Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Sherlock.
The Leaky Cauldron
"You look like you stayed up all night howling at the moon", Ron commented as he returned to their table in the pub. In each of his hands, Ron held to pints of butterbeer. It was Harry's favorite. Though Ron would prefer something stronger. However; Hermione was present, so butterbeer would have to do.
"Thank, Ron", Harry commented as his best friend slid the glass in front of him, next to his empty one. Though it was unclear exactly what Harry was thanking Ron for.
"You do look tired", Hermione observed as Ron took the seat next to her; slinging an arm over the back of her chair. Having come straight from work, she was still dressed in one of her skirt suits; her hair pulled back in an uncomfortable-looking bun. "Ginny said you've been working late".
Harry made a sound in the back of his throat as he traced a finger up and down the frosted glass of Butterbeer. He should have known the wives would be talking. That was, after all, how he knew about Ron's unplanned position in his brother's joke shop as a product tester. "Yeah", he agreed after a moment. "It's why I wanted to meet up today." There was a lower murmur of background noise that is common in pubs that made Harry feel comfortable discussing this case out in the open. Even more, the Leaky Cauldron was one of the best places for the golden trio to meet because Hannah was good about keeping the press out of her establishment so they could socialize in peace. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble".
"Nah", Ron responded. If he was being completely honest, he was just happy to get out of the house. Hugo was cutting some new teeth and Rosie had a new interest in coloring on the walls. "My mum took the kids for the evening. And I need a break or I was going to go blinding mad".
"Ron", Hermione spoke in warning.
But Ron continued as if Hermione hadn't said anything. "So, take your time. There's no rush".
Harry's eyes flashed behind in glasses in Ron's direction before he sighed as ran a hand through his hair; mussing it further than it already was. "Did you read the Prophet yesterday? The bit about Imogen Burke?"
Ron shook his head. He rarely looked past the sports section. But Hermione didn't disappoint. "The missing student from Knockturn Alley?"
Harry nodded his answer. "I'm leading the investigation". Harry glanced to the left, taking an interest in a lively group sitting in the corner. The after-a-quidditch-match type of patrons.
Being one of the few people who knew how to read his face, Hermione probed. "Is it the case or the girl that bothers you?"
Ron snorted into his butterbeer, and not because the foam was tickling his nose. "The kid's from Knockturn Alley. Of course, something about her is bothering Harry. Nothing good comes out of that dodgy place".
"The whole thing is not sitting right", Harry said in a rush. Just so he could keep them on track before the Weasley couple sitting across from him could start a domestic. "When Imogen was first reported missing, we searched her home and talked to guardian". Harry used a rueful shake of his head to organize his thoughts. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms. "It reminded me of the Dursleys".
Ron lost some of his humor at the mention of his friend's horrid upbringing as his wife reached across the table. "Oh, Harry", she empathized.
Harry kept going. There was still a ways to go. "We didn't find much. Just a bunch of old newspapers and magazines with names and dates marked; still haven't puzzled through that yet. And the only thing we could get from her guardian was that he was certain that Imogen made it to Kings Cross on the first". Harry tapped his fingers agitatedly on the table.
An action his friends were familiar with. They had seen him do the same when he was trying to find solutions to the tasks in the tri-wizard tournament, or when they had been planning the break-in at Gringotts. So, they knew the best thing to do was let Harry think. He'd continue once he was ready. "The signs are pointing towards Imogen running away. Looking into her home life, that makes sense. But-" Harry cut himself off. No, that's not how he wanted to phrase it.
"You think she didn't run?" Hermione took a guess; folding her fingers together and resting them on the tabletop.
Harry exhaled through his nose. He tapped his fingers twice. "I think if I was living Imogen's life, I wouldn't run on the first. Not when I was supposed to be going to Hogwarts". Why would Imogen run when she was being allowed to step away from a life of endless chores? Where the only available company was an old man who was indifferent to her?
Hermione leaned forward ever so slightly. "So, someone must have grabbed her".
Having done a bit of auror work himself before deciding to join George at the joke shop, Ron saw things from a different angle than his wife. "Nothing is adding up".
Nodding, Harry agreed with Ron. "I can't tell if Imogen's guardian is lying about Kings Cross or not".
"Do you think he's responsible for her disappearance?" Hermione tried again. It would be a solution that wrapped things up nicely. An elderly guardian of no blood relation with a past; living in a community that had one of the highest crime rates in wizarding Britain decided that it was time to get rid of his unwanted ward.
Harry shook his head. He wasn't ignoring that possibility. And there was too little evidence for it to be dismissed. It was more like Imogen's story was a library book he had checked out that had a whole chapter ripped out. So, Harry moved on to the next part that he was aware of. "I went to Hogwarts to ask McGonagall and the teachers about Imogen. They all said something similar. Imogen was quiet and didn't cause trouble".
Wiggling in his chair to work on his leg that had started to fall asleep, Ron commented rather unhelpfully, "It's always the quiet ones".
Used to his friend's rough approach to things, Harry was unaffected. "McGonagall….. McGonagall knew something that no one else did. Or she was the only one who brought it up. Imogen didn't have the money to attend Hogwarts. And the only reason she was able to go was that, before he died, Severus Snape set up a trust to see Imogen through all seven years of school".
"Snape!" Ron exclaimed dangerously loud seeing as he drew the attention of a few others sitting nearby. When he realized how much his voice had carried, Ron raised an apologetic hand to those who were looking.
"Is that why you wanted to talk?" Hermione ventured. She was interested enough that she was almost leaning on top of her clasped hands; getting swept up with intrigue.
Harry transferred his line of sight to Hermione. "Imogen was born in 1995. Can you think of anyone who would know what Snape was doing from 1994 up to his death?"
Hermione's eyes lit up with understanding. Unclasping her hands, she raised them to her face; covering her mouth and nose. "You think the missing girl might be his child".
Having just caught on when Hermione said that, Ron gaped at his wife with a little bit of disgust leaking into his expression. The thought of the formidable potions master from his schooldays reproducing was not one he embraced. "Who would sleep with Snape?"
He was ignored. "It's the only reason I can think of that would make Snape pay for a girl from Knockturn Alley to go to school", Harry reasoned. But it still felt off. Causing him a great deal of irritation.
Continuing his line of thought, Hermione worked out, "But if that is correct, and someone else knows about Imogen's parentage…."
"The real question is what would someone want with Snape's illegitimate child?" Harry finished for her with a sharp nod.
The good doctor, John Watson, was running out of ideas. As Sherlock remained transfixed with the purple hat for the rest of the day, John struggled to come up with ideas that would keep the teenage girl in their flat entertained. Imogen, as he had learned was her name when he finally had enough sense to ask. First, he had suggested that she could watch the telly.
To which he was thrown for a loop when Imogen asked, "Who's telly and why do you need me to watch her?"
This, of course, meant a lengthy explanation of what television was and how the remoted controlled it. John found this to be a bit challenging as he had to recall lessons from school about electricity and the electromagnetic spectrum. Despite the fact that most of his explanations went over Imogen's head.
After spending about fifteen minutes watching the cooking show John had selected, Imogen commented. "Telly is kind of like portraits then".
John coughed into his hand. "Sorry, portraits?"
Then it was Imogen's turn to explain as John tried to keep up. From the way Imogen described it, John thought these portraits sounded like something one could expect to see in a Disney fairytale. There were portraits that could move and interact with their painted landscapes. They could even travel to other paintings if they so desired! And you could converse with them. As if they were sentient beings. If John hadn't been in the room when Imogen had demonstrated the abilities of the purple hat, John would be questioning the state of her mental health again.
When the novelty of television wore off, Sherlock was still muttering in the background as he wandered around the flat with the hat in tow. John turned to the internet. He showed Imogen his laptop and did a quick introduction to search engines, typing, and his blog. "Fascinating", Imogen commented when she found a video-sharing website. She sounded so much like Sherlock, that John almost accused her of making impressions.
Hours were killed with Imogen exploring the world wide web and Sherlock tinkering with the peculiar hat. In that time, John was able to clean up the spoiled tea tray, check on Mrs. Hudson, and spend several minutes in his bedroom screaming into his pillow about all the craziness in his life that was surely Sherlock's fault. As the sky began to darken, Imogen pulled away from the piece of intriguing muggle technology, and John decided it was time to see about dinner.
Take-away was the obvious solution. He asked after any preferences Imogen may have. But the girl assured him she'd eat anything. So, Chinese it was. When it arrived, Imogen joined John at the semi-cleared table. They each ate out of their own cartons. The conversation was scarce as there wasn't much a grown man would have to say to a random child. Likewise, there wasn't much a witch had to say to a muggle.
It was during this awkward meal, that Sherlock threw in his hat. Literally speaking, that is. Both Imogen and John jumped when the purple hat floated between them and onto the table. "Alright", Sherlock announced as he dropped heavily into the chair at the head of the table. "The urchin wins", he just about growled as he sulked. But he could never leave it at that. Holding up a single finger, Sherlock added, "for now".
Setting his dinner down, John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "How hard was that for you to say?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered to John. They contained a certain intensity to them that John would normally contribute to losing a game by one point. "The jury's still out", he muttered in an irate fashion before his attention flickered back to the girl. "How does it work?"
Imogen took her time as she finished chewing and swallowed. "How does what work?"
"The hat!" Sherlock just about exploded.
"Oh, that". Imogen's response had John under the impression that she was messing with Sherlock. John found something about that fact endearing. "I don't know", Imogen answered with a shrug. Something dangerous flashed in Sherlock's countenance and John was gearing up to intersect. But Imogen continued to talk before Sherlock could engage in the tantrum John was sure was bubbling under the surface. "I didn't make it. The hat is called the headless hat. It can be bought at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, a joke shop". Of course, that wasn't how Imogen had obtained the hat. But the two men she was talking to didn't need to know that.
Like a chess player with no end game, Sherlock pressed. "Where is this Joke shop?"
"In Diagon Alley".
"And where is that?"
"In London".
Sherlock scoffed. "There's no place called Diagon Alley in London!" And he would know; having remembered every street and every corner in every borough in this blasted city.
Except…. He didn't know. Imogen offered the consulting detective a knowledgeable smile. One that amused John, and deeply insulted Sherlock. "Yes, there is. You just can't see it".
Ignoring the custom of respecting personal space, Sherlock leaned in Imogen's direction. "Take me there", he challenged.
"Sure", Imogen agreed easily enough. She had expected that this would be an outcome. Mr. Holmes was a detective after all. Meaning that he had to investigate before he could solve her problem. And that meant going to places. Imogen just hoped that the ministry didn't snap her wand for this when they caught up with her. "But only if you help me".
Imogen found herself sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair in the living room of 221B Baker Street. On her left sat John in his armchair. On her right sat Sherlock in his designated spot. Both were staring at her; waiting to hear the mystery she had fought to bring to their attention.
"I live in Knockturn Alley. It's in the same area as Diagon Alley. You can, in fact, get to Knockturn Alley by going through Diagon Alley. Knockturn Alley is like the poorer and darker version of Diagon Alley. Most people avoid it and refuse to have anything to do with it". Imogen took a breath as she wondered exactly how detailed she should be. How many magical secrets would she have to expose before Sherlock was done? "At the start of this summer, when I got back from school, I noticed that a few of the kids I had grown up with were gone. All the grown-ups refused to talk about it. They were acting like these kids never existed. Mr. Borgin told me to shut up and keep my head down when I asked him about it".
"Who is Mr. Borgin?" John broke in as Sherlock sat with his fingertips pressed together and poised under his nose.
"I l live with him", Imogen said.
"Your guardian?" John sought clarification.
"Yeah". And then Imogen moved on to tell the rest of her tale. "There was nothing in the Daily Prophet about the missing kids either… er… that's our newspaper. But that wasn't surprising. Like I said, people are happy to ignore what goes on in Knockturn Alley".
A deep breath was needed before Imogen could continue. "In July, one of the boys that used to throw dead rats out of his window vanished. In August, two girls disappeared. Both of their mums rented out rooms in the pub to do their…. Business. If you know what I mean".
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "We do", he was quick to assure the girl. Just so she wasn't encouraged to explain it to them. Meanwhile, Sherlock still hadn't moved.
"Still, no one said anything about them being gone. Their mums were a bit weepy the day after, but no one did anything". Imogen tried to go on.
But John had questions. "And no one bothered to inform the police". At this point, it wasn't magic that he was struggling to believe, but the lack of parental concern in Imogen's story.
Imogen blinked at the unfamiliar word. "Police?"
"Law enforcement", Sherlock muttered to help speed things along.
"Oh, aurors", Imogen accepted the new information about muggles with a small shake of her head. Right, better stay on target. "They don't like us and we don't like them. I doubt they'd notice if Knockturn Alley and everything in it was burned to the ground".
John waved a hand for Imogen to continued. So, she did. "After the two girls went missing, I started noticing a couple of things. Mr. Borgin was staying up later than he normally did. My bedroom's in the attic, so I couldn't always hear. But around one or two o'clock in the morning, it often sounded like Mr. Borgin was talking to someone. It's only Mr. Borgin and me who live in the house and he closes the shop by seven o'clock".
That was point one. Imogen immediately jumped into point two. "Then there was the money. Mr. Borgin always had a little more than others in Knockturn Alley, but not enough that he could take up shopping as a hobby. But all of a sudden he had a brand new wardrobe made out of fancy fabrics. He bought new furniture and started eating out more and more".
Sherlock was getting agitated. He shifted his weight to the left. "Hurry up", he demanded; ignoring the look John sent his way.
"One day", Imogen went on as if Sherlock hadn't said anything. "When I was cleaning up the shop, like Mr. Borgin told me to do, I found this". Imogen dug into her left jean pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. She held it out to Sherlock without even looking in John's direction; knowing that Sherlock was the mastermind in their operation.
Sherlock took his time accepting it. First, he scrutinized the thickness of the paper. He didn't have to touch it to know that its texture would be different than any form of paper he had encountered before. Next, was to question the medieval make of it. Finally, he moved one of his hands to take it from Imogen.
Unfolding it revealed a list scratched out in black ink. The strokes were different from a pen. Thinner. Finer. A quill then, Sherlock deduced. On the left-hand side of the parchment were names. The missing children's names, he assumed. Next to each of the names on the right side were numbers and the same word; galleons. Initially, Sherlock's thoughts jumped to a type of sailing ship popular in Spain from the fifteenth century through the seventh century. But the context didn't fit, so Sherlock disregarded the ships. A form of currency then. Interestingly, every name and figure was crossed out by a thin line of ink. All except for the one at the bottom. Imogen Burke; 1,225 Galleons.