AN: Thanks again to everyone for taking the time to read, follow, favorite, or review!

Just in case there's any confusion: I don't own Sherlock, and I don't own Harry Potter. Unless you count the physical bound books on my shelf at home. In which case, I have copies of all of ACD's works and a hodgepodge of paperbacks and hardcovers of the Harry Potter series. :)

Thanks again for your feedback and interest in the last chapter - I hope you enjoy this one, too!

- M


"What?" The acerbic tone that greeted Lestrade was much better than the voicemail message he'd feared. He knew Sherlock tended to answer when he called – it could be about a case, after all – but he also had a tendency to misplace his phone, or run the battery down, or deliberately hide it so he could think without interruption, especially after a big case, like the serial bomber and the incident at the pool.

"Sherlock," Lestrade replied, trying not to sound too relieved.

"This had better be interesting," Sherlock warned, "Anything less than an eight and I'm hanging up." Lestrade could hear John protesting in the background and asking for the phone.

"It's to do with the mess at the pool," Lestrade told the consulting detective. "I got your official statements from Mycroft's assistant, but another organization is involved now."

"What organization?" Sherlock asked, sounding a little more attentive.

"A couple of aurors, checking out the strangeness of the explosion." Lestrade clarified, "They only tend to get involved with strange cases like that. We don't see too much of them in homicide these days."

"Interesting…" Sherlock mused before squawking indignantly. Lestrade moved the phone away from his ear as he listened to the flatmates struggle over the phone. "No! John!" Sherlock's voice rang out, "He called to talk to me!"

Lesrade huffed a fond laugh. He'd never dreamed Sherlock Holmes would have a friend he could casually have a wrestle with over phone rights. He could just picture the tall man playing keep-away with the short doctor, the phone hanging from fingertips just out of his reach.

There was some loud static that caused Lestrade to cringe away from the speaker. "Oi!" He called through the mobile, "I don't care what kind of roughhousing you blokes get up to when I'm off the line, but leave me out of it!"

"Sorry, Greg."

The apology would have blown him away – he'd never heard Sherlock apologize, and he was convinced the detective had never called him by his given name – if the voice delivering it hadn't clearly belonged to Dr. Watson.

"John," he questioned, "Glad to hear you're up and feeling better. What's going on over there?"

"Over here?" The good doctor sounded flustered, perhaps a bit out of breath from his scuffle over the phone with Sherlock. "Nothing," He said a bit too quickly. "Can't say there's anything interesting happening here just at the moment. Why? What's going on over there?"

Lestrade really didn't have time for all of this today. A major incident like the serial bombings resulted in a lot of paperwork, not to mention interdepartmental cooperation with the Auror Corps.

"Look, I really don't care what the pair of you are up to just at this moment," Lestrade began in a strained voice. "Just the two of you get down here, these guys want to speak with you." He ended the call and started to leave his office when his mobile began to vibrate in his hand.

He accepted the call. "Look, Sherlock - " he began to explain that there was no option here and that Sherlock would just have to do it when he was interrupted again, not by the voice he'd expected.

"Sorry, Greg," John greeted again, using what Lestrade hoped was not becoming a catch-phrase. "Is there any chance you could bring them 'round 221B?"

"Of all the bloody," Lestrade started to rant to himself. He took a calming breath and began again. "And why would I possibly want to take additional time out of my day to accommodate Sherlock?" He griped. "He's arrogant enough as it is. Have the princess march down this way, yeah?" He'd moved to hang up again only to be interrupted once more.

"Yeah, he really can be a git, can't he?" John laughed, before continuing somewhat bashfully, "Thing is, I'm asking for me, this time."

Lestrade blinked. "'Scuse me," he apologized for the lull in conversation, realizing he'd let the silence hang a moment too long. "But what does it matter to you?" He asked bluntly. John was a great addition to have around - he made Sherlock much more palatable - but he didn't contribute much to the discussion of evidence or the resolution of cases outside of legwork and good company.

John sighed. "Look, Greg, I'm somewhat familiar with the Auror Corps," he admitted, "And I'd like not to make a scene if anyone I know is working the case."

"Blimey," Lestrade said with some wonder. "How'd a nice normal bloke like you get familiar with that lot?"

John's laughter sounded somewhat manic.

"Long story?" Lestrade asked.

"Very." John confirmed. "Tell you what," he bargained, "bring them on over here and I'll owe you a pint."

"And a long story?" Lestrade prodded.

John's laugh was no less flustered, but a little more genuine this time. "If you bring them over now, I bet it won't be near as long a story later."

Intrigued, Lestrade nodded in agreement. "Right, then," he said. "See you soon."


The aurors were an odd pair. Lestrade really wasn't sure what to make of them – or of their department. He'd had limited interactions with them in the past. Some had been offensive. Some had been clueless. They'd all been strange. He didn't like working with other agencies, but he hated working with the Auror Corps. Aurors Justin Finch-Fletchley and Orla Quirke were better than most of their lot, but Lestrade couldn't help but eye them with mistrust and reluctant compliance.

The first time he'd encountered an auror, Lestrade had been a part of the London Police Criminal Investigation Department, guns and drugs section. He'd come across an odd-looking drugs lab and called it in to his superior. Just after his superior had arrived, two stern-faced men dressed in black with bright red robes reminiscent of Anglican vestments draped over the top of them showed up at the scene. They'd identified themselves as representatives of the Auror Corps and had taken over entirely. Everyone else had been dismissed – they hadn't even bothered consulting with the detectives on the scene to discuss what they'd discovered.

Lestrade had quickly come to understand that seeing aurors approaching your crime scene was a very bad thing. It meant you would soon be ejected from your case by strange men and women wearing that bizarre and almost-religious uniform, never to hear about it again.

Worst of all, there was no recourse or contact information for following up. At least when the home office got involved with a case you had an idea as to why, or one of the higher-ups at NSY might talk to you about national security and thank you for your compliance. As far as he could determine, the Auror Corps was next to impossible to contact even for the Chief Inspector, yet somehow able to show up completely unprompted and steal the strangest cases out from under even a beat cop.

The rumor was that the Auror Corps were a covert team somehow under the Secret Intelligence Service. Lestrade didn't believe it though. The uniforms were simply too absurd for anyone trying not to draw attention to themselves.

It really was strange that Sherlock hadn't encountered them before, but John had. John was so ordinary, and the aurora were anything but. The most inexplicable cases were those most likely to draw the aurors' attention, exactly the kind of cases that would likely interest Sherlock. Perhaps it was that uncanny ability of theirs to show up without notice that had kept Sherlock from any run-ins with them. In fact, Lestrade was quite sure he'd never had the time to call Sherlock to an auror-case before they'd shown up.

It was a pity, really. He'd love to see their faces when Sherlock laid into them and made them all look like idiots.

With that cheerful thought in mind, and the idea that he might see it happen yet this afternoon, he opened the door of his office and stepped out to speak with Finch-Fletchley and Quirke.

Finch-Fletchley was nice enough. He was a tall man with a crown of wavy blonde hair. His accent said "money," but his attitude was down to earth and easy to get along with. He seemed like the kind of guy who knew he had advantages, but was willing to work hard anyway. Lestrade couldn't help but like him a little bit. He was almost normal, for an auror. He did have a condescending streak, though. He'd spent nearly five minutes explaining the proper use of staples and a stapler to his partner, Quirke, who had strangely listened patiently and nodded along with the explanation. Lestrade tried to imagine pulling a similar stunt with any of his team. He'd be yelled into next week, if not slugged, for being so condescending.

His partner, Quirke, though, was much more difficult to get along with. She was a quiet sort who spoke with dispassionate bluntness. She didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor and eyed everyone with distrust. She seemed very uncomfortable and tense. None of that was particularly offensive, it just made for strained exchanges between her and Lestrade's team. What was really odd was the way she looked at everything with the foreign curiosity of a tourist. The only time she seemed remotely happy with their surroundings was exactly when any normal person would expect least: when Finch-Fletchley launched into one of his condescending over-explanations.

"Detective Inspector," Finch-Fletchley's posh-but-friendly tones welcomed Lestrade as he approached the pair, waiting in the chairs by his office door.

"All wrapped up around here?" Lestrade asked, noting how his department operated around the pair, ignoring their presence except for the occasional glance in their direction.

"Ah, yes," Finch-Fletchley grinned. "Your team has been most accommodating." He gestured with the case file Lestrade knew held the data they'd collected about the explosion at the pool. He hoped Donovan and Anderson had listened to his advice and made back ups. He really didn't want all of that work disappearing when they left.

"Right then. We'll need to go off-site to meet with the witnesses," Lestrade smiled tightly. He glanced over the pair and thought about taking the tube with them. "I can drive." He offered, leading the way to the elevator.

Finch-Fletchley's grin managed to expand even more, and Quirke seemed to tense, though Lestrade couldn't tell if she was nervous or excited. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It was like they'd never been in a car before. He hit the button for the carpark.


"It's so cramped!" Quirke had noted with surprise as she slid into the back of Lestrade's car.

The DI ground his molars together in an effort not to slam the door he'd held open for her when she'd seemed confused about how to enter the vehicle - And he'd thought Sherlock could be a princess! - He'd saved a long time for his BMW, and had elected for one of the larger models specifically for the interior space. Finch-Fletchley smiled apologetically and shrugged at Lestrade. It went didn't calm him completely, but it did help soothe his ruffled feathers. Lestrade thought again that Finch-Fletchley really did seem like a good sort, for an auror.

The drive itself was thankfully quiet and uneventful.


"Here we are," Lestrade pointed out as he pulled up along the curb outside of 221B to park.

"You've been a real help, Lestrade," Finch-Fletchley turned to him with that good-natured smile and easy nature. "No need to put yourself out any more. We'll be happy to take it from here."

Lestrade blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"We'll just conduct these interviews and then head back to our office," Finch-Fletchley stated, warmly. "I know it's unlikely, but if I ever get assigned to a NSY case again, I hope I get to work with you."

Lestrade shook his outstretched hand, uncertain how he'd been dis-invited from the gathering about to take place. Had Sherlock and John agreed to come to NSY, would he have been kicked out of his office, too? Befuddled, he decided to just go with it.

"You've certainly been easier to work with than any of the other aurors I've met," Lestrade acknowledged.

"We are an eccentric group," Finch-Fletchley laughed.

"Do me a favor," Lestrade asked and Finch-Fletchley nodded, cocking his head to hear it. "Tell John – that's Dr. Watson, one of the witnesses – he's going to owe me more than one pint."

Finch-Fletchley laughed again. "I'll be sure to pass it on."

Quirke stood silently on the curb, waiting for her partner before approaching the building.

Lestrade watched as they were let in, waved to Mrs. Hudson, who had opened the door, and was about to put the car back in gear when the door unexpectedly opened again.

"Oi!" He said with a shout, turning to confront his unexpected passenger, only to come face-to-face with a middle-aged woman with dirty-blonde hair and John Watson's nose.

"DI Lestrade?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Harriet Watson. Johnny's sister. Call me Harry." She introduced herself. "Mind if I grab a ride?"

Lestrade shrugged. He figured this day had already gone to seed. Another interruption was hardly worth worrying about.

"Why not?" he grumbled. "Go on. Get in, then, Harry." He gestured to the passenger seat.

"Ooooooh," Harry crooned appreciatively as she slid into the soft leather seat. "This is nice!"

Lestrade couldn't help the smile her honest enjoyment of his pride and joy brought.

"So, where to?" he asked as he pulled back into traffic.

"Just turn into the first alley on your right," Harry directed, digging around in her bag.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade asked.

Harry gave him a disbelieving look that somehow made him feel about as bright as Sherlock always implied he was. He pulled into the alley between buildings just around the corner from 221B just as Harry produced what looked like two fleshy earpieces.

She offered him one, which he regarded with caution. He didn't like the way it felt in his hand; strangely wiggly and malleable, like a pile of translucent flesh minus muscle, hair, blood, and bone.

"Want to listen in?" she asked, popping hers into her ear canal with hardly any ceremony.

"How?!" he questioned. "With a lump of prosthetic skin?" He shook his hand in front of her face and watched with disturbed fascination as it jiggled on his palm.

"Shhh!" She reprimanded him with a glare. "Listen!" She guided his hand next to his ear.

To Lestrade's great surprise, he could hear voices clearly coming from the earpiece. He looked to Harry, question evident in the shape of his eyes and furrow of his brow.

She simply held her finger to her lips again, in a shushing motion, then pointed to her own earpiece. She mouthed the word listen with deliberate exaggeration.

"Here?" he heard Sherlock's annoyed voice speaking.

It sounded like Finch-Fletchley started to speak, but John's voice cut in before he could vocalize any words. "Because, Sherlock," the doctor stated patiently, "I performed magic in front of muggles yesterday. They have to investigate to make sure the Statute stays in place."

"Fine." Sherlock's voice huffed.

"To be fair, that was quite an impressive Protego judging by the damage done to the surroundings from where the blast exploded beneath the shield." The voice Finch-Fletchley used made it sound like a compliment.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he listened. It sounded ridiculous, but he'd heard Sherlock have stranger discussions, so he wasn't about to stop listening yet.

"Damn right it was," Harry muttered to herself. Lestrade wondered at the evident pride on her face.

"Given the extent of the damage," the calm voice of Quirke continued, "We are not going to issue a citation for this incident."

"Clearly," Finch-Fletchley's voice continued, seamlessly taking over from his dry counterpart, "It was a protective action. Again, really well done – a shield like that would've come in handy back in the 90s." There was a pause. It seemed significant in some way. Lestrade knew a leading question when he heard one. Finch-Fletchley's affable nature made him a great interrogator. It made him sound like he was having a conversation, not gathering evidence. Part of Lestrade applauded his skill. The other wanted to warn John to watch himself.

The silence was broken by a cough that sounded like the way John cleared his throat when he was about to cover for Sherlock, or going to say something unpleasant with a polite smile.

"Ta." John's voice sounded anything but grateful. "My family stayed out of all that." There was a beat of silence. "Muggleborn." The word was offered like an explanation, but it made no sense at all to Lestrade.

"Me too," Finch-Fletchley's voice sang with camaraderie. "I was down for Eton before I got my letter." He confided in a tone that spoke of privilege.

"I've checked the Hogwarts records," Quirke's voice was as professional and cool as always. "There is no record of a John Watson attending in the past fifty years. Both of us would have been in the school while you attended, but I have no recollection of you. Into which house were you sorted?"

"I wasn't." John's voice sounded tight, and made that coughing sound again. "I wasn't invited."

"Cor!" Finch-Fletchley's voice sounded disbelieving. "With a Protego like that, you're telling me you weren't invited?"

"Late bloomer." John's voice offered lamely.

Lestrade was confused, but he continued to listen. He heard John talk about finding a private tutor who showed him where to find a wand and purchase basic spell books and talked about self-paced study throughout medical school and his time in the RAMC.

"Why did you leave the service?" Finch-Fletchley's voice was still conversational. He really was an impressive interviewer, Lestrade thought.

"He was shot." Sherlock's baritone chimed in for the first time in a while.

"Really?" Finch-Fletchley's voice kicked up at the end. He sounded surprised. "You got shot with a shield that can block a blast like that?"

Lestrade heard a heavy inhale. He couldn't be sure whose breathe it had been.

"He was shot from behind." Sherlock's voice stated dispassionately, as though relating a story about the weather.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat behind the wheel. They'd been parked for a some time at this point, eavesdropping. Until now it had felt surprisingly like a stakeout. Now, though, it was crossing into voyeurism. John had never shared these details with Lestrade before. It seemed wrong to hear them indirectly.

He moved to take out his earpiece, but Harry shook her head and gestured for him to keep listening.

"Was he?" Quirke's voice questioned Sherlock's claim.

"Obvious." Sherlock's voice stated. "The shape of the scar tissue indicates a rear-entry, front exit from a high-calibre sniper's rifle."

"You have a scar?" Finch-Fletchley's voice sounded incredulous. "Why wouldn't you just heal it?"

John's voice sounded uncomfortable. "I wasn't in a position to do so. When I woke up days later, I was lucky to be alive at all. My magic saved my life. Some scar tissue is a small price to pay."

"Well, it sounds like you certainly made up for missing out on our war." Finch-Fletchley's voice allowed.

"Yeah." John's voice was bitter. Lestrade winced at the sound.

"We'll be in touch if we need anything else." Quirke's voice sounded ready to leave. There was a soft rustle of movement. "Oblivi-"

"Expelliarmus!" John's voice roared, followed by a sound of crashing.

"Merlin!" Finch-Fletchley's voice exclaimed, losing a good portion of its joviality. "What are you thinking, Watson? It's standard protocol to Obliviate a muggle to preserve the statute!"

"Not going to happen." John's voice was firm, and more confident than it had been until this point.

"Finch-Fletchley down for Eton," Sherlock's voice sounded as disinterested as it had earlier, despite the obvious agitation around him. "You don't know the name 'Watson,' but perhaps you're familiar with the name 'Holmes.'"

Finch-Fletchley's intake of breath was audible, just shy of a gasp. "Don't tell me you're related to Mycroft!"

"Unfortunately." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Fortunate enough for you today, mate!" Finch-Fletchley's voice relaxed again. "He's on the ministry's approved muggle list for his position and unique, uh, resistance to memory charms."

Sherlock's voice scoffed. "I'd hardly call it unique." He complained.

"Want to find out?" John's voice snarked.

"I think you can lower your wand, now, John." Sherlock's voice intoned in bland reply.

"Mycroft aside," John's voice sounded like he was ignoring Sherlock, "I think you'll want his memory intact."

"Oh?" Quirke's voice sounded irritated. It was the most emotion Lestrade had heard from her.

"He's a consulting detective," John's voice raised in volume to cover a sound of objection, presumably from Quirke, "And you're going to want his help soon enough, I'd wager."

"How do you figure?" Finch-Fletchley's faux-friendly voice was back.

"The man responsible for the blast that caused me to violate the statute," John's voice began, "Is still out there. And if Sherlock could piece the puzzle together and deduce magic without being told, I'm sure that madman will as well."

Lestrade still wasn't convinced he believed what he'd heard discussed so casually up to this point – magic! Imagine! – but John's suggestion sent a shiver down his back.

"Trust me," John continued, "You don't want him getting involved in wizarding affairs. Sherlock's no threat to the statute. But that man is."

"I doubt it's anything we can't handle." Finch-Fletchley's voice had become arrogant, and slightly condescending, "But we'll let you know if we need the help of a muggle and a late bloomer with a good shield."

Again, Lestrade heard the scratching and rustling sounds of movement. "Gentlemen," it was Quirke's voice that spoke, "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch if there's anything else."


AN: So, we didn't get as much (any) direct contact with our heroes today, but I will try not to make you wait too long for the next installment! And so the MLE is involved...yeah...things are going to start getting messy pretty quick here. I'm still going to try to incorporate as much Sherlock BBC cannon as possible, though!

Thoughts? Comments? Let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading,

- M