"Have you ever seen anything like this?" John asked the room at large, staring at the blue box dominating the Transfiguration study. If an inkwell or tapestry were to reply, it would merely fit the surreal feeling of the moment.

Sherlock shook his head, but Lindsay nodded. "In an old photo from when my mum was a baby. I think it's like an emergency phone line to the police station."

"So why is a Muggle police call box sitting in Professor McGonagall's old study?" Sherlock muttered, walking around it rapidly.

"New decorating scheme?" Lindsay suggested.

Sherlock paused long enough to roll his eyes and she and John chuckled. John could only muster the smallest amount of repentance as he cleared his throat and settled his face into serious lines. It was possible that he should have taken Madam Pomfrey's advice and napped when he had the chance, as everything was taking on an absurdist hue.

Sherlock stopped at the front door again and pointed his wand at the door, muttering incantations faster than John cared to try to comprehend.

"Any of those circle locks hidden somewhere?" he suggested after several moments of silence.

"No, tried that." Sherlock said shortly.

He stepped back and glared at the door. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he touched his wandtip to the small lock and pressed. A semi-solid silvery substance oozed out, filling the lock.

"It will conform to the grooves used by the key," he said as the other two leaned closer to investigate.

"So there's a spell that turns your wand into a key? Why don't wizards just use that to get past locked doors?" John asked.

"Because it's not exactly in the ministry approved spell books," Sherlock replied, focusing on easing the wand into a counterclockwise turn. "I needed a way to circumvent some specific security measures in my house."

"Where do you live? Buckingham Palace?" Lindsay asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Buckingham Palace is almost unprotected against magical attack. No, I just have relatives who like to keep secrets."

He turned the wand a bit more. There was a snap and his wand tip separated from the lock, leaving the key portion still inside. Sherlock looked murder at the door.

"The tumblers broke it."

"So give it another go," John suggested, rolling his neck and wincing at the rapid-fire crackling.

"It's not supposed to do that," Sherlock said, sounding both annoyed and slightly lost. "It's not fully solid – it shouldn't break, that's the point of the spell. Which means this thing is actively protecting itself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, brow furrowing, and went completely still. It was an expression John already recognized as one that boded ill for anyone attempting to break his concentration. He looked over at Lindsay, who was walking around the box with a look of utter fascination.

"It doesn't even look weathered," she commented.

Sherlock half-snarled at the noise, but didn't open his eyes. John put a finger to his lips and came to join her at the far corner from where Sherlock stood.

"Magical restoration, I expect. Or a replica," John muttered.

Lindsay nodded, pitching her voice lower. "Though that still begs the question' why'."

Sherlock let out an exclamation that might have been an oath, but the gravel of frustration made it difficult to tell. He opened his eyes to the two of them staring at him.

"Nothing for it," he said finally. "I don't have enough information to eliminate any more variables."

He turned on his heel and stalked to the fireplace. John looked over at Lindsay.

"Did that make sense to you?"

"The sentence did," Lindsay said. "But that –" she nodded to Sherlock, who stood by the hearth with wand half-raised and a deep frown. "That's a puzzler."

Sherlock pointed his wand at the logs beside the fire and levitated several into the fireplace before shooting two flames into their midst. He reached up and took a handful of Floo Powder from the niche built into the mantle and weighed it in his hand for a moment, before casting it into the flames and growling, "Ministry of Magic, Office of Internal Affairs."

He knelt and stuck his head into the green flames, giving one impatient gesture that the other two should follow. They did so, experiencing the odd roller-coaster sensation of Floo Powder travel, though their bodies remained firmly on the stone hearth of the study. The room they peered into was an old, plain office, with a wall of side-to-side filing cabinets and a dusty portrait of Merlin as the only ornamentation.

"Sherlock!"

The reprimand made Lindsay and John jump back at Hogwarts. Sherlock merely smirked. The man who was seated at the desk to the left of the fireplace came around so he could see them, but did not crouch to speak face to face. John started again as he recognized the man with the umbrella who had accosted him what felt like a lifetime ago. He elbowed Sherlock in the ribs, but the boy ignored him.

"Evening, brother."

John whipped his head around to face Sherlock.

"Brother?"

"Yes, 'brother', you heard me," Sherlock said impatiently. "This is my brother, Mycroft Holmes – but I understood you two had already met."

"Informally," Mycroft said, smiling genially.

"What the bloody blazes was all that about, then?" John asked, tempted to climb through the fire and ask the question where he didn't have to crane his neck to see the man's face.

Mycroft shrugged. "Standard procedure."

John mouthed the words back at him, too flabbergasted to even gather words to reply. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned back to Sherlock.

"And who else have you dragged into whatever scheme it is you're hatching?" he asked.

"I think the correct appellation would be the scheme you're hatching, Mycroft," Sherlock said sharply. "Tell me what's going on."

"You'll have to be more specific," Mycroft said. "I have at least four matters of international import on my desk at this moment, another half dozen or so of internal affairs investigations, and no small number of everyday chores."

"The giant blue Muggle artifact in the Transfiguration study for starters. Or maybe the new professor who isn't actually a wizard. Or the alien that seems to be developing a taste for magical creatures of all varieties – even human." Sherlock paused long enough for Mycroft to put up a blandly smiling mask. "Whichever you'd prefer to start with is fine."

"What makes you think I know anything about any of these events?"

"Because you know to give the Minister of Magic a hankie before he sneezes."

"I am hundreds of miles away –"

"And you know when I've gotten detention before my head of house finds out, so don't tell me you don't know about to daily goings-on at Hogwarts."

"Yes, by the way, congratulations on a full week back with no major incidents. John's doing, I expect," Mycroft said, examining the length of his wand in apparent boredom.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Redirection hasn't worked on me since I was 3, Mycroft. Let's start with the alien. It is an alien, isn't it?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, but seemed to resign himself. "Yes. At least, that's the current theory. There has been no indication that it could be anything else."

Sherlock looked near giddy. "Excellent! So why aren't the grounds crawling with Ministry agents trying to find the thing?"

"We were trying to keep a low profile."

"Six students have been poisoned," Lindsay snapped. "I think that might warrant a mention or two in the Daily Prophet."

"We have someone on location who was supposed to keep such incidents from occurring."

"Smith," Sherlock said immediately.

Mycroft curled his lip slightly, but didn't deny it. "He's something of an expert in extraterrestrials."

"Did you find him or did he suggest the posting to you?"

"I've known of him for several years now. When I heard of the trouble, I sent him a message."

Sherlock frowned at the news. "Where did you send the message?"

"I don't know," Mycroft said impatiently. "The Department of Mysteries has some sort of connection with his spacecraft. I conveyed my request to an Unspeakable, and he got the message to the – Smith."

"So he might have already been in the area."

"It's possible." Mycroft crouched to study his brother's face. "Why?"

"Because the only being exhibiting extraterrestrial-type behavior in this castle is your inspector. Are you certain he isn't the one causing the mayhem instead of curing it?"

The eyeroll from Mycroft was almost eerily familiar. John repressed a shudder at the idea that there were actually two Holmes walking the earth.

"Quite certain," Mycroft said, standing back up. "We are receiving hourly reports from multiple members of the Hogwarts staff. I suggest you allow those who are qualified to deal with this and keep your mind on those NEWT classes you're being allowed to take."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow speculatively. "And if I refuse? You'll have me bumped back to the fifth year classes? Hardly one of your better threats, brother."

"If you refuse, you'll likely get yourself killed," Mycroft said baldly. For a blink of an eye, actual concern crumpled his features. Then it was gone, covered with a flippant, "And don't pretend that being back with your level in every class is anything less than a terrifying thought."

He stepped back, straightening his back and giving each of them a stern look down the bridge of his nose. "Well, this has been a most interesting chat. But I have work to do, and you three should probably get out of wherever you are that you shouldn't be. Good evening Sherlock, Mr. Watson – and Miss Lovejoy, isn't it?"

He flicked his wand at them and the connection was broken. Several seconds later they were reunited with their bodies in the Transfiguration study. Sherlock scrambled to his feet instantly, whirling around to face the police call box again.

"Insufferable," he muttered.

"How did he know my name?" Lindsay asked. "You never told him."

"He's Mycroft, he's known who you were since the moment we were introduced, I expect, possibly sooner. Information is his specialty." Sherlock said, dismissing the question with a shrug. "We're still no closer to understanding what this is."

He walked around it once more, muttering to himself. John heaved a sigh and rolled up his sleeves, positioning himself in front of the door.

"Out of the way, Sherlock," he commanded as the Ravenclaw came around the corner, eyes unfocused.

"What?"

Sherlock stepped back just in time to avoid John's charge at the door. The blue box shook a bit with the force of his body slamming into it, but the door remained solid. John staggered back a few paces, forcing his vision to stay steady by sheer willpower. He had remembered a moment too late that the lack of pain from his shoulder wound did not necessarily indicate a complete recovery. The reverberating pain waves left him momentarily incapable of speech.

Lindsay had seen. "I can have a go at it," she said, edging him to the side as she positioned herself.

"No, I'll be fine," John protested, drawing in a long breath through his teeth.

She'd already thrown herself at the door before he'd finished. The door gave a squeak, but did not yield. She was recovering her balance when it opened from within. Smith, his hair even wilder than usual, looked out.

"Who is it? Oh!" He grinned at them. "I thought I'd be seeing you three."