From the beginning, I was doubtful of Holmes ability to care for young Harry. His personality was abrasive and brutally practical, and not at all suited for fatherhood. However, my fears were laid swiftly to rest, as Holmes immediately employing the services of Ms. Haversham, an imminently competent nurse, to care for the young infant's needs.
During the early years of Harry's life, very little was changed at 221 B, Baker's Street. I continued my medical practice, and Holmes continued to embroil himself in mad schemes of crime and detection. The only noticeable difference was the addition of baby wails, a high-pitched noise that became all too commonplace in our apartment. I found the sound distracting me considerably at times. Not so Holmes, who took to keeping a cotton ball stuffed in each ear.
Harry Potter grew quickly and (to my endless surprise), became quite attached to his distinctly detached surrogate father. I would often in the evening and find Holmes fiddling with his chemistry set, while young Harry sat contentedly beside him. The child's eyes would invariably be wide as saucers, captivating by the display of shining glass, listening to Holmes ramble on about the properties and applications of this and that chemical.
The years passed smoother than I would have believed possible, until Harry's eighth birthday. On that day, I returned home to the conspicuous absence of Ms. Haversham. Holmes was enjoying his pipe, blowing the smoke (as he had since Harry's arrival) out of an open window. Harry was reading near the fireplace, curled into an overstuffed armchair.
I walked over to the boy and tousled his hair. That morning I had given him another one of my works, the Sign of the Four. "How's the story?" I asked.
Harry gave a distracted swat at my hand, eyes never leaving the page. "Uuuncle, I'm at a good part."
I backed away, smiling, and sat at the table. "Did Ms. Haversham step out, Holmes? We're running low on tea."
Holmes knocked the ashes out of his pipe and closed the window. "I've let her go, Watson."
A vague worry began to grow in my gut. I'd long since learned to trust such feelings. "Let her go?"
"Yes. Harry can take of himself now. Her services were no longer required."
Holmes approached a bookcase, pulling off a book. Glancing through, he quickly returned it to the shelf before removing another. I stared at him, sputtering incoherently.
"B-but..." The words I needed to to deal with Holmes latest liberty struggled to come forth. "You can't…who's going to watch him? You can't just leave him here!"
"Don't be absurd, Watson. I will watch him, of course."
The more he spoke, the more my worry grew. Holmes continued to take books from the shelves; some he returned, and others he added to a rapidly growing pile. He spared a glance in my direction, and must have seem some semblance of abject horror upon my face.
"Don't worry," he said, "Harry is quite capable of caring for himself, and I'll keep a close eye on him."
"But your cases, Holmes!"
"As I said, I'll be sure to keep a very close eye on him."
"Holmes, I absolutely will not-"
A small tug on my sleeve put an abrupt halt to my objections. I looked down into a pair of very wide, green eyes.
"It's all right, Uncle Watson. Really."
Harry looked up at me, employing a heart-rending expression. I quickly turned away from him, having fallen prey that particular look more than once before, usually resulting in his acquisition of sweets. Not this time. I steeled my resolve and stared into the fireplace
"And what about his schooling?" I asked.
Holmes set a final book onto the pile beside him. The thick tome landed with a decisive thump. He turned to me, smiling broadly. "I've already taken steps to remove him from school." he gave the pile of books an affectionate pat. "The books and I will be more than a sufficient education."
I lifted a book from the pile top. The title did not inspire confidence. "Bauhauser's Entry Chemistry Companion, Third Edition. Blast it, Holmes! Harry can't read this! I can't read this!"
"I think you rather underestimate him," Holmes tutted, "Besides, I've included several dictionaries and reference works."
"Hang the reference works! Harry! Tell him…"
The boy was back into his chair, curled up and happily reading, having scooped up a work titled Studies in Forensic Psychology.
"You see?" said Holmes. "I never doubted it."
-oOo-
One evening, after a tiresome day at my practice, I arrived home to find Holmes pacing outside our apartment door. He spied my approach, and beckoned me to his side.
"Trouble?" I asked.
"No," he said, "No trouble. Not yet, at least."
I frowned and set my doctor's bag to the ground. Whenever you want a relaxing cuppa most... "What do you mean, not yet?"
"I'm about to undertake a rather...delicate procedure. It's about Harry, and I wanted to warn you ahead of time."
I stilled my hand, clenching it tight before I could grasp the doorknob to our apartment. "He's alright?"
"Perfectly, Watson. I merely needed to inform you ahead of time, not to interfere. Harry and I will be conducting a little experiment."
"I've never interfered before, have I?" I scrutinized his blank expression, trying to divine some hidden meaning from his words. "What are you up to, Holmes?"
"Ms. Haversham's has been gone for quite some time. I see no reason for any concealment past this point. That is to say, I think it is time to inform Harry of his…unique abilities."
"But Dumbledore-"
"Dumbledore is not here. But more importantly, lest you've forgotten, our dear Headmaster was only worried about the ugly influence fame might have on a young child. He gave no restrictions on revealing Harry's magical heritage."
I thought back to the day Harry arrived, many years ago, and remembered Dumbledore's story of the Boy Who Lived. In those early days (and yes, even now), I found such stories hard to believe. Harry seemed so normal. Brighter than most his age, perhaps, but still just a boy.
Holmes watched the emotions play across my face, cataloging each, no doubt, as a calmly and efficiently as a factory machine sorting goods. At last, he favored me with a comforting smile. "He deserves to know, Watson."
"He's so young," I sighed, "How are you going about it, then?"
Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. "Good man. And not to worry, I'll be using a delicate touch. Certainly not by pounding down the door and telling him straight out."
"So what do you propose?"
"I' propose we let him find out for himself."
With that, Holmes opened the door and strode into the sitting room. I followed with a puzzled frown on my face, and shut the door behind. I noted Harry by in his usual spot by the fire, lost in some heavy book. Sitting myself, I watched Holmes rummage in a desk drawer, pull out a small object, and conceal it in his hand.
"Harry," he said, "Up for an experiment tonight?"
The boy hopped up, book falling to the floor forgotten, and rushed over. "One with the chemistry set?"
Holmes smiled. "More Newtonian. Here" From behind his back he presented Harry with a small rubber ball. "The task is simple. Using only this ball and a stable surface, you most cause said ball to bounce a minimum of two times."
Harry gave his adoptive father a dubious look.
"But," Holmes continued, "It must rise higher on the second bounce than the first."
Harry rolled his eyes. "So, it's like an exercise in impossi-"
Holmes leveled a serious look at the boy. "And, young man, you'll be restricted from any new reading material until you've successfully finished the task."
"WHAT!"
"I'll give you a hint. The solution lies in how you impart spin to the ball."
Harry immediately went to the table and, with a look of intense focus, began lightly bouncing the ball, deftly twisting his hand as he dropped it.
I shook my head. What the devil was Holmes up to?
For the next five hours, the only sounds were of a quietly bouncing ball, and of Holmes playing a simple tune on the violin. I dozed in my chair, waking several times to the same scene; Holmes playing, and Harry getting more and more frustrated.
At last, near one o'clock in the morning, I woke to a great shout. Bolting upright, I observed Holmes smoking next to an open window, while Harry caroused about the table, face ecstatic, holding aloft the ball.
Holmes left his pipe on the windowsill, and walked to the table. "Demonstrate."
Harry seriously sat down, and raised his hand above the table, ball grasped lightly between his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he violently twisted his hand and dropped the ball, watching it with narrowed eyes.
The ball bounced once, and rose, perhaps, three inches before falling. On the second bounce, it rose at least twelve inches. It was the most unnatural thing I'd yet to see.
Harry grinned up at Holmes, who nodded. "And how," asked Holmes, "Did you accomplish that?"
"Like you said," said Harry, "I just had to find the right way to spin-"
"I lied."
Harry stared at him, shock plainly evident on his face. Holmes had never once lied to the boy.
"Come now," said Holmes, "You said it was impossible before you began. You've adequate knowledge of physics for this, so what happened? Observe and deduce."
Harry sat in his chair, silent. Minutes passed, and beads of sweat gathered on his brow. Finally, he looked down at his lap, and spoke very softly. "I don't know."
"And that," said Holmes, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder, "Is perfectly alright. Ignorance isn't a crime, as long as you're willing to learn."
Holmes stood back up and began pacing slowly around the table. "Once upon a time, I faced a similar problem. A seeming violation of reality. It involved a rather mysterious old man and his pipe. When I-yes, I-confessed ignorance, he told the most remarkable thing I'd heard in a very long time."
"What did he say?" asked Harry.
"He said--and I later ascertained it to be absolutely true-that the phenomenon was a direct result of magic."
Harry blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it. He repeated this pattern three times. In a sudden fancy, I believed I could hear the gears within his head, grinding and whirring madly, throwing out words too fast for his mouth to keep up.
At length, he gave a single nod. "Teach me."
Watching Harry calmly accept a new aspect of reality (indeed, of his very self), I was struck by an uncanny sense of déjà vu. I was reminded strongly of the day Holmes first learned of magic's existence. Like Harry, he too had assimilated the knowledge with unnatural ease, in stark contrast with myself.
So went the first of many 'impossible' tests, each carefully designed to train Harry's innate power. They became a common occurrence at Baker Street, helping the years to pass quickly, with Harry growing in strength of mind, body, and magic. But such tests were no the only training he received.
Many nights I would spend waiting for the return of Holmes, who allowed Harry to accompany him on various cases. I would watch the clock with certain dread, sure some horrible fate had befallen the boy. Of course, they would invariably wander home in fine spirits, well past Harry's bedtime (something which Holmes refused to acknowledge). My insistence on sleep would be completely ignored as they sat around the fireplace, discussing various aspects of the case at hand.
As they spoke, Holmes would question Harry about the night's events, probing the depths of his ability to retain seemingly (to my ears, at least) inconsequential details. Under such tutelage, Harry's power of observation flourished with fantastic speed, growing into a formidable force. In time, his deductions took on such a flawless, piercing quality, that I began to suspect the involvement of magic, though he would always deny such claims.
Had I known those days could not last, I would have committed more time to our unlikely family. All too soon a change would come, spear-headed by a letter from the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
