Hey guys! Lots of news coming with this chapter! First off, I have officially finished typing up the full rough draft of this story! Hopefully that will result in quicker updates, particularly since there are only THREE CHAPTERS LEFT! Gahhhhhh. I completely didn't realize how close we were to the end. However, I have good news - I plan on turning this into a series of stories, and already have the next two mapped out. FI's sequel is called Dissendium and will deal with some answers that are still going to be hanging about at the end of this, and after that will be Prior Incantato. I'm still trying to come up with a good name for the series overall, so if you have any thoughts feel free to give me a holler. Also, I'm not sure if the comment was here or over on AO3, but this story has a Johnlock endgame. Hopefully the end of this chapter will help make that a bit more...obvious, but that's your warning. XD Nothing too graphic, obviously from the rating, but still. Anywho, this chapter's a long one (mostly because it didn't have a very good place to cut off), but there are a few cameos that hopefully you'll enjoy. Let me know what you think!

Chapter Nine

Their landing was more confident than when they travelled to Godric's Hollow, John's leg quivering only slightly as they touched down but standing firm. He gave it an instant reflex shake to loosen the muscles and checked on Cecelia, who slept through the entire ordeal. She snuggled in closer to John's chest when he tucked the wrap around her once more. Sherlock, meanwhile, glanced around them at their surroundings with an intense interest, attempting to take everything in by the subtle glow of the flickering lights inside nearby buildings. Behind their backs, the muffled noises of people talking, glasses shifting about, and dull music emanated from the Three Broomsticks. From the sounds of it, the pub was preparing to close down soon, its remaining patrons gradually making their way home or back to their rooms above.

"Hogsmeade village," Sherlock muttered under his breath to no one in particular. "The only all wizarding community in Great Britain. This is a legendary moment, John, the fact that a Muggle has managed to be Apparated here, of all places. Not even the parents of Muggleborns usually make it to the village, even though they are often on the Hogwarts grounds for the yearly graduation ceremony. Apparently they have records of all of the Muggles who have ever set foot in the town and it doesn't even number in the dozens. I must find the opportunity to come back during the day and observe the happenings."

"Why am I not surprised you know more about Hogsmeade than I do?" John asked, removing his arm from Sherlock's elbow to shove him carefully forward. "Oye, come on, it's late, I'm exhausted, and my entire life has fairly crumbled down on top of me today. I think I deserve a large whiskey or a larger bed, possibly both."

Sherlock pouted briefly but followed John's command, heading in the direction he led. Harry and Mycroft popped up behind them and immediately began to follow. The pathway to Hogwarts was dark, not used to having travelers to or from the school so late at night, but the glow of Harry and John's wands lit it well enough for their small group. They remained silent the entire way, Sherlock attempting to stare through the gloom of their surroundings and John hardly awake enough to move. Soon the castle's dully outlined form loomed over them as they approached the pair of giant front doors.

As they pushed inside, Sherlock's eyes nearly popped from his head from how wide they grew. He attempted to take in everything at once, his head darting about almost fast enough to make John dizzy from watching him. A young man, slightly stout and with an enormous grin spreading across his face, waited for them at the foot of the stairs. Harry let out a laugh and launched himself forward to hug him, the pair griping each other tightly and slapping each other on the back in a sound greeting.

"Neville! Merlin, it's been ages! How are you?"

"Busy as always," the man replied as they pulled apart. "You're looking well. Ginny and the kids still the same?"

"They always run me ragged, but I wouldn't change it for anything." Harry turned to gesture at their guests. "Neville, this is Mycroft Holmes, Muggle Liaison for the Department of Muggle Affairs, and his brother, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. I'm not sure if you remember – "

"John Watson." Neville strode forward to shake John's hand, their grins matching by now. "I haven't seen you in nearly twenty years, but I'd recognize you anywhere. Where did you put yourself off to all this time?"

"Here and there," John simply replied, shooting a glance at Sherlock. "I'd heard you were back here teaching. Herbology, yeah?"

Neville gave him a quick nod. "I guess after everything that happened here, I couldn't just leave. Besides, Pomona said she'd never agree to retire unless it was to me. It's been interesting, to say the least. But who's this?" He peered into the wrap to stare down at Cecelia. "Why, John Watson. You managed to finally have the little one you always talked about."

"As much as I'm enjoying this delightful little reunion, we have business to attend to," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, glancing between Sherlock and John with raised eyebrows. "Mr. Potter and I need to discuss the next plans in uncovering where our fugitive is. And I'm certain John and Sherlock could do with some rest after their unexpectedly eventful day."

"Right, of course," Neville said, motioning for the two to follow him. "I'll get you to where we've got you staying – it's a bit small, particularly since I didn't know you'd be bringing a baby along, but hopefully it'll do."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Neville," John replied, shooting Sherlock a sharp look. "Sherlock, take Cecelia for a mo? I need to talk with Harry for a bit before he goes."

Sherlock nodded and took her gingerly, his long fingers wrapping carefully around the small body to avoid waking her. He glared at Mycroft as a farewell before turning to a chattering Neville. John, meanwhile, pulled Harry slightly aside, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Keep me posted on absolutely everything that happens, Harry, everything," John muttered quickly, keeping his voice low so hopefully Sherlock wouldn't overhear. "Do you have any idea of who she really is?"

"We just found out about her today, John, there's no way we can know more than you at the moment." Harry sighed and patted John's hand. "You'll know as much as we do, I promise. Hell, what you already know may be the best we've got on her. We'll do everything we can to put this right."

John nodded, distracted and thoughtful. He felt both pairs of Holmes eyes watching him with diligence, so he moved away with a bleak smile and waved goodbye. Harry and Mycroft slipped back out into the night, leaving John to observe in silence. He was eventually brought out of his reverie by Neville's voice. "Come on, I'll see you both settled. We've actually got you down near the Hufflepuff common room – there was a spare classroom we were able to convert pretty easily and figured it'd be easiest for you to find, John." Sherlock trailed behind them as they chatted quietly, eyes darting about as they walked to observe what he could. The corridors were fairly dull so late at night, the lamps lining the stone walls turned low. Though he expected it from what he read, he still gave a start when he noticed movements from one of the portraits. He began speaking lowly to the sleeping Cecelia, allowing his deep voice to bring her into a deeper sleep as he listed off his various observations as they went. His voice carried just enough for John could hear, causing him to turn and smile slightly at the sight of Sherlock hunched over her dozing form.

The path to their quarters was fairly easy to remember, even given how close they were to John's old common rooms. They were just down a few doors from the portrait of fruit that led to the entrance to the kitchens. John's nose twitched at the memory of sneaking off to visit the house elves late at night, befriending them easily and gaining limitless treats as well as fascinating new companions. He made a mental note to bring Cecelia to visit the elves before they left as they rounded a corner and met a large wooden door.

"We didn't set a password, but we can if you two would prefer it," Neville said as he led them inside. The first room was a small but cozy sitting room with two armchairs, echoing the setup in 221b. A miniature kitchenette, nothing more than would be found in a hotel room, sat directly across from the fireplace and chairs. They could make out a narrow hallway across from the door that presumably led to a pair of bedrooms. John suspected McGonagall was behind the various homey touches, but he didn't think on it very hard before flopping down into the more comfortable looking of the pair of seats. Sherlock followed his example, albeit more gracefully due to the bundle on his chest. "I'll leave you all to rest. If you need anything, there's Floo Powder in that green urn – feel free to give Minerva or me a call. We'll keep our fires lit." John replied with a smile and a wave, and Neville left them with a dull thud from the closing door.

"So were you planning on sneaking off alone while I slept or giving it a few days to properly plan?" Sherlock's voice was sharp and cutting when it broke through the quiet. John's head jolted up at his question, finding himself surprised despite all of the times he'd seen Sherlock do the same to countless others, not to mention himself. He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, the bristles of a beard tickling his palm.

"You really just can't turn that off, can you?" Sherlock remained silent, waiting with surprising patience for John to continue. John rested his forehead in his palm, staring intently down at the simple rug at their feet. "Will it make you feel any better if I tell you that I was going to do some research in the library before I left?"

"You're not going after her alone, John. I don't care how skilled you are, at magic or combat, you're too emotionally attached to do this by yourself. You'll act on these emotions, attack before questioning. We don't even know if she's the one behind the deaths – "

"Why are you always so determined to defend her?" John interrupted, slamming his fist down on the arm of the chair loudly enough to rattle the urn on the mantle. "She fucking killed you, Sherlock, and don't you dare try pulling that non-fatal wound shit on me again. I was more than ready to end it after she nearly took you away from me just after I got you back again, but you're the one who convinced me otherwise. Why the hell are you so determined to keep this chaotic idiocy going?"

Sherlock was silent, his eyes fixed on Cecelia's sleeping face. He brushed a hand over her forehead, its size dwarfing her already tiny form, but the motion was as gentle as his movements when he conducted a fragile experiment. His reply was low, but the almost dead quiet of the room allowed it to be easily carried. "It was supposed to be what you wanted. A proper family with a proper life. No fear of whether you'd be home uninjured that night, that something would happen to ruin everything. It was supposed to be perfect because that's what you deserve."

"Has it occurred to you that perfect, at least your version of it, might not be what I really need?" John's question back was nearly as quiet. "Have you ever thought that what we had, the cases, the running, even the body parts in the fridge, were exactly what I'd been hoping for?" Sherlock neither looked up nor replied. John let out a soft sigh and stood, carefully walking over to take Cecelia from Sherlock's arms. The motion finally forced him to meet John's eyes, their color a golden hazel from the firelight. He watched the wrinkles form around John's eyes as he smiled. "Get to bed soon. I don't care if it's just transport; we've got research to do in the morning."

John was gone by the time Sherlock woke the next morning, but he knew he hadn't gone far. A cup of still steaming tea sat on the mantle, warmed with a charm and accompanied by a note from John.

Your phone won't work in here – something about Muggle technology interfering with magic - but we're just at the library. You've read Hogwarts, a History, so come on then. Find us. JW

Sherlock inhaled the tea as he dressing, attempting to ignore the fact that John knew to spell it to just the right temperature to stay warm without scalding him if he drank it all in one go. He made his way to the library with ease, managing to keep himself from getting distracted by the various magical diversions around him with the idea of pleasing John. After their enlightening conversation the night before, he was interested and slightly terrified of seeing how things would progress between the two of them. He attempted to convince himself that his enthusiasm came purely from the need to start work on the case, but the fluttering sensation that persisted in his midsection suggested otherwise.

Sherlock's hastened pace screeched to a halt the moment he entered the library. He would always be able to appreciate being born in an age where information was easy to find with a mere point and click, but nothing truly compared to the crisp tang of thousands of worn books. The added smell of ink and feather quills gave the entire scene an appropriately mystic element as Sherlock slowly made his way down the long aisles of books, his shoes echoing softly with each step.

"Oye, there you are!" John sat in another cozy-looking armchair, this one situated near a table under a window. Cecelia was strapped in her wrap across his chest, attempting to snatch at the pages John managed to keep just out of reach. Her head spun around as Sherlock approached and she let out a series of unintelligible babbles.

"Found anything interesting yet?" Sherlock asked, taking the seat across from John after giving Cecelia's head a good morning pat.

John shook his head and gently pushed a tower of books towards him. "Not yet, but I haven't been at it long. I had to make sure none of the books would start screeching at me when I tried to read them."

"Excellent, you went into the Restricted Section. Backgrounds on known Death Eaters?"

"That's where I've started. We know enough about metamorphmagi that Mary has to actually be a female, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to become pregnant. Only someone whose permanent internal organs have a female makeup can have children, even if it's a metamorphmagus reformed into a woman. So at least we've got the advantage there, since Death Eaters were more likely to be male. We've got less of a list to go through."

"All Death Eaters were given the Dark Mark on their forearm. Are we certain Mary is actually one of them? Can the abilities of a metamorphmagus counteract a dark spell to remove the tattoo?"

"Not sure. One of the things we know for sure about my parents' deaths was that Death Eaters were involved, though. They left the Dark Mark in the sky and were able to identify one caster as a known Death Eater from studying the magical residue on the bodies after death."

John began to look uncomfortable when the discussion turned to his parents, causing Sherlock to reach out and grasp his hand. The action startled them both, but John recovered first. He shot Sherlock a grateful smile and squeezed his hand back, keeping it open and available on the table. Though the invitation was obvious, Sherlock soon pulled his own hand away to let it cower under the tabletop.

"Does the Ministry keep close tabs on former Death Eaters?"

"Well, most of them are dead or in Azkaban, so it's fairly easy. I'm not sure what's been done to the ones who managed to escape, but I imagine they have to be on record somewhere so we know what they're up to."

"This would be so much easier if we had access to direct Ministry files," Sherlock muttered as he flipped through pages. "I could ask Mycroft, obviously, but what a preposterous idea."

"Heaven forbid we have to ask your brother for help." The two shared a grin before immersing themselves in reading, falling almost silent for hours. The only interruptions came when Cecelia needed looking after and a pair of house elves stopped up with a tray of food around noon. Sherlock, naturally, was fascinated, but not in the treats they bore.

"Do different sorts of clothing have various meanings?" he asked one as he crawled about them, studying them from different angles. "I imagine a shirt or trousers would mean more than a pair of socks, for example."

"Socks is always special, sir" the first elf answered adamantly. "Socks is what Mr. Harry Potter gives to Dobby to set him free. We is always respecting socks in Dobby's memory, sir." Sherlock shot John a glance, but only received a shrug in reply. The elves soon returned to the kitchens, imploring them to call on them if they needed anything, and the two men returned to their research.

The afternoon light continued to fade gradually into a brightly painted evening with only the sounds of rustling paper and occasional mutterings of interesting findings interrupting the quiet. Eventually John pushed away from the table to rub at his tired eyes. The sky had turned from faintly cloudy that morning to bright, the sunlight peering out from its cover with just enough time to cause a dazzling sunset. He took a few minutes to watch the giant squid lazily propel itself across the sun dappled surface of the lake, attempting to point it out to Cecelia. She didn't seem to mind it, however, having found a more interesting target for her attention in a trio of owls flying up to the owlery. The pair watched silently for another few minutes, John absentmindedly stroking a thumb down Cecelia's arm, when muttered grumbling from Sherlock caught his attention.

"Hmm? What was that, Sherlock?" When he didn't immediately reply, John turned away from the window to glance over at him. He was hunched so far over his book that he was nearly bent in half, his mad curls obscuring his eyes. John would have simply thought he was engrossed in his work if not for the fact that the hands griping the book's cover were white and shaking from how fiercely he held on. John stood and approached slowly, wary of startling him, and managed to kneel on one knee beside the chair so he could properly see Sherlock's face. His expressive brows were contorted in confusion as he stared down at the page, biting his lip in an oddly endearing manner. "Sherlock? You okay? What did you find?"

"Magic," Sherlock muttered, frowning as his eyes darted across the page to read it again. John tried not to laugh, covering his snort in a cough as best he could. Sherlock caught it for what it really was, however, and shot him a glare.

"No shit you found magic. I meant something a little more specific, maybe along the lines of Mary and her past?"

Sherlock let out a huff of frustration and spun the book around so John could read it, pointing a single long, elegant finger at the appropriate spot. "Not on Mary, but we may have an explanation for how I've managed to use a bit of magic and combat Muggle wards. It would seem magic really does run in the Holmes family."

John read the offered section, not more than a paragraph long, detailing a curious case of varied magical ability. The magical quill known to write down the names of magical children for consideration at Hogwarts when they were born would very rarely end a name with a question mark, an obvious yet uncommon uncertainty. Generally it was thought that it was a malfunction in the quill, causing it to be put through standard maintenance to ensure it was working properly, but no issues were ever found. Each name that was included with a question mark, however, had the same distinguishing quality of including the surname of Holmes.

"That's strange. Didn't Mycroft mention something about your family having magical connections? This might be what he meant."

"But what does the question mark signify? From everything I've learned on this quill, the only names it marked down were individuals with a distinct magical ability. One can assume that a question mark might indicate uncertainty, but what would that mean in this situation? A wizard with a bit of skill, one that could develop skills in the future, someone who might have a talent at it if given the proper motivation? Are you attempting to tell me that absolutely no one in thousands of years of magical history has attempted to try and understand such a fascinating abnormality?"

"I mean…I suppose not?"

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and slammed his head back against his armchair. "Wizards lack an extremely significant amount of scientific curiosity. You all have so much potential with all that added skill and you turn out to be just as idiotic as the rest of humanity."

John interrupted Sherlock's complaints by snatching the book out of Sherlock's hands, settling it on his lap as he sat cross-legged on the floor. The process of maneuvering around Cecelia caused him to grumble under his breath until Sherlock reached out to take her from his chest. He settled her into the crook of his elbow and watched as John skimmed through the pages to return to the beginning.

"Where did you find this?" John asked, his voice sharp and demanding. He continued to scan the pages as Sherlock answered.

"Hidden among the various other repetitive books on wizarding families you brought over before I arrived. What is it, John? Tell me what you're thinking."

"AGRA," John replied hurriedly, gesturing wildly down at the book. As his excitement grew, Sherlock folded himself down on the floor as well, until they sat mirroring each other with their knees touching. Sherlock's interest furthered John's excitement until he was speaking almost as fast as Sherlock did during a deduction. "We know the initials from the flash drive, right, and that they stood for the name she gave us in all the shit she put on it. But what if she didn't change them from her wizarding name? I saw a name on that page that reminded me – I went up against a bloke named Avery in the battle at Hogwarts and I know his father was a Death Eater as well. What if there were others in the family who decided to get into the business too?"

At first all Sherlock could do was stare across at John. Eventually his free hand snaked out to curl around John's cheek, forcing him to look up. Sherlock's eyes glittered with pride as he smiled at John, one of the genuine ones he saved only for him. "Brilliant," he whispered, an echo of the thousands of times John had said the same to him. "You are brilliant."

John could only grin and flush slightly in reply before Sherlock seemed to realize what he was doing. He snatched his hand away as though John's skin sent a bolt of shock through his palm, his own cheeks turning a dusty pink as he avoided John's eyes by staring down at the page. Cecelia reached down between them to pat at the parchment, breaking the suddenly awkward silence.

"Right. AGRA. Yeah." John continued to turn the pages at a slightly more sedate pace until he found the As. They scanned down the listings of names, Sherlock's view upside down from his position, until John shot out a shaking hand to point at a single line. His voice started strong as he read, but eventually lowered into barely a whisper. "The eldest son, Alexander Christophe Avery Jr., was the only of the couple's four children to attend Hogwarts. The others, beginning with their only daughter Abigail Grace Regan Avery, attended Durmstrang Academy." John straightened to stare into the distance, his eyes lost. "Durmstrang. That would explain why we've never heard of her."

"It doesn't say anything about her being a metamorphmagus," Sherlock said quietly, slipping the book from John's now lax grip to read it over. "Wouldn't that be mentioned?"

"This is only about the families who attended Hogwarts. We'd need to find something on Durmstrang students to get more on her." John sprang to his feet, Sherlock not far behind, and they began combing the shelves in search of anything related to the school. Their pile of new possibilities grew slowly and John felt his temporary adrenaline rush at having finally found something of use fading in the realization of just how large a selection they had. He could hear Sherlock grumbling in the next row, casually tossing books over his shoulder as he passed down the row.

"How bloody difficult would it be to put all of this into a ruddy database?" Sherlock eventually snarled, running a hand through his curls with a growl. "I fail to understand how Muggles have come up with the Internet while wizardkind remains in the 1500s or earlier."

"I told you, Sherlock, magic and technology screw with each other," John called back, squinting at barely legible titles. "But you're probably right, honestly. There has to be an easier way of doing this." He paused for a moment to think before saying, "Keep at it, Sherlock, I'll be right back!" Sherlock muttered his displeasure as John dashed off to the nearest fireplace. He'd started carrying a small phial of Floo Powder with him at all times just in case, and he quickly tossed a bit into the flames and shoved his face inside. "Minerva McGonagall's office!" he shouted, and before he'd had much more time than a flash of green pass across his vision he was yelling out to her.

"Yes, Dr. Watson? You yelled?" McGonagall answered from behind her desk, her eyes a mixture of amused and curious.

"Do we still keep portraits of former headmasters and mistresses around? All former ones?"

"Of course. Will you and Mr. Holmes be paying me a call in the near future?"

John grinned sheepishly. "Only if you're not busy."

"Not at all. The password is highland pride. Take as long as you need."

He managed to shout out a thank you before pulling his head from the fire and bolting back to Sherlock. He motioned him to follow and the pair raced to the headmistress' office, Cecelia safely tucked back into the wrap on John's chest. Both of them were out of breath by the time John wheezed out the password and they chased the twirling stairs to the top.

McGonagall still sat behind her desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment when they burst inside. The noise hardly bothered her, the only indication that she had even noticed coming from her raised hand as she gestured at the various portraits decorating the walls. Sherlock slowly spun to glance at each individually, his mouth slightly open in amazement.

"They're the headmasters and mistresses, aren't they?" he muttered, but John knew he didn't require an answer. His progression in the conversation proved John correct in his assessment. "Very little is mentioned in Hogwarts, a History about the head's office, but it's obvious who they are. What better homage than to leave them in their final resting place?" He stepped forward to stand face to face with a particular portrait, meeting the painted man's face stoically. Sparkling blue eyes watched him in return, amusement showing from behind the half-moon spectacles. "Albus Dumbledore."

"I am," Dumbledore replied with a nod and a smile. "But I'm afraid I do not recognize you, young man. You remind me of someone, however – you'll have to excuse me for my lack of memory. I'm afraid I know only as much as my living persona did upon death, and even I was known to make mistakes, being a human still at my core."

"We've never met. I knew who you were instantly; it's impossible to read a book on wizardkind without running across Albus Dumbledore at least half a dozen times. You may recognize me for my brother, Mycroft Holmes. I haven't an exact time for when he began working for the Ministry, but Mycroft's always been an infuriating goody-goody, so it wouldn't surprise me to hear he was somehow involved even almost twenty years ago."

"Ah yes, Mycroft Holmes. He was assistant to our Muggle liaison back then, so I'm not surprised to hear he's risen to take on the post. You, then, must be Sherlock."

"If that is so, then there has been a serious breach in security at Hogwarts," a low voice from beside Dumbledore's portrait drawled. Sherlock slowly turned to take in the sallow faced man who glared out at him. "The Holmes boys are both Muggles. You couldn't even see Hogwarts, let alone walk through its halls."

"Obviously not," Sherlock replied, his head tilted to the side and a small smile curling his lips.

"All right, no pissing off the man we came to talk to," John interrupted as he finally stepped up beside Sherlock. "Severus is as difficult as you are at the best of times, no need to make it worse."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the mention of Snape's name. "You're the former Potions master. From what I've read, your skill at the craft was unmatched at the time and continues to be so. I admit, of all the classes available for study here, Potions intrigued me the most."

Snape attempted to conceal his pleasure at Sherlock's words, but the tiny, smug smile at the corner of his mouth gave him away. "It is a delicate art mastered by the few and respected by the fewer. It is hardly ever given the due it rightfully deserves."

"It's not unlike chemistry in its delicate timings and measuring of ingredients to produce a specific result. It's one of the only magical practices, from what I've studied thus far, that genuinely attempts to take Muggle science and merge it with the magical, at least in practice. The addition of giving it the right specific amount of magic to what is, at its centre, an experiment is not unlike what a chemist may produce in a lab."

With each of Sherlock's words, Snape's interest grew, his portrait shifting a bit anxiously in his painted chair as though he physically itched to discuss more. John chuckled and shook his head before turning to shoot Dumbledore a grin. "I should have expected this, I suppose. Naturally the mad scientist would get on with the ornery Potions Master."

Dumbledore smiled in reply. "Indeed. His points are quite valid, however. I imagine our Muggleborn students who excelled in the sciences in their younger years did equally well at Potions." His gaze flickered down to Cecelia, his smile changing from amused to warm. Cecelia, meanwhile, stared up at him with large eyes, cowering ever so slightly into John's chest. "I'm glad to see you with a little one, John. Assuming that she is, in fact, yours?"

"She is," John said proudly, settling a reassuring hand on Cecelia's head. "Albus, this is my Síleas, my Cecelia."

"She's lovely," Dumbledore replied in a low voice, raising a wrinkled hand to wave out at her. She cocked her head in curiosity in reply, mimicking the motion awkwardly. Dumbledore chuckled and gave her an approving nod. "An appropriate name for the lass. I look forward to hopefully seeing her again, here and following in the footsteps of her father." His eyes shot between John and Sherlock almost too fast to be noticeable, but John caught the motion. "And is Mr. Holmes…?"

"Just a friend," John replied, but his eyes mirrored Dumbledore's in his peripherals. "At least for the moment. I'm, ah, actually married."

Dumbledore's bushy brows raised and he focused more fully on John. "Congratulations, then, if congratulations are due. I'm a bit surprised you would be here without your partner, however."

"My partner's the reason we're here, actually." He interrupted the avid discussion between Sherlock and Snape by clearing his throat. "Sorry to bother you, lads, but I actually need to talk to Severus. We've got a bit of a situation and I hoped you'd be able to help."

John quickly explained the story as they knew it while Snape listened thoughtfully. His hand tapped a pattern into the arm of his chair while John finished. "Mary Morstan isn't familiar, I'm afraid, but I was well acquainted with Abigail Avery. She joined our ranks immediately out of graduation, from what I know, though I always suspected it was more from familial obligation than personal devotion to the cause."

John felt his chest tighten at the news, the feeling causing his nearly empty stomach to roll in slight protest. "Was she a metamorphmagus, as far as you knew? Or did you know much about her wand?"

Snape's eyebrows rose in surprise as he replied, "She was a metamorphmagus, making her particularly invaluable to the Dark Lord. He was quite disappointed when she managed to slip from his grasp with hardly any of us noticing. But of her wand, I know little beyond that it was not one of Ollivander's designs."

"Perfect," John muttered, covering half of his face to scrub at it with his hand. "I mean, it was starting to sound like this was the case, but…Jesus, this is hard. I don't even love her anymore, but it's still too bloody hard."

Sherlock had reached out a hand to touch John's shoulder as he spoke, so John felt when he stiffened. His voice almost too low to be heard even from how close they stood, Sherlock murmured, "What do you mean, you don't love her anymore?"

John stared up at Sherlock, his eyes boring into the man's while he replied. "Exactly what I said – I loved her once, at least as far as I thought, but haven't in quite a long time. Honestly, it's because of Cecelia that we were together at all. That and…other things." John broke his stare to glance down at his feet.

When neither man continued for several moments, Dumbledore cleared his throat significantly. "Have you any thoughts of where she might have gone to after John found out, Severus, if Mary is in fact Abigail? Family or friends who might have taken her in, perhaps?"

"The majority of her remaining family are either dead or in Azkaban, doing her little good. From what I knew of her, her friends were few and consisted only of her fellow Death Eaters. I highly doubt any of the remaining ones still free would be willing to shelter a known criminal, particularly if they are attempting to remain in their imprisoned state. She would hardly be worth the trouble."

"We're no better off than we were, then, at least not in finding her," John replied, his voice hollow with resignation. Sherlock's hand, which still rested reassuringly on John's shoulder, was a calming presence that sent a wave of warmth through John's body. Sherlock gave it a firm squeeze before he pulled it away to hang limp at his side.

"We may not have her location, but we can take from what we know where she is not," Sherlock replied with a confidence he wasn't sure he truly felt. "It was wise of Harry to bring us here, where we know she is least likely to attempt any trickery."

John gave him a brief nod of agreement before refocusing on Snape. "Can the Dark Mark still be seen even if she's a metamorphmagus, or can she do whatever it is she does and make it fade?"

"The Mark can be concealed with makeup and certain concealment charms, but of all of the times I ever saw her change, it always remained," Snape replied. "I do not know if she actively kept it or simply could not remove it, however."

"Just one more thing." John's eyes roved over Sherlock's questioning face thoroughly before his hand shot out to grab his in a tight grip. Sherlock blinked in shock, but didn't release his hand or move away. If anything, he returned John's grip with an even fiercer one. "Did she…was she part of the group that killed my parents?"

Snape shook his head and John nearly broke Sherlock's fingers from how tightly he held on. "I'm afraid I do not know, John. I was here at Hogwarts at the time and only had the chance to communicate with the Dark Lord occasionally. If she was, it was nothing he saw fit to tell me."

John's face was lowered so he could stare down at Cecelia, but his shoulders and back were fixed into his strong military stance. It was almost as if the move, from long ignored familiarity, and Sherlock's hand in his kept him firmly set to his spot rather than crumpled on the floor. "I figured that, but it couldn't hurt to ask," he said, his words directed toward Snape though he spoke down at Cecelia. "Thank you, though, Severus. You've been an amazing help."

"I'm sorry I could not do more," Snape replied, watching the pair with a thoughtful expression. "If I can think of anything that might be of use, I will of course contact you immediately."

John raised his head to shoot Snape a small yet grateful smile. He waved a quiet farewell to Dumbledore and McGonagall and led Sherlock away by the hand. They made it all the way to the entranceway before either made a sound.

"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively, his voice small. John pulled them into a stop and stared up at Sherlock. His expression glowed with determination as he watched John. "We'll find her. I promise you we'll find her."

Finally releasing Sherlock's hand, John shot him a bleak smile. "I know, Sherlock. I know."