A Study in Magic

by Books of Change

When Professor McGonagall went to visit Harry Watson, son of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, to deliver his Hogwarts letter, she was in the mindset of performing a familiar if stressful annual routine. Consequently, she was not prepared to find Harry Potter at 221B Baker Street. BBC Sherlock HP crossover AU

9. Desires of the Heart

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!

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Chapter Nine: Desires of the Heart

Harry stepped into the snow covered courtyard. His shoes quickly got buried under the white stuff. The skies were pale grey from clouds that had been overcast since mid-December. He let out a puff of air and watched the white mist get swallowed up by the frigid air. As he continued to stare at the sky, he saw a lonely grey owl battle its way to the castle, tumbling a few times mid-air when a sudden bitter wind ripped through. The parcel it bore harked Harry's thoughts back to Christmas and the upcoming holidays.

When Harry thought about the Christmas holidays, he imagined himself returning to London, sitting in Hogwarts Express recalling his first real Christmas: On Christmas Eve, Sherlock kept removing the lights John put up, the skull sported a jaunty Santa hat and Christmas roses were stuck in its eye sockets, holly adorned the mantelpiece, a tiny Norwegian spruce sat next to the fireplace bare of any decorations except a miserable-looking pound shop star, and Sherlock's chemistry set was decorated with the ornaments that were supposed to go on the tree. On Christmas day, John had somehow in the middle of the night transformed his bedroom door and its surrounding frame to look like a blue police box as a present, and Sherlock shocked them all with gifts. John got an e-book reader, which was hidden in the folds of the ugliest set of red pyjamas Harry had ever clapped his eyes on, plus mucus green socks that surpassed the mustard coloured ones he got from Uncle Vernon in terms of horribleness tied on top like a demented bow. John set aside the e-book reader and wore the pyjamas and socks all day. Harry got something Mrs. Hudson threw into the wheelie bin outside the moment it was unwrapped—a good thing, because Harry had no desire have a preserved toad that had teeth, claws and tentacles. After forcing Sherlock into a green jumper that had glassy-eyed cats knitted in the front, John demonstrated a hitherto unheard of ability to cook (even Sherlock was shocked). The food was very delicious though Sherlock complained about the decidedly non-traditional Christmas dinner fare ("Christmas won't die from a little non-traditional food! Christmas is strong!" John shouted). As odd as it was, it was among the happiest memories Harry had, and he was looking forward to another a year of it.

But it wasn't going to happen. Harry muttered imprecation against Mycroft as he read the email he got that morning.

Dear Harry,

I'm writing to inform you that John has just consented to join the Holmes family Christmas dinner. Sherlock has disclosed the marriage and I have confirmed the happy announcement. Family reaction was, understandably, that of profound skepticism if not outright disbelief. The news has also triggered an unprecedented number of people to invite him or herself over for Christmas. Uncle Endymion, who has feigned death each year to get out of the Christmas get-togethers, is yet to commence his annual demise and it does not look like he will. Even Cousin Sigerson, who vanished in Khartoum two years ago, has communicated his intention to visit us from Tibet.

Considering the level of excitement from John alone, I think it would be best if you waited until next year to meet the rest of the family. You are, however, more than welcomed to join us.

Mycroft

Harry had shown the email to Ron and Hermione over breakfast, and both of them told him not to go home for Christmas. Ron assured him it wasn't going to be bad at all, he and his brothers were staying at Hogwarts too, because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania to visit Charlie. Harry supposed meeting a whole platoon of Sherlocks and Mycrofts was just asking for trouble, and he wasn't feeling very brave and very stupid at the moment, but that didn't mean he wasn't tempted to push his luck. Nevertheless, Harry went and signed his name on Professor McGonagall's list of students who were staying in school for the Christmas holidays and told John his decision.

"Mycroft 'suggested' this, didn't he?" said John.

Harry felt fear in behalf of Mycroft despite himself. "Err…"

"Say goodbye to Mycroft, Harry," John said. "Actually, don't. You need plausible deniability."

Later that day, Harry found out his decision to stay at Hogwarts at the last minute had somehow leaked and spread like an oil spill, because Draco Malfoy said rather loudly in potions class:

"I feel so sorry for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home."

He was looking at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. Harry ignored them. Malfoy upped his unpleasantness since the last Quidditch match which ended in Slytherin's defeat. He first tried to make people laugh by suggesting a wide-mouthed tree frog would replace Harry as Seeker, only to discover no one found it funny. Since then he'd been taunting Harry for not having a proper family. His taunts usually didn't bother Harry so much since compared to the insults he experienced in London, Malfoy's were childish and laughable, but that particular jibe grated his nerves. So at the end of class, Harry took a quick detour to the adjacent courtyard for a breather.

"Harry!" Hermione called out from the side-entrance. "What are you doing? We need to go, there's not much time!"

"Okay!" said Harry.

He stashed his phone back into his pocket and quickly rejoined Ron and Hermione in the castle. On their way to the Entrance Hall, they met a large fir tree. The large boots and puffing sound told them it was Hagrid behind the tree.

"Hi Hagrid," said Ron, looking around the tree. "Do you need any help?"

"Nah, I'm all right. Thanks, Ron."

"Would you mind moving out of the way?" Malfoy's cold drawl came from behind them. "Looking to earn some extra money, Weasley? Thinking of becoming a gamekeeper when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose. Hagrid's hut must look like a palace compared to where you live."

Harry grabbed hold of Ron before he could dive for Malfoy. Just in time too—Snape was heading towards the staff room and was looking at them suspiciously. Malfoy smirked before he, Crabbe and Goyle pushed roughly pass the tree and entered the Great Hall, scattering twigs and needles everywhere.

"I'm going to get him," Ron said, grinding his teeth at Malfoy's retreating back. "One of these days, I'll—"

"Oh, cheer up, it's almost Christmas," said Hagrid, "Tell yeh what, take a peek at the Great Hall, looks a treat."

It did indeed. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung all around the walls and no less than twelve Christmas trees stood around the room. One sparkled with tiny icicles and silvery dust. Another glittered with the light of hundreds of candles and golden bubbles. For the new tree Hagrid brought in, Professor McGonagall conjured bells of gold and silver that made merry tinkling sounds.

"How many days you got left until yer holidays?" Hagrid asked.

"Just one," said Hermione. "That reminds me — Ron, Harry we really should be going. We only have thirty minutes before lunch, so we should be in the library."

"Oh yeah, you're right," said Ron, as he tore his eyes away from Professor Flitwick, who had a chain of crystals trailing out his wand and was draping them over the branches of another tree.

"The library?" asked Hagrid as he followed them out of the hall, "Just before the Holidays? Bit keen, aren't yeh?"

"Oh we're not working," said Harry. "We're just trying to make a present for John."

"Present for yer Muggle Mum, eh? What are you makin'?"

"That's a secret," said Hermione. "Nothing illegal, but definitely challenging: far above first-year level."

Around the last week of November, Harry decided a potion that could cure at least one of John's persistent health problems would be the perfect Christmas gift for John. He got the idea while they were going around interviewing the Hogwarts professors (except Snape) in hopes to figure out who could be after the Philosopher's stone. Despite the fact they had a very convenient and plausible excuse for requesting these interviews—Hermione, full stop—most of the professors wanted to know why Harry wanted to be present. The first time this happened, Harry, in his desperation, cited his aspirations to become a doctor.

"A doctor?" said Professor McGonagall, their first interviewee (they figured starting with their Head of House would help them avoid suspicion) blankly. "You mean a Healer?"

"Uh, yes?" said Harry, hoping he sounded convincing. Then to his surprise, Professor McGonagall smiled.

"I usually give career advice to fifth years and up," she said. "But I supposed it's never too early to start. Now if you're interested in becoming a Healer, Mr. Potter, then you'll need at least an 'Exceeds Expectations' at N.E.W.T. level in Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions."

Hermione took over the interview afterwards, asking what other subjects Professor McGonagall would recommend and what the teachers of those subjects were like. From that they got the names of the Study of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy teachers, Professor Babbling and Professor Vector, and where they could find them. Harry himself was advised to speak to Madam Pomfrey for more specific advice regarding the medical field. Then McGonagall asked Harry what made him consider the medical field.

"Was Dr. Watson your inspiration?" Professor McGonagall asked.

"Um, yes," said Harry. "Not because John is a doctor, though that's part of it. I just … I met a lot former serviceman in the free clinic John works at. A lot of them suffered from war wounds, like missing limbs, chills and fevers, nightmares and flashbacks, damaged muscles and joints, horrible scarring…"

"How are they still alive?" Ron asked, looking appalled, as Hermione and Professor McGonagall winced.

"I don't know," said Harry honestly. "But ever since Professor Dumbledore fixed John's shoulder, I couldn't help but think magic could really help them."

Harry was immediately warned using magic on Muggles was strictly regulated, but then Professor McGonagall hinted that, for cases of protection and healing, as long as the Muggles didn't know magic was being used, which was almost always, it was okay. Thus Harry left the interview considering the possibilities. Then, as they went around asking other professors for interviews, they quickly learned most of the teachers were very busy for the rest of the term and more than half were leaving Hogwarts for Christmas, so the interviews could only happen after the break. This left them in a limbo where the stone was concerned. So Harry shared his idea of making a potion for John. Hermione was intrigued and immediately asked what kind of potion Harry had in mind. That was where Harry's idea hit its first snag—he had no idea.

So they thought it through. Harry knew Dumbledore had already done something about John's more glaring injuries over the summer. Besides casting silent spells when John wasn't looking, the headmaster would leave 'a little something for the pain'.

"A little something for the pain, he says," Sherlock scoffed half-heartedly. "Remaking everything from inside out would be more accurate. At this rate, I'll have to ask Mycroft to forge John's medical history."

There were, however, at least two things Dumbledore wouldn't touch: the shrapnel still inside John's body and the scarring. Sherlock confirmed both were still present when Harry asked. So Harry decided to make a potion that would get rid of either the scars or the shrapnel.

They first asked Madam Pomfrey for advice during Harry's weekly check-ups. The problem was, while Madam Pomfrey had experience treating scars, it was mostly fresh ones or scars that were only skin deep (like acne scars), not old massive scar tissue. As for shrapnel, she didn't even know what it was. It took Hermione long of enough to explain the concept, and in the end Madam Pomfrey said that sort of injury was beyond her skill to mend (vanishing spells couldn't do the job since shrapnel could be anything—nail fragments, metal scraps, stones and even twigs). The Weasley twins, who were scheduled to get punished for jinxing snowballs to bounce off the back of Professor Quirrell's turban, offered to serve detention in the Hospital wing, which they did, and when they returned, their pockets were bulging with all the potions Harry took for his own bomb related injuries. Apparently they wanted to help, and figured John and Harry's injuries were similar. Though Harry really appreciated the gesture, he knew the potions Fred and George nicked weren't going to cut it, since John's injuries were older and far more severe than Harry's (Harry wasn't missing chunks of internal organs, for starters). Harry even worked up his courage to ask Snape, and while Snape understood what he was talking about, he sneered at Harry's ability to do anything and refused to give him suggestions ("Better prevent a disaster than court one, Potter."). That just left the library, but it was slow in going. Besides not knowing exactly what to look for, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of thousands of books; thousands of shelves, hundreds of narrow rows.

They went separate ways inside the library. Hermione pulled a list of subjects and titles she wanted to search. Ron went down a row and pulled books off shelves at random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted Section. He'd been wondering for a while if the book he wanted was somewhere in there. Unfortunately, one needed a signed note from a teacher to read the books in the Restricted Section, and Harry knew he would never get one, especially now that Snape had an idea what he was up to. The books there contained powerful Dark Magic not taught in Hogwarts, and only older students studying advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts were allowed to read them.

"What are you looking for, boy?" asked the vulture-like librarian Madam Pince.

"Nothing," said Harry.

Madam Pince brandished a feather duster at him.

"You'd better get out then. Go on—out!"

Harry left wishing he'd been quicker at coming up with a story. He waited for Ron and Hermione out at the corridor to see if the two found anything. He wasn't hopeful. They've been searching for over a month, but only on odd moments between classes. What they needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince breathing down their necks. Or better yet, a magical Google that could examine the contents of all the books in the library for them.

Five minutes later Ron and Hermione showed up, shaking their heads. They went off to lunch.

"I think it's too late for this Christmas," said Hermione. "But there's always the next Christmas and John's birthday. You'll keep looking while I'm away, won't you?"

Harry nodded glumly. He rather hoped it would happen this year not many months and years later. Compared to the (still hypothetical) potion, sending John a box of Chocolate Frogs or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans was just lame.

"Thanks for all your help, Hermione, Ron."

"Don't worry about it. This stuff is bound to be helpful later," Hermione said.

"Yeah, think about how well prepared we'd be if we ever get pimples," said Ron, sniggering. "Or better yet, when other people start getting pimples—we could make a fortune selling diluted Bubotuber pus."

Harry snorted into his soup. Trust Ron to say such things!

-oo00oo-

Detective Inspector Lestrade drew two cups of punch and carried them over to his designated corner. He gave one to his wife Ellen, who was sitting down nursing her pregnant belly, and gave the other to John, who flanked Ellen's other side. John lifted the plastic tumbler in cheers before lowering it, not drinking.

"It's not spiked you know," said Lestrade.

"I know," said John. "I'll drink it later."

Lestrade shared a rueful smile with his wife as John fell back into silence. Reserved at the best of times, John was as silent as a sentry guard on duty that evening. Beyond their little corner, Lestrade's fellow Yarders were engaged in much silliness and relatively harmless Christmas-do shenanigans—Bradstreet and Gregson were engaged in a game of darts using only their bare feet, Jones and McDonald were abusing each other's choice of swill, Youghal was laughing himself into a coma as he watched Hopkins and Dimmock, both wearing fake reindeer antlers, lock heads against each other, and PC Brown was attempting to shove a hot-sauce tainted jam tart up PC Rance's nose.

John's phone pinged. John looked at the message and smiled for the first time this evening.

"Is it Harry?" asked Ellen. "What did he say?"

"He just sent a few photographs of the school Christmas decorations. The teachers are going all out."

"So he's really staying in school for Christmas?"

"Yeah," said John. "I supposed it's the better option. Harry doesn't like being stared at and there's going to be a lot of staring, or so Sherlock warns me."

John looked frankly bewildered at this. Lestrade found himself in the unique position of being able to understand a Holmes of the Sherlock variety. If he were Sherlock's relative, he'd be staring too. The idea of Sherlock marrying anyone and staying married was enough to make a guy's head to go around the bend, so it went without saying the person who made it possible would be worth taking a good look at. That is, if you didn't get stuck on the Sherlock married part. Lestrade still had trouble believing the man was married, and he signed the marriage certificate that legally joined Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as the second witness. Sherlock's relatives had no chance.

Or maybe they'd be like Mrs. Hudson, who completely disregarded the implausibility of the marriage and thought the marriage registry office wedding was the saddest thing in the world. She was still trying to convince John and Sherlock to have a proper ceremony, offering to do all the planning and coordinating and send the bill to Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade was convinced the only reason Mrs. Hudson didn't just bulldoze John into the nearest bridal shop was because she couldn't do the same to Sherlock.

"What are you laughing about?" John asked as Lestrade grinned at the ensuing mental images.

"Nothing," said Lestrade. "You'll tell me all about the in-laws, yeah?"

"I'll definitely tell you if I end up shooting them all dead."

Lestrade laughed as Ellen exploded into assurances: "Ummm, not even. No, seriously, not even. They'll love you to pieces—"

Lestrade mentally took a step back to better watch Ellen in action. It was funny to see her and John get along. He hadn't seen it coming in the beginning. Indeed, the building of Ellen and John's friendship had been one rocky ride.

About two months into John and Sherlock's partnership and his own acquaintance to the former, Lestrade introduced John to Ellen. Once he realized John was, well, you know, and appeared not to have any not-Sherlock friends, he figured John would appreciate some time off Sherlock. Mentioning Ellen's small group seemed like a perfect idea when he learned John was looking for a church to attend. He patted himself on the back when John actually went and kept on going. Then six weeks later, Ellen flooded his shoulder wailing: "It's like talking to a brick wall!"

From the inarticulate sobs that followed, Lestrade gathered John sat through the meetings displaying as much emotion as a granite statue, speaking only when spoken to and even then only giving short answers. Lestrade knew Ellen's small group enjoyed a depth of emotional openness and vulnerability that was rare in this day and age. Normally people would either leave in a week, uncomfortable at the level of intimacy, or get drawn into it. John neither got drawn in nor left. Ellen had no idea what John was thinking, and the way John and Sherlock interacted only served to confuse her further. It didn't help the answers John deigned to give were so tantalizing:

"We asked her why she was named 'John'," Ellen told him after John's second meeting. "John said she wasn't, her Dad named her Hailey. She changed it to John after she learned she had a twin brother. He was going to be named John, see, but when he was delivered stillborn, the family was so upset they didn't name him or claim his body. So the hospital put him in box labelled FETUS BOY WATSON. By the time John heard about it, his remains were already disposed of. Since she couldn't give him a funeral, she decided to be his living memorial. So anytime a person asks why her name is 'John', she tells them: 'I once had a twin brother. His name was John.'"

Clearly John Hailey Watson was a deeply feeling person, despite the phlegmatic exterior. Ellen thought it was a shame John bottled it all up, and tried to get John to express more. She was entirely unsuccessful, apparently, hence the crying fit in six weeks.

Interestingly enough, it was Sherlock who told him it was otherwise.

"Ellen got more out of John in six weeks than the therapist did in six months," Sherlock remarked.

"Are you talking about the twin brother story?" Lestrade asked. "I'm pretty sure the therapist heard it too."

That remark made Sherlock explode into a scathing monologue:

"Use your brains for thinking, Lestrade, not merely for locomotion! John told Ellen she was named by her Father. Why only the father? Why specifically mention the father, when 'I was named Hailey' would do? You yourself noticed the distinct lack of female presence in John's life. The sister is distant and their relationship is perpetually strained. There is no mention of a mother, not even in passing. She was certainly not present to make decisions on what to do with her son's remains. What ties all these threads together? Only one: John's mother died in childbirth and her father never remarried."

Lestrade gaped. Sherlock, of course, ignored this and kept on going.

"The complete absence of mother figures in John's life enforces the picture a widower in endless mourning. The strained relations between the sisters probably started when the elder blamed the younger for their mother's death. John's stiff formality towards women is likely the result of this kind of upbringing. That Ellen heard the detailed version of the old story, despite all these factors, is a testament to how John feels secure enough to elabourate. John's therapist never got this far and only presumed to understand. Don't you see? The clues are all there. You just need to connect the dots."

It must be said that the Lestrades may not be good at connecting dots, but they were very stubborn when it came to following leads. Ellen latched onto 'elabourate' and made John do that for everything. The short answers didn't improve all that much, but it did trigger something else to bloom like a garden full of flowers: John's writing. Somehow, Ellen's constant request for more details transformed the brief written accounts of John and Sherlock's cases into masterfully crafted short stories: sometimes whimsical, sometimes gothic, but always compelling. Now John's blog boasted a million-strong following and the numbers just kept on growing. If Lestrade were a boasting man, he might have claimed credit for the change. But he wasn't and since it was his wife's doing, he said so.

Of course, things got really interesting from the Yard's point of view when Ellen started to presume permission from John like Sherlock. Lestrade will never forget the day Ellen and her friends decided to stage an ambush when they came across John at a crime scene by chance. It was executed beautifully: They grabbed John, bodily hauled the doctor away and vanished into the crowd without uttering a single word. Sherlock stood there speechless for a whole minute, his entire body screaming: 'what just happened?' John was returned three hours later, looking quite smashing in the new haircut, manicure, pedicure, v-neck, high-heels and miniskirt.

"Those girls make me do weird things," said John when Lestrade stared.

Sherlock's reaction to the incident was best left unsaid. Suffice to say Ellen never tried again, despite the standing ovation from his team. Ellen agreed to presume permission only if Sherlock wasn't on a case. John had no say on the matter. In fact, John probably didn't know the agreement existed. There wasn't a need to, really, because the reason why the agreement existed sorted itself out.

At some point John realized Ellen felt loved when her friends shared their feelings to her. John made an effort to articulate since then, as John believed one must show one's friends that they are loved as long as they lived (and wasn't that a loaded phrase, as long as they lived). Ellen, in turn, learned from these efforts what made John felt loved: being included. Not in the heart of things, not shoved away to the peripheries, just surrounded by people who knew John was there and liked it very much. Once he realized that, Lestrade kept inviting John to functions like these. Sherlock was happy since he didn't have to worry about Ellen's ambushes. The Yarders were happy since they liked having John around without Sherlock. But more importantly, John and Ellen were happy, and Lestrade could really pat himself on the back for putting a smile on their faces.

Speaking of John and Ellen, they seemed to have moved on.

"How about coming to our place next year?" Ellen was saying. "The kids would love to meet you, Sherlock and Harry."

"Sounds better than visiting in-laws," John said. "How old are your kids again?"

"Julia is ten, Martin is three, and Rupert is one."

"And little Elise is on her way," said John a bit wistfully. "Julia excited about her baby sister?"

"She won't stop talking about it. I think she's more excited than I am, and I've been praying for a girl since Martin was two…"

Lestrade smiled into his tumbler. He really did love it when his wife was happy.

-oo00oo-

Harry had meant to look up more healing potions over the holidays. But once the holidays started, he and Ron were having too much fun to think about books or potions. They had the dormitory to themselves and the common room was practically empty, so they could get the good armchairs by the fire. They spent the hours eating anything that could be speared on a roasting fork, playing wizard chess and reading Sherlock's intermittent texts that updated Harry the goings on of the Holmes family:

The potions you and AD sent for Christmas put John to sleep. John currently sleeping like a corpse. SH

Aunt Esmeralda convinced John is a corpse and is accusing Cousin Quigley of killing John. SH

John just woke up. Aunt Esmeralda already carried out threat and broke cousin Quigley's nose. SH

Mummy thrashed Cousin Aubrey with Mycroft's umbrella for calling John an ugly wretch. SH

Cousin Aubrey drunk at the time so may have been referring to Cousin Tobermory's wife, not John. SH

Turkey dry. Green beans limp. Sprouts raw. Said so. Cook threatened violence and needed to be restrained. SH

Cousin Jeremiah got thrown out of a window; had the temerity to say no one noticed John is secretly male. SH

Bits of body parts missing from John returned. John displeased; said magical healing only fun the first time. SH

Sherlock last missive on Christmas Eve said Grandmother Holmes told everyone they blew it— John must think they were a family of barbarous jackanapes, because John left the house to attend Christmas Eve service at a nearby chapel. Mycroft's assurances that church attendance was a frequent habit, not a desperate ploy to avoid in-laws, and the reason John gave for chapel going— celebrating the birth of Christ— was likely the honest truth fell on deaf ears.

When he woke early next morning, Harry found a pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

"Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry scrambled out of his bed.

"You too," said Harry. "Look, presents!"

Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper that had 'To Harry, from Hagrid' scrawled over. Inside there was a roughly cut wooden flute— Hagrid obviously whittled himself. The second parcel was a large box of chocolate frogs from Hermione.

"I think I know who send that one," said Ron, turning pink as he pointed at the lumpy parcel Harry just selected. "My Mum. I told her you couldn't go home for Christmas and—oh no," he groaned, "She's made you a Weasley jumper."

Harry held up the thick, hand-knitted Emerald green jumper inside the parcel.

"She makes one for us every year," said Ron as he unwrapped his, "and mine's always maroon."

"That's really nice of her," said Harry as he took out the box of homemade fudge that came with the jumper. He tried one. It was very tasty. "Oh, I think that one from John."

Ron eagerly tore open the brightly wrapped parcel Harry pointed out. Inside there was an assortment of Muggle sweets and biscuits, three small cans of fizzy drinks and, for some odd reason, a collection of Muggle coins.

"Weird! This is money? And what is this—Jammie Dodgers and HobNob's! Are they any good?"

"They're pretty good," said Harry, laughing at how fascinated Ron was. "I wonder what John got me—oh!"

The biggest parcel Harry planned on opening last turned out to be from John, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. He read the card first: Merry Christmas. Sorry we can't celebrate together this year. Forgive? J&S and Mrs. H. It had an odd assortment of things like Ron's: a stash of Happy Faces and Mars Bars, gel pens of different colours, homemade toffee, a jar of cloudberry jam, sticky notes, a thick flannel blanket, a pocket magnifier identical to the one Sherlock carried and a couple of novels written by one Brian Bumblebee.

"'A real page turner; spent all night reading it. J' They must be really good if John gave up sleep," Harry said as he read the note attached to the books. John approached sleep the way some people approached war: fight until death or victory.

There was only one parcel left. Harry lifted it up. It was very light. Harry wondered if it was from Mycroft. He couldn't think of anyone else who'd send him a gift.

But before he could open it, the dormitory door flung open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. They were wearing blue jumpers—one had a large yellow F and the other a G. Harry put the parcel inside a drawer of his bedside cabinet. He'd open it later.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Hey, look— Harry's got a Weasley jumper too!"

Fred held up Harry's jumper. "Harry's better than ours, though. Obviously Mum puts more effort when you're not family."

"Why aren't you wearing yours, Ron?" George demanded. "Come on, they're lovely and warm."

"I hate maroon," Ron moaned even as he pulled it over his head.

"Yours doesn't have a letter," George observed. "I supposed Mum thinks you don't forget your name. But we're not stupid. We know we're called Gred and Forge."

"What's this racket?"

Percy Wealsey stuck his head in, looking disapproving. He, too, had jumper hanging on his arm. Fred seized it.

"P for Prefect! Come on, Percy, wear yours too, even Harry got one!"

The twins, in their typical whirlwind manner, bullied Percy into wearing his new jumper, actually forcing it over his head when Percy didn't comply. Then they went downstairs for the feast, frog-marching Percy, whose arms were pinned to his sides by the Jumper.

"You're not sitting with the prefects today," said George. "Christmas is a time for family."

The Christmas dinner was a sight to behold. Harry overloaded his phone with photos of the hundreds of fat, roasted Turkeys, (literally) flaming Christmas puddings, Dumbledore wearing a flowered bonnet instead of his pointed wizard's hat, a wine-sloshed Hagrid kissing Professor McGonagall on the cheek (who giggled and blushed), Percy extracting the silver sickle embedded in his slice of pudding that almost broke his teeth, and the wizard crackers. Harry really liked the wizard crackers—the one he pulled with Fred didn't just bang, it blasted off like a cannon and engulfed them all in blue smoke, while a rear admiral's hat and several live mice exploded inside.

After the feast, Harry and the Weasleys enjoyed a furious snowball fight on the grounds until, wet, cold and gasping for breath, they returned to the common room. There, Harry snuggled into his new blanket by the fire and watched Percy chase Fred and George all over the Gryffindor tower because they'd stolen his prefect badge. Ron's accusation that he was acting like a withered old man only made Harry act more like one. After a meal of turkey sandwiches, Trifle and Christmas cake, even Ron was too full and sleepy to do much but sit down and vegetate until they went to bed.

Harry spent the next day playing exploding snap with Ron in the morning, and lounging around reading the novels John gave him in the afternoon. He read them twice because he liked them so much. Both featured little Adriana, who became terrified of magic after being horribly bullied by Muggle children. The first book followed her and her older brother Albert's journey to overcome her fear. Harry felt like cheering at the end, when Adriana soared to skies on a broomstick for the first time. The second book was about Adriana and Albert exploring magic together. As he read the descriptions of the places the siblings travelled to, Harry was filled with a powerful sense of wonder. Could this magic be real? Would he, Harry, at the end of his Hogwarts education, learn to fly without a broom, swim the depths of the sea, and open magical portals that could take him to completely made-up worlds? Albert's constant refrain resonated in him: Open your eyes and don't be afraid…

Percy found Harry lying on his stomach close to the fire, pondering the possibilities.

"What are you reading?"

Harry lifted up the first book of the Tales of Adriana. To Harry's surprise, Percy frowned at the book.

"Where did you get that? That's a restricted book, Harry."

"John gave it to me for Christmas," said Harry. "And what do you mean, restricted?"

"That book was put in the Restricted Section for its overly negative depiction of Muggles," said Percy pompously. "Your adoptive mother likely didn't know that since she's a Muggle. You better give it to me."

"But the story isn't about Muggles," Harry protested, clutching the books protectively to his chest. "I mean, yeah, there's that part with Muggle bullies, but it was short!"

"But it's still there, isn't it?" said Percy impatiently. "Plenty of magic children grow up never once meeting a real Muggle, so they get all their ideas from stories. My own father thinks the book is too risky for children to read."

"But I don't have that problem!" said Harry as he danced away from Percy's grasping hands. "I live with Muggles! I know some of the best of Muggles around!"

Harry ended up hiding in the dormitory because Percy wouldn't leave him alone. As he fumed at Percy for ruining the wonderful feeling he got from his perfectly fine gift, Harry remembered the parcel he put aside on Christmas morning. He hadn't been in a big rush to open it since he thought it came from Mycroft. No doubt it had some kind of surveillance equipment hidden somewhere. Still, it would be rather rude to not even check. So Harry took out the parcel and removed the wrapping.

Something silvery grey and fluid slithered down to the floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Harry picked up the shining, silvery cloth. It was odd to touch, like moonlight and water woven into material. Thoroughly puzzled now, Harry tried to find a note. He found a tiny one attached to a corner. He didn't recognise the narrow loopy script that the penned these words:

Your father left this in my possession before he died.
It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.
A very merry Christmas to you.

There was no signature. Harry felt strange. Who sent him this? Did it really belong to his father? What was it?

Harry sat down on his bed and spread the cloth over his lap. He gasped when his legs disappeared from view. He quickly threw the cloth over his shoulders and dashed in front of the mirror. Sure enough, all he could see was his head floating in mid-air. When he threw the cloth over his head, his entire reflection vanished from sight.

As he stood there amazed, a half-forgotten passage from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them bubbled up in Harry's mind.

"An invisibility cloak," he whispered.

Harry remembered reading about Demiguises, how they could turn themselves invisible and that their hair could be woven into invisibility cloaks. So this is what it feels like, Harry thought, as he carefully removed the cloak and ran a hand over it. He thought it would be heavier and coarser, seeing as it was made of animal hair. His cloak felt as smooth as silk and light as air.

The dormitory door opened. "Harry?" said Ron's voice.

Harry quickly stashed the cloak away. He didn't feel like sharing just yet.

"There you are! What are you doing, hiding up here?"

"Avoiding Percy," said Harry. "We had a row."

"Percy was a being prat again?" said Ron. "I'm going to bed. Are you going to stay up?"

Harry shook his head. They changed into their pyjamas. Ron fell asleep as soon as he drew the curtains of his four-poster. Harry listened to the sound of his breathing for a few minutes. Then he silently reached under his bed and pulled out the cloak again.

His father's … this belonged to his father. Sherlock found very little on parents, particularly his father— just two names on his birth certificate, and his mother's maiden name listed in an old student directory of a primary school up at Northern England. Now he had something else to show his father once lived, something tangible. Use it well, said the note. What could he use it for? Harry thought as he slipped out of bed and wrapped the cloak around him. He stood in front of the mirror again, and only saw moonlight and shadows. It was an odd feeling.

Then suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was open to him with this cloak. Excitement flooded Harry's veins as he stood in the darkness and silence. He could go anywhere in this, and Filch would never know. After casting one last look at the mirror, Harry crept downstairs, walked across the common room, and climbed out of the portrait hole.

"Who's there?" the Fat Lady squawked. Harry said nothing. He quietly went down the corridor.

Where should he go? Harry's heart hammered in his chest as he thought. He could go the Restricted Section in the library. He'd be able to read as long as he liked, as long as it took to find a solution to the shrapnel problem. Making up his mind, Harry made his way to the library.

It was pitch-black and very eerie inside. Harry lit the end of his wand with a quiet lumos to see his way through the rows of books. He walked to back where the Restricted Section was located, and paused for a moment before the rope that separated those books from the rest of the library.

It wouldn't hurt, Harry decided. If the Restricted Section had perfectly fine books like The Tales of Adriana, then it can't be that bad. Surely the books wouldn't come off the shelves and bite him now, would they? Granted, a book at Flourish and Blott's had beaten up John, but that was because it was a bookstore.

Harry stepped over the rope. He shined the light of his wand over the titles. They didn't tell him much. Some had peeling titles spelled in a language he didn't know. One had horrible black stains Harry suspected was blood. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled. Perhaps he was imagining things, but Harry thought he heard whispers coming from the books. Like they knew there was someone who shouldn't be there.

Harry slowly walked down an aisle. He decided tonight would be just reconnaissance. Just plunging in rarely ended well, and besides, he now had many nights available. Harry searched for titles he could read and sounded relevant. He turned the corner, and immediately noticed the pair of bulging, lamp like eyes staring up at his wand.

Harry quickly put out the light, just as he made out the scrawny, dust-coloured body of Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris. He heard rather than saw her whisk back into the shadows. His heart in throat, Harry tried very hard to walk not run from the library. Don't run if you need to get away quietly, he remembered Sherlock telling him. He passed Filch at the doorway. Filch's bulging pale eyes looked right through him.

Harry went down a narrow corridor and stopped in front of a tall suit of armour. Where was he? He knew there was a tall suit of armour in front of the kitchens, but that was the basement. Where should he go?

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner…"

Harry felt the blood drain from his face as he heard the soft, greasy voice of Filch come from ahead. How did Filch get ahead of him? Did he take a shortcut? Harry looked around wildly. He saw a door ajar to his left, further down the corridor. Harry squeezed himself inside. Then, standing next to the hinges and holding his breath, Harry listened. He heard the sound of footsteps come near, then far, until it dyed away.

Harry exhaled. That was close. Too close. Feeling his panic slowly drain away, Harry took a look at the room he entered.

It looked like an abandoned classroom. There were dusty chairs scattered in the corner, and the desks were pushed to the side. But there was something leaning against the wall that looked quite out of place.

It was a magnificent mirror, as tall as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame and clawed feet. On top was a carved inscription: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Harry had been around Sherlock for too long to not notice a cipher when he saw one. The key was simple—all he had to do was read backwards and ignore the breaks.

"I show not your face but your heart's desire," Harry whispered.

Harry stared at the mirror. An odd presentiment filled him. He inched slowly towards it. Then, as if taking a plunge, he stepped in front of the mirror.

He had to clap his hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He whirled around. There was no one there, and he was still wrapped in the cloak. But when he stepped in front of the mirror, he not only saw himself, but several others as well.

Harry slowly turned back to the mirror. There was his reflection, looking white and terrified, and there, right behind him, at least eight others, two looking very familiar. Harry turned around again and reached out. If there were invisible people in the room and the mirror showed you whether you were invisible or not, then he should be able to touch them. But his hand just grasped at air.

Harry looked at the mirror again. The faces he noticed immediately were John and Sherlock's. They looked different. Not wrong, like they did on September 1st, but whole. John looked healthy and free of the haunting spectre of war that seemed to always lurk just behind the eyes. Sherlock looked relaxed — content even — and he was holding a tiny, squirming bundle no bigger than a loaf of bread. As he watched, a tuff of black curly hair poked on top of the bundle.

Harry slowly turned his eyes to the couple standing next John and Sherlock: a very pretty woman and a tall, thin man who wore glasses. The woman had dark red hair and her eyes—her eyes look like mine, Harry thought as he inched closer to the mirror. Her eyes were bright green, the exact same shape, and they ran with tears, even as she smiled. The man standing next put his arm around her. His hair was black and very untidy, and stuck up in the back, just like Harry.

Harry felt his voice clog inside his throat. He felt his eyes welled up as he stared hungrily at the image before him—the wonderful, impossible image.

"Mum?" he whispered, "Dad?"

The four just smiled at him. Slowly, Harry looked at the other faces in the mirror. There was a man who looked so much like John he had be a twin. Next to him was an elderly woman who had Harriet Watson's features. He saw a pair of green eyes like his, noses like his and an old man who had his knobbly knees.

Harry pressed his hands against glass, his nose almost touching. Could this be a portal to another world? Was the image a reflection a made-up world, like the ones he read in The Tales of Adriana? Whatever it was, Harry wished he could just fall right through and join the people on the other side of the glass. He felt a powerful ache inside—a war of joy, terrible sadness and desperate longing.

Harry didn't know how long he stayed there. At some point he sat down, the invisibility cloak pooling around him, as he stared at the reflection in a kind of reckless abandonment. He heard a noise somewhere, but he ignored it. Who cared if he was caught? What were they going to do anyway? Take off points? Put him in detention? He'd gladly pay the cost—just for one more minute in front of this mirror. Nothing was going to stop him. Nothing.

Except—

"Hello, Harry."

Harry started and looked behind him. Sitting on a desk by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore.

"Sir?" Harry stammered. "I—when did you—I didn't see you, sir."

"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," said Dumbledore.

Harry was relieved to see that Dumbledore was smiling. Quietly, the headmaster slipped off the desk and sat on the floor next to Harry.

"So," said Dumbledore. "You, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"Is that what this mirror is called?" asked Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. "I also believe you know what it does. You decrypted the inscription after all."

"How did you—?"

"I don't need a cloak to become invisible," said Dumbledore gently. "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"

Harry turned his eyes to the inscription. As he did so, the ache inside him receded, leaving behind a hollow feeling.

"…Your heart's desire," Harry said slowly. "I saw my parents … and John and Sherlock healed, because…"

"Because that was your heart's desire," said Dumbledore quietly. "This mirror shows you nothing less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known the family that bore you, and now have parents haunted by old wounds and painful memories, see them all whole and restored to you. I dare say if your friend Ron Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, looked into this mirror, he would see himself standing alone, best of all of them. However, this mirror gives us neither truth nor knowledge. Men have wasted away before it, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.

"This mirror will be moved to a new home, Harry, and I must ask you to not go looking for it. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put on your admirable cloak and go to bed?"

Harry nodded. He gathered the cloak around him. Just before he left, Dumbledore asked one last question:

"If you can indulge an old man's curiosity, Harry, can you tell me what a healed Sherlock looked like in the mirror?"

Harry thought about it. He couldn't quite find the words to describe it, so he took a quick look at the mirror. Tiny arms and hands were sticking out the bundle Sherlock was holding, and they were clutching at his face.

"Discord," Harry blurted out.

Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows formed an obtuse angle. "Discord?"

"Discord Holmes, sir," Harry explained, "My imaginary sibling. It all started when Sherlock kept scraping at his violin until one in the morning and John told him Discord is going to be very cranky if he kept playing Fugue for Strangulated Cats. Now I get a new imaginary sibling every time Sherlock is especially difficult. There's Discord, Omission, Petulance and Congelatio. The mirror showed me Discord as a real baby and Sherlock holding her."

The corners of Dumbledore's eyes crinkled. Harry grinned shakily.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Thank you for answering my question. Now good night."

Harry went back to bed smiling. He didn't expect his first night out in his invisibility cloak to end this way, especially after the mirror, but he supposed remembering the night he was shocked awake at the sound of John yelling: "OHFOR— Sherlock, your FEET! Do you want Congelatio to DIE?!" was one of the better ways.

-oo00oo-

Final Notes: I was inspired by Westron Wynde's description of the extended family of Sherlock Holmes (canon version) when I made up Sherlock's (BBC version). The background story of John's name is based on the true story of Roger Holloway and his effort to give his stillborn baby sister, whom he named Rachel, a proper burial. You can read the whole story in the Houston Chronicle.

Congelatio is medical term for frostbite. Sherlock's feet must have been frigid.

I read the corresponding chapter in PS while writing the chapter, and couldn't help but marvel how beautifully JKR set it up. There is of course the whole Nicolas Flamel angle, and the invisibility cloak. But underneath is this running idea: "Christmas is time for family." I don't think it was coincidence George said those very words the middle of the chapter, and Harry spent a whole day of 'family time' just before he looked into the Mirror of Erised. This set up, I think, made Harry see his parents, not him successfully returning to the tower of finding the book that had Flamel.