A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!
Chapter Four: The Curious Magic in 221B
Harry crossed off another day on the calendar. As he did so, he felt the familiar mixture of dread and excitement pool in his stomach.
Even now, the idea of going to Hogwarts felt unreal. Though he had an idea that magic existed months before he got his Hogwarts letter, it hadn't occurred to him that there might be others—so many others that there was a school for people like him. But it did exist, as Professor Dumbledore's regular visits to Baker Street to make the flat magically secure constantly reminded him.
To pass the days before school started, Harry stayed in the flat reading the books John bought and keeping his new owl company. By mutual agreement, Harry decided to name her Hedwig, a name he'd got from A History of Magic (Sherlock's suggestion, Discord, was soundly rejected). His books were very interesting. Harry would read them late into the night, as Hedwig swooped in and out of the open window of his room (Harry wondered what Mycroft made of this). Sometimes Sherlock and John would read with him, and he and John would giggle over Sherlock's acidic commentary.
Speaking of Sherlock, one would think it was Sherlock who was going to Hogwarts, not Harry. Sherlock read all of Harry's schoolbooks and knew the material backwards and forwards. Since he couldn't do any magic, Sherlock made Harry practice all the spells and potions he wanted to try (Sherlock tried to brew potions on his own at first, but had to give up because they didn't work unless Harry brewed it for him). It was a good thing John bought all those study aids, especially the enchanted mirror once owned by a witch that shouted at him if he did something wrong, because things could've gone very badly. As for the experiments, though it was fun to magically pick locks and turn pipettes to pins and test tubes to tapeworms, it did get wearying eventually. Sherlock complained Harry wasn't as excited as he should be and wondered if he was already turning cynical.
But Harry was excited, despite the tiring and frankly bizarre experiments Sherlock engaged him in. However, he couldn't help but feel a bit wary. For one thing, he was going to enter Hogwarts as Harry Potter and Harry wasn't keen about that. Besides the whole The-Boy-Who-Lived business, Harry had got used to being Harry Watson, and sharing John's last name always made his new life feel more permanent (he called John 'Mum' in his head; he rarely said so out loud because calling John 'Mum' made him feel obligated to call Sherlock 'Dad', and that just didn't feel right). He would also be away from London until Christmas break, and that sounded like a terribly long time. What if he got homesick?
So Harry had spent the entire month of August torn between anticipation and worry. Then before he knew it, it was the last day of August. Professor Dumbledore was going to pay his final visit for the summer, and as usual, Sherlock was downstairs since the early hours of the morning, ready to pounce as soon as the Headmaster arrived.
John glanced at the Sherlock-gargoyle on the couch, the old editions of the Daily Prophet strewn over the coffee table and sighed.
"Morning Harry," said John, joining Harry in the kitchen. "Morning Sherlock. Can either of you tell me why the skull is the size of a walnut?"
It was scary how questions like these became normal, Harry thought.
"I made Harry shrink it," said Sherlock. "I'll put it in your pocket for safekeeping until we can grow it back."
"Fine. So when are you getting rid of those newspapers? I don't fancy explaining the animated photos to Lestrade."
"Lestrade won't be coming. He's busy playing nursemaid."
John looked up in the middle of making beans on toast.
"Ellen Lestrade is sick," said John, working through the logic, "very sick, obviously, or else she would've let me know. Her kids are probably down with the same bug. Lestrade doesn't have anyone who can look after them or else he wouldn't be playing nursemaid for so long."
"Oh good you're improving."
"That's not the point," John said between gritted teeth. "When someone is in trouble like that, you offer help."
"He won't accept."
"He doesn't have to accept, offering him help is my choice," John started heating up the instant porridge. "I'm calling him later. Coffee's on the drip, by the way, if you want some. Sugar's in its usual spot."
Right at that moment, the fireplace suddenly came alive with green flames and a tall, thin old man with a long silvery beard and equally long hair wearing long, flowing robes stepped out from the hearth.
"Good morning everyone," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "Yes, Sherlock, what would you like to ask today?"
Sherlock brandished an old copy of the Daily Prophet, which they started getting since the end of July.
"There is no mention of Harry's disappearance for the entirety of last year. Not in the Daily Prophet, not in the Wizarding World Today, not even in the Quibbler. Why?"
"The Minister of Magic didn't want to cause panic, so he kept the information from the public," said Dumbledore calmly. "I only knew because the person who kept on eye on Harry tipped me off."
Sherlock sneered at that. "Obviously."
Apparently that was all he wanted to know, because Sherlock dramatically swept into the kitchen without another word. John offered Dumbledore tea, which he accepted (after finding the collection of fingernails in the margarine tub, the headmaster stopped eating in 221B altogether). Harry dug into his porridge.
"Maybe we should get a bigger table," John said as Dumbledore took the seat next to Harry.
"I read about extension charms in the grade five Spell book," Sherlock said from the kitchen.
"That wouldn't be quite the right spell," Dumbledore said, winking at Harry. "I see you've mastered the shrinking charm, Harry. Have you tried the engorgement charm?"
"The pseudo-Latin of these spells is a disgrace," Sherlock grumbled as he slunk back into the sitting room, coffee in hand. "One would think if wizards insist on using Latin, they'd use it properly."
"Ah, but it's not the correctness of Latin or Latin itself that makes the spell," Dumbledore said as Harry eyed the shrunken skull. "It's the intent behind the words, you see. Words crystallize thought and crystallized thought gives magic its form. We use Latin because it's very convenient for spell work."
Harry chewed on this. "So I could use regular English if I wanted to?"
"Theoretically, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Many witches and wizards have tried, but success was limited. I believe the hindering factor was the lack of division between conversational English and incantation English. Practitioners would often find themselves flung across the room or bursting into flames after saying perfectly normal things like 'I must go to the kitchen.' or 'I'd rather set myself on fire.' whilst holding their wands."
"Doesn't sound very practical," John said.
"Heavens, no," Dumbledore beamed as Harry pointed his wand at the skull and whispered 'Engorgio'. "Good job, Harry. This flat just isn't the same without a full-sized skull."
Harry thought the skull was a tad smaller than it was previously, but he supposed it was better than walnut-size.
"Now," said Dumbledore, sounding very business-like. "I think I finally found the solution to the security problem. It was, of course, the first option I considered, but quickly rejected because I thought it wouldn't work. Which goes to show one's first instinct is often the most accurate. But I digress. May I have your help, John?"
John smiled. "What do I need to do?"
"As far as direct actions goes: nothing. I just need to examine some of your possessions and ask you several seemingly unrelated questions."
"That doesn't sound too bad."
"Indeed. Now please partake your breakfast. I do not think my questions are for those who have empty stomachs."
-oo00oo-
After they finished eating, Dumbledore asked John a lot of questions. Some of them were scary, like the one about Afghanistan wizards ("Don't think I met any. But then, I might not remember it even if did."). Others were interesting, but didn't sound very helpful ("The first time I met a witch or a wizard? You know, Mr. Lee might have been one. He and my Dad used to play rugby together. I saw him jump twelve feet in the air when he thought no one was looking."). The rest were just odd ("Was I a healthy baby? No. No, I wasn't, but then I got better."). Sherlock asked if Dumbledore was trying to establish if John was an undiscovered witch. Dumbledore said John was most assuredly a Muggle. Harry was very disappointed.
"How do you find Muggle-borns, anyway?" asked Sherlock.
"We have our means," said Dumbledore. "I'm afraid that is all I can tell you."
After all those questions, Dumbledore asked if John had any childhood items. John confessed to regularly throwing away or donating all but the latest bare essentials since joining the army. In fact, they could probably fit all of John's worldly possessions in three medium sized suitcases.
Dumbledore looked very thoughtful. "Do you have items you've kept for over a decade?"
"Nope, sorry."
"Five years?"
"I might have a four-year-old sock."
"No, that won't do," Dumbledore said in tone full of amused exasperation. "Just out of curiosity, John, how in the world did you end up without even a five year old sock?"
John shrugged. "I got really skinny after Afghanistan. So I threw away all my old clothes and got a new wardrobe."
Then suddenly John went still.
"Hang on, I might have something."
John plunged a hand into Sherlock's shirt and pulled out the dog tags he was wearing.
"I had these since I was eighteen," said John. "I gave it to Sherlock as a wedding present. Sorry, I forgot."
Dumbledore looked triumphant. "Oh, that's perfect."
Sherlock removed the ball chain from his neck and handed it over to Dumbledore. Dumbledore carefully examined the tags. It was a standard issue British military ID, one disk on a long ball chain and the other disk on a shorter ball chain attached to the longer one. Each tag had John's old service number and the words O POS, WATSON, JH, CE and ARMY engraved on it. Dumbledore tapped both disks with the tip of his wand. Then he held up the disk hanging on the shorter chain.
"Would you terribly mind if I gave this one to Harry?"
Sherlock stared unblinkingly. "No."
"Excellent," Dumbledore removed the short ball chain from the main chain, lengthen it with a wordless spell and handed it over to Harry. "Make sure you always wear this."
"Is that it?" John asked as Harry put on the chain around his neck.
"That is all," said Dumbledore. "The curious thing about this solution is that there is nothing at all to do because everything has already been done."
John frowned at this. "How can this be?"
"There is far more to magic than spells and enchantments, John. Perhaps one day I will be allowed to tell you."
"The statute of secrecy?" said Sherlock in disgust.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. Then briefly, he stared at the ceiling.
"I'm starting to think the wizarding world has impoverished itself when it separated from the Muggle world. The magic I've witnessed in this flat alone is very curious indeed."
"But John and I are Muggles," Sherlock snapped. "Non-magical. Completely lacking in magic. Then how—"
"Then how can there be any magic here beyond the obvious?" Dumbledore asked in Sherlock's place, as he peered over his half-moon glasses. "That, my dear Sherlock, is what makes the magic here so very curious."
-oo00oo-
"You got to admit, Harry, Dumbledore has style."
Harry nodded fervently. Dumbledore left 221B shortly after his parting words to Sherlock and thanking John for the tea. Sherlock was absolutely furious, and descended into a tirade of the likes Harry had only heard when Mycroft or Mr. Anderson was around. Then he flung himself to the couch and sulked. Since both John and Harry liked idea of sharing space with a sulking Sherlock as much as the next Scotland Yard detective, they beat a hasty retreat from Baker Street after grabbing anything that might cause too much damage (Harry's wand and John's weapon).
Once outside, John called DI Lestrade to see if he still needed someone to relieve him of his bedside duties, only to learn they were slightly late. Mr. Lestrade's children made full recovery two days ago and Mrs. Lestrade was on the mend. He thanked them anyway. Thus left on loose ends, they decided to take a stroll around Regent's Park.
"You're not allowed to repeat anything he said by the way," John said. "Delete it if you can."
"Okay," said Harry. He didn't understand half of the words Sherlock said anyway.
"Right." John's fingers started twitching, like they always did when war-related memories surfaced. "Harry, do you mind if I got you another tag? I know those things can be a bother, but… well. Only dead servicemen wear one tag on the field."
Harry didn't know that. "No, I don't mind."
John gave him a wane smile. "Good."
They wandered around for many hours. They fed the Herons at the lake, and ate ice-lollies under a shady tree. Harry fell asleep to the sound of John reading The Lord of the Rings. After the nap and eating a couple of sandwiches for lunch, they took a stroll down Regent's canal. There they had a short bout of excitement when they saved a little girl who fell in. Harry successfully used a 'Wingardium Leviosa' to draw the girl out of water, and John quickly got hold of her before anyone noticed she was floating in thin air. Harry hoped the little girl's venerable looking Eurasian grandmother didn't pay too much attention to their suspiciously dry clothes.
It was late afternoon when Sherlock texted John. He didn't apologize, of course, but instead told them to meet him at Angelo's.
"He's feeling better then," said John lightly. "Let's go pick up the tags."
They went to the accessories shop John had got the original dog tags. There was already a tag that had the name HARRY printed on it, so they got that. Then, after a moments hesitation, John asked for the name SHERLOCK be engraved on a blank tag.
It was well after six when they made it to Northumberland Street. Sherlock was already sitting at the usual table. He surprised them all by ordering food and actually eating it. Harry couldn't tell if Sherlock was up to something or just being strange, because there was no discernible difference between the two states and Sherlock's usual weirdness. Mr. Angelo shattered a wineglass when Sherlock later ordered desert and—wonder of wonders—ate it too.
It was when there was only coffee/hot chocolate to mull over did Sherlock showed them what he was up to.
"Here," he said, pulling out a new phone.
"For Harry?" John asked.
"No, this one's for you," said Sherlock. "I transferred your number over when I activated it. Your old phone now has Harry's new number."
This sort of thing happened all the time, so Harry took it to stride. He supposed he was better off having John's old phone than a new one. For one thing, John's phone had all kinds of special features and Mycroft's number was in the contact list. Harry couldn't think of a situation where he would need either, but then again, one never knew.
"Text me when you get on the train," Sherlock went on. "Then text me again when you're at school. Take pictures, videos, audio recordings—anything interesting. Then send them."
"You're not going to King's Cross tomorrow?" Harry asked in surprise and—a bit of hurt.
"Mycroft will likely try to interfere," said Sherlock.
Harry supposed that was reason enough. Mycroft was always polite to him, but it was a cold kind of polite, and his strong interest in Harry's magic always made him feel uneasy. Still, he rather hoped Sherlock would be able to go.
"Want me to rough him up for you?" John asked.
Sherlock smirked, all crooked angles and teeth. "Tempting, but I promised Mummy I wouldn't let him get hurt."
"I'll just egg the CCTV cameras, then."
They shared a laugh over that. The rest of the evening was light, happy and … normal. Sherlock didn't mention a single private detail he deduced from their fellow diners or complain about the latest stupidity of the MET. Instead he told them all manner of funny stories and John laughed non-stop. Between the bouts of laughter, John gave Sherlock his new secondary tag. Sherlock put it on his ball chain immediately and made Harry do the same. As for Harry, he savored the moment. After all, it wasn't everyday they acted like a normal family.
-oo00oo-
On September the first, Harry woke up a bit late, having stayed up until three in the morning packing and repacking his trunk then lying in his bed imagining the train ride and his first day at Hogwarts. He prayed that there wouldn't be a repeat of his second trip to Diagon Alley; the moment they realized he was Harry Potter, everyone in the Leaky Cauldron wanted to shake his hand, like he was some kind of venerated saint. It was a pity he couldn't wear contacts for long periods of time or cover his scar with plaster for an entire year without drawing attention, because he would have seriously done it.
Harry dashed down the stairs, noting absently that his hair seemed longer than he remembered it being last night. At the kitchen he stopped, shut his eyes hard and opened them again to make sure he wasn't in a middle of a nightmare.
It was definitely John and Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, but there was something terribly wrong about the way they looked. Sherlock styled his hair differently, so it no longer looked like a curly black dandelion puff as it usually did. He was also wearing a pair of wire-frame glasses, a pin-strip beige shirt under a taupe jumper and khaki trousers. John was wearing the usual jeans and long-sleeve knitwear combo, except the top was a white turtleneck and the trousers were skinny jeans. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was John's hair. It was long. Past the shoulder-blades long. Harry just couldn't accept it.
"Excellent, he's awake and the disguise is perfect," said Sherlock in evident satisfaction.
"You think?" said John. "That was a look of horror, not admiration."
Sherlock ignored that. "We'll flag a cab in thirty minutes. That should be enough time for you to get ready. Then we can the give wizards the slip."
Harry couldn't follow. "Huh?"
"We're giving the wizards the slip," said John. "Since they remember me as guy and pixie cut and Sherlock as posh and public school…"
"John…"
"…We're going as our opposite," John finished.
Harry didn't even know where to start or if there was anything to start to begin with. So he focused on the fact he was running late, and dashed back upstairs to change.
The cab ride to King's Cross Station went smoothly. Hedwig looked at him reproachfully as he hid her cage under a cover that was essentially a glorified cardboard box. Since there was little chance to flag a cab holding an exotic pet, there was nothing for it. In the cab, Sherlock gleefully told Harry that John and Mycroft had a serious conversation over the phone last night. Sherlock didn't elaborate as to what they said, but he did mention John's adjectives had been extremely vigorous.
They made it to King's Cross ten minutes to eleven. They quickly headed over to the barrier between platforms nine and ten, which, they were told by Professor McGonagall, had the hidden entrance to platform 9 and ¾. There they bumped into a family of four boys, two of them twins, a plump woman and little girl, all with flaming red hair.
"Excuse us," said John.
"Oh hello," said the plump woman. "Sending your son off to Hogwarts? My lot's going too."
"Yes," said John. "First time ever, and we learned about Hogwarts only a month ago."
"Goodness you must be so nervous! Do you need help getting into the platform?" the woman asked kindly.
"I was told we just need to walk pass this barrier," said John, pointing at it. "Only—well, we're not magical, so I was wondering if only our son would be able to pass through. I don't want him to board the train by himself."
"Not to worry," said the woman. "Just keep close to your son and walk straight ahead. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash, that's very important. Now go ahead. Do a bit of running if you're nervous."
John thanked the plump woman, and nodded to Sherlock. They gathered around Harry, Sherlock to his left and John to his right. All three of them grasped the handles of Harry's wheeled trunk. Then they marched towards the barrier together. One step, two steps … the wall was just two strides away … three steps … Harry closed his eyes …
…And they kept on walking. Harry opened his eyes. Sherlock was staring ahead with the same intensity he reserved for interesting crime scenes. John already had their designated phone out, taking a picture of the overhead sign that said Hogwarts Express. A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform full of people. Behind them, instead of the barrier, was an iron archway that said platform nine and three quarters. They made it.
The three of them slowly made their way down the platform. The smoke from the engine drifted overhead the noisy crowd. Cats of all colours and sizes winded between people's legs. Owls of all species hooted inside their cages in a disgruntled sort of way. Students were chatting with their families in and out of the train, some hanging out of the windows to do so.
"You have to love wizard space," Sherlock muttered. "I love the incorrigibility of it."
They found an empty compartment near the end of the train. John and Sherlock heaved the trunk inside as Harry carried Hedwig. Once everything was set in place, they just stopped. Sherlock's eyes darted around, looking at anything but Harry. John was blinking rapidly. Harry stared at his knees. For while they stewed in this awkward silence, no one knowing what to do next.
"…Okay," said John at last. "I don't care if it's the middle of the night, three in the morning, or the broad light of day. Tell us every stupid cool thing you want to talk about. Complain. Shout. Whatever it is, don't hesitate to call."
Harry nodded. The corners of his eyes prickled. He savagely bit back a sob.
"Now my final word of advice," said John. "This … you're going to a completely different world. You're going to offend people. And they're going to offend you. So be ready to apologise a lot. And don't be unkind. Never, ever be unkind."
Then John crushed him in a hug. Harry clutched at the woolly shirt and buried his face in the crook between the neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent that was uniquely John: tea, old books, wool and gunpowder. A long-fingered hand gripped his shoulder and stayed there. It almost undid Harry.
A whistle sounded. John clutched Harry tighter for a beat. Then slowly and silently, both the hand on his shoulder and the arms around him drew away. Harry stared out the window. In time, Sherlock and John came into view.
The train started to move. In the corner of his eye, he saw the plump woman from earlier waving and her daughter, half-laughing and half-crying, trying to keep up with the moving train. He saw John take a few steps forward, a hand raised to wave or reach out. Sherlock kept his place, but then he slowly raised a hand…
… And Harry watched them all disappear, as the train rounded the corner.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Harry finally rides Hogwarts Express. Writing the King's Cross scene was very difficult; I couldn't avoid lifting directly from the corresponding chapter. I'm rather proud of the first part, though. As always, thank you for your kind reviews. I knew the last chapter could turn off people, and there certainly readers who were, but all of you have been quite kind. Thank you.