Sherlock was overjoyed when his backordered copies of The Daily Prophet arrived. Days he spent poring through them, gleaning knowledge from an untold number of wizarding crimes. He would whittle away countless hours speculating on the nature of these crimes.
For him, the question was never "why". Why a man murders his wife is rooted in emotion, magic or not. Since Cain and Abel these emotions have endlessly repeated- jealousy, greed, anger, and all the rest. No, what truly captivated Holmes was the "how". When a wizard killed, it seemed imagination and power was the only limit.
Holmes once told me that when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains (however improbable) must be the truth. In the case of magic, this old maxim was laid aside as a relic of more ignorant times. My friend treated the past monstrosities of Magical Britain as an exercise of the mind, a way to expand his thinking into the realm of impossibility.
-Excerpt from A Study in Magic, by John Watson, MD
-oOo-
The four House Tables bore a feast. Towers of fruit and delicate pastries. Steaming bowls of hearty soups and stews. Savory slabs of meat, perfectly prepared. A meal of truly epic proportions, and Harry barely noticed. He was too busy thinking.
Thankfully, after his marathon sorting session, students seemed nervous to speak with him. Not to say they ignored him; far from it. The Boy Who Lived was the subject of many conversations that night.
Harry swirled a bowl of soup, oblivious to the attention. He half listened to Hermione going on about something. The girl had squeezed herself and Neville on either side of him, despite the crush of curious students surrounding him. She sipped a goblet of pumpkin juice and chattered happily.
"…and then," said Hermione, "You went under for half a minute, Neville! What took so long? Everybody else-" she paused, glanced at Harry, and plowed on. "Well, almost everyone else took a few seconds." She appraised Neville with a shrewd look. "I guess I'll have some competition in class."
Neville shifted in his seat. "I don't think so, Hermione. I never did that good in classes before." Neville blushed before continuing. "I was thinking about Hufflepuff earlier, back on the train. Then the hat went on and I started…It's hard to describe. I just started remembering things, I guess."
"What kind of things?"
Neville flicked his eyes to Harry. "Just things. It's hard to remember, and kind of fuzzy. And then it called Ravenclaw."
Hermione frowned, turned to Harry to ask about his sorting, and resolved to ask later.
Harry was staring into his soup. He wore a blank, dead stare, as if the mind of Harry Potter had gone and left behind a comatose husk.
Hermione suddenly decided it was time to tell Neville about her parents, and scooched away from the Boy Who Lived. Unfortunately, at the crowded table, this was not far at all.
-oOo-
Inside Harry's mind, thoughts shuffled casually. Neville had been giving him subtle looks all evening. The boy's face held an unusual blend of emotions, and for the first time in quite a while, Harry could not tell what someone was thinking. The problem was like an itch he couldn't scratch, or a thorn in his side. Then he remembered the Sorting Hat's words.
"Kids don't have to be brave to go to Gryffindor. It's enough if they just want to be brave."
Neville was extremely shy, and evidently friendless. Could Harry's help on the train have influenced the boy that greatly? After all, Neville admitted he didn't consider himself overly intelligent, and was clearly shocked about his placement in Ravenclaw.
A tentative conclusion formed, one Harry felt vaguely uncomfortable with. The Sorting Hat must have seen something in Neville, something Harry had pushed to the fore.
Neville didn't want to be in Hufflepuff, not really. He didn't want to be cripplingly shy, or constantly lose things. He didn't even know it yet, but Neville Longbottom wanted to change.
-oOo-
Hermione choked on some juice when Harry snapped up, like a puppet pulled into action. He shook his head before turning to her. "So Hermione, when's our first class tomorrow?"
The girl slowly reached into her satchel, keeping an eye on Harry. Was this normal behavior for him? She pulled out a parchment packed with dense writing, and looked over the schedule. "First class starts at nine thirty. It looks like they mix up all first years for classes."
"Excellent." Harry nodded, and started wolfing down spoonfuls of soup.
The Ravenclaw table stared the Boy Who Lived with a collective academic curiosity. A few seventh year students looked like they wanted to lobotomize him on the spot. Harry Potter clearly ticked differently than the rest.
-oOo-
Albus Percival Dumbledore was considered by many to be the most powerful wizard currently living. His titles included Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.
He was also considered a bit mad.
Not that anyone ever said as much to his face. Popular opinion supposed Albus had always been a bit touched, and a war with not one, but two dark lords had pushed the old man over the edge. Oh, he was still sharp as a tack, but one could not deny Albus possessed more quirks than most.
At the moment he reclined behind his desk, reading a small paperback novel through dainty half-moon glasses. All around his office were small, delicate instruments operating with astonishing variety. They spun and whirred in a silent symphony of movement.
Albus cocked his head to the side, slipped his reading glasses into a robe pocket, and laid his book aside. "Come in, Minerva."
McGonagall entered with a confident stride. Held in one hand was a small, cloth-wrapped object. She placed the object on his desk.
"Any problems?" asked Albus.
"None."
He drew the cloth away, lowered his head, and examined the revealed gemstone. Blood red and roughly cut, it seemed a simple thing.
Why is it, thought the headmaster, that little things are always the most important? Don't they know how inconvenient it is, being so small? So easily lost? With a sigh, he gingerly lowered the stone into a desk drawer, watching until the drawer had completely disappeared.
McGonagall left out a breath, as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders. "Do you really feel this necessary, Albus?"
"I'm afraid so. Gringott's security is superb, but in this case, not quite enough. I believe the stone will be most safe here, and we deny him yet another path." Albus steepled his fingers and leaned back. "But enough of these grave matters. How is Harry?"
McGonagall sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Albus. Mostly, he seems like a normal boy…so much like Lily and James," McGonagall's eyes grew distant as she remembered happier times. With a shake of her head, she met the headmaster's eyes. "I don't approve of Sherlock Holmes."
Albus had conjured a small bowl of candy on his desk and popped a yellow sweet into his mouth. "Lemon Drop?" he asked. McGonagall didn't think it the time for Lemon Drops, and her gaze made that abundantly clear. Albus shrugged. "And what exactly don't you approve of?"
"The man is absolutely not suited to raising a child. You should have seen the way he said goodbye to Harry," she snorted. "Or rather, the way he didn't. The way he speaks to the boy is more like an interrogation."
The headmaster raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Holmes was testing him. Harry made a simple comment, and was forced to 'explain his methods', or some such nonsense. The poor boy was under significant stress."
"And they were…?"
"What?"
"His 'methods', as you said."
"They were just simple observations. Things like dust on shoes. Trifles. Harry proved his uncle was leaving for a patient in the country."
"Did he indeed?" Albus stared into his candy bowl. "And did Harry exhibit any of these 'simple observations' in your presence?"
"Yes, but this is hardly the-"
"What were they?"
McGonagall reigned in her rising anger. Albus seemed determined to deflect the conversation away from Sherlock's shortcomings. "He could tell where the entrance to Diagon Alley was, supposedly from…"
"Yes?"
"Footprints."
Albus blinked. "Footprints?"
McGonagall nodded. "He claimed they all went in one direction."
"And did they?"
"I didn't see anything."
The headmaster helped himself to another Lemon Drop. "Well. Footprints again. It is nice to have things come full circle. But then, things usually do, in my experience."
McGonagall tapped her foot.
"Of course," he continued, "One cannot wonder if the student has surpassed the master. The boy does have certain advantages, after all."
McGonagall's foot tapped faster. "Albus…"
He smiled benignly. "Have you already forgotten, Minerva? More than a decade past, when a muggle succeeded where most all wizards have failed? And all from footprints."
t his words, McGonagall thought back. Back to when the Boy Who Lived was brought to Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes had seen through the Headmaster's invisibility with shocking ease.
Albus nodded to himself. "After the feast, ask Harry if he would terribly mind chatting with an old headmaster."
-oOo-
Harry was surprised when McGonagall approached him. He was even more surprised the headmaster used an office password like "sorbet lemon". A password like that surely said something about a man, exactly what, Harry couldn't say. As Harry stood in front of the headmaster's office, a voice sounded from the room beyond.
"Come in, Harry."
Harry entered with one eyebrow slightly raised, and came face to face with Albus Dumbledore. The headmaster sat behind a low desk, wearing a look of absolute wisdom and dignity. He also wore the most over-the-top, colorful robes Harry had ever seen.
"Sit, my boy. Please sit. Lemon Drop?"
Harry sat and shook his head. His eyes swept the room, taking in the portraits and contraptions. On a high shelf, silent and still, sat the Sorting Hat. Perched behind Dumbledore was fiery bird that appeared to have red-hot cinders in its plumage.
"How have you been, Harry?"
"Quite well, Headmaster. Thank you."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Please, call me Albus. Or Al, if you prefer. Headmaster is so formal, not to mention nonsensical. Headmaster indeed. The master of whose head? So macabre."
Harry couldn't imagine anyone, much less himself, calling the venerable wizard Al, but whatever. He nodded. "I'll try, Albus."
"You have my gratitude, Harry. Names are meant to be used, after all. I'm afraid mine usually manages to hide behind titles. But enough about me, how are you enjoying Baker Street?"
"I'm sorry sir, I don't quite-"
Dumbledore waved a hand. "You're quite right. Quite right. I'm getting ahead of myself. It recently came to my you had been adopted by Sherlock Holmes." The old wizard sagged. "And I'm so sorry."
"Sorry?"
Dumbledore nodded sadly. "It must have been hard on you. I just want you to know Harry, if you ever need help, I will be here." Dumbledore put on a brave smile.
Harry leaned back and brought his hands together. "…Thank you for the offer, but everything has been quite all right at Baker Street. I'm more worried about Death Eaters."
The smile fell from Dumbledore's face, leaving a blank slate behind. "Beg your pardon?"
"Voldemort's old followers. I understand very few were actually convicted. Security seems like it could be a problem."
Albus stared. "Security?"
Harry nodded. "Security."
"Security from Death Eaters."
"Precisely. I expect more than few wouldn't mind taking a crack at the Boy Who Lived."
Dumbledore shook his head. "Harry, very few Death Eaters were convicted for a reason. Most of Voldemort's so-called followers were controlled by the Imperious Curse. They were completely helpless, forced to commit the most heinous of crimes. They'll carry that burden for the rest of their lives."
Harry's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and his thoughts churned into overdrive. He remembered talking with Ollivander in the dark, dusty shop. The wand maker's words rang in his head.
"Every day," Ollivander had said, "You'd hear about another Imperious pardon. We called it 'crying curse'. Let me tell you, Mr. Potter, every time one walked away, it made me sick." Harry recalled the old man's jaw muscles, clenching and unclenching. "Every time. Like a knife twisting up into my gut. They'd walk out of court fresh as daisies, all smiles, mocking your loss. Back in those days, a lot of people learned just how much money could buy."
Harry took the words, a forgiving Headmaster's and wounded wandmaker's, and filed them away. Contradiction of two stories usually meant one thing. Someone was wrong.
Harry nodded. "Thank you for clarifying."
"No trouble at all, I'm glad I could clear it up for you, and I'd be happy to answer any other questions. Just ask away."
Harry closed his weary eyes. It had been a long day. "Just one more, and it's quite unrelated. I noticed some kids wearing glasses at dinner. Is performing magic on the eyes impossible, or just overly dangerous?"
Dumbledore beamed. "Excellent question. Magical surgery on the eyeball is possible, and incredibly complicated. However, the risks involved are astronomical. Only the most desperate ever attempt it."
Harry nodded, rising. "I thought so."
"Do tell."
"It must be dangerous, if you yourself would decline the procedure. Goodnight, Headmaster."
Harry rose, reached the door, and turned to say goodbye. Albus was staring at him, eyes twinkling at full tilt. "And how," he asked, "Do you know I wear glasses?"
"Oh, I observed you were wearing them not long ago. Glasses leave very distinctive impressions upon the bridge of the nose. Again, goodnight, sir."
Harry let himself out, and closed the door behind.
Albus sank into his chair, reached into a drawer, and withdrew his book. He then extracted his glasses from the folds of robe, and examined them thoughtfully. Reaching for a final sweet, Albus Dumbledore resumed his novel.
Later that night, he dreamt of following footprints through Lemon Drop mountains.
