A/N: Yeah, I'm out of my denial: I'll never update frequently. Grr, how dare my real life of an impending graduation, moving flats, and the organisation of trips interfere with fanfiction awesomeness? Horrific, I swear. But I do have rough drafts of the following three chapters. These next few updates will also finally show the main conflict of the story and will explain much of the ensuing mysteries.

A HUGE thank you to all the wonderful people who checked out my Figment writing (with a particularly big hug of gratitude and red vines to the amazing Tzadikim!). Also, an enormous thank you to my boyfriend (Bludger1) and beta (Spellmugwump97)!

General Disclaimer: I'm definitely not Rowling, because she and other actual authors are smart enough to realise that crossovers are ridiculously stupid ideas that should never be contemplated, let alone written. The horror! The complicated mess of characters and horror! Escape while you still have a chance!


Harry knew that the Holmes brothers would be the death of him. Whether it was through Mycroft's ridiculous bureaucracy in extraditing criminals or Sherlock's constant attempts to stretch his paranoia to its limits, he didn't know. But every new incident made him long for the times pre-Holmes. It had gotten to the point where he was even starting to miss Voldemort, for at least that nightmare was an uncomplicated fight between 'good' and 'evil'.

It wasn't as though Harry didn't sympathise with the genius, sociopathic brothers. Coming up against a world of magic and attempting to rationalise it was no easy feat, and he had nothing but admiration for Mycroft in managing to even partly reconcile the two. Nor did he blame Sherlock for trying to comprehend all the strange things that were going on; in fact, he felt a pang of guilt for adding to the confusion. So, sure, Mycroft was a bit of a ponce and Sherlock was too damn observant for his own good, but John Watson was a friendly enough bloke. Thus the obliviations, at first, were only because the men were getting too close to the truth for comfort. Harry was actually a bit surprised that Mycroft wasn't badgering for Sherlock (as well as John) to be brought into the fold, but figured this was from a combination of a want to shield his younger brother, and to protect wizarding society from the world's only private consulting detective. The auror was grateful for the last.

The real issue began when Sherlock Holmes made a habit of breaking into his flat. Magical and muggle security was heightened, and Harry tried to avoid Holmes at all costs. Ginny was more relaxed and saw the humour in it, but as Holmes had passed it off as a simple thing to accomplish he worried that others with an intent to harm his family would find it equally simplistic.

With all of this, Harry felt he'd been fairly restrained thus far. Sure he'd erased a few events here and there, but not nearly as many as the others accused him of. Besides, he was busy on things more important than worrying about hurting Holmes' feelings. There were the happy thoughts of renovating Grimmauld Place for their bigger family and the new baby (he couldn't help but broadly grin when remembering the past Diagon Alley visit). But there were also the more irritating situations, ranging from auror politics, his evolving cases, increased suspicious murmurings of something (which was driving the entire Department mental. These days Robards could give Moody a run for his money, and Deputy Head Flint was nowhere to be seen), Hermione's recent warnings of threats against his family, and that all of these threats seemed to tie the Dancing Men murders with both the muggle and magical worlds. He longed for his family to be as far away from these serial murders as possible, and it was only Ginny's stubbornness that stopped him from dragging them to the nearest international portkey. So he'd instead, once again, added to the already heightened security, making it so that their flat was practically impenetrable to any criminal.

Which was why Harry was so pissed off at finding the listening device this morning. Now, standing stormily in 221B as John swirled his tea and Holmes raised an unimpressed eyebrow, it could barely resist punching that smarmy git in the nose. "What the hell?"

"Told you it was a bad idea." John groaned while Sherlock looked unapologetic. The former turned to the irritated wizard with a sigh of understanding. "Are you sure you don't want a cuppa? It makes dealing with him so much easier."

"No! I don't want any blasted—" Harry steamed before, closing his eyes, took a few calming breaths and forced himself to remember that John was probably not at fault, "—thank you, but no. What I want to know is what Holmes was thinking, and how the hell he broke into my flat!"

"What I was thinking," Sherlock replied almost as snappily, digging his palms into the table, "was that you were hiding secrets that tie you directly into an extensive criminal organisation. Thus, the more pertinent question is: how did you find the recorder!"

"Tell me how you broke in!" Harry gritted out, his rage tangible. "My family could've been home, you bastard!"

"How did you find it!?"

"TELL ME RIGHT NOW!"

"YOU SAY IT FIRST!"

John, blinking, looked between both of the standing figures as the two men huffed with anger. "You're…actually identical."

"BE QUIET!" They screamed in unison before glaring at each other. "TELL ME!"

"Yep, both insane." The doctor sniggered, stirring a spoon idly around his mug as he was again directed with raging stares. "You're missing the main questions, anyway."

"What?" Harry calmed down slightly, though still sent daggers at the still-unapologetic consulting detective.

"He's Sherlock. Figuring out unsolvable puzzles is what he does. Don't worry about your security, I'm sure it's fine. As for you," John waved the spoon slightly at his annoyed friend, "you're probably asking about a symptom rather than the main thing."

"Oh?" Sherlock huffed. "Fine then, tell me. With all of your detective expertise, what should I have asked?"

John sighed at his friend's arrogance before turning to Harry with a knowing smile. "Do you believe in magic?"

The wizard felt a weight in his stomach plummet. This man couldn't actually know, could he? But he seemed so assured. "What? No, of course not. Who does?"

"Plenty of people." John's grin only widened at seeing the stupefied expressions on both the others. "If you travel enough you come across tonnes of unexplainable things. The oddest was when I was in the war and a native informed me of exactly how he was going to die."

Sherlock scowled. "Really John, this superstition is—"

"He was correct down to the number and placement of the bullets." He continued, sending him an impervious glance before redirecting his gaze to a befuddled Harry. "So, again: do you believe in magic?"

"I do." All three jumped and spun around at the woman's voice from the doorway. Irene Adler was leaning against the wall, a silky kimono falling around her as she delicately fingered a Blackberry. "Doesn't everyone? The mysterious, the exotic, the unattainable, the desirable longing just out of reach—it is simply irresistible. Like a ripe cherry crying out to be plucked."

"Right." John cleared his throat as the men stared open-mouthed at the cheekily grinning dominatrix. "Not exactly what I meant but, sure. Oh, wait. Introductions. Harry, this is Irene Adler. Irene—"

"Harry James Potter." Irene drawled, sweeping closer. "An irritating thorn in my side who keeps stealing all the cherries that should be mine. We've met."

"You two know each other?" John said in surprise as Sherlock narrowed his eyes distrustingly.

"We've met." Harry repeated with a sigh before addressing Irene. "Could you not say it like that? We both know I never 'stole the cherries', or whatever euphemism you want to use! Again, I'm married. With kids. Most definitely not a threat, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You're still taking away business." The woman huffed, undeterred as she took an uninvited seat. "Even more infuriating is that I cannot figure out how."

"Join the club. We're voting magic." John said faux cheerily. Harry and Sherlock groaned for opposing reasons. "Want to compare notes?"

Irene smiled, her ruby red lips practically glinting. "There's a thought. I assume you know this mysterious man is connected to Mycroft Holmes. What you might not be aware of is that my most select clients scream out his name more than my own or Jesus Christ."

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow as Harry felt a familiar flush sweep across his cheeks. John choked on his tea, having unwisely taken a sip. It took a few moments before he could sputter out, "You're joking!"

"I only wish." Irene turned an irritated stare towards the fidgeting, red man in question. "Imagine my annoyance when I learned that my 'main competitor' was a man who wouldn't dream of cheating on his wife! God, I hate you. Unlike some others in this room, I do not enjoy an unsolvable problem. My contacts are clueless, Mycroft is as silent as ever, and even my royal connection refuses to say a word. So I came to the source and had a spot of tea with your wife."

"You did what?" Harry gaped, not expecting this.

"Lovely woman, as is Mrs. Hudson." Irene continued, undeterred. "A refreshing sense of humour—but do tell her I wasn't joking about the ménage à trois. I always love a ginger in bed; so feisty. We did get around to business eventually. Ginny was rather amused at my problem, but refused to answer my question and, instead, sent me up here." She sent a shocked Harry a glare. "So?"

Harry's hesitant answer was side-stepped as a haughty Sherlock turned to him, both still standing. "Who the hell are you?"

"Nobody!" Harry instantly answered, equally stubborn. "Just Harry. There's nothing mysterious or, lord, 'magical' about me."

"Uh huh." Irene leaned back, fingers wrapping around her hair as she stood as well. "Either way, I do love a ginger and a Casanova-in-denial. But I have an appointment, and it's obvious enough I'll get more details from your wife. Ta!"

"Wait, no—" Harry broke off as Irene swept back through the door, leaving as quickly as she'd arrived. The men stared after her for a moment, uncertain about the storm that'd rushed by them, "—I'm, I'm sure Ginny was joking." He finished tiredly, losing steam in his confusion. Though he did send one more glare at Sherlock. "No more breaking into my flat!"

Sherlock snorted, anger diluted as he retook his seat, hands and fingers crossing in front of him. "You're a puzzle. I can't help it."

"You're such a bloody child. Worse than all mine combined." Harry groaned, pushing his glasses up to rub between his eyes. "You're all mental! How do you even know that woman? Completely, ridiculously mental."

"Better than being in league with Moriarty." Sherlock sniped once more, nostrils flaring as he ignored John's warning glance. To Harry's confused look he merely sneered. "Or do you know him as Anderson? You're another undercover agent. I'm on to you, and I'll get rid of your agency again."

Harry blinked. "I haven't the faintest what you're on about." Though the name Moriarty did ring a few bells. Wasn't he a muggle crime lord that'd died awhile back? He recalled that the story involved the Holmes brothers, but couldn't remember the details.

"Of course you don't." Sherlock snapped, patience reaching its limits as he tightly clenched his knuckles. "Highly advanced technology for both disappearances and erasing memories? It has Moriarty written all over it, and whichever way I investigate this 'dancing men' your name continuously pops up. Funny how that works, hmm? From Adler to this, your moniker seems almost magical—no John, don't say a word!"

Moriarty and the Dancing Men? Harry froze, for in fact this name hadn't popped up in the aurors' case. Maybe they'd been overlooking the muggle line too much. Still, he knew he couldn't afford to overlook this new lead now that he was aware of it, for what with Sherlock's numerous faults the man was still a criminology genius. "Why do you think Moriarty is to blame?"

"You aren't concerned that your name came up?" John asked with more curiosity than accusation.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm helping investigating the case and the wankers are starting to target me because of this. Of course my name's involved. So, Moriarty?"

John, taking in Sherlock's closed expression, sighed and took it on himself to explain. "Sherlock's convinced that a forensic scientist with the Yard, Anderson, is in fact Moriarty's right-hand man: Sebastian Moran."

Again, the name rang a few warning bells in Harry's head. Something about a hired gun… "You've gone to the Yard with this?"

But looking at the exchanged glance between the two the negative answer was clear. Harry frowned. Why would they both look so distrusting? He paused, scrambling to recall more details about Moriarty. First name, Jim or James, but there was controversy surrounding a fake name. Oh right, he'd claimed to be an actor hired by—Sherlock.

Harry's breath halted as he remembered the rest: an orchestrated plot by Moriarty to ruin Sherlock's reputation, where the Yard and press turned against him and where the two at the heart of the conflict had jumped from a roof (one by choice, the other to protect his family). The aurors had looked into it briefly, but Mycroft and other sources had assured them there was no magic involved. But still, with this, the answer to Harry's question was obvious. Amid a bit of guilt for bringing it up, the wizard felt admiration for the usually infuriating detective. "You don't trust them."

"Not with this." Sherlock said stiffly, fingers slightly loosening from their clench.

"Can't say I blame you." No, Harry couldn't. The story was all-too familiar. Merlin only knew it took him ages to stop looking in paranoia over his shoulder when starting at the Ministry, his time as 'Undesirable Number One' all too fresh. It would've been even worst if his friends and coworkers had turned against him, ready and willing to believe he was a murderous psychopath (children's mob hysteria in the face of a basilisk hardly counted). So though he remained pissed off at having his flat broken into, his grudging respect for Sherlock couldn't help but grow. "You can't risk them siding with Anderson. Moran. Whoever. Do you have any proof? Are you doing your own investigation?"

Sherlock seemed wary and mildly surprised at these almost concerned questions. Harry, again, couldn't blame him. "The proof is circumstantial at best and the 'investigation' is intertwined with the Dancing Men case."

"Of course it is." The auror sighed. "It's like everything is these days. From the French group, British murders, stolen pearl—"

"You know about the pearl?" Of course the ever-suspicious Sherlock was quick to pick up his slip.

"I have my sources." He edged. "Being outside of the Yard has its perks, something you must know. But still, now Moriarty, Moran, and a possible spy at the heart of the case? That would explain a lot, from who the leak is to how the press keeps getting their information. Do you know what they're after? It can't just be about murders or a single pearl."

John gaped from one man to the other. 'You—wait, you believe Sherlock that Anderson is really Moran?"

"Don't know either way, so why not." Harry shrugged as Sherlock sent him an inscrutable stare. "You believe in magic, you're not one to talk. But again, do you have any leads at all on what they're ultimately after, or after next?"

Sherlock still looked wary, though Harry's proclamation of his belief hedged this somewhat. "Depends. Who do you work for? What do you know about the inventions? Can memories be returned?"

Harry silently cursed. Figures. Right when he was ready to play nice this comes back to haunt him. The silver lining was that Sherlock's distrust seemed to have shifted from him to the criminals, so if he was vague… "Who I work for doesn't matter, except that we're the good guys. We don't have much information on the 'tech' so anything could be possible. I'm trying to offer a truce here. We both need each others notes, and I just want you and this blasted case out of my hair. So, do you have any leads on the next targets?"

"Hmm." Sherlock eyed him speculatively. "You aren't nearly as moronic as you appear." Harry fought to keep back a sarcastic reply at this little quip. "If you know about the pearl and the threats on your family, you're acquainted with 'Jane'."

"Who?"

"A businesswoman, short hair, very good at defence, recently pregnant. She invited herself on a stake-out the other night." Oh, Hermione, Harry realised in an instant. Sherlock closely watched his expression before stating his conclusions slowly, unsurprised. "So she was giving a fake name and you two work together. I'll assume then that you know everything that happened in Southbank. Do you agree that the 'disappearing machine' hardly matters?" John squawked out a protest at this new information but Harry merely nodded. Sherlock finally grinned, though it was more of a smirk. "Good, at least someone has something resembling brains—don't look so insulted John, it was simply an observance. The next targets should then be obvious: the Potters and the Weasleys. Your family and your wife's."

Harry blanched, having already known this but despising the reminder. "We're under extensive protection." He said stiffly, sending Sherlock another frown. "Though a few prats can break though it, the measures we've taken will stop most."

"Is that enough?" John asked, concerned. Unsurprising, seeing as how he was likely one of those who'd broken in—reluctantly or otherwise.

"I've tried sending them out of the country." Harry sighed, putting aside the other issue for the moment. "But you've met my wife. Her family is, if anything, even more stubborn." Realising something he preemptively sent a warning glare at Sherlock. "Don't you dare think of using them as bait!"

"I wasn't going to." Sherlock answered balefully, unconcerned and not insulted by the suggestion he'd do such. "'Human bait' is a solution more in line with my dear brother. I prefer other tactics. For starters, theorising the enemies' targets. As you so bluntly said, a plot this wide cannot only be geared towards murder and the thievery of a single pearl, whatever that 'pearl' may be."

"The people killed all had criminal ties." Harry muttered from memory, easily recalling the details of the case that had haunted him for far longer than he'd prefer. "Mainly to a terrorist organisation called the Death Eaters, but each were also connected to petty crime, trade, or politics. They were mostly 'unfavoured' persons in prominent criminal families."

"Death Eaters?" Sherlock mumbled, the name clearly familiar if faint. Harry didn't mind giving away this tidbit—the basics of the group, minus magic, were already on the Yard's databases. "Connected to Rodolphus Lestrange?"

Oh, maybe the name wasn't so unknown to Holmes. "Yes, we think he might be one of the main leaders. Though my superiors are happy he's been captured—"

"—you think it was too easy." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance. "I saw the details in Mycroft's database."

"Which he hacked into." John helpfully supplied. Sherlock sent him a blithering glare.

"The French ops went like clockwork." Sherlock continued, a small growl of annoyance in his voice. "The entire thing was without a hitch: no casualties, no injuries, a major terrorist captured, and everyone getting home time for dinner. That doesn't happen!"

"At last someone agrees." Harry groaned, frustrated at all of the loose strings without a secure knot to tie them together. "Lestrange is the centre to this, I know he is; the one prominent person attached to all the families involved. He wanted to be captured. He wanted an alibi."

"You think he's the ringleader." Sherlock contemplated, going over to grab John's laptop from the coffee-table (amidst his half-hearted protest) and logging into his database. "Rodolphus Lestrange: entire family was in the Death Eaters, but most are now deceased. Almost nothing is known about him except that he was raised in London, was married to Bellatrix Lestrange née Black, a legally insane terrorist rumoured to be the mistress of the group's main leader—"

"You have a database of criminals on my computer." John said, his tone one of reluctant acceptance rather than surprise. Harry bit his lip, avoiding a smile as the thought of 'plausible deniability' surfaced in his mind.

"—of course I do, John, keep up." Sherlock didn't pause in his clicking and scrolling. "Lestrange hasn't been publicly seen since the downfall of the Death Eaters in 1998, but has been linked with various pseudonyms. He had enough ties to Moriarty to be rumoured to be 'Sebastian Moran' for a time, though not in any official capacity, merely the Yard's speculation. I also assumed that until Lestrange was sighted in a public murder in Munich half an hour before Moran was confirmed through his weapons and fingerprints as the assassin of a politician in New York. Mycroft's forces recently captured Lestrange, which would explain the general lack of information." He scowled at the thought.

"Mycroft doesn't know much more." Harry dismissed, though he dwelled on the new facts. The small timeframe between the murders would be a perfect alibi in the muggle world, but magical transportation could easily allow it. This could still be a coincidence but something about it nagged him. Lestrange being tied to this Moran was a possibility. "I've already met with your brother about this."

"He was lying."

"He wasn't." Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I think I can tell if someone's lying to me. All Mycroft knew was that he was capturing a dangerous terrorist with extensive ties to international criminal organisations."

"It's Mycroft." Sherlock scowled as he snapped the laptop shut. "He's hiding something."

"Does that really matter?" John spoke up, annoyed and tired of being dismissed. "Weren't you trying to find the next targets and whatever this man's after?"

"You're right." Harry sent him a weak grin. "So Lestrange wants revenge on those who helped his fall last time, and people who're going up against him now. He likely stole some sort of pearl and is connected to this wider case. But all of that's still too little. What's he hoping to achieve?"

"Global domination?" John tried. "Nuclear codes? The world's riches?"

"All of the above?" Harry gave an unamused laugh, threading his hands through his already messy hair. "We don't have enough information, the 'Dancing Men' codes are unsolvable, and because of bureaucracy we can't interrogate Lestrange. Could we lean on this Anderson man?"

"It's uncertain how much he's aware we know." Sherlock said, absolutely no amusement in his voice. "While he led us to Southbank, he might think we believe he's in league with Moriarty rather than being Moran himself."

"Do you have any other suspicious cases?" Harry tried again, his tone having an edge of frustration. "Ones that don't make sense? The box with the book was strange, but I've already tried everything and that's a dead end."

A beat of silence, before…

"John." John muttered quietly. The other two looked at him oddly. "No, not me. John 2. John Openshaw."

Harry recalled helping with a hyperventilating man, and Ginny mentioning the case a bit later as something unusual. "You wrote it up in your blog, didn't you? Something about the disappearance of various family members?"

John nodded. "Two brothers, who were John's dad and uncle, turned up dead after being threatened. The notes were—"

"Death Eaters!" Sherlock's eyes widened. "D.E. The remaining members were threatening them. Oh, this is good! Though hardly original using orange pips."

"—apparently from Death Eaters, I guess." John continued on, Sherlock's interruptions being a normal occurrence. "Each letter contained five orange pips, something used in the States ages ago by the KKK to threaten members who'd betrayed them. The entire case had ties to the US, now that I think about it. Didn't the father become rich there?"

"The uncle." Sherlock corrected impatiently, fingers pressed together under his chin. "Both men were threatened to return papers before being killed. One in the fireplace, which the man had boarded up for an unknown reason, while the other was beheaded. 'John the Second' received a letter, came to us, and disappeared in the middle of Scotland Yard."

"No clues were left behind?" Harry's query wasn't actually a question. He couldn't recall seeing the name Openshaw on any list of Death Eaters, but the cases seemed similar. 'Boarding up the fireplace' meant that the man was not only at least aware of wizards, but had gotten on the wrong side of a magic user. A rich family would have been able to provide financial backing, or could have refused to have done so. But if the people behind the threats wanted the return of papers a change of heart seemed more likely. "They might have financially backed a criminal group before switching sides."

"Obviously." Sherlock scowled. Harry was too used to the man's lack of social propriety to bristle or be offended. "If there is a link between the cases, it means that Moriarty is collecting extensive international wealth for something."

"To rebuild his organisation?" John tried.

"He's already done that." Harry couldn't help but be excited, finally feeling as though they were getting somewhere with this blasted case. "At least, if Moriarty is behind all of this, he's already gotten goons. He might even be—" he paused, realising the conclusion of this train of thought like a stab in his chest, "—trying to restart the Death Eaters." The others took this more in stride, knowing little about the possibilities therein. "Which is bad. Very bad. Remember the terrorist attacks in the '90s? The vast majority of those were perpetrated by this group."

"Decapitate the head and the rest will follow." John suggested mildly, stirring his tea reflexively.

"They're a hydra." Harry frowned in disagreement, stating this with clear disgust. "Their first leader died years ago. But if they're still around? I promise you that if one's killed the head will surely regrow."

"So take out all three at once." Sherlock pointed out simply, fingers nettling beneath his chin. "Collapse the ground from beneath it. Push it off a cliff. Nuke it, if nothing else." He paused, an unamused smile drifting over his lips. "Give it a blasted Fall…"


It had been mere minutes since Harry's impromptu 'truce' and exchange of information with the occupants of 221B had ended, and his mind was abuzz with new, dangerous possibilities. But for now, with his smirking wife now in front of him, only one question came to the forefront.

"A threesome?" He asked exasperatedly, closing the flat door behind him.

"Hello to you too." Ginny chastely kissed him as he shrugged off his coat.

"Irene Adler is mental." Harry firmly stated while taking the nonsensically jabbering baby from his wife's hands. "Hi Albie! Had fun with mummy today? Did you learn any new, inappropriate words?"

"Hilarious." She rolled her eyes, not bothering to be surprised. "I was obviously joking. Still though, Irene is lovely."

"You can't be serious."

"I was bored and we had a very pleasant tea." She grinned at her husband's look of disbelief. "I ran into her in the corridor, and when Mrs. Hudson stepped out for a moment she invited us in. The boys were actually behaving and the conversation was charming."

"Full of sexual deviation?" Harry gently adjusted his hold of the fidgeting child.

"Only when Mrs. Hudson took Jamie and Teddy to check on the biscuits." Ginny pulled the other two to the couch. "The boys are still down there, by the way. I'm not sure who's holding the others hostage, but there's plenty of sugar and puppy dog faces involved in either case."

"Can we get back to your chat with Irene Adler?" Harry sighed, barely noticing Al slobbering over his thumb though shifting him away from the edge of his lap.

"It was enlightening." Her beam simply increased. "Who'd have guessed my husband's more popular than Jesus? You've managed to really irk her, sweetie."

"I got as much." He said in little more than a groan. "But really, The Woman? You do know she's one of Britain's most infamous escorts?"

"Of course I do." Ginny waved this 'revelation' away. "I've heard Hermione and Fleur rant about her at muggle social functions often enough. I think I've even run into her in passing a few times myself."

"So you agreed to have tea with her?"

"Again, I was bored." She explained slowly to his poor male mind. "My article was done and I was bringing the boys back from the park. When she asked I thought, why not? No harm done. I didn't let anything slip, got to brush up on my innuendoes, learned that more than a few witches, wizards and royalty hold you in extremely high esteem—"

"—and you volunteered us for a ménage à trois." He cut in drily.

"Only a little bit." Ginny had to laugh at his look. "What? She offered us a fantastic discount. I'm assuming she did find you eventually?"

"When I was talking to Holmes." Harry said, pushing the discount comment to a distant corner of his mind. "The git broke in. Again."

"What?" Ginny paused, amusement filtering out of her smile. "He was able to even with the protections? Merlin, we've got to leave! I'll grab the boys, you get the bags and—"

"I've already fixed the problem." Harry quickly reassured her, irritated at himself for the poor phrasing. "As much as Sherlock Holmes' an annoying git, he is a genius. We're safe, we're fine. Only people invited into the building can get in."

"But that means—"

"I've had a word with Mrs. Hudson and both Holmes and John know the danger." He continued appeasingly. "Whatever the case, our flat is impenetrable now. Someone will need a direct invitation from either you or me to even see the door. Okay?"

"Okay." Ginny sighed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as Al switched from Harry's thumb to nibbling his shirt collar. "What with these threats and…who am I kidding. I've been nervous ever since those fans found us."

"The two girls?" Harry smiled. "I tracked them down after John mentioned them to you. That's not a problem. They're friends with one of your old teammates, and when they got drunk she—"

"—told them our new address." Ginny finished, groaning. "Of course someone did. What is it with Quidditch players and drinking? Still, at least it's not a threat."

"Exactly." Harry pulled both her and Al close. "We're safe, it's fine. Holmes—Sherlock, that is—and I are even working somewhat together on a case. Everything's perfect."

Amid Ginny's small noise of surprise at the news, a few events happened simultaneously to cap off this pronouncement. The flat's door burst open with shrieks of laughter and Harry was tackled by the sugar-high, hyper-excited Jamie and Teddy. Ginny quickly grabbed Al away from the fray, but otherwise laughed happily at her husband's predicament.

Only seconds later a small buzzing came from Harry's pocket. Ginny, to his beseeching look, rolled her eyes, picked up the mobile and flipped it open. After only a slight pause over the buttons to calm herself, she held it between her ear and raised shoulder like a pro. All the while she carefully kept a tight hold on the fidgeting Al while Harry tried to keep the other two from falling off the couch while keeping their shouts to a dull roar.

"Hello? OI!" Ginny grimaced and pulled the device away from her ear. She quickly shouted back at the poor receiver. "SPEAK SOFTER OR GIVE IT TO HERMIONE! No, it's me you moron. Harry's being attacked by the kids. Yeah, hmm, great. Yes, I'm fine. Positive. Been through this twice, remember? Don't worry about our protections. No, I'm not leaving the country! You're worse than Harry…huh. Okay. Yeah yeah, I'll tell him, but I was hoping for some well-deserved family time. What? This really can't wait until tomorrow? I know it's a lead but we haven't had a moment to ourselves and—FINE! Yes, he'll meet you there! You're such a git. It had better only be an hour or you'll be seeing bat-boogies for a week. No, I'm not out of practice! BYE!" She stormed, snapping the phone shut while rocking a giggling Al.

"Ron then?" Harry asked, wincing as Jamie prodded him with his own glasses. He'd never understand why they were apparently so fascinating. He was missing Teddy's old preoccupation with Ginny's shiny—and extremely pully—hair, though he was sure she didn't share his sentiment. "How's he and Hermione? What's the lead?"

"Hermione's fine, Ron's Ron, and the lead's on the pearl." Ginny sighed, putting the phone on the table before holding Al closer to her. "Ron figured out what it is and where it was stolen from, and wants you to meet him at headquarters before heading out. There was something about the National Portrait Gallery."

"The, the Gallery?" Harry paused as realisation swept over him. That pearl? Ron had better be joking. "Oh shi—shoot." He changed the word as he struggled up, sending a grateful look to Teddy as he took Jamie. "Sorry, this could be pretty bad. I know we were going to spend the afternoon in, but I'll be home as soon as possible."

"Go, it's fine." Ginny gave him a kiss as Teddy made a face. "I have an article to finish up and I'll take care of the munchkins. Don't worry about us! Go save the world."

"You're incredible." Harry gave her a gentle smile before giving them all quick hugs. "I swear I'll be back soon. Promise!"

"Just go!" Ginny laughed as he swept her into another kiss. Then, grabbing his coat and phone, he raced out of the flat. Once the door had shut she turned to her three impatiently waiting boys with a smile. "So, is Mrs. Hudson finished with her biscuits or does she want a hand?"

"Yay yay yay!" Jamie squirmed out of Teddy's hold, imitating his father in making a hasty beeline for the exit.


Mycroft and Anthea exited their towncar at 221 Baker Street, unaware that they had missed bumping into Harry by a matter of minutes. Mycroft, his thoughts on his brother, wouldn't have cared. But Anthea, with her gaze surveying the area while her fingers professionally typed on her Blackberry at lightning speed, couldn't help but feel a leap in her chest at being here.

She had worked for Mycroft long enough to meet many of the famous and infamous of the world, but properly talking to the Harry Potter was a goal she had yet to accomplish. A few polite words, a glimpse from a crowd, a handful of short texts? Sure. But she was eagerly awaiting the day when the research—as important as it was—reached the ending point and she was free to come clean. With Mycroft backing her and her loyalty proven, she hoped that all of her work would be rewarded with an interview. Just one. That's all she needed.

As they made their way into the building and up to 221c, Anthea's thoughts drifted back to the day when everything changed…


Eighteen Months Previously


'Come here, please. — MH'

Anthea stared at her Blackberry. It was the 'please' that made her hesitate. For though Mycroft had always been unfailingly civil and polite in her past six months of working for him, a word that even hinted at uncertainty was unheard of in his missives.

As she straightened and stood from her desk, she tried to convince herself that was was horribly over-reading and overreacting. But as the text was from Mycroft Freaking Holmes, he was sure to have over-thought every word and comma as well.

Walking over, Anthea lightly knocked on her boss's door before entering. The main office was much like her own, though larger by the smallest of margins and not divided into a personal area as well as waiting space. Still, no one could make the mistake of assuming that this room belonged merely to a small government official. Tan and airy, abundant light fell on the subtly luxurious furniture from the two walls of one-sided glass windows with a panoramic view of the Thames. "Sir?"

"Anthea." Mycroft inclined his head from the other side of his dark mahogany desk, gesturing for her to sit. "I was wondering, how have you been finding your job?"

"Fine, Mr. Holmes." She blinked in surprise, but didn't have to hesitate in her answer. "It's been…more exciting than I thought it would be."

He humourlessly chuckled at her response, making her anxiety at the odd situation heighten. "I would expect so. After all, who would have guessed that being a muggle's secretary would be more exhilarating than reporting?"

"What? 'Muggle', reporting?" Anthea's throat clenched, gripping her Blackberry as though it was her only anchor. She silently thanked Merlin for WWW's defensive charms to ward electronics from magic (accidental or otherwise), and cursed that she'd left her wand at home after one too many curious looks from security on previous occasions.

"Holding your cover, I see." Mycroft deftly flipped open a folder laying in front of him while eyeing the suddenly outed witch. "You have quite the CV, 'Anthea', there was little need to fake your credentials. A Mastery in Charms from Beauxbatons is nothing to sneeze at, and your other work? An intern at 'The Quibbler', editor of the Hogsmeade Newsletter, a few anonymous columns for 'The Sun', and a reporter for 'Witch Weekly' in the past few years. I admit, I quite enjoyed your recent exposé of Rita Skeeter in the last. Such a shame your articles were forcibly halted from publication due to that."

Hearing the details of her true life, 'Anthea' let her shoulders drop alongside her cover. She gulped in a few quick breaths before steadying herself. "There's no chance of denying it, I suppose."

"None whatsoever." Mycroft emotionlessly stated, closing the folder. He eyed her hands, which she wisely kept in view even though a wand wasn't on her person. "Particularly when the commencement of your employment here began when 'Witch Weekly' put you on unpaid leave. I imagine Miss. Skeeter put up a fuss? A pureblood's word against a muggleborn's. You never had a chance."

Anthea remained silent for a moment before beginning to stand. "I'll send you the rest of today's appointments and pack my desk—"

"I never said you were dismissed, in either sense of the word." Mycroft's brisk interruption stopped her short, causing her mouth to fall open in bewilderment. He steepled his fingers in front of him, drumming a soft beat on his desk. "The misplaced paperwork you stumbled upon to find me has already been fixed. Thus, I only have one thing to ask: were you after Harry Potter or my research?"

Anthea swallowed the toad in her throat, blinking rapidly. Knowing she had nothing left to lose, she answered truthfully. "Mr. Potter. I, I wasn't able to find out much about what was going on here, but I knew he was the go-between for you and the Ministry."

"You wanted an exclusive interview from the 'reclusive Saviour' to put you back on top." He said neatly, ignoring her flinch. "It was rather obvious: I put it together within a week of your employment. Oh, just sit back down! If I wanted you gone I would have done it ages ago."

Anthea hesitantly complied, uncertain about what was going on. But at least now she was fairly sure this wasn't going to end with her being sued or arrested. "What do you mean?"

"You have proven to be a highly competent PA." Mycroft said succinctly, merely uttering a fact. "Thus, so long as your hard work continues and there are no more questions concerning your loyalty, I see no reason not to retain you. For, in addition to various other reasons, if would be useful to have a witch of your intelligence aid me in the ongoing research."

"Wha—what?!" Anthea stammered, control collapsing as she was barely able to get out a word.

"Of course, your increased duties will come with certain 'perks'. View them as incentives for your continued productivity and silence." Mycroft continued, not minding his shocked companion. "As we've been searching for a trustworthy reporter to release the results once we're ready, if you've proven yourself by that point I would recommend to your Ministry and Gringotts that you be given initial rights to the story. In addition, I can organise an audience between yourself and Mr. Potter once your good intentions have become abundantly clear at a later date. For both of these, your employment at 'Witch Weekly' must be retained. You will thus be provided with amble time for that."

Anthea could hardly digest this statement. So many of her hopes had come true and she was certain there must be a catch. She stumbled out a weak 'protest', preferring to have the other show drop sooner than later on this miracle. "I—how can you even think of trusting me with this?! I have no idea how sensitive this research is, and for all you know I plan on hurting Mr. Potter as soon as I get close to him!"

Mycroft couldn't help but give a half-smile at the marginally hysterical witch. "My dear, from that outburst alone it is clear you would make an horrific assassin. But luckily for you, I need a witch and an assistant far more than another killer."

"That doesn't answer anything!"

Mycroft tutted at her uncharacteristic slowness. "Why am I giving you a second chance? Because of your history. It is all in the Ministry's archives. A mischievous Hufflepuff at the top of her class who achieved too many detentions to be a prefect. A fighter at the Battle of Hogwarts, who mainly aided in healing the wounded. This was then followed by an escape away to France for rest and recovery in the aftermath." He eyed had as though he was trying to work out a puzzle. "You are a muggleborn who has always struggled against your world's pureblood agenda, whether this harsh conservatism brought war to your doorstep or if it constantly suppressed your promotions and dreams." He leaned forward. "'Anthea', you would never harm a hair on Harry Potter's head, and I know that you would jump at the opportunity to help our research."

Anthea gulped at the end, throat dry. She had a creeping feeling that her next words would solidify her entire future. Yet within a moment, she realised that she wouldn't mind this at all. "What is the research?"

Mycroft smiled, unsteepling his fingers. "We are democratising magic."


Present Day


Anthea sighed while knocking on Sherlock's and John's door. She knew it was only a matter of time now before something changed, and she could only hope that it was, after all, what she had dreamed of. Being an assistant was fine, researching was interesting, and Mycroft was an amazing person once one got past his prickly exterior, but all she truly wanted? To see her name in print, and know that no one could again take away her story.


A certain aspect of magical security was the best-kept open secret in the wizarding world. Magical security itself wasn't particularly a hidden art: even squibs and muggleborns' parents were versed on the benefits of warding, and everything from the fidelius charm to dragons lurking in the depths of Gringotts were told as bedtime stories ("Sweetie, your pygmy puff is taking a vacation. Under a heavy fidelius. Yes, that's right. No, of course the kneazle didn't eat him! Such an imagination you have"). Interestingly then, the only truly guarded secret along these lines could be worked out by anyone given a few minutes and a wee bit of common sense. Luckily for global wizarding law enforcements, Hermione Granger was quite right to state that most of the greatest wizards (or otherwise) hadn't an ounce of logic.

Entering the aurors, Harry had been surprised to learn this 'secret of secrets', as obvious in hindsight as it was. What he didn't at first understand was why Ministries the world over were so adamantly secretive about how they were providing magical security to muggle landmarks. It was in his second month on the job that the answer became clear when a half-blood was caught breaking into the Louvre. The criminal in question had already been involved with a dozen heists, and the only reason he'd been nabbed with an Edgar Degas and worn invisibility cloak was that he hadn't bothered to check for wards.

Harry understanding of the situation was further increased after seeing the statistics showing that most of the world-class burglars in Azkaban had been caught because they'd gotten cocky and went after the muggles. It was perturbing to learn that the Egyptian pyramids really were cursed and that Edinburgh Castle's armoury would attack any intruders without mercy, but it made quite a lot of sense. Perhaps most interestingly, it was when muggle and magical security were mixed that things got—creative. Hermione had gone into full-on research mode in discovering this, and for ages all she would talk about were the spells involved to make non-magical portraits partly sentient ('The Scream' had a particularly effective security measure), how the Bodleian Library's chained books bound thieves up tight and, most unbelievably, how the Statue of Liberty could move while releasing time magic and memory charms. She explained that the last was a last-ditch attempt to defend New York against monsters/aliens/superheroes. Harry decided that he really didn't want to know, and made a mental note to never ask her about Tokyo.

Furthermore, this global protection of muggle assets was used as a brokering device between every country's two governments. Everyone involved wished to protect their national treasures, and coming together for this common cause generated better relations all around. So it was that most masterpieces—muggle or magical—were widely untouchable, and the massive temptation of 'unguarded' museums held the ultimate trap for wizarding criminals.

Typically, this was wonderful. Except for the few exceptions, such as when the British aurors discovered that a pearl was missing and realised that, without more information, trying to even find which it was would be like searching for a needle in a pile of needles. Needles which replicated themselves with every false try. So though Hermione's clue was interesting, Harry had been at a loss as to where to start and had been convinced that Sherlock Holmes' lead about a mole would be their best bet (because Merlin only knew how many 'Crown jewels' the British Empire had collected/stolen/borrowed-with-the-intent-to-retur n over the centuries).

Which was why Harry was so relieved that Ron had found something. He was a little less relieved, after a hurried conversation at auror headquarters, to learn that the pearl in question had been in the National Portrait Gallery and had, indeed, been the very pearl he worried it had been…

"WEASLEY! POTTER! OFFICE!" Harry and Ron paused on their way out the door, turned back at the shout, and reluctantly made their way towards the Head Auror's dulcet tones. Their coworkers sent them understanding and sympathetic glances.

"What did you do, break into Downing Street? Took an international portkey to the Oval Office?" Ron groaned, only half joking.

"Oh ha ha." Harry rolled his eyes, pulling his coat back on as they walked. "I haven't done anything illegal."

"Your definition of illegal, or everyone else's?" Ron, smirking, leaned away from Harry's 'light' punch. "Nah, it's probably about the pearl."

"About that." Harry paused both his sentence and his steps. "When you say it's the one in the gallery, do you mean…"

"'The Girl with a Pearl Earring'?" Ron sighed, also stopping to glance at his partner. "Yeah, that's the one. Let's hope the lead's a dud."

"Christ, talk about déjà vu." Harry groaned, continuing to walk down the hall. "Don't know why they weren't all destroyed ages ago…never tell Hermione I said that, she'd start in about historical artefacts. Okay though, if the pearl's missing we can go back to the last case. Call in Malfoy, Borgin—wait, no. He just died, didn't he?"

"Probable accident. I think Susan looked into it." Ron nodded to himself. "One of his 'purchases' backfired, a cursed copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Meh, I guess it was only a matter of time before his business dealings caught up to him and…oh. Here we are. Fantastic. After you, mate. Screaming at you calms Robards down like nothing else."

"Thanks." Harry said with an annoyed tinge, thoughts of the reappearance of a certain book pushed to the back of his mind. Taking a breath he opened the door. "Sir? You called?"

"That's one way to put it." Ron muttered, which the others either ignored or didn't hear as the men slid into the office, fidgeting under the Head Auror's unyielding stare. Sitting behind his desk with his hands clenched in front of him, white knuckles were just visible.

"Close the door and sit. Now. You're not in here because of the Yard, the murders, the new pearl business, or the protections." Robards stated gruffly. Only when the two men had nervously sat did he continue speaking, his slow, reverberating tone only adding to the tension. "You're both reckless, defiant Gryffindors with only a passing concern for the law. I must've been mad to make you partners!"

"Yes sir." Said partners hopes of getting out of headquarters soon and sans-lectures sunk.

"I've lost count of the number of infractions you two've been called up on, only to have them be dismissed seeing as they allowed you to bloody well save all our hides!" Robards said, flinging his hands up in annoyance, though his harsh demeanour fell away. "Can't help but play the damn heroes, even when every villain and their dragon comes calling. Unbelievable."

Ron and Harry hid their small smiles, not allowing themselves to speak. Robards stared at them for a beat longer before sighing.

"Deputy Head Auror Flint resigned two days ago, but his unexpected exit from the force is being kept quiet until we have his replacement. Which is where you two come in." Robards sent the surprised men a steely look. "You've both been headaches from the moment you walked through those doors. Not only have you brought in mounds of scrutiny from the press, but you've broken every damn regulation in the book. Still, all of this can't take away from your interdepartmental popularity, extensive networks, unprecedented number of arrests, and a stunning amount of successfully solved cases. Boys, you are both tremendous assets to the department and I couldn't be prouder of your achievements."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank, thank you." Harry and Ron stated, exchanging a bewildered glance.

"When we met to discuss Flint's replacement, the Minister and myself were in agreement on the top two names. Interestingly, Weasley, your wife was the only one to abstain from voting—hah, that woman is brilliant at deflecting charges of favouritism! Oh no, don't you two start. I know exactly who's been tipping you off as to how to get around regulation, 'plausible deniability' my arse." Though Robards looked more amused than anything as he broke into a grin. "But principles or not, she was utterly beaming when we decided it would come down to you two. Though it's been left to my discretion to make the final decision, I want to extend my full congratulations to the department's top field agents and senior aurors.

"However, there's only one position to be filled, and I have made my decision." Robards continued, his smile falling into seriousness even while a hint of apology appeared. "Auror Weasley, you are a tremendous credit to your field, have a strategic mind that can't be beat, and whatever infractions you've accumulated have generally not even been your direct fault. This latest update on the 'pearl' and your leads on the ongoing serial murders have only further showcased your immense talents. Now, Auror Potter, you are obviously a special case. But like your partner's war-hero status, I've tried to base my final decision on your performance within the department rather than on previous accomplishments—however extensive they may be. Thus, aside from or despite being a 'saviour', you are an outstanding auror, one who would make the sacrifice play for his team; a man who would lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you. But I have my doubts on how this attitude would transition to the Deputy Head Auror office. A further, extreme concern, is that you are at fault for most of Weasley's aforementioned infractions. Your own 'toeing' and outright shattering of the law is an extremely lengthy list which finishes spectacularly with the latest Yard fiasco, a situation that got you extremely close to being discharged if not sent away for treason—"

"Sir?" Ron suddenly interrupted. Harry, also taken off-guard, noticed a tell-tale red flush around his friend's ears as he sat up straight in his seat. "That 'fiasco' allowed us to connect the Dancing Men murders with numerous muggle cases. With all due respect, whenever Auror Potter broke protocol it was to save lives! He's the reason we have such a high success rate, and why Death Eaters aren't running around in the streets! No Harry, you git, shut it. If you won't defend yourself I bloody well will!" He abruptly stood up, poised with anger as he headed to the door away from his startled comrades. "Head Robards, thank you for your kind comments, but I'm happy continuing on as a senior auror. Harry was born for this job! He's been saving the world for years, and it's ridiculous there's even a question that he'd be fantastic in this position! Are you blind? He'd find a way to cut the wire!"

The door slammed behind the furiously frustrated redhead.

Harry blinked, feeling as though he'd been caught in and spat out of a tornado. "I, err…this actually demonstrates Auror Weasley's…leadership skills…showing why he'd be brilliant for—"

"Save it, Potter." Robards gave a short chuckle, shaking his head. "But don't worry, I know how to differentiate loyalty from subordination. Weasley was absolutely correct and, if he had let me finish, I would have said exactly the same thing. Congratulations, Auror Potter. I would tell you that the Deputy position is yours if you choose, but I'm afraid you're getting no choice in the matter." The Head shook the shocked auror's hand with a gruff nod. "Merlin knows Kingsley would've had my head if the paperwork hadn't been sent up straight away."

"…but, what…"

"Congratulations Harry." The older wizard broke into a grin as he patted his back. "I can't imagine anyone better for the job, and I know you'll make the force and Ministry proud."

"…thank you, but…but…"

"We'll make the announcement tomorrow." Robards waved away his stumbled protest. "There's some forms to sign and details to go over, of course, but that can be taken care of once we know the pearl's safe. Now…judging from the low cursing of my incompetence, I'd guess Auror Weasley is waiting for you just outside the door."

It was thus a very bewildered wizarding saviour who stepped out of the office, was immediately tugged away by his irritated best mate, and was unceremoniously dragged down to the Atrium in a whirl of angry ranting.

"The nerve of that prat!" Ron shouted as they made their way out of the elevator and into the sunlight, causing a small gnome sitting on the Fountain of Magical Brethren to fall into the water with a splash. "Acting all high and mighty! You know that hypocritical wanker once broke into Buckingham on a dare to get the Queen's knickers? At least you went to the Yard for a good cause! Sure you're an irritating git, but what the hell was he thinking!"

"Ron, Robards really wasn't that bad, and his criticisms were corr—"

"That's even forgetting his 'disregarding you're you' stupidity!" Ron ignored him to continue his indignant squawks. There was a slight pause as they apparated into London's muggle centre, but the ranting continued therein without pause. "Personal merit, huh? Disregarding your accomplishments because they're too big?!"

"That's not what he was doing—"

"Not that it's not nice to be considered," he admitted, as though reluctant to state that Robards was correct about anything, "but to give me it over you? Harry Freaking Potter?! He's gone senile!"

"Ron, I got the blasted job!" Harry finally proclaimed, exasperated though touched at his best mate's protests on his behalf. The two, meanwhile, were crossing Trafalgar Square at a quick pace. Taking a cursory look around, his gaze passed over the crowds of tourists clicking away at Nelson's Monument in the bright sunlight, and at the squealing kids cheerfully trying to pull them and their parents into the wide fountain.

"Duh!" The redhead rolled his eyes at both the statement's obviousness and his friend's slowness. "Of course you did. I mean, congratulations and all, but it's more of 'About time' than 'Surprise!'"

"What?" Harry halted to peer at him incredulously.

Ron shook his head, finally bemused at the situation. "Did you miss how close the force came to rioting when Flint got deputy? Blimey, maybe you are too stupid to be in charge after all."

"Hilarious. But I thought the protests were because of his family?"

"That," he shrugged, "and because everyone knew the ruddy position belonged to you. Don't ask me how in Merlin's name Flint got it in the first place."

But before Harry could answer he noticed a flying cart and rapidly jumped to the side to avoid an overzealous vendor. Ron wasn't as lucky and managed to be spectacularly tripped to the ground. "OI!"

"Sorry 'bout that." The goateed man didn't look apologetic in the least, though he did push his cart to the side to try and help the annoyed Ron up. "Take it as a sign: hot dogs for a fiver! In case of a concussion I'll make yours four quid. Great deal, eh? Come on mate!"

"Git." Ron groaned, shoving the vendor's hand off his arm and jumping back to his feet with a scowl. With a discreet wave of his wand and a mumbled hex as he refound his balance, the stranger was distracted when all the lights and music on his cart began to whir with a frenzy. Harry had a moment of surprise that the magic hadn't simply broken the electronics, but quickly fell back to his snickering as his annoyed friend pulled them towards the giant steps. Ron sent his amused countenance a glare as the vendor's cursing fell to the distance. "What's so funny?"

'You," Harry snorted, flicking his gaze upward at the National Portrait Gallery as they began climbing, "and your cartwheeling somersault back there. Course, using magic was completely irresponsible, but I hope one of the tourists got all of that on film. Think of the blackmail material!"

"Thanks, you prat." Ron gritted out, rubbing the back of his head, stubbornly refusing the look back at the skyline view as they reached the top of the steps. "Oh…hell. Wait. You're going to be my boss? You?"

"Any video should be online in a matter of minutes." Harry continued on with a smirk, having judged by his friend's irritated state that the fall hadn't done him any harm. They pushed open the gallery's wide doors as both idly wondered how the Auror Force could survive a troublemaking mini-Marauder as a main official. "Hermione will be able to find it soon enough, especially if it goes viral and—"

"Do you want to know about the clue or keep taking the mick?" Ron scowled, because though a few of the terms went over his head it wasn't difficult to figure out the gist. Ignoring Harry's laughing expression, the redhead pressed on. "Hermione narrowed down the possible pearls, but it was still a gigantic list which would take ages to check on. It was an anonymous owler who tipped us off to this."

"Anonymous?" Harry's amusement vanished as his suspicion rushed back.

"It's a lead, take what you can get." Ron said idly, nodding to another auror on guard duty. "Besides, it's you who's so convinced the pearl's linked with the murders. Don't give me that look! I'm ruddy well right, aren't I? Insane theories or no, I've learned to trust your gut."

"I'm…not sure if I should be insulted." Harry stared at him for a few moments, blinking. "But whatever, the pearl isn't a long-shot. The meeting Hermione saw proved as much. Also, I had an—interesting—conversation with Sherlock Holmes."

"Which ended in a fight?" Ron raised his hands at his partner's glare. "Kidding, kidding. What did the genius say?"

"He has pretty sound evidence about who's the leak." Harry frowned, his brow crinkling. "Problem is, it's likely one of the main criminals and he's infiltrated internal Yard. This is a mole who's been in place for years and is working for Moriarty, this muggle crime lord who, apparently, isn't dead. Sherlock doesn't want to risk bringing it in before he has a bullet-proof case."

"Because of the whole 'Fall' thing?" Ron made quotes in the air. Harry suddenly remembered who'd been assigned the case to work with Mycroft, that is, before it was thrown out due to a lack of wizarding involvement. "Especially with Moriarty? Merlin, can't believe that bloke's back. Can't blame Holmes though. Imagine having all your comrades and the British media turn against you? Though, course, I'm talking to Mr. Ex-Undesirable Number One here!"

"…"

"Then with the 'ultimate sacrifice' and pretending to be dead stuff?" Ron threw a glance at his annoyed friend. "Which reminds me: if you ever do that again we'll resurrect you, prank you within an inch of your afterlife, and lock your inferi self in with the angrily deafening lectures of mum, Hermione, and Ginny."

"It was a decade ago!" Harry gritted out as they rounded the corner to the special exhibits.

"So cheers for only giving us heart attacks once!" Ron paused contemplatively. "Actually, no, you've been scaring years off of me and Hermione since we met. When a friendship starts with a troll you know you're in trouble."

"Your point?" The Boy Who Lived pushed his glasses up to rub his nose tiredly.

"Just theorising about how you have a death wish and how you and Sherlock Holmes are identical." He replied cheerfully as they neared the room in question. "Which would explain why you're both too busy analysing each other's heroic insanity to work together. On that note, what about this mole?"

Harry sighed, but decided it wasn't worth it to argue with his stubborn best mate. Especially when he had a sinking feeling that the git was at least partly correct, and when they had just entered the place in question. "Honestly? I think Sherlock is onto something and I'd like to help him. I'll look into it when we're back on base, but first this dratted pearl." He glanced around the mainly empty room before flipping out his wallet to flash a card inside and raising his voice to address the strangers. "Hello everyone! This viewing area will be closed for the time being for a routine health and safety inspection. There is no need to be alarmed and you are free to go to any other part of the gallery. We apologise for any inconvenience and promise the room will be reopened shortly. Thank you for your cooperation; please make your way to the closest exit."

The two aurors watched as the handfuls of people trailed out with only minor grumblings. Soon enough the area was clear, and while Harry stood guard Ron, after double-checking to ensure there were no lingering watchers, flicked a few spells at the painting. Within moments he let out a curse. "Damn it, the pearl's gone. Only paint's here; the tip was right. Should we check the cameras?"

Harry similarly stated a few choice words with a scowl, moving towards him from the door to inspect the canvas. "We don't know when it was taken. Though, we can see if the guards noticed anything."

"Right. Fine." Ron groaned, frustrated as even more spells came back negative. "The recording charms ought to have picked up something. We'll bring it back to headquarters, call up everyone who had shifts here and—"

"Excuse me?" The two men, startled, turned at the soft voice behind them. In seeing a willowy brunette lugging a painting cart behind her, both wizards silently kicked themselves for being lax and forgetting privacy spells. "Are you with the gallery? You aren't supposed to touch the art."

"We're with…restoration." Ron flipped out his own blank card with only a moment's hesitation, shrugging at his partner as he handed it to the curious woman. She stared at the clear sheet as her testy expression grew blank and then grudgingly accepting, magically seeing whatever qualifications she expected to find.

"They could've given me warning." She muttered to herself, thrusting the card back at Ron before sighing. "How long will it be gone?"

"Not too—"

"Just a moment." Harry interrupted Ron, looking at the woman's paints with a sudden realisation. "Have you been sketching this portrait? Do you mind me asking how long?"

"I have permission!" She said rapidly, shielding the canvas with her body as though they were trying to steal it away. "I've been coming here for weeks and no one's had a problem with it!"

"We aren't here to stop you." Ron quickly answered, catching onto Harry's train of thought. "It's only we're, we're…curious about some damage on the painting and want to know if you saw anything, Miss…"

"Mary. Mary Morstan." 'Mary' narrowed her eyes. "You can check the records, my name's on file with the gallery! I'd never damage masterpieces!"

"We don't think you would." Harry said smoothly. "We're only wondering if you've seen anything unusual here lately. Trouble-making teens, odd people hanging about, or strange objects. Anything that might've struck you."

Mary gazed at them for a beat. Her frown lightened. "No, nothing. But you aren't really from restoration."

"What's wrong with being thorough?" Harry gave her a guarded smile before returning to undoing the sticking charms around the portrait, careful to hide everything from the woman's view.

Meanwhile Ron, after a few more questions to the highly suspicious though amused Mary, promised her that the painting would be back after an hour or so. She became more relaxed after a few of his horrible jokes, and soon enough became convinced that—whatever they were doing—they weren't art thieves. With this she at last released her death-hold on the heavy cart, and rapidly somehow shanghaied the two aurors into watching over her paints and canvases while she went to the cafe.

Neither wizard was quite certain how this had occurred. Though both were thrown by the situation and Mary's stubborn insistence that, "If I'm going to be waiting around twiddling my thumbs for an hour, I won't be going hungry. I'm damned tired of lugging that thing through London, and if you lot don't watch it I'll go straight to security about your little prank!" Needless to say, both men felt sticking around for a few minutes to appease the crazy woman would be the least tiring option—particularly since dismantling all the security spells holding the portrait in place was taking some time.

Minutes later Mary was waltzing away, sans-cart but with a wedding ring as collateral.

Harry paused in his work to send a bemused look at his stunned partner. "Funny, I've never seen someone actually resemble a deer caught in headlights."

Ron was too busy staring forlornly at his newly ringless-finger to comprehend the comment. "I—how'd that happen? She just—she—Harry! Harry! Hermione's going to kill me!"

"So…don't tell her." He answered slowly, raising an eyebrow with held-back amusement.

"She'll find out! It's her!" Ron glanced back up, petrified. "She's practically omniscient, mate. Not to mention she's scary enough normally, and now with her crazy hormones? She's going to murder me! Mum'll help! That lady just stole my ring! I'm never going to meet the Blob!"

"You call me melodramatic?" Harry rolled his eyes, at last gently shifting the painting down to the floor. "She didn't steal it, and it's not a big deal. Hermione won't find out, you can borrow my cloak if she does, and why do you have to call your unborn kids 'blobs' again?"

"It's confusing without a gender!" Ron cried out, still frantic but a little less so in learning that the invisibility cloak would be on his side. "Better than 'munchkids', at any rate."

"Munchkins." Harry corrected, spotting Mary coming back down the hall with a sandwich and coffee in hand. "Only Ginny calls them that. It's from 'The Wizard of Oz' and…you don't know what that is, do you. Look, just ask Herm—"

In the next instant, the room was alight with spells and Mary's screams.


A/N: Yes, Ron can be a good friend. Yes, aurors have psychic papers. Yes, I'm introducing Mary Morstan. No, this isn't necessarily a John/Mary fic (but I've had a slowly evolving ship in mind from the start). If you don't know what in Merlin's name I'm talking about, review the brilliant series of "Doctor Who" and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's classic Sherlock Holmes. You'll be thanking me later :)

This chapter is the quiet before the storm. If you like any of the Sherlock or Harry Potter heroes, I am so, so sorry for what's to come. Because every story needs an old-fashioned villain and we're long overdue for a Fall. Forget about whomping, hurt/comfort, or a tragic 'twelve trials': this will be the destruction of a hero as London crumbles around him.

Guess who?