It had happened again. It was 2nd May 2004, an insignificant date for most, but not for Sherlock. Each time it happened, people questioned it, but gave up as they moved ahead to mundane tasks of their boring lives. Sherlock had been recording the events of this date every year since 2000 and there was an undeniable pattern- a change in fashion trends, an unusual display of fireworks, smiles of celebration. He couldn't decipher the cause. In his research of every cultural group residing in the country, he'd come up with absolutely no information to quell the mystery.

He sighed at the sight of a peaceful neighborhood and resigned to his armchair, closing his eyes to investigate the file in his head he had allowed for this specific date. The information he'd gathered since midnight flitted by for his scrutiny.

"...Potter didn't even attend," said a man in a large cloak, too warm for this weather.

"They say he got married in secret at the Burrow on-" another man in similar garments replied as Sherlock ran past in pursuit of a criminal.

Potter. It was one of the constants on all 02/05. He'd raked through his database for anyone named Potter, but none of them were relevant enough for consideration. He'd been refer to as 'the boy who lived' a few times, so he guessed that this Potter was young.

Another constant- cloaks. These peculiar behaviors were exhibited by people in those garments. Few dressed normally did too, but none of the cloaked ones seemed to fit in with society.

Must be a cult, he decided. It seemed quite obvious, and Sherlock felt shame course through him for not having arrived at the conclusion earlier. Mycroft smirked at him before being pushed back inside another room of Sherlock's mind palace. With a determined expression, the young man put on his overcoat and walked out of his flat with a determined look.

Once in a cab, he flipped his phone open and punched in a series of numbers to call Tony, a teenager who frequently hacked governments for nothing other than a boost for his ego. Whoever Harry Potter was definitely would have a mobile phone.

They'd narrowed down the long list of Harry Potters to just twelve. There were quite a number of children named Harry Potter, but with Potter as a middle name instead of last. The trend in naming children Harry Potter escalated dramatically in 1981, but only towards the end of the year and more recently in 1998. Must be a famous one, this Harry, he decided. Initially, he though he could be some pop star, but eliminated the thought because Tony, a fucking teenager, didn't seem to recognize him. It frustrated him to find so much data, but not much information.

His frown turned up into a subtle smirk when he spotted one of the Harrys. He was twenty four. It was very unusual. The address was fake. On collecting data about his phone signals from the past, he found a peculiar detail. The device couldn't be tracked at specific locations, seemed to disappear only to reappear later in the same spot in which it was last detected.

All the data reeled in his mind uselessly, and he could come up with no conclusion other than SPY. But, a spy wouldn't be famous. That would defeat the purpose. Deciding he wouldn't get anything much from being indoors, he left with his file- yes, a fucking file- to the spot where Harry Potter should be. It was the only case with a physical file. For some reason, Sherlock's past memories about this particular date has been hazy. Like they were wiped, but not completely. Mycroft once again reappeared in his mind to taunt his apparently weak memory and he ignored him once again.

Seven kilometers later, he was stood near a line of houses, right in front of a wall which is the exact geographical location he came for, according to his phone. It was another dead end. It was supposed to be a place beyond which he wouldn't be able to receive calls because of a jammer of sort. Clearly, he was wrong because John Watson was calling him like he instructed him to at this time and Tony just texted that he could still track his phone.

"Are you on that case again?" Came the annoyed voice of his roommate. He didn't reply. He didn't know why he ever bothered picking up. John was weirdly against him taking this case.

"You have a client here with a case that's at least a six on your crazy scale."

"I remember telling you quite clearly to refrain from disturbing me for anything less than an eight."

"Sherlock, we have no money and need to pay this thing called rent if we have to continue living here. Mrs. Hudson said she'll begin loo-"

John's voice drowned in the background when he heard the door to Number 13 open. He disconnected the call, pocketed his phone, and sent a dazzling smile in the old woman's way.

"Good evening, Ma'am. I'm looking for a Mister Harry Potter. Do you know where I could-"

Before Sherlock could complete his sentence, the woman suddenly fumed with anger, took a few steps ahead and slammed her walking stick against the ground. "I am so done with you cloaked idiots looking for that Harry Potter everyday. For the millionth time, I don't know that bastard and if I have to say it again, I swear to God!"

Nothing again, of course. Maybe he should stop following the Harry Potter lead and take up a different one. Privet Drive, Surrey, was reported to have high activity of cloaked people staring at a house swarmed by angry owls. He didn't pay it much attention last year, but it piqued his curiosity by occurring on the same date again.

Cloaked people should appear here as well, considering their presence in the 02/05 areas. Just like he thought, a man clad in a cloak appeared. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Few visible injuries of a violent nature. No visible bullet wound, though. Tortured, perhaps? Bald, but not due to age. Held a position of power, surely. Poised. so, he was from high society.

"Hello, sir. I'm looking for an old friend of mine- Harry. A mutual friend gave me this address," he said, pulling out a scrap of paper with the name of the street on it, but not the door number. He had torn a part of the paper to make it look like there was once a number there.

"Do you happen to know him?"

The man smiled at Sherlock and said, "Yes, of course. And you are?"

He was hiding something. He was good, this man. He could easily hide from ordinary people, but not him. His smile was fake, not far from one of those his brother sent to diplomatic rivals before he rewrote their lives. Sherlock dug deeper in his pocket to check whether his gun was where he kept it. Fear. He didn't have to check it twice, he knew it was there by the weight of his jacket, but his body didn't listen. He was scared, he realized.

"John," he said, opting for a plain name instead of his own memorable one. He almost never used false names, but this was was different in every way. His usual norms didn't apply. He had a file for fuck's sake!

"May I know why exactly you're looking for him? I could convey a message."

Sherlock's eyes go blank immediately and he felt a tingle at the back of his head which quickly spread all over his body. His eyes closed for a second and when he opened them, he was stood all alone in the road. In his hands was a file with newspaper clippings of the most bizarre cases ranging from mid 1997 until a few days ago.

There were wet footprints in front of him and their owner had walked towards him from nowhere and disappeared after halting in front of him. Why would anyone deliberately wet their shoes only to take 30 steps and take them off for the rest of their journey? One could argue that the owner could've gotten into a cab, but the angle didn't suggested otherwise.

The man was obviously obscenely rich, seeing that the prints matched none of those Sherlock had stored in his mind and he had a wide collection. Custom made shoes.

Sherlock's situation had the same intriguing quality of those on his file.

As he stood at the beginning of the footprint trail in an alley, he was unprepared for the scene that would play out in front of him. Two men, clad in tattered cloaks appeared out of thin air. Just like the owner of the footprints, he presumed. They smirked at each other at the sight of him.

"Look, Avery! A little snack before our feast," he cackled, lifting a carefully designed wooden stick as though it were a weapon. His comrade did the same.

Sherlock pulled out his gun in lightning speed and removed the safety before pointing it at the two men.

"And it's got a little toy. How adorable!" He cooed while his partner chuckled. Both tall with matching tattoos, wearing similar clothes, shoes from an unrecognizable source, wielding a mysterious weapon. Cult? Secret society? He had an extensive knowledge of both and the features matched none of the groups he knew.

Another figure appeared behind the men and lifted an identical weapon, yelling 'stupefy'. The man in the left froze immediately and fell with a thud, alerting the other who immediately turned back to fight the woman.

Fear was written all over his face, his arm displayed a slight tremor, but he took a stance to defend himself from the attacker.

"Filthy mudblood-"

"Silencio," She said, waving her weapon in a peculiar fashion, causing her opponent to go mute, his lips still moving. A jet of green light shot out of his stick and met an identical green light from the woman's stick.

Neither party seemed to make any progress in the bizarre duel, so Sherlock shot the man's ankle, giving her the slight edge she needed to force the man to the ground.

"Thank you for that," she said, smiling.

"Episkey," she whispered, her weapon removing the bullet and repairing the damage he'd caused with his gun.

"Are you okay?" She asked, but Sherlock remained too stunned to respond. She was in her early 20s, visiting friends by her casual attire, no cloaks like the other suspicious people in his file, recently broke up with her boyfriend, has a pet ginger cat-

She lifted the weapon she'd just used to attack and heal and did something that couldn't be classified under either.

"I'm sorry."