Disclaimer: Usually I write out this very specific disclaimer explaining exactly what it is I don't own but I find myself not really interested in doing so as it is very tedious. Suffice it to say I own nothing that was created by anyone else and I am making no money whatsoever from the writing of this FanFiction.

Warnings: Alternate Universe (ie: kiss canon goodbye), mentions of child abuse/neglect (nothing physical), reasonable corporeal punishment (ie: light spanking), some violence and blood, mild language, and hinted references to consensual sexual activities (there will be no descriptions or lemons within the story).

AN: This story is self-beta'd; so there may be occasional grammatical or spelling errors that crop up every now and then and for those I apologize in advance.

Chapter Thirteen: Confounded Contracts

Monday, October 31, 1994 7:49 P.M.
221B Baker Street, London, England

Harry's body ran on autopilot as he played a violin duet with Sherlock; his mind thinking back over the past five years. Part of him couldn't help but marvel over how different his life was now in comparison to what his life had been like during the five years preceding his placement with Dr. Watson and Sherlock. He had been a frightened little boy afraid of the world when he'd first been found and now he was a confident teen ready to take on the world.

At least that was his personal opinion.

The fourteen year old had also changed physically over the years. His once abnormally pale complexion (due to five years of imprisonment) had morphed into a healthy light peach colored complexion that darkened to a light tan each summer. His unmanageable hair was thick, full, and had a healthy sheen to it. He'd grown several centimeters in height (though he was still slightly below average for his age group), had gained a full three stones, and developed the lithe and wiry build of an athlete thanks to his physical activities through the years.

The over all effect of his physical growth was that he no longer looked like the little lost waif that had been found locked inside of a closet.

Something that Harry greatly appreciated.

In addition to his physical and emotional improvements during those five years, Harry had gained a considerable amount of knowledge and skills during the past five years.

He had been taught how to play multiple instruments (including the drums – much to Sherlock's annoyance), how to dance over two dozen formal dances (much to his own annoyance), how to read and write, how to use a wide array of useful technology, and how to physically defend himself. He'd also finally received a semi-formal academic education and had earned his GCSEs in Mathematics, Science, History, Citizenship, Physical Education, Music, and Information & Communication Technology (ICT) three years early. That left only his GCSEs for English, English Literature, Art & Design, and Modern Foreign Languages (he was studying French and Italian) left to take sometime before his sixteenth birthday.

On top of all that, he'd gained a much deeper understanding of the Namelessness (which he still refused to acknowledge was magic despite the fact that he'd come to accept the fact that magic existed). True control of the Namelessness had come on the heels of understanding that part of him and he could now use the Namelessness to both view and affect his surroundings consistently. He also no longer needed to rely upon music as a focus in order to call upon the Namelessness for simple guidance when walking about or to perform minor tricks. He did still occasionally have trouble on splitting his attention while using the Namelessness but the only way to fix that was to practice; which he did every day.

Sherlock had been instrumental in all of the progress that Harry had made in using and controlling the Namelessness during his first three years in 221B. The sociopathic genius had also seen to it that Harry had a firm grounding in magical theory so that he could understand the differences between the Namelessness and a normal wizard's magic. After those three years, Sherlock's interest in magic had vanished practically overnight and his experiments with Harry had tapered off rather quickly. Harry hadn't minded too terribly much since he had learned enough to continue those experiments on his own.

It helped that Sherlock didn't completely dismiss Harry; he still gave Harry music lessons, still helped him with his reading and writing, still sparred with him regularly (during his boxing lessons), and had begun teaching him how to fence after his twelfth birthday (after he'd deemed Harry aware enough of his surroundings not to hurt himself).

Dr. Watson had focused more on making certain that Harry could function in normal society; seeing to it that he learned basic life skills (such as money management, navigation of the public transit system, basic first aide, and how to interact with his peers in an appropriate manner). He was also the one most concerned with Harry's over all health; making certain that Harry ate right, got plenty of sleep, and exercised regularly. And while Dr. Watson was the one that Harry went to when he felt ill or if he'd been hurt (though his injuries usually healed fairly quickly), it was Sherlock that helped him through his panic attacks (attacks that had become nearly non-existent after his second year with the two men).

Then there was Harry's guardian.

Mycroft Holmes was a perfectionist.

And while Mycroft refused to allow Harry to settle for mediocre, he was never unreasonable in his expectations and often displayed far more patience when dealing with Harry than he did when dealing with Sherlock.

He'd been the one to push Harry into giving his lessons his best efforts regardless of whether or not he enjoyed the topic being taught (those formal dance lessons being a prime example). Mycroft tended to be the one to offer advice to Harry on all aspects of the teen's life (such as his education, potential future careers, personal development etc.) whenever he was confused or uncertain. He also spent a considerable amount of time teaching Harry rudimentary politics, economics, estate management, strategy, and logic.

The older man had, over time, become something of a mentor to Harry due to the approach that the man had taken with the teen and Harry sought his approval far more often than he did Dr. Watson's or Sherlock's; which was only natural since the man was his guardian despite the fact that Harry didn't live with him.

Next there was Mrs. Hudson; she grand-mothered Harry. She was the one that taught him the basics of cooking, showed him simple housekeeping tricks and tips, and taught him how to smile. She also made it a point to encourage him to act like a child from time to time; she was the one that organized his play dates, planned his parties, and saw to it that he learned how to have fun. Overall, she was nothing at all like his aunt and it made Harry appreciate her all that much more.

And he couldn't forget Mrs. Holmes.

The woman was far more demanding than Mycroft at times and often just as annoying as Sherlock when the mood struck her (such as with the dance and deportment lessons she'd insisted Harry take). She had been the one determined to turn Harry into a proper gentleman; drilling him on proper etiquette until they became semi-instinctive habits that he used ninety-percent of the time. The only reason he didn't use them all of the time was because of Sherlock's influence; much to Mummy Holmes's annoyance.

Finally, there was Anthea (Mycroft's lovely but mostly silent assistant).

Anthea had set herself up as Harry's fashion consultant shortly after Harry first started leaving the flat. She was the one that had filled his wardrobe with expensive, high quality formal and casual wear while Mrs. Hudson had provided him with sturdy play clothes. She had also taught Harry how to pick out an appropriate outfit (by color, material, and cut) for any given occasion. And it was Anthea who monitored Harry's behavior for Mrs. Holmes (so the older woman would know what Harry needed to work on) during the public events that Harry was required to attend alongside Mycroft.

He still didn't see any of them as parental figures and he never allowed himself to think of them as family (the very idea of family tainted and tarnished in his mind after eight years with the Dursleys). The men also treated him more like a student than a son (though his guardian wasn't quite that distant with him). Regardless of the complicated relationship he had with all six adults, they were all very important to Harry and he was quick to defend them from both verbal and physical attacks.

The two people who were most often on the receiving end of Harry's ire were Anderson and Donovan (both officers with Scotland Yard).

The first time Harry had ever punched anyone outside of a friendly boxing spar had been when Anderson had made an inappropriate insinuation about the fact that Harry was living with two unmarried men. Harry had broken the man's nose, cracked two of his ribs, and nailed him between the legs with his foot. That had been just before Harry's thirteenth birthday and the man had been transferred to an out of the way office up in Northern England (courtesy of an annoyed Mycroft) within an hour after his injuries had been treated.

They had run into him a time or two since then but Harry had limited his retaliations to verbal blows after Mycroft had lectured him about the appropriate level of response to use when responding to verbal attacks. His interactions with Donovan never escalated to that level due to the fact that Harry had been taught to never hit a woman unless she attacked him first. That didn't stop Harry from politely insulting the woman with big and creative words each time she opened her mouth to insult his caretakers; a fact that thrilled Sherlock to no end.

There had also been a small handful of times when Harry had defended Dr. Watson, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson from criminals breaking (or storming) into their building; including that first time when he'd been the target. The first time Harry had ever broken a bone (not counting that long ago day when he'd been hit in the face with a cricket bat) had been when he'd jumped from the top of his playhouse onto the back of a thug threatening Mrs. Hudson when she wouldn't tell him where Sherlock had gone. He'd managed to grab the man in a weak choke-hold and held on just long enough for Dr. Watson to rush back into the room before he'd been pried off and thrown into the table; the impact snapping two ribs.

He'd also taken a bullet for Little Lady one time when the kneazle had attacked another man to protect Harry after he'd been taken hostage. The bullet had hit him in the back of the right shoulder when he had yanked himself free at the last second and dove over top of the only being he considered a friend. The wound had been fully healed in less than an hour (once the bullet had been removed) but he'd still been lectured about stopping his momentum when pulling off daring rescues. That had also earned him lessons on dodging, ducking, rolling, and sliding.

Little Lady had also been given lessons in hit and run tactics so that she wouldn't be such an easy target in the future; and yes, she was intelligent enough to be taught such things.

Harry was never scolded or punished for protecting another; only for carelessly leaving himself open to potential follow up attacks. Two of his biggest role models had a tendency to throw themselves in the line of fire for others and they couldn't very well tell him not to do as they did because then they'd be hypocrites and introducing double standards would have seen them losing his trust and respect. Something they wouldn't do because it would undermine their rules and orders along with driving him to question everything that they'd taught him over the past five years.

Harry's thoughts turned to his only friend at that point; Little Lady.

The still rather diminutive kneazle was almost as much a part of Harry as the Namelessness inside of him. She was an extension of himself and at the same time she was so much more. It was Little Lady that had held the nightmares at bay during the nights. It was Little Lady that kept him company when he was sick or depressed. And it was Little Lady that snuggled and cuddled with him when he needed comfort. She was always there; sitting on his shoulder, curling up on his lap or under his shirt, dogging his heels, or watching over him from her cat-condo.

In return, Harry was completely devoted to his friend. He fed her only the best quality food, groomed her every night before he went to sleep, bathed her weekly with special pest repelling pet shampoos (her daily showers with Harry more along the lines of playtime for the kneazle), entertained her when she was bored, and diligently kept her litter box clean. He also took her everywhere with him without exception; the kneazle a licensed working cat (the feline equivalent of a guide dog) which allowed her to enter those buildings that are usually barred to pets.

To obtain that license, Little Lady had been professionally trained to function as a guide cat; she mewed when he was in danger of walking into something, tapped his cheek with her paw at street corners (one tap to stop him and two to tell him it was clear to walk), and she could lead him safely along a crowded street while on a leash. She also growled and hissed warnings to strangers who invaded his personal space and attacked them if they failed to heed her warnings; such as when Little Lady had prevented Mundungus Fletcher (a petty wizarding thief) from kidnapping him just a couple of months after his eleventh birthday.

If she had been an ordinary feline, she never would have been able to function as a certified guide cat. She wasn't just a run of the mill cat though; she was a kneazle and a highly intelligent one at that. She had been trained to react to both verbal and non-verbal commands, could think ahead to anticipate Harry's movements, and was highly intuitive when it came to Harry's moods and emotions. It was also very apparent that she understood spoken English and not just recognized key words; she'd even learned to understand both French and Italian during the course of Harry's language lessons.

And while Harry didn't need her to function as his guide all of the time, there were times when he was too tired to use the Namelessness and those were the times when Little Lady's training was most beneficial.

Her license and training also served to draw attention away from Harry's obvious lack of difficulty with his blindness when out in public since his ability to avoid obstacles and navigate the maze that was London was attributed to Little Lady. That ruse helped deflect any magical attention he might have garnered from passing witches and wizards and meant that there was less of a chance that a random magical would discover his fractured core and alert the wizarding public of the fact.

"Halebeorht, you're allowing your attention to wander; you need to focus your full attention on the task at hand least you fall behind or drop a note," Sherlock interjected suddenly as their duet came to an end; his voice cutting through Harry's thoughts and bringing him back to the present.

"I was merely making certain that you could keep up with me, old man," Harry retorted with a soft snort in response to Sherlock's attempt to needle him about his name.

"I am not old."

"And my name is not Halebeorht."

"Impertinent brat," Sherlock huffed with fondness.

"Barmy old codger," Harry countered with a smirk.

"You're both equally annoying," Dr. Watson pointed out from where he was typing away on his laptop; the shorter man currently writing up the details of his and Sherlock's latest case on his blog.

"Your unsolicited words of praise are flattering but unnecessary," Harry pompously drawled in perfect synchronization with Sherlock; drawing a chorus of chuckles and barking laughter from the two wizards playing a game of chess at the table and a huff of amused exasperation from the doctor.

As Harry set about cleaning the Stradivarius that Sherlock had given him for his fourteenth birthday (one of eight such violins that had been in the Holmes family for at least six generations; the equivalent of high praise from the man in regards to the quality of Harry's mastery of the violin), he reflected on his relationship with the two adult wizards.

First there was Sirius Black; his godfather and a close childhood friend of his father. The man had come into his life at the start of his third year living with Dr. Watson and Sherlock. The man had been physically weak and emotionally unbalanced when Harry first met him; that was hardly a surprise though since the man had spent ten years being tortured by cruel demonic creatures in a magical prison. It had taken Harry a long time to warm up to the man; both because he was a wizard and because the man was highly emotional with volatile mood swings.

The man was also a veritable font of information about Harry's father and paternal grandparents (as well as a little bit about his mother); the stories his godfather told in his better moments had been what had drawn Harry to him. Harry had also been fascinated by the man's ability to turn himself into an actual dog; even though exposure to the man's magic caused him pain when it clashed with the Namelessness.

In the beginning, Mr. Black's weekly visits with were closely supervised, limited to no more than an hour in length, and took place well away from Baker Street. The two reasons for those strict restrictions was to protect Harry and to give Mr. Black an incentive to actually get better if he ever wanted to spend more time with Harry. Over the course of the next two years, those visits would slowly increase from one to five hours at a time and eventually go from weekly visits to almost daily visits as Mr. Black's mental and physical health steadily improved. It hadn't been until January of this year that the wizard had actually been allowed to visit Harry at his place of residence though.

There had even been a small handful of occasions where Harry had been left alone with his godfather over the past six months; a sign of trust from the three men that shared custody of Harry.

His godfather's growing presence in his life had eventually led to Harry meeting another close friend of his parents; one Remus J. Lupin. The Namelessness had not liked Mr. Lupin one bit when Harry had first met him. There was something about the man that made the corrupted magic inside of him raise its hackles. Harry found the Namelessness's reaction very puzzling since the man was polite, kind, soft spoken, and possessed a unique sense of humor. It wasn't until Harry learned that the man was an honest-to-goodness werewolf that he finally understood why he always felt uneasy around the man.

Once he understood what it was that set the Namelessness on edge, Harry had actually found it far easier to relax around Mr. Lupin because it allowed him to confirm that the man wasn't a true threat (outside of a full moon).

Together, both wizards had taught Harry much about wizarding culture, laws, and politics. They had also painted Harry a far more accurate picture of the people that his parents had been during their years at Hogwarts and the years leading up to their deaths.

The two wizards had been utterly horrified when they learned the true reason why Harry had been denied entrance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry long before his eleventh birthday. Mr. Black had suffered a major relapse upon learning about Harry's fractured magical core; the man had immediately blamed himself for failing to be there to protect Harry when Harry had been younger. That had been over a year and a half ago.

Once they had proved themselves to be trustworthy, dependable, and in Mr. Black's case, emotionally stable, both men had been hired by Mycroft Holmes; that had been roughly eight months ago. Mr. Black mostly worked as a hired wand tracking down those criminals with magical backgrounds that committed crimes against non-magicals. He occasionally worked with Sherlock alongside Dr. Watson on some of the cases they took if there was a chance that the suspect was a wizard (or witch) that crossed over the invisible line of separation between the two societies.

Mr. Lupin, on the other hand, functioned as a tutor and instructor for those young magicals of mixed heritage that left the wizarding society due to the rampant prejudice or whose non-magical parents had refused to allow them to attend what sounded like a bogus school (if they had even been invited to attend said school) that worked for the British Government. He also frequently worked as Mr. Black's partner in the field; his friendship with Harry's godfather very similar to the complex friendship between Dr. Watson and Sherlock.

"You're attention is wandering again, young Hazari," Sherlock declared as he lightly rapped Harry on the skull with his knuckles.

"It's Halloween," Harry explained with an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders before he changed the subject; the one holiday that Harry never celebrated due to how many dark memories were tied to it. "You know, I think I might actually like that name; it almost has a nice ring to it."

"Really…?" Sherlock asked in shock; Harry had never before admitted to liking any of the names he'd teased him with over the years.

"No. It's just not as bad as some of the other wretched names you've come up with. I still intend to keep just plain old Harry. Maybe you should focus your efforts on giving Mr. Black a first name that doesn't inspire him to make bad puns every time someone uses the word 'serious' in a question or statement."

"Oi, leave me out if it!" Mr. Black adamantly protested. "I'll have you know that my name is a very traditional name that is steeped in infamy and intrigue."

"I rest my case," Harry quipped as he shut his violin case and snapped the locks shut.

"He's got you there, Padfoot," Remus pointed out around another quiet chuckle.

"No one asked for any comments from the peanut gallery," Sirius grumbled before he moved his knight to take Remus's bishop; the wizards using a non-magical chess set since the amount of active magic in a wizarding chess set was high enough to cause Harry discomfort.

Harry snickered at the two wizards' silliness and grabbed the handle of his violin case so he could put it away as Little Lady reclaimed his shoulder. He had just turned towards the bookcase where all of his handheld instruments were kept when he felt a large surge of magic enter the building through the threads of Namelessness that he constantly wove throughout the entire building (excluding bathrooms and bedrooms). Harry jerked around to face the door as the color drained from his face; there were only a dozen trusted wizards that knew where he lived and each and every one of them knew better than to enter the building using any form of magic unless it was a dire emergency.

"Mr. Holmes, you need to call your brother; a bunch of unfamiliar wizards and Mr. Dumbledore just popped into the building using magic," Harry rasped as he immediately sought to assess the threat level of the trespassing wizards (as he'd been taught).

"Mycroft just texted me; he's already aware of the intruders and he'll be here in two minutes," Dr. Watson stated even as he shut down his laptop and grabbed the pistol and ammunition clips he kept locked in his desk. "Where is Mrs. Hudson and where is she in relation to the intruders?"

"Relaxing in her sitting room with her feet up; she only just finished passing out the last of the treats she'd made to the trick-or-treaters that knocked on the door tonight," Harry replied as he composed himself and hurried to put his violin away. He then hurried to his suite of rooms (he'd stopped calling it a playhouse two years earlier) to grab the riding crop he sometimes carried and used as a weapon (since he wasn't allowed to carry an actual sword). "All six wizards are just hovering about in the entryway; it doesn't appear as if Mrs. Hudson heard them arrive – that or they used magic to keep her from hearing them, the entryway currently reeks of their magic."

"Black, Lupin; cover the door. Harry, I want you on the top floor of your rooms; out of sight but prepared to move quickly if needs be," Sherlock ordered crisply. "John, you need to take your place behind the curtains where you can cover the door without being seen. I will stay right here to provide them with a visual target and draw their attention the moment they attempt to barge through the door."

Harry didn't hesitate to comply with his orders; he knew better than to argue with Sherlock in an emergency. He felt Little Lady's claws dig into his shoulder as he ran across the bottom floor of his suite (the interior had been magically expanded to accommodate his full height by Mr. Lupin for his birthday that year) to reach the ladder at the back of the structure. He easily ignored the irritating bite of her claws sinking into his flesh, knowing she wasn't hurting him on purpose, as he quickly shuffled up the ladder and onto the upper floor.

Harry then spent a moment regulating his breathing to calm his emotions before he wrapped a large ribbon of the Namelessness around him to hide his and Little Lady's presence while he continued to monitor the locations of everyone currently inside of the building. Another thread of Namelessness was then sent outside of the building to find and track his guardian. He found the older man quickly striding toward the main entrance and Harry couldn't help but note the irritated scowl his guardian was currently wearing.

A smirk slid across Harry's face as Mycroft entered the building and immediately began dressing down the wizards and witches that were hovering in the entryway. A frown replaced the smirk a split second later as soon as he realized that Mycroft had known that the magicals would be heading to Baker Street long before they arrived. Using his riding crop, Harry tapped out that information in Morse Code against the wall for Dr. Watson and Sherlock.

He then tapped out a warning the moment the group began heading up the stairs with Harry's guardian in the lead. He'd barely stilled his riding crop when there was a knock on the flat door; Mycroft deftly rapping out a complex pattern that basically translated to; friendlies entering – hold fire. One of the wizards, a man with greasy hair and a large, beak-shaped nose, made a disparaging remark about pandering to egos that Mycroft responded to with an icy glare that shut the man up.

"Enter," Sherlock called out as he propped himself up against the fireplace mantel after snagging his skull of its resting place; other people always found it disturbing when Sherlock handled the skull. Harry thought it was cool; though that was only because it was obviously old and no longer had any traces of blood on it. The sight of blood still greatly disturbed him; especially when there was a large amount of it. "Mycroft, how nice of you to give me ample warning that you would be dropping by this evening; with guests in tow no less."

Harry focused on the strangers and saw several faces grimace in distaste when they noted the skull in Sherlock's hands as he spun the old bone between his fingers with irreverence. The two witches (one of whom was exceedingly tall and somewhat homely in appearance and the other of whom was older with a stern visage) looked particularly ill over the display. The greasy man just sneered and dismissed Sherlock as insignificant before he began subtly waving his wand around behind his back.

Irritated by the blatant attempt to cast magic in his home without permission, Harry used the Namelessness to contain the thread of magic that slipped free of the man's wand and forced it back into the wand; causing the wood of the device to rapidly heat up and make the man hiss in shock as he dropped his now smoking wand. That was a trick Harry had taught himself to protect himself from unfriendly spell-fire on Sherlock's insistence. Harry's smirk was vicious; that would teach the ill-mannered lout to dare pollute his home with his magic.

"Now that wasn't very nice Snivellus; don't you know it's impolite to cast spells in someone else's home without permission? I wouldn't try that again; this entire flat is layered with protective wards," Mr. Black barked as he dropped the charm he'd used to hide himself before he kicked the greasy man's wand over to where Mr. Lupin had remained hidden on the other side of the door. His godfather seeking to cover for Harry's ability in order to protect the fourteen year old from the unwanted attention or persecution he would receive if his fractured core were to become common knowledge.

"Black," the greasy man snarled viciously. "What did you do!?"

"Nothing; unlike you, I was taught proper manners growing up and know how to use them when the situation calls for it. Maybe you should go crawling back to your master on your knees and beg him for lessons. Oh, wait; you can't. Your lord and master was scattered to the four winds well over a decade ago."

"Mr. Dumbledore, control your lapdog or send him away," Mycroft ordered sharply as he twisted around to glare at the greasy man once more. "I am uncertain as to why you chose to bring him to this meeting in the first place; he has no business being anywhere near this building."

"Severus is here by my invitation; he has my complete trust…" Mr. Dumbledore began to explain only for Mycroft to cut him off.

"You were not given leave to invite him to this meeting, let alone this building," Mycroft sharply retorted as he swung his glare around to Mr. Dumbledore. "I allowed you to demand this meeting because you said that a situation had arisen that will have a grave impact upon my ward; I never gave you permission to turn this meeting into a tea party for your amusement. Every single individual that you brought here tonight will swear an Unbreakable Vow to never impart the address of this building or even hint at its general location to anyone without my express permission before they leave tonight or things will become extremely unpleasant for you and your ilk."

"Now see here, you can't…" the man with the mustache and long goatee who was wearing a fur hat and a fur lined cloak blustered indignantly.

"Yes, he can; Igor," Mr. Dumbledore corrected in a weary tone. "We are not here to start an argument. Severus, you would do well to not antagonize those whose hospitality we are imposing on."

"How dull; I was looking forward to the evening's entertainment," Sherlock intoned in a bored tone as he flipped the skull up into the air before he caught it and gently replaced it on the mantel. He then crossed his arms and stepped away from the fireplace as he carefully inspected the five unfamiliar arrivals. "What exactly was so important that you dared to disturb us tonight, of all nights, Mycroft?"

"I am here to inform you that Mr. Potter was entered into a binding contact earlier this evening and that he must return with me to Hogwarts Castle to participate in the Tri-Wizard Tournament or his life will be forfeit," Mr. Dumbledore gravely intoned.

"My ward has entered into no such contract," Mycroft corrected dismissively.

"I did not say that Mr. Potter had willingly or knowingly entered into a binding contract," Mr. Dumbledore countered in a tone that was laced with a hint of exasperation. "We believe that someone used dark magic to confound an ancient magical artifact into forcefully binding Mr. Potter to the Tournament in order to draw him out. A search for the person or persons responsible has already been initiated. In the meantime, it is imperative that I take Mr. Potter with me tonight when I return to Scotland."

"No," Sherlock firmly refused.

"To refuse to allow Mr. Potter to participate in the Tournament is to condemn him to certain death," the impeccably dressed wizard with the neatly trimmed mustache interjected solemnly.

"Just when I thought the average IQ level in this room couldn't get any lower, you had to open your mouth and prove me wrong," Sherlock sniped as he shot the man a look of superiority. "I did not say that I would not allow him to participate in your silly little Tournament, though I am highly skeptical of the validity of binding a minor to a contract without his or his guardian's permission. I merely refused to allow a gaggle of plebeians from a backwards society to whisk away the young man whose health and well being were entrusted to me."

"Mr. Potter will need to be within twenty miles of the Goblet of Fire, which holds the contract to which he has been bound, for the duration of the Tournament or the Goblet will see his absence as a breach of contract and punish him accordingly," Mr. Dumbledore grimly stated.

"And just how long is this Tournament supposed to last?" Mycroft inquired before Sherlock could say anything else.

"The three tasks of the Tournament were spread out over the course of the school term in order to provide the selected champions with plenty of time to prepare for each task," the impeccably dressed wizard replied.

"That revelation has done nothing to change my mind," Sherlock stated in an irritated tone. "Your intentions will not only disrupt his schedule for an entire year without any consideration for his wants and needs but you are attempting to remove him from my care entirely for the duration of your silly tournament and that is unacceptable."

"Why are we wasting time arguing with this filth; just Obliviate the dirty little muggles and grab the boy," the man that had been identified as Igor growled.

"Just try it, Karkaroff," Mr. Black snarled heatedly. "The moment you reach for your wand, you're a dead man and the world will be well shot of one more Death Eater scum."

"Crudeness aside, Headmaster Karkaroff has made a valid point zough; we are wasting time here and our champions are still waiting for us back at ze castle," the tall, homely woman pointed out in a heavy French accent.

Harry sat numbly in the top floor of his private rooms as he tried to not to panic over the idea that he might be forcefully removed from his current home. He was also less than pleased with the idea of being forced to spend several months completely surrounded by magic and strangers. Little Lady pressed herself against his face and neck in a silent offer of comfort and Harry drew strength from her presence as he forced himself to focus on the sitting room.

"Enough; no one will be going anywhere until this matter has been resolved to my satisfaction," Mycroft stated in his Iceman personality.

"And who are you to order us so?" the French witch imperiously demanded.

"He is the British Government," Sherlock drawled airily before he sat down on the couch.

"That is not entirely an accurate description of my occupation but as far as the wizarding society is concerned, I suppose my brother is correct in saying that I am the British Government. On top of that, I am Mr. Potter's legal guardian; who was himself named a ward of the Crown five years ago. That means that any use of force upon any individual within this room will turn this meeting into an international incident and I sincerely doubt that my contemporaries in France or Bulgaria would be pleased to learn that their citizens dared to attack a member of Her Majesty's Government or attempted to kidnap a member of Her nobility."

"Please, there is no need to escalate this matter further; we are all adults here, I am certain we can come to a peaceful accord," Mr. Dumbledore placated in a grandfatherly tone that held an undertone of panic and desperation.

"I completely agree," Mycroft replied in a superior tone. "Dr. Watson; I am certain that you will wish to be part of the upcoming discussion. Mr. Potter, you may stop hiding and come out now too."

Harry let out a silent sigh and quietly slipped back down the ladder to the bottom floor and used the access panel on the side of the ladder chute to exit instead of traversing the full length of the bottom floor. He then unwove the ribbon of Namelessness he had wrapped around him to hide his presence before he stepped out from behind his study while the six visitors were fully focused on Dr. Watson and Mr. Lupin as both men revealed themselves at the same time. It took a moment before any of the six visitors actually glanced around the room for him and a single, sharp gasp rang out and drew every eye in the room to where Harry was standing.

"Well, he certainly isn't much to look at, is he?" Mr. Karkaroff sniffed disdainfully as he eyed Harry with open distaste.

"Insult my godson again and they won't be able to find enough of you to send back to Durmstrang for the funeral, Karkaroff."

"Gentlemen, please," Mr. Dumbledore urged as he shot Mr. Karkaroff an annoyed look.

"Could we please stay focused on the matter at hand?" Dr. Watson demanded as he strode across the room while tucking his pistol into his waistband. "Harry's schedule has been disrupted enough and will undoubtedly suffer greatly over the next several months because improper precautions were taken to prevent someone from abusing whatever system you set up to select the participants for your tournament."

"Quite so," Mycroft agreed with a nod in Dr. Watson's direction. "Please be seated so that we may begin; ladies and gentlemen. Introductions would, of course, be an appropriate place to start."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes; allow me to present Headmistress Olympe Maxime, head of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. Headmaster Igor Karkaroff, head of Durmstrang Institute of Northern Europe. Bartemius Crouch, head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Head of Gryffindor House, and Professor of Transfiguration. And Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House and Professor of Potions at Hogwarts."

"I am Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft intoned as he settled into the chair at the head of the table. "Seated on the couch is my brother, Sherlock Holmes. Standing beside the table is Doctor John Watson. The two gentlemen by the door are my employees, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. And the young man standing behind me is Harry James Potter; my ward. Mr. Potter, please find a seat as you will need to remain present for the coming discussion since it will affect you and your studies for the coming year."

And let the negotiations for the ruination of my life begin, Harry pessimistically thought to himself as he made his way to the couch and sat down beside Sherlock a split second before Dr. Watson sat down in the remaining space so that the fourteen year old was protectively bracketed between the two men.

"Don't be so melodramatic," Sherlock lightly chided as he reached up to light rap Harry on the skull. "You need to focus on the coming discussion or barring that, on a list of things that can't be put off or rescheduled in the event that we can't find a way for your name to be withdrawn from their silly little game."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied with a sigh as he moved Little Lady down onto his lap so he could cuddle with her without being obvious; he was a grown boy, after all, and teenaged boys don't cuddle with cats (no matter how adorable said cat).

At least not openly.

Terms:

GCSE – General Certificate of Secondary Education
Stone – when used as a measure meant of weight 1 stone is equal to 14 pounds. Three stones is therefore the equivalent of forty-two pounds (which is how much weight Harry gained over a five year period).