"John, good to see you."

John nodded, mouth suddenly dry. "Harry. You, too. It's … you look good."

The other man's face broke into a grin. "Better than the last time you saw me, I hope."

A picture of a filthy, worn, battered Harry, triumphant in the early morning sunlight presented itself. "Well, yeah."

There was some slightly awkward manoeuvring then as they got drinks and found a table sufficiently out of the way. John noticed that all of them opted to sit where they could see the door and wondered what that said about them, that all of them were so used to basic defence and situational awareness. "Seriously," John said after a while. "You look great. You both do. Ron said you're married? Five kids between you?"

"All at Hogwarts right now, thankfully," Harry said, "Or I'd look more tired—but what's your excuse, John? You look exhausted. You have kids keeping you up?"

"I don't really sleep all that well," John said. "And I have a Sherlock."

"What's a Sherlock?"

"That's your colleague, right?" asked Ron. "The detective."

John nodded. "And my flatmate, which is how we met. I couldn't afford a place in London after Afghanistan, and then I started helping him on cases… It gives me something to do on light weeks."

"Afghanistan? What were you doing there?"

"Army doctor," John said. "Turns out life at Hogwarts prepares one really well for army life—after the hexes and jinxes and ghosts, an army barrack is almost peaceful. And I got used to fighting."

"Wait," said Harry, brow furrowed. "Army doctor? But … you're not a muggle."

"Yes, I am," John said, ignoring the tightness in his stomach that had been plaguing him all evening. He had known this was going to come up and had been dreading it ever since Privet Drive.

"No, you were muggle-born, but you went to Hogwarts, John. You were one of the best fighters in the DA. You saved George's life at the Battle. You are not a muggle, even if you're living like one," Ron told him.

John shook his head and swallowed another mouthful of beer to buy time. "No. I was a wizard," he said, trying to keep his voice level, trying not to feel insulted that they hadn't remembered, that he had meant so little. "Now I'm just an ordinary muggle with some rather unusual old schoolbooks and a childhood I can't talk about."

"I don't understand," Harry said. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I …? You really don't know?" John was dumbfounded.

"No. John, what happened?" Ron asked. "I remember seeing you there. I remember your blocking that curse aimed at George—thanks for that, by the way. But we couldn't find you afterwards. I heard you broke your leg, but everyone said you were fine otherwise. Dean told us a few weeks later that you'd returned to muggle life, but we never knew why. We just figured that after the year of being ostracized, you decided it wasn't worth coming back."

"What? No. I would have come back in a minute—why else would I have come to fight? I was fighting for you, Harry, but also for the good of the wizarding world. My world. And now you're saying…" John shook his head, staring at the table, trying to forget the devastating loss he'd felt. "There was a lot going on that day, I suppose, and you were … well, you were busy. That day and after."

"And the day after that, and the day after that. Believe me, it hasn't stopped yet. But, John, what happened?"

Unable to bear it anymore, John simply said, "I lost my magic."

"What?"

"How?"

"I was cursed, somehow. Madame Pomfrey never did figure it out. All I know for sure is that a spell hit me right at the end of the battle that … that took away my magic. All of a sudden, I couldn't do it anymore. My wand just felt like an ordinary stick of wood, and nothing … worked. And since she couldn't figure out what caused it, she couldn't reverse it, and so … I went back home to Dad and Harry. My sister Harry, that is."

He paused to sip his beer, trying to ignore the horrified look on his friends' faces. "It turned out that not getting back to Hogwarts for seventh year worked in my favour. Since I went to the local high school for the last two years, I had a diploma muggles would actually recognize. And then, I spent too much time around you, Harry, because I found I really needed to help people. So I went to uni to become a doctor and then joined the army. I did that for, oh, fifteen years, being deployed around the world. I came back to London, oh, six months ago and met Sherlock. I suppose I was just always meant to be a muggle."

He looked up then, not quite meeting their eyes, almost afraid at what he might see. Harry and Ron might be more enlightened than a lot of the wizarding community, but there's still a difference between dealing with a wizard who had been born a muggle, and an actual muggle. He didn't quite know what he would do if he saw the familiar disdain on their faces now they knew he hadn't just been slumming all these years.

But, no, they both look devastated at his story. "How did we not know that? Why didn't anyone tell us?"

"Well, you were kind of busy saving the world…"

"But a curse that could take a wizard's magic away?" Ron's voice was harsh, horrified. "You can't keep that a secret! That's … sick."

John still couldn't quite meet their eyes. "Well, other than Madame Pomfrey, no-one seemed all that fussed at the time. The feeling I got was basically, oh, it's not so bad since he was raised a muggle anyway. It's a shame, but not a tragedy, not after everything else that had happened."

"Not a … how could they say that? How could anyone even do that? How could someone even think of a curse like that?" Ron looked nauseated at the thought.

"I don't know," John told him, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention as Ron got more distraught. "It's twenty years ago, though, so…"

"You were compensated, though, weren't you? When the claims finally cleared the courts?"

"Compen…?" John shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Except for a couple letters from Dean in those first few years, I haven't heard anything from the wizarding world until, well, today."

Ron looked almost speechless now, so it was Harry who explained how the half-blood and muggle-born wizards and witches had been paid settlements after all the dust had cleared and the Ministry had been brought back to its senses. All witches and wizards who had been persecuted had received compensation for their loss of homes and livelihoods in the preceding year—with an extra premium if they had fought at the Battle of Hogwarts. "You should definitely have been included in that group, John."

John could feel the wry smile on his face. "I'm not saying some extra galleons wouldn't have come in handy, but … I never heard about any of this. But then, I stopped subscribing to the Prophet ages ago."

"We'll check," said Ron, leaning forward. "You should have gotten a pay-out, even if it wasn't claimed."

"It doesn't matter, Ron…"

"Of course it does! You fought for us, and it left you crippled! You deserve it…"

John really didn't want to talk about this anymore. "It was a long time ago, Ron, a couple lifetimes. I don't need the Ministry's money. I've got my pension from the army and my own income. I don't depend on the government for my living expenses … not unless you count Mycroft." He waved his hand at their questioning looks. "Never mind. The point is, I've moved on, okay? Right now, I'm just glad to see you both … though knowing you hadn't deliberately cut me out is … good."

"We wouldn't," said Harry quietly, lifting his glass in a silent toast. "We treat our friends better than that."

"Amen," said Ron, raising his. Feeling sentimental, John leaned in with his and tried not to admit how relieved he felt at the comradely clink of glasses.

After a few moments, Harry said, "So … tell me about Uncle Vernon. And how you ended up there."

John nodded, marshalling his thoughts. "Ron told you about Sherlock?"

"A private detective, he said?"

"Consulting detective," corrected John automatically. "The police consult him when they have puzzles they can't figure out—and this one? A murder with no clear cause of death, inside a locked room? It's like meat and bread and jam tea to Sherlock. He's brilliant. If anyone can figure this out, it's him—though he also won't give up until he does." He looked over at Harry, and said, "I had no idea that was your uncle, though. Not until we were there. And I saw … your room."

He stopped, voice choked, but Harry just nodded calmly. "Bars still on the window? They put them back in after Fred, George, and Ron pulled them out with their flying car second year."

"The one you crashed into the Whomping Willow?"

"That's the one. The Dursleys weren't quite so strict after that—at least they didn't lock me in the next summer. They were never … comfortable … with a wizard in the family, though."

John thought about what he'd seen in that room. "No, I don't think they were." He was just opening his mouth to ask about St Brutus's when he groaned. "Oh, God, he followed me. Just … try not to be offended by anything he says. I don't want to have to explain to his brother if he suddenly has a cloven tongue, or something."

It was all he had time for before Sherlock was at the table, doing that false, friendly smile he did so well. John narrowed his eyes, ready to be furious. Couldn't he get one evening to himself without Sherlock butting in? Wasn't this awkward enough without his flatmate's deducing everyone? And, Christ … the thought of Sherlock deducing Harry Potter … his brain would explode. How were they supposed to explain why he was having drinks with one of the suspects—and hadn't told Sherlock? Maybe it would be best to keep Harry's name out of it?

"Sherlock, what are you…"

"Hello, John. I thought I'd take a break from the case and join you," Sherlock said, completely ignoring the glare his friend was giving you. "Ron Weasley, isn't it? Good to see you again. And you are?"

John saw it happening just about half a second too late.

"The name's Potter. Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."

And for the first time in years, John found himself wishing for fire whiskey. Lots of it.

#

"The name's Potter. Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."

Sherlock blinked, thrown for just a fraction of a second, but a glance at John (almost hiding his face in his hands) and at the stunned redhead confirmed it. "Indeed? I'm pleased to meet you. I didn't know you knew John."

Potter nodded easily. "We all went to school together. When Ron called to tell me that he'd bumped into him at my uncle's house, well…"

"You were curious," said Sherlock smoothly. "Of course. Anyone would be."

"Sherlock, just stop it," John said, looking pointedly at one of the chairs. "You're not fooling anyone. If it's not obvious, Harry, this is my flatmate, the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He's helping investigate your uncle's murder. Sherlock, this is Harry Potter, who I can vouch was not a budding psychopath at St Brutus's because he was at school with me from the time we were eleven."

Sherlock looked at John. "And yet you didn't mention that while we dug through the admission files earlier. You could have saved us some work, John."

John looked unabashed. "Could I? Because it seems to me that if I had told you, we wouldn't have found that there were false records declaring Harry went to St Brutus's."

"Wait, what?" asked Potter. "That place is real? I thought my uncle just made it up."

"What did he tell you?"

"He didn't want people knowing that I was … going to school in Scotland, and so he lied." Potter took a sip from his glass, Sherlock watching the slight tremor in his hand. "My parents were killed when I was a year old, and my aunt and uncle were … reluctant … to take me in, especially because my aunt never liked my mother. I think she was jealous, a bit, and she certainly didn't approve of my dad. So, they pretty much raised me under protest. When I got the letter from school, though … it was where Mum and Dad went, and they'd left the school fees for me, but the Dursleys hated me going there. Hated that I was getting … advantages … Dudley didn't. So they lied about where I went. I just never knew St Brutus's was a real place—it sounded like something Uncle Vernon would have made up—not that he was exactly famous for his sense of humour."

Sherlock felt a tingle of interest. Everything Potter had just said was true—he could tell the other man was not lying—but he was hiding something. "It was definitely real," he said, "Though it has since gone out of business. You do have a file, though, which makes you out to be quite a trouble-maker."

"Story of my life," Potter said with a sigh. "People always think the worst of me."

"Or the best," put in Ron. "It's always one extreme or the other with you."

"So, the St Brutus's file is definitely false?"

All three of them nodded. "I told you," John said, "We went to school together in Scotland. We shared a dorm and, believe me, after six years of hearing Harry's nigh… er … snores, there is no doubt in my mind that he was really there."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Boarding school in Scotland, John? How would your family have found the money?"

Judging by the insult in all three pair of eyes, he'd struck a nerve, he thought, even as John said, "You've heard of scholarships, Sherlock? Good to know what you really think of me."

"Don't be silly, John. You've always had hidden depths."

Amazingly, it looked as if Ron was trying not to laugh. "He's got you there, mate."

"Not helping, Ron," snapped John. "And do you really want to talk about who got into more trouble in school? I'm not the one who drove there second year."

"That wasn't our fault. We couldn't get on the train platform…."

"Ron," said Potter quietly, but his friend immediately stopped talking. Loyal, then, and obedient, thought Sherlock. "That's not important right now. What is is that Uncle Vernon is dead and I apparently have a school file for a school I never went to. Where are Aunt Petunia and Dudley?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "Of course, it's inappropriate for me to discuss the case with you."

He saw John raise an eyebrow, but it was Ron who protested, "Inappropriate? It seems to me I'm working on this case, too."

Sherlock nodded, but refrained from saying anything as he watched Potter's face. "But you're not a suspect, Ron." Sherlock gave another nod toward Potter. "Nothing personal, of course."

"Of course," said Potter. "You don't know me." He reached into his pocket to pull out an ID that declared him a member of Her Majesty's law enforcement. "I can't tell you exactly what I was working on the night Uncle Vernon was killed, but I can tell you where I was doing it—here in London, working late. Do you have a time of death?"

"The coroner says between 6:00 and 9:00," said John. "He hadn't narrowed it down yet, last I heard. Or the cause of death."

Potter nodded. "Right. I left the office about 8:00 and went straight home. I did not detour to Privet Drive on my way. I haven't set foot in that house since the day I turned 17, and I have no desire to. My uncle made his opinions about seeing me quite clear. Believe me, Sherlock, if I had been going to kill him, it would have been when he locked me in that room, or when he was making me do all the chores around the house and barely fed me—or when he tried to tell me that my parents were drunks who died in a car crash instead of the truth that they were murdered trying to save my life. But I didn't. I shook the dust from that house on my seventeenth birthday and haven't given it a thought since. I certainly have no reason to change that now. I'm happily married, have three children, a good job, even better friends … there is no reason for me to go back there."

"Maybe not," Sherlock said, watching the man's face carefully. "But someone appears to think that you do. Because if you're not the killer, someone either wants us to think you are, or is trying to send you a message."

"A message?"

"Your aunt and cousin are missing, Mr Potter," Sherlock said. "I believe they were kidnapped but there are no traces in the house. With the exception of that one door that is open with its bolt extended, there is nothing out of place, nothing to show that two people taken from that house. Yet I believe they were—and I believe that, somehow, you are the key to the puzzle."

He was almost surprised when, instead of looking surprised or horrified at the news, Harry just groaned, looking almost resigned. "Of course I am. Story of my bloody life. It always comes back to me somehow, doesn't it?"

#