Disclaimer: All the Harry Potter characters you recognise were created by J.K. Rowling and are hers entirely. I owe Sherlock Holmes to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mary Russell to Laurie R. King, and the rest to my own imagination.
A/N: Thanks to all who have read and reviewed the story so far. Stay with us! The game's afoot! DN
Chapter Three: Stark Staring Mad
Sherlock Holmes arose stiffly, every bone in his body protesting. He put on his boots, rolled up his sleeping bag, and went to see if any coals were left from the fire he had banked before he went to sleep. He squinted at the horizon: ten of six, if he was any judge of sunrise. He checked his pocket-watch: eleven of six. The rolling hills of Ayrshire were cloaked in mist; he could hear the sea. The air was warm for a Scottish morning, although he could see his breath.
Holmes had left Edinburgh University two days before and taken train to Ayr. After a long and stultifying conference during which he had presented his paper on forensic methods in criminology, he determined to walk in the Ayrshire hills, to get some fresh air and exercise, before returning to Sussex. As if I were twenty years younger, he chided himself. Although hale and healthy for his fifty-eight years, Holmes believed he had deteriorated since his retirement. How else to explain that a night spent sleeping on the ground, which ordinarily would have been refreshing and salutary, caused him to feel as if he had been lying on the proverbial bed of nails?
He took out his water-canteen and rummaged in his kit for his tin cup, tea, sugar, biscuits and, if he remembered aright, a tin of kippers. He found his cup, but everything else was missing. Did I forget to pack it? he wondered. No, that was not right; Mrs Hudson always did up his kit for him, and he recalled her handing it to him as he prepared to leave.
He looked around. Where was his mackintosh? And where was his hat? He found his deerstalker cap on a bush, but the mac was gone. How could this happen? He was a light sleeper; and would have heard if someone had come sneaking round to rob him. But how could they open his kit without making a sound? I'm losing my grip, he thought sourly. Now, where had he placed his walking stick? It was a venerable Scots Cranach and had served him as support, weapon, tent-pole and even punt pole. Nowhere, nowhere to be found
His fury built. Two red spots appeared on his lean cheekbones. He secured his knapsack on his back, clapped his cap on his head and felt in his pockets for his pipe. His pipe. It was gone, as was his small travelling pouch of tobacco. No breakfast, no mac, no walking stick and now, no pipe? "Bloody Hell!" he roared. He found a most unsatisfactory substitute for his stick on the ground, stripped it of some spindly twigs, and set off, in a right swivet, for what he was absolutely positive was the direction towards Ayr, and civilisation.
***
Minerva McGonagall had taken a few moments before classes began to look out of the window and admire the flowering cherry trees around the castle. She had spied a lone figure tramping along the lane that led from the Forbidden Forest. Quickly, she accio'd a spyglass, and watched as the walker neared. It was a man, wearing what appeared to be Muggle clothes of a bygone day, with a dreadful hat on his head and a pack on his back. He was using a bent and twisted stick as a walking cane, and as he came closer, she could see his mouth working: he was talking to himself. Dotty, she thought. How did a Muggle get through the wards around the castle grounds?
She went to the nearest fireplace and shook in some Floo powder from the phial she carried in her pocket. "Dumbledore," she said.
"Yes, Minerva?" the Headmaster asked, when he saw his Transfigurations professor's head in his hearth.
"Hullo, Albus. There's a Muggle approaching – I think he's mad, and might be a menace."
"If it's who I think it is, he's not mad at all, just eccentric. Very well, let's meet him," and the Headmaster followed her in haste. Filch and Hagrid were already stationed at the front door of the castle.
***
Sherlock Holmes had seen the amazing structure directly he exited from the most unpleasant forest he had ever traversed. "I know of no castle in the vicinity," thought he, and pulled out his pocket Baedeker of Scotland to confirm it.
Nevertheless, there it stood, surrounded by well-kept orchards, fields of grain and magnificent gardens and flowering trees. How could he never have seen it before? Ayrshire was a favourite vacation spot, and surely such a castle, situated on a lovely lake (which was likewise unknown to Baedeker), would be a popular attraction. He walked down the finely gravelled path towards the huge double doors, which opened to show a welcoming committee. Holmes stopped in astonishment.
What was this? A madhouse? There stood an old man in what was surely a Wizard's costume, with a white beard so long it was tucked into his belt; a lady of indeterminate middle age wearing a long gown and a witch's hat, a crooked-legged fellow, seemingly one-eyed, and – no, he wasn't seeing this—a giant half again as tall and as wide as a normal man. There was no-where to run.
Then, all four waved to him, smiled and called, "Welcome, traveller!" The lady came forward and took his arm. "Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, sir," she said. I'm Minerva McGonagall, Transfigurations professor. And this"—she indicated the old man – "is Headmaster Dumbledore."
Holmes was struck dumb. Mad. They're all stark staring mad. He allowed himself to be ushered inside, where the crooked-leg man made off to points indeterminate, the giant bowed and introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, and the Headmaster and the witch conducted him to a spacious parlour. They looked at him expectantly.
He cleared his throat. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service," he said. With that, they clustered around him, shaking his hand, pulling him towards a table that was laid with a breakfast fit for a king (including, he noticed, kippers), and inviting him to sit down.
"What is this place? I know, you've said it's a school, but I never knew there was a castle here-"
"You've had a difficult trip," said Dumbledore, "and you're owed an explanation, Mr. Holmes. But first, let's have breakfast, and then we can talk in my study."
Sherlock Holmes patted his lips with his napkin. It had been quite a breakfast. The wizened elf, who appeared out of thin air at his elbow, bearing a basin and ewer, had startled him: "Nibby wash your hands, Master?" he asked humbly. Holmes nodded, holding his hands over the basin, and the gnome poured warm water over them. A towel flew out of no-where and dried his hands, and then towel, basin, ewer and elf disappeared with a snap of the little creature's fingers.
Then, his napkin rose from the side of his plate and draped itself over his lap. Dishes of food floated gently in the air in front of him, and he helped himself; then they floated over to the others. He noticed pots of tea pouring themselves into cups, but when he looked at his own, it was full of hot, strong black coffee. The food was superb.
During breakfast, Holmes told them of his trek into Ayrshire and his belief that he had been robbed. The giant, Hagrid, nodded sympathetically. "Odd things happens on the moor," he rumbled. "'Tis possible ye'll see yer belongings again, sir; some elementals like to play with others' stuff."
"Elementals? I do not believe that such exist," said Sherlock Holmes.
"Well, they don't, in the Muggle world," said the Headmaster, and proceeded to give the visitor a short explanation of the difference between the Muggle and the Wizarding worlds, and how they were able to co-exist.
Holmes sat; chin in hand, brows knitted. "As we know there are things in Nature that mere man cannot perceive, such as a vacuum, it is entirely logical that there should be a multiplicity of worlds," he mused.
"Yes, indeed," said Minerva. "'There is more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in thy philosophy, Horatio,'" and she smiled her peculiarly feline smile.
"Aha! So you know Shakespeare!" Holmes commented.
"Of course!" said Dumbledore, "There are many things that transcend the barriers between the worlds. Great literature, art, music, Nature—all is there for Muggle and Wizard alike."
They repaired to Dumbledore's office. "Gobstoppers," said the Headmaster, and the gryphon revolved, revealing the spiral staircase.
"Capital!' exclaimed Holmes. His eyes snapped with excitement. Dream or reality, mad or sane, this was an adventure! He needed an adventure badly; only a few years ago, he had been close to ending a monotonous, empty, purposeless life, and whenever Russell returned to Oxford, where she was now, reading her damned theology, his life lost colour and flavour, and the chill of lonely old age crept over him. Russell…
"And so," the Headmaster finished, "we reasoned that solving this mystery was beyond our capability. I could think of no-one more qualified to come to our assistance than yourself, the Great Detective."
"But how did you do it? How did I cross the borders between worlds?"
"That, my good man, will be revealed. All will be revealed."
The corner of Holmes' mouth quirked in a smile. "A favourite saying of mine, sir. Now, let us discuss the details of this –case—from its beginning."
Minerva and Dumbledore walked with Holmes towards the east corridor in Ravenclaw. "We know that they're not Muggles, but they're not Wizards either," said Minerva. "We've removed the bodies to the Hospital wing, and we put wards around the place where they were found, to keep anything from being touched or moved. Professor Snape, our Potions Master, is an expert in the scientific method, and has solved many puzzles for us, but this is quite different than anything else we've experienced. We're most grateful for your help."
'I should have liked to see the bodies in the place where first you found them," stated Holmes. "Done," said Dumbledore. A nod of his head and a little elf appeared ("House elves, very handy," explained the Headmaster). He said a few words to the creature, and it ran at eye-blurring speed up the staircases, which, Holmes observed, had an unnerving habit of changing direction. By the time they reached the scene of discovery, the bodies were back to where they had been found. Holmes stopped in his tracks: what was that floating around the bodies? He began to walk forward once more and realised that he was facing ghosts, ectoplasmic entities with strange lives of their own. One, he noticed, had been partially beheaded, and it smiled at him with an odd tip of that partly severed head. The other tipped a bowler to him.
A wave of Dumbledore's wand, and the ghosts dissolved. They approached the site. The two corpses were lying one on top of the other, crosswise, both of them face-up, as if they had been dropped there deliberately. Holmes circled the bodies, and then knelt at their side. He took his favourite Swiss magnifier out of his pocket and looked carefully at the carpet, finally lying down full length to get a closer view. "Singe marks," he said, and crawled on his belly a little further, peering through the magnifier. He stopped short when he bumped into a pair of shoes: stout black shoes, with pointed toes, brushed by black trousers. He sat back on his heels and looked up the six feet one inch length of black garments, into an ugly countenance with a nasty sneer.
No stranger to sneering, Holmes rose up slowly to his full height, six feet one inch, raised his chin and glared down his nose. He folded his arms.
Professor Snape broke the silence, without moving a muscle, and barely moving his mouth: "Misss-ter Holmes, I presume?" His voice was oily black baritone velvet. Holmes drew himself up even more, as if that were possible, arched his eyebrows and, in high-pitched, peevish and most insulting of Oxbridgian tones, replied, " Master Snipe, is it?"
"Snape."
"Indeed."