John could feel his forehead creasing as he stared at Harry. "You know about Moriarty?"

Harry nodded. "He's been circling around the wizarding world for a while. We're reasonably sure he doesn't know about us, but he knows there's something."

Sherlock barely even looked surprised. "That's almost … impressive."

"Impressive?" John turned on him. "That's all you can say?"

"I didn't say I admired him, just that … I didn't even know about all of … this … so for him to have deduced the existence of a magical world when I hadn't…."

John shook his head. "So, you're upset that he noticed something you missed? That's just great. Well, leave me out of the next meeting, yeah?"

Harry had been watching the exchange, but stepped forward now, hands raised, trying to calm things down. "Wait. Have you actually met him?"

"You could say that," John told him, "Considering that entire bomb thing was set up as a game he was playing with Sherlock."

Now it was Harry's turn to look surprised. "Really? Maybe I should have followed the case more closely—we might have found you sooner, John."

John gave a half-hearted smile at that, even as he caught a whiff of chlorine in his memory and felt, for a moment, the weight of the bomb vest on his shoulders. "I wasn't feeling particularly nostalgic during that case, though."

"Not for his school days, at any rate," Sherlock said. "More like his time in the army."

John turned his head to glare at him, but felt it neutralized by the unexpected look of concern on his friend's face.

"What am I missing here?" asked Harry, looking between the two of them.

"There were four hostages reported in the papers, yes?" Sherlock offered, not taking his eyes from John. "They didn't report the fifth."

John could almost feel Harry's attention snap to him, horrified. He just nodded. "Yes, I was the bloody fifth pip, can we not talk about it, please? It wasn't exactly my finest hour."

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said, voice soft, "I seem to remember your offering to sacrifice yourself for me. Nobody's ever done that before."

Harry had blinked at the word 'sacrifice.' "In my experience, John, people tend not to let that go."

John tried again for a smile, "Most of the time, the sacrifice isn't around to deal with the aftermath."

"True."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look back and forth between them, picking up Merlin only knew what signals. He said nothing more about the Pool, though, but just turned to Harry. "If Moriarty is a reaching his fingers out for wizarding pies as well as non-magic ones … that means you're looking for him."

"We are, but … quietly. Like I said, we don't think he really knows about us, and we'd rather like to keep it that way…" His voice trailed off.

"The thought of James Moriarty with access to unscrupulous magicians or wizards or whatever…."

"Exactly," said Harry, even as John reeled at the thought. Moriarty on his own had been frightening enough, but with his own hired band of mini-Death Eaters? Horrifying.

#

It was later and John had finally (!) gotten his tea. Harry had left, promising to expedite the paperwork to register 221B as the home of a wizard, and now it was just him and Sherlock.

"So … that was interesting," John ventured.

"Mmm."

"At least the wands are a change from guns, yeah? Not boring?"

There was no reaction from Sherlock and John just sighed. It was going to be one of those mornings. Fine, then. He would read the paper and then try to figure out what he could possibly say on his blog. "Oh, by the way, everyone, I'm a wizard" somehow didn't seem quite the thing. But first, he would just sit here with his tea. Toast would be good, too. He might just get some toast.

"It's what I think it is, isn't it?" Sherlock spoke suddenly. "That spell? I mean, the Latin root is badly mangled—how is it possible the Latin is so bad? I mean really, John. But, still … the spell they were suggesting…"

"Obliviate, you mean?" John asked, just to be certain. "Yes, it's what you think. It eliminates memories and unfortunately is done regularly to mugg…" He stopped himself just in time, remembering how Sherlock hated that word. "I mean, to non-magic users as a means of keeping the wizarding world a secret."

A pause, then, "There seemed some difference in opinion as to its safety."

"In theory, it is safe," John told him. "A simple memory modification of a recent event … it's still in the short-term memory, hasn't been integrated yet, or touched anything important … It is used therapeutically sometimes, as well, for witnesses to traumatic events. But … well, I don't know if there have been studies in the last twenty years or not, but I've always doubted the wisdom of repeated use, or if the wizard tries to remove too much at once."

"Who was Lockhart?"

John grimaced. "A truly terrible teacher we had second year—didn't teach us a thing, just told made-up stories about how he'd beaten this troll or that werewolf, with test questions about his favourite colour… I don't remember learning a thing that entire year except for what not to do if I ever suddenly became famous. Anyway, turned out that he'd never done any of the exploits he was famous for. Instead, he'd interview the real hero to get an accurate, first-hand account and then…"

"Erase their own memory and take all the credit," Sherlock finished for him. "So, what happened? Did someone catch him at it? One of the victims was too badly damaged?"

"Not exactly," and now John couldn't quite help the grin on his face. "He tried to obliviate Harry and Ron when they discovered the Chamber of Secrets, except he was using Ron's wand … it had broken at the beginning of the year and, really, hadn't that been a nightmare for all of us for months. You never knew what that wand was going to do. There was this time … Never mind. Anyway, Lockhart's spell—and all due credit for it being powerful—backfired really spectacularly. Brought the roof of the tunnel down and, well…"

"Removed all of his memories, instead of Ron's." Sherlock was quiet a moment. "How bad was it?"

"Pretty bad—he couldn't remember anything, was like a child again. Last I heard he was still at St Mungo's hospital. Of course, it's not like the spell was anything like controlled when it hit him, but … I remember other people expressing concerns about repeated memory charms. And …"

He stopped, not wanting to continue, but Sherlock lifted that damn eyebrow at him and he couldn't help himself. "I didn't want to risk that brain of yours, all right? Even if Reaver had only known to remove the memory of my levitating the tea bags, which really would probably have been perfectly safe, I just … didn't think it was a good idea."

Sherlock just looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "I can't say I like the idea of anyone messing with my memories, either. They are too … entwined with my work, my observations."

"Exactly," John said before heaving himself to his feet. "Toast?"

#

Two days later, Sherlock returned to 221 Baker Street, Lestrade and Donovan trailing behind. They tended to be so difficult when he brought work home, he thought. Wasn't he helping? Wasn't it all to aid the investigation? He hadn't even taken "real" evidence this time, just the mundane manila file that he was quite sure could easily have been duplicated from office paperwork. But, fine. He would hand it over and that would be …

…There were voices in the flat. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening. They weren't angry or threatening … and there was John's voice, light and joking. And … Hermione? Ah. John had guests. That was good, wasn't it?

He raised his voice just a bit as he turned to the detective behind him. "I suppose you'll want to come up to the flat, Lestrade? Though if you're hoping for another drugs bust, I'm afraid you're out of luck."

The man immediately began to protest that of course he was coming up, but Sherlock wasn't listening to him. Instead, he had his ears tuned to the noises above. He assumed John's friends could transfigure their clothing to something sufficiently … non-magical (he refused to use that ridiculous word) in the time it would take him to lead the others up the stairs.

On cue, Donovan raised her own voice in a strident complaint at being kept from her boring paperwork. Well, Sherlock thought with a sigh, at least John would know what to expect. With a casual tip of the head, not quite a shrug, he turned and bounded up the stairs, the two officers trudging along behind.

He gave the flat a sharp look when he arrived at the door. As expected, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were visiting. John and Hermione at the desk with her poking gingerly at laptop keys while her friends all laughed at her determination—but in a friendly way, he thought. No malice to it.

He caught the tiny nod John sent his way and returned it with one of his own as he strode across the room to pick up the contended bit of paperwork. "Here you go," he said to Lestrade, barely at the landing by the door.

"What? Just like that?"

"Did you want trumpets and confetti?"

The grey-haired man blinked. "Well, no, but usually you put up more of a fuss."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "I did ask if you wanted to wait downstairs, Lestrade."

"Sherlock," came John's voice from behind him. "You can invite him in, you know. Or … them," he corrected himself as Sherlock stepped away from the door. "Sorry, Donovan. Didn't know you were there."

Sherlock could barely contain his smirk. Of course John had known she was there, but the woman's rudeness had not won her any points with John, either.

Lestrade, though, was acting the gentleman he (usually) was, and apologizing. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you had guests, John. We'll just take our file and go."

"No worries, Greg," John told him. "These are just some old school mates of mine. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger. And these are Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sgt Sally Donovan from Scotland Yard."

Lestrade was looking curiously at Harry. "I think we've met, haven't we?"

Harry gave a small nod. "There was a case a couple years ago."

"You're police, then?" asked Sally, unconvinced as she looked at Harry's casual clothing.

"Did you want to see our ID?" asked Ron, sharing a disbelieving look with Hermione, as if to ask, "Can you believe this woman?"

Sherlock was relieved that he was not the only one to feel that way.

"No, that's not necessary," Sally started, but John cut her off.

"Good to know that you don't expect my guests to provide identification, Donovan. Or should I maybe get bracelets like they have at clubs, to show they're allowed into the flat? For the record, though, all three of my friends here work for the government in various capacities—not that it's any of your business. We reconnected last week on that case in Little Whinging, which Ron was working on when Sherlock was called in. Any other questions?"

"Er, no."

Sherlock met John's eye, catching the glimpse of a wink. "You have your file, Lestrade. Was there anything else? I can tell you that the killer was very definitely left-handed, judging by the angle of the cuts, and their location is intimate—suggests the killer knew them."

"Or wanted to," suggested Lestrade.

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Very definitely did know them. There's a firm method behind the cuts that bespeaks familiarity. Had this been a stalker, and admirer from afar, if you will, the wounds would have been more … delicate. I suggest you check out his siblings."

"Incredible."

Sherlock blinked and looked around, gratified to see Ron and the others looking on in admiration of his logic. (This was particularly flattering since, so far as he had been able to tell, the wizarding world was not really a fan of logic. Or semantics.) Before he could say anything, though, or acknowledge the compliment, a familiar voice spoke.

"Freak."

He had only a fraction of a moment to acknowledge the hurt of that casual, oft-used insult, because, before he could do or say anything, Harry was on his feet, glaring at Donovan as if she had just insulted him, his wife, and all his children. "What did you call him?" he asked in a deadly serious voice.

Now it was her turn to blink, uncertain. "I just … it's …"

"You called him a freak," Harry said, voice level but eyes tight with a well-controlled anger. Ah, thought Sherlock. It was personal, Harry's reaction to this word. Sherlock had heard it so many times in his lifetime, he almost didn't notice anymore, but Harry … Harry had a history with it. A history, but no daily experience with it, not for years, nothing to help vaccinate the pain of it.

Sally, for whatever credit was due, was standing her ground. "I did, yes, because what he does is positively freakish. I don't mean anything by it…"

"Oh, yes you do." Harry told her, eyes almost smouldering—something Sherlock hadn't been aware eyes could do. He'd always thought it was poetic license, or whatever that was called, but not in Harry's case. He could almost feel the heat in Harry's glare. "Nobody uses that word without meaning to be offensive. The fact that you clearly use it so often you seem inured to it, just makes it that much worse."

Harry glanced over at his friends, who were watching him with extra care. "I know this from experience. My parents were killed when I was a baby, and I grew up with my aunt and uncle. They never cared about me, and just casually labelled anything different as freakish—especially if it was connected to me. Until I started school, I almost thought my name was 'Freak.' Believe me, Sgt Donovan, I recognize casual, unsubstantiated, hateful insults with years of experience."

"Mr Potter, I…"

Harry cut her excuses off with a glance as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad and pencil, jotting down something without even looking as he asked, "How long has your subordinate acted so unprofessionally, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade shifted, uncomfortable, but Sherlock was unsurprised to see him face the question head on. "Ever since Sherlock first showed her up on a case. I've tried to reel her in, but … sadly, I've been unable to. It's a distinct failure of my leadership abilities, I'm aware."

Harry looked at him, glancing past him at Sherlock, then giving a nod. "So it's just Sgt Donovan I should report then?"

Sally made a noise of protest, looking indignant. To his own surprise, Sherlock was the one who spoke up in her defence. "Perhaps we might give her a chance to improve before making it an official complaint?"

Now Sally found her voice. "Official … I don't even know that this guy's for real!"

"Donovan!" Lestrade's voice was sharp. Obviously she had forgotten that he recognized Harry, Sherlock thought. She did have a tendency to ignore details, after all. At any rate, Harry's hand was already reaching into his pocket, pulling out his ID, even as Ron and Hermione pulled out their own. "That good enough for you?"

Sally almost paled as she looked at them. "Er … yes," she stammered, and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what supposed governmental department Harry and the others were attached to—an impressive one, obviously.

Harry was still standing with his pad and pencil, patiently watching Sally. "Well?"

"Well what?"

Sherlock watched Harry suppress a sigh. "An apology might be in order, don't you think, Sgt Donovan?"

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry, sir, that…"

"Not to me," Harry corrected, a snap to his voice. "I'm not the one you insulted—directly, at least."

Sally swallowed and looked over to Sherlock, much like a dog expecting a beating. "I'm … sorry … for my unprofessional language. I'll try to do better in the future."

Harry pursed his lips as he looked between them, taking in who knew what from Sherlock's body language, then he gave a short nod and put the pad back in his pocket. "See that you do, Sergeant. This is unofficial, today, but if I hear you've been unprofessional on duty again, I'll make it official, are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," she said, looking eagerly at the doorway and practically bolting for it when Harry gave the nod.

Lestrade was left with the needed folder in one hand while he rubbed the back of his neck with the other. "Sorry about that. I should have done that months ago." He looked over at Sherlock. "We okay?"

"Of course," Sherlock said.

"Right. I'll just go make sure Donovan's not terrorizing any small children, then. Good to see you, John. Nice meeting you all," and then he was gone.

Sherlock wasn't surprised that everyone left was watching Harry. "You all right, mate?" offered Ron after a moment.

Harry looked almost dazed. "I don't know how that happened. I hope I didn't cause you trouble with her in the future, Sherlock."

"It's fine," said Sherlock, waving his hand. "A little discipline will probably do her a world of good."

"Well, we freaks need to stick together."

There was a surge of protest from their friends, but Sherlock and Harry met each other's eyes and knew—this was something 'normal' people couldn't understand. Even when those normal people were wizards and therefore about as far from normal as one could reasonably be. Or did it count as normal if you grew up in a world where magic was commonplace, in which case it would be the non-magic users who were freaks?

A part of him marvelled at how easily he had accepted the existence of magic, and he wondered if most 'normal' people took longer. Well, they probably did. Not only was Sherlock exceptional where intelligence was concerned (no point in false modesty), but he'd actually been immersed in it, by visiting Hogwarts last night. It was simply impossible to have spent time arguing with portraits from centuries past without having "Magic" slotted into his brain as something real. Much more effective than a simple demonstration of levitation or a summoning spell. Total immersion.

"Sherlock?"

He shook himself, pulling his attention back to the room to find the four of them all staring at him. "Sorry. What?"

"Harry wanted to know if you were serious about helping the wizarding world with its mysteries," John said, obviously repeating. "If nothing else, it means you'd get certification that you're a muggle who is legally allowed to know about us."

"Which should avoid more problems with that prat, Reaver," put in Ron. "I knew he could be obnoxious, but accosting a wizard in his own home and threatening to obliviate his flatmate on such flimsy excuse? Really appalling."

"More importantly," put in Hermione, "He's not as good at his job as he thinks he is."

"Especially where muggles are concerned."

"Well, no," she agreed. "He's always bought into the pureblood propaganda and lets that influence his investigations more often than he should."

John laughed. "So he'll be delighted to have Sherlock coming to his crime scenes, then. Because they hit it off so well."

Even Sherlock couldn't resist the smile at that. The man's personality was possibly even worse than Donovan's—the difference being that he would apparently have no compunction about hexing Sherlock because of his non-magic status.

Harry was grinning now, though. "True. Maybe we should try to keep them apart for a while."

"I don't want to sound difficult," Hermione ventured after a moment as her friends all groaned, "But … and, Sherlock, please don't take this the wrong way, but … how much help will you be for solving wizarding crimes? I mean, I know how brilliant you are, observing and putting puzzles together, but don't you need a foundation of basic knowledge to do that? You know how … I don't know … chemistry works and can therefore smell sulphur and make deductions as to what happened, but would you be able to do that without knowing the charms and hexes you're likely to come across?"

Sherlock was already nodding. Rather than be offended, he was almost relieved that someone else had had the wisdom to see the potential difficulties. Not that he saw them as difficulties. No, to him, they were challenges. It was like he'd been gifted an entirely new branch of science to discover. Granted, it was an illogical branch, but … there had to be some rules, hadn't there?

"That's easy," John said. "I'll just have to pull out my old schoolbooks from storage. Knowing Sherlock, he can probably manage the entire 7-year curriculum in a couple weeks."

#

(Note: Wow—so happy everyone is so excited about this sequel! I know this chapter didn't move the story along quite as much as it could have, but I so wanted a scene with Harry's reaction to someone else being called "Freak," I didn't really care that it didn't actually move the plot much. Don't worry, though. Next chapter is when the REAL story begins. Brace yourself.)

#