"I still haven't forgiven you, for the record," John said, punctuating his statement with a yawn.

It was getting to cold for this, lying out on the lawn and working on essays. Sherlock shivered and considered. To which transgression was John referring? "I don't know what you're talking about," he said after a moment, using his sniffy tone to hide the fact that he was, for once, being entirely honest.

John shook his head and turned over on to his back, levitating his quill above his palm. "The Inter-House Challenge? The horrendous way you've been treating Arcadia? Ringing any bells?"

That nonsense again? "What would you have me do, John?" he said, sitting up. "I'm busy. And I refuse to bring her in on cases; those are ours."

He expected John to be miffed about that, but instead he smiled bashfully and the tips of his ears turned pink. "Well," he said, picking at the grass. He was quiet for a long while. Then he turned on his side, propped his head up in his hand, and said, "How about a potion?"

Sherlock stopped scribbling long enough to give him a withering look.

"I'm serious!" John sat up excitedly. "You give her the notes for one of the potions you've invented, and she has to replicate it perfectly. Oh- and then you can have her create the potion's opposite or antidote or whatever!" He grinned at Sherlock. "If that doesn't keep her busy for the rest of the year, that girl's a genius."

Alarmingly, Sherlock was impressed. It neatly solved the problem of the idiotic project with minimal drain on Sherlock's time or patience. "John, I could kiss you," Sherlock said cheerily, causing the other boy's blush to deepen. "I'll go fetch my notes."

x

Sherlock considered two things on his walk to the dungeons: which potion he should assign the unfortunate girl who drew his name for the Challenge, and why Moriarty had yet to visit him.

The first question preoccupied only the tiniest sliver of his mind. He would give her something challenging but not so challenging that she would require his help to do it, something that required a great deal of collecting ingredients (that would keep her busy), and something that wouldn't make John frown (so nothing illegal or overly dangerous). That left either the improved Invisibility potion he'd discovered in his third year, or the energy potion he'd concocted over the summer.

The second question, however, troubled him deeply. It had been nearly a week since Irene's visit, nearly a week in which he'd possessed the memories Moriarty so clearly wanted. He checked on them daily (always differing the time and route he took) but the memories seemed entirely undisturbed. Nothing. Why? Was it possible Sherlock had been wrong about Moriarty's involvement? (Unlikely. But then, where was he?)

He was wrapped in his thoughts quite thoroughly- and yet the moment he set eyes on his bedroom door, he knew something was amiss. Nothing looked wrong, true...but he couldn't feel the familiar buzz of his own spellwork surrounding the frame. He approached the door slowly, warily, and laid his palm against the door. All his spells were down. The room was unprotected.

His eyes wide, Sherlock took a step back and raked his gaze throughout the hall. Nothing. He stepped back towards the door again, pressed his forehead against the door, and let his sight drift. He could see inside the room, though the view was foggy. Everything was exactly as he'd left it: clothes were strewn here and there, books were stacked in odd places, vials and pouches spilled their contents on his desk and floor. The bed, though...he pressed his sight forward, ignoring the nausea that came with such complicated magic. There was someone in his bed. He thought he could smell her perfume, even from the doorway.

Irene.

X

"None of it's true." Irene sat propped against Sherlock's pillow, her knees pulled to her chest and her hair still damp from the bath. She leaned forward and fixed Sherlock with a penetrating look. "My whole life has been one lie after another."

"And your death as well," Sherlock said blandly. He was at his desk, his foot tapping irritably.

Irene smiled deprecatingly. "This time, at least."

"But you don't think you'll be so lucky next time."

"No," Irene said softly, pulling Sherlock's dressing gown around her more tightly. "No, I don't think I will."

Sherlock sat back and drummed his fingers on the arm rests. "Tell me the truth."

Irene's silence stretched on for so long that Sherlock began to consider getting up and shaking her. At last, however, she broke the silence. "I tell people at school all sorts of rubbish about my life, but my favorite story is that I was born by the sea, to Muggle parents. That's true, although not the way I tell it." She tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "I was born in America. New Jersey, actually. My parents couldn't stand me. They thought it was unnatural, the things I could do. They did, however, recognize my talent. Did you know I was a singer, Sherlock?" Irene smiled prettily. "I had a very sweet voice, as a child. I sang at operas in New York, initially, but my parents managed to book a European tour when I was eight. It was in Warsaw that I met him. James Moriarty."

Sherlock sat forward, his eyes flashing. "Go on."

"He rescued me," Irene insisted, hugging her legs. "My parents...they were awful people. And I was so thankful, Sherlock, when he took me away from them."

"He kidnapped you."

"Yes." Irene licked her lips, looked away. "Yes, I suppose he did. But it didn't feel that way, not to me. It was exciting. He was so handsome, and so rich, and so powerful." She shivered. "And he loved me. He told me constantly that I was beautiful, that he'd never seen such a lovely girl, that men the world over would fall to their knees in worship of me." She smiled ruefully. "We traveled all over, and I did the sort of things every little girl dreams of. There were ponies and fancy parties and expensive candies-"

"The photos." Sherlock stood; he couldn't sit still any longer. "The photos! How did the Minister of Magic get those photos?"

"All in due time, Sherlock," Irene purred. She stood and pressed him back into his chair, then settled easily in his lap. "You know what they say: nothing in this world is free. And James made me work for my fantasy life. But you know that already, don't you?"

"And you found it agreeable, did you?" Sherlock asked nastily. "Taking powerful men to bed and stealing their secrets?"

Irene scowled. "It didn't start that way. He had me sing for them, at first. Sit in their laps. Kiss their scruffy cheeks. Nothing improper." She stood, suddenly, and paced away, her nostrils flaring. "Things progressed beyond my control. And before I knew it-"

"You were prostituted to the world's elite," Sherlock finished, standing as well. He caught Irene's arm and pulled her closer, looking into her eyes. "Did he threaten you?"

Irene's gaze burned into him. "He never needed to," she said fiercely. "I loved him."

"What changed?"

Tugging free, Irene wrapped her thin arms around herself. "This mess with the Minister." She shook her head, her brow furrowed. "You know what he wants to do, don't you? You've seen the memories. He wants to bring about a revolution. And for what? For the power, yes. But I think it's more than that, Sherlock. I think it's the death he's after. The destruction." Irene looked up at Sherlock, her wide eyes damp. "I'm not eight years old anymore. This isn't kissing old men's cheeks and dancing in ball rooms. I can't..." Her voice broke and she turned away, her palm pressed to her mouth and her eyes brimming.

Was it an act? Astoundingly, Sherlock wasn't sure. He sat back down in his desk chair and steepled his palms over his lap. "How did the Minister of Magic get those photographs, Irene?"

Irene's back straightened almost imperceptibly. When she turned around to face him, her eyes were brimmed red but her voice was steady. "The Minister is a man of certain tastes. James knew what he liked."

"Schoolgirls, namely." Sherlock frowned. "How did he know that? Did he contact the Minister, or did the Minister contact him?"

"We heard it along the way," Irene said vaguely, spinning her hand in the air. "James made him an offer- not in person, of course, and never using our real names."

"Is Irene Adler your real name?" Sherlock asked.

Irene smiled secretively. "Perhaps."

"So." Sherlock stood and paced circles around Irene. "You're telling me that the Minister never, at any point, realized he was dealing with the Wizarding world's most notorious criminal."

"That's what I'm saying," Irene said, with a tip of her head.

Sherlock stopped directly in front of her. "Suppose I don't believe you."

"Do you want to catch James before he takes over the world or not?" she huffed defiantly, standing at her full height. Sherlock's expression seemed answer enough; she grinned and fell back on her heels, folding her arms under her breasts. "That's what I thought," she said chipperly. "And if that's the case, Sherlock Holmes, you're just going to have to take my word as bond."