpet. "Stop this at once!"
The elder Holmes suddenly had a ...thought.
"Call Mummy," he asked, dying overtones in his voice.
"John, my phone!"
John dashed around the living room, found the mobile and passed it to Sherlock.
"Mother!" Sherlock nearly yelled into the phone. "What? I'm all right, but Mycroft isn't!"
"Damn…" John looked at the elder Holmes, but the latter was sitting, closely watching the puddle on the carpet.
"What's the matter with Mycroft? Well, he's not right in the head! He came to visit me and said that the caretaker in his former school was murdered. Mother? Yes...murdered...Filch? How do you know? John mentioned the same surname…" Sherlock looked at John. "Mycroft says that...he was asked to visit some kind of a Ministry of Magic...Eh?" He was already groping for the chair with his hand. "What's that? I should go? Mother?! What on earth is the matter with both of you?!"
Mrs Holmes must have abruptly ended the conversation, because Sherlock was just staring at the phone blankly.
"John," Mycroft spoke again, "if you would be so kind, can you please give me my umbrella. But be VERY careful when you carry it."
John, still certain that the poor fellow has lost his mind, still carried out his request, holding the famous umbrella gingerly, as if it were about to explode.
"And now look, John. Look closely. And you, Sherlock, also look."
Mycroft aimed the tip of the umbrella at the puddle and drew a curve in the air. The wet spot left by the whiskey immediately vanished. John fell to his knees and started feeling the carpet, and then lifted his head and looked at Mycroft, horrified.
"But that's...not possible…"
"Not a bad trick," said Sherlock, mostly out of habit.
"But it cannot be possible!" John continued pleading.
"Alas, John, that's the truth."
"And that's where...you...went to school?" John's voice lowered to an ominous whisper.
Mycroft nodded.
"Which House?"
"Slytherin."
"What are you hissing about, over there?" Sherlock grew indignant. "Maybe you can finally explain to me why my mother is having some sort of a daft moment as well? She told me to go with you, Mycroft. What was the name...some name it is that they gave your school...some Wart of a Hog, or something. Phew…"
"But Mycroft, you are...how old? Thirty-seven?" John was still sitting on the carpet, looking upwards at the elder Holmes.
"Yes…"
"So you were born in 1975? So then, while you were still at school, a new student came to the school...right?"
"Yes, Harry Potter started at our school."
"Are you making fun of me?" Sherlock finally understood what this was all about. He leapt to his feet, once again, and seemed to be about to pound John with his fists. "Potter? You've nothing better to do, is that it? As to me, that's all right. I have nothing better to do, at this time. But why the hell are the two of you playing at, here? Mycroft, you've definitely lost your mind! But today, in case you haven't noticed, is not All Fools' Day!"
"Sherlock, I'm sorry," uttered Mycroft and pointed the tip of his umbrella at Sherlock. "Quietus. Stupefy."
Sherlock fell onto the seat of the chair and froze, unable to make the slightest move. He kept opening his mouth, but no sound came out.
"Now then, John. Mrs Rowling would not have been able to publish her book, which has been made into eight films, if the Ministry of Magic and the Cabinet of Ministers, and two European governments besides, did not agree to relax the Statute of Secrecy. Muggles were being prepared to accept new knowledge of the world. I am not going to go into detail about the complicated situation at the moment in the international affairs-you're aware of that yourself. I won't go into the ecologic problems which concern both Muggles and wizards. All of my family have been pureblood wizards for the last several generations. All of us have gone to school at Hogwarts. Almost all of us were in Slytherin House. But I am the first who went to work for Muggles. That was specifically because our governments needed to establish rapport-
"Especially considering the Second Wizard War. Sherlock, unfortunately, had been born a Squib, but his genius mind more than made up for it. We very carefully concealed our essence from him, so as not to traumatize him. Neither my parents nor I ever used magic in front of him. He does not read fashionable books, films in the genre of...erm...fantasy he's never watched either, so we could rest easy on that score."
"Snape was your Head of House?"
"Yes. I was one of the students he favoured," Mycroft said with pride in his voice.
"Dumbledore, oh my God…"
"When I graduated from Hogwarts, the Headmaster was still alive. I graduated the year when the Chamber of Secrets was opened and the basilisk was crawling through the school. Oh my God, Sherlock!" Here Mycroft looked at his brother and pointed the umbrella at him. "Forgive me, my boy. Finite Incantatem."
"...so you, too, are a damn wizard then?! You didn't want to traumatize me, did you?!" the end of the phrase which Sherlock had been trying to soundlessly yell before, issued from his lips.
"Wait, will you?" John waved that aside. "So is it true then, that all the pureblood families are related to each other?"
"It is true, John. Do you want to find out about our ancestry?"
"Of course I do!"
"Please, sit down in an armchair then, it's getting rather awkward."
John crept over to the nearest armchair and sat down.
"The Holmeses are distantly related to the Malfoys and the Weasleys. I saw Ronald just this morning. He now has his own office in the Auror department, fancy that."
"And what is your attitude towards Muggles?" John asked suspiciously.
"Quite positive, since I work for them," Mycroft finally smiled. "Although we are an old family, we have had some half-bloods who were magical. The Holmeses never supported either Grindelwald or the Dark Lord."
"That's a relief," John exhaled, relaxing. "I will wake up soon, but let this dream go on for a bit longer. I've never had a more interesting one."
"Incidentally, John, we are having exactly the same dream," Sherlock grumbled. "And you know, this thing...magic...it's not so good after all. Mycroft, but how can I-assuming I've believed you-how can I get into your school? Since I'm a...erm...squeak?..."
"Squib. You can't do magic, but you're still a part of the magical world. Mr Filch, incidentally, also was a Squib, but that didn't interfere with him working as a caretaker in a magical school all his life. You, Sherlock, can see magic, you could, if you wanted tell wizards apart from the Muggles, you would be able to access the areas of magical London…"
"But how come I have never seen any of that? Even by chance?"
"Forgive us...It did happen when you were a child, now and then, but we...I mean Mom and Dad, carefully obliviated you."
"And that's my own parents!" Sherlock dramatically cried out. "Obliviated their own son!"
"Don't get in a fuss," said John. "They simply wanted to spare you the anxiety. Mycroft, would you be able to take me with you, too? Am I allowed?"
"I actually haven't agreed yet, in case you haven't noticed," Sherlock drawled through gritted teeth.
"Of course you are allowed, John," Mycroft answered, ignoring his brother's ire. "And you'll even be able to see the Ministry of Magic. Traveling by portkey isn't very comfortable, however. But it's better than using brooms to fly."
"Oh! I've just realized! You know how to fly on a broom?"
"I do, but I don't enjoy it. And I can anticipate your next question: I've never played Quidditch," Mycroft smiled.
Here, they both simultaneously looked at Sherlock, because they were expecting at least some sort of reaction from him, but he was sitting still with his mouth literally hanging open, staring at his older brother, until he finally said,
"I regret that you are my brother, and not my sister. That would indeed look very fitting: a witch astride her broom...Oh...but Mummy...John, give me some water. And another thing...Mycroft, I will go to your school, but only if you show me how you fly on a broom."
Poor Mycroft made a face.
"All right. I'll borrow one from Mummy. And I'm not flying over London! That's my last word!"
The four of them sat drinking tea in Minerva McGonagall's office. Sherlock has solved the case brilliantly, and he and John already managed to explore the entire castle. John, who had secretly read all the books and watched all the films, kept comparing the real Hogwarts to its copies. He quickly found common ground with Madam Pomfrey-she shared some potion recipes with him which could pass for Muggle folk remedies for colds and rheumatism, and gave him a jar of liniment for Mrs Hudson's hip. Sherlock, meanwhile, spent a couple hours hanging about Professor Slughorn's laboratory in the dungeons.
The investigation itself turned out to be interesting. As Sherlock found out, there had been no murder, in fact-only an accident, which the owner of the village shop tried to conceal so as not to be blamed for negligence. His neighbours had been telling him for a long time that he ought to have the roofing tiles replaced, but he kept putting it off.
"We very much regret interrupting your work, Mycroft," Minerva was saying.
"Not at all, ma'am, no need to apologize."
Mycroft was modestly looking down in his cup, but Sherlock just couldn't sit still, and kept walking about the office, peering at the book spines and the enchanted portraits.
"That's your Head of House, isn't he?" asked Sherlock, pointing at the portrait.
"Young man, in this place, it is not customary to point at portraits as if they were inanimate things," the displeased Snape grated.
That was the first time the portrait spoke in Sherlock's presence, but he did not show the slightest fear.
"Curious," said he. "To what extent does your image, sir, copy your living personality? I'll have to read more about this technology."
He has already figured out that he could visit the wizarding areas, and, therefore, could have access to the wizarding bank and wizarding shops. Horrified, John was contemplating what their flat was going to turn into, after a while.
"Still, it was a blessing in disguise," Minerva continued. "I have finally met your brother. I remember how much you missed him when you were in school, my boy."
Mycroft choked on his tea, and Sherlock snorted and turned around.
"We still would not have been able to go to school together, given the difference in age," said he. "Even if I were a wizard. But, as it turns out, there is something I hadn't known about my brother."
"Sherlock, please come over here," asked the Headmistress. "You've been a great help to us, and, with the permission of the Ministry, the school wants to give you a gift."
Minerva waved her wand, and a small box appeared on her table.
Sherlock opened the box and took out a rubber ball.
"This is a one-time magic spell," Minerva explained. "It looks like a regular item, but it is a rare artifact."
"So how does it work?"
"It will fulfill any one wish you have. Any wish. But take good care of it, don't use it frivolously."
Sherlock turned the ball around in his hands a few times and threw it on the floor. John gasped. The ball simply bounced up from the floor, but nothing happened.
"Don't worry, doctor-for the magic to work, one has to squeeze the ball hard in one's hand and think of the wish."
"If I understand correctly, I can't become a wizard, no matter what?" Sherlock inquired.
"Alas, you cannot. Otherwise, there would be no squibs."
"Thank you. I hope your gift will be of help to me at some point in time, ma'am."
Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the laboratory, waiting for the morning. He was not afraid of meeting Moriarty and was thinking only of the fact how badly he and his brother have treated John. During their last conversation, Mycroft obliviated John's memories of the magical world. But John's safety demanded that. Sherlock was thinking that once he returned, he would definitely tell his friend about everything again and would take him to Diagon Alley. Maybe they could even visit Hogwarts. As he was sitting there, he mechanically kept tossing a small rubber ball at the side of the lab bench. The ball kept bouncing back into his hand.
Original fic in Russian is at: snapetales dot com slash index dot php question mark fic underscore id equal sign 30861