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. Written before season 2. Readers beware!
Chapter Twelve: Magic Meets the MET
For yet another Saturday, Lestrade found himself in a dilapidated bedsit in a seedy part of London. This time he wasn't just dealing with a dead body, but also a giant Sumatran rat lying on its back with its paws in the air. While trying not to look too closely at the rodent, Lestrade tuned into the multithreaded conversation going on between his two consultants.
"Don't you think the note was too harsh? And that rat is way too big, even for London."
"Why? He needs training, not mollycoddling. Now please cease your imitation of Anderson."
"Shut up. Speaking of training, what do you think about pushing piano lessons over Skype?"
"That presumes technological competence from the teacher. Siger doesn't— no. NO. Absolutely not!"
"Why not? Jackie is a wonderful teacher, and a technological guru. Hey, do think this has to do with THAT?"
"Of course it has to do with it. And no. I refuse to adulterate Harry's music education with pop-y nonsense Jacqueline inevitably descends to supposedly inspire students."
"The purely classical music education of Siger killed Harry's musical aspirations dead. All we have left is hope for resurrection. So I suppose we should be looking for a kid?"
"Seven, probably, no younger than five. Boy. His mother has unstable relationships with men and he reacted badly to the latest one. Check the roof."
"Don't tell me the murder was done by a seven-year-old kid," Lestrade said as John climbed out a window.
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "It was the mother's other lover who did it. The child merely produced the rat."
Lestrade stole a glance at the rat, still too oversized by half. "Okay, how?"
"That's irrelevant," said Sherlock dismissively. "The question is, where is that child now?"
Lestrade couldn't argue against that, but normally from Sherlock's perspective of things, children and innocents were collaterals he chose to ignore.
That moment, John's upside-down head appeared at the window.
"Found him," said John, "Bring a ladder up, will you? And he needs a blanket."
The request was quickly transmitted over the walkie-talkie. John's head disappeared again. Lestrade heard a familiar adult's voice speaking soothingly and an unfamiliar child's voice responding in frightened tones. In the meantime, a steal ladder was brought up and put out halfway out the window. Lestrade let out a sigh of relief when John stepped on the ladder holding a little boy.
"There, there," said John, patting the trembling boy's head. "It'll be alright."
John wrapped the child in an orange fleece blanket the EMT units sent up, and then marched out of the bedsit. The boy buried his face into John's neck, sobbing quietly. The scene reminded Lestrade of another boy from years ago (had it been that long already?): Harry constantly and inexplicably finding himself up a ledge or on a roof, and John having to bring him down like a spooked raven in a tree.
Lestrade wrenched his attention back to Sherlock.
"Tell me about this other lover."
"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Sherlock. "The mother only had bruises on her fist, whereas the state of the victim suggests he put up a huge fight. There's allergy medication in the dresser and medicine cabinet, but neither the victim nor the mother and son are exhibiting allergy symptoms despite the amount of animal hair in this room and on the victim, who is a worker in a pet shop, judging from the sheer quantity of hair on his clothes. So what does that say? The victim is the mother's newer lover and the perpetuator was an older one, perhaps coming to realize the mother's infidelity through the sudden onset of allergies."
Lestrade nodded. "So where is that other lover now?"
"Locked room, blood splatters on the bottom threshold, and the presence of an unfamiliar handprint on the outer doorknob but not on the inner suggests the murderer never the left the bedsit," then, miraculously, Sherlock hesitated. "I would keep the rat incarcerated, if I were you."
"Why?"
"Just do it," said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "The rat is a clue. I need to sort it out."
Then Sherlock turned away and started poring over his phone. Lestrade knew he lost him for now.
"Right. Cage the rat. Let's see how that's going to go over the super…" Lestrade sighed. "Alright, guys, collect the rat. It's evidence. And for God's sake, don't call pest control!"
By the time his team had a firm enough grip to their grogs to approach the rat, Sherlock had already made his exit. Lestrade growled to himself as he headed out to see where he was off to. He was only slightly surprised to find Sherlock standing next to John, who was talking to the Social Worker they called for an emergency placement.
"—I recommend Mr. and Mrs. Boot. They're experienced foster parents," John was saying. "Sherlock has their contact info. I'm not sure if they're listed in your organization…"
"We'll figure that out," said the Social Worker. "You can't take him yourselves?"
"We would, but we have a son, older and freshly adopted, and I'm not sure if he's ready for another person in the house," said John.
The Social Worker sighed in obvious disappointment. John looked down patted the boy's head (he was fast asleep).
"What a trooper," John said fondly before looking up to Lestrade. "Ravi—that's his name by the way—says Mr. Sami came and tried to kill his mum and Mr. Dakhar—the victim—stepped in and got killed instead."
Lestrade jotted that down on his police notebook. Sherlock looked smug and vindicated.
"Better send the word out to find this Sami character," said Lestrade. "You're sure we still have to keep the rat?"
"Absolutely," said Sherlock. "Though I doubt anyone would want to keep close quarters to such a creature, do stay away from it for the time being."
"Wasn't planning on it," Lestrade groused. "Now get off of my crime scene."
They left. Lestrade lingered behind to have word with the Social Worker. Thus he was able to hear part of a bewildering (but domestic-sounding) conversation between John and Sherlock:
"Ah, Harry finished the game in seven minutes. I knew he was a smart one (not wasting his time)."
"What?! Dammit, Snape, videos! I told you to take videos!"
"Obviously he hasn't overcome the technological challenges. Do work harder, John…"
-oo00oo-
Harry left the Hospital Wing that evening, grinning. Vindication never felt to so sweet. He caught the snitch in record time, thus putting to rest all those rumours that his Quidditch playing days ended before it even properly started. The post-game party afterwards was wonderful. Gryffindor was in the lead and he didn't have to get sick for it. As icing on the cake, Ron gave Malfoy a black-eye and Neville stood up against Crabbe and Goyle single-handed at the stands (he was going to be fine; Harry went to check). They've really showed those Slytherins and Snape.
Speaking of Snape …
Harry stared the hooded figure swiftly leaving the Entrance Hall. He could recognise that prowling walk anywhere: it was Snape. What was he doing, leaving the castle when everyone else was at dinner?
Harry hesitated. Tailing Snape, especially after a Gryffindor victory, was an act of suicide. But he was intensely curious, and Snape was acting suspiciously (again).
Harry went down the marble staircase and turned left. Instead of going to the Great Hall, he took the stone staircase leading to the Kitchens.
Harry waited patiently for the House-elves to stop bowing and curtseying before he opened his mouth.
"Blippy? Can you do something for me?"
-oo00oo-
"Harry, where have you been?" Hermione squeaked.
"Did Madam Pomfrey give you a hard time?" Ron asked. "Fred and George are going to sneak into the kitchens again for a second party after dinner, by the way, so don't eat too much."
"No, I just had to stop by at the kitchens," said Harry breathlessly as he sat down at the Gryffindor table.
"Why?" asked Hermione.
"I'll tell you after dinner," said Harry.
The three of them ate dinner hastily and looked for an empty room. Harry made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door behind them.
"Blippy?" Harry called out.
With a crack, Blippy the House-elf appeared inside the room, clutching an ancient mobile phone that looked older than they were.
"Blippy recorded everything, Harry Potter!" said Blippy in a high-pitched voice full of pride, brandishing the phone.
"Thank you so much, Blippy," said Harry as he took back the phone. "You're an awesome house-elf."
Blippy bowed low and vanished from the room with another crack. Harry then told Ron and Hermione what he saw at the Entrance Hall and that he asked Blippy to spy on Snape and record what he was up to.
"But Harry, your phone doesn't have a video-cam," said Hermione.
"That's what Sherlock wanted everyone to think," said Harry.
He carefully snapped open the battered plastic casing. Hidden inside, underneath the fake circuit board and battery, was a smart phone even more cutting-edge than his old one.
"Brilliant!" Ron exclaimed as Hermione sputtered in outrage.
Harry quickly played the video Blippy recorded for him. All they could see was dirt, rotting foliage and gnarled tree roots, but the human voices were unmistakable:
"…d-d-don't know why you wanted t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus…" said Quirrell, his stutter was worse than ever.
"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Philosopher's Stone, after all."
Harry, Ron and Hermione shared triumphant looks. So they were right about the stone.
"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?" said Snape.
"B-b-but Severus, I—"
"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell."
"I-I don't know what you—"
"You know perfectly well what I mean."
An owl hooted loudly, so they couldn't make out what Snape said afterwards except for the tail-end of it, "—your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting."
"B-but I d-d-don't—"
"Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie."
There was a swish of a cloak and footsteps. The video ended shortly thereafter. Harry, Ron and Hermione stared at each other, stunned.
"So Snape was after the stone after all, and he's trying to get Quirrell to help him," said Ron in a hushed voice.
"No, that can't be it," Hermione protested. "Snape didn't take the chance to steal the stone at the Quidditch match, remember?"
"Then what else were they talking about?" Ron argued.
Harry stood there while his friends bickered, thinking hard with his eyes screwed shut. The answer was just out of his reach, he knew it: Quirrell and his stutter, getting worse by the hour; Snape, prowling around checking security like a paranoid bat; the stone, Hagrid's three-headed dog, the Gringott's break-in that happened last summer…
Then insight exploded inside Harry's head like a supernova.
"That's it," he said breathlessly. "No wonder Sherlock wanted us to think from the Thief's point of view!"
"What are you talking about?" asked Hermione.
"Think!" said Harry, splaying his hands to either side of his head. "You're the thief. You break into Gringotts thinking the stone is there, but it isn't. Snape can't be the thief because he was there when Hagrid took the stone out of the vault. He had his chance then but didn't take it, and he wouldn't go through the trouble of breaking into Gringotts after all that. Anyway, you somehow find out the stone is in Hogwarts. You found a way to enter Hogwarts, but you can't get pass Fluffy and the other security measures around the stone. You need help: someone who knows how to get passed security or someone who can get that information for you. Of all the teachers, who is the easiest to target?"
"Quirrell," said Ron quickly. "He's scared of his own shadow. You can scare him to cooperate."
"So you do that," Harry went on. "That's probably why Quirrell's trembling and stuttering is getting worse. After going through all that since last summer, I'm surprised he didn't have a nervous breakdown earlier."
"And Snape found this out," said Hermione. "That's what the chat was for! He wanted to know if Quirrell was helping or resisting!"
"Knowing Snape, he probably thinks Quirrell is helping, but not doing a good job at it," said Harry. "But that's it! The thief is whoever is threatening Quirrell!"
They were silent for a beat.
"So the stone is safe as long as Quirrell keeps standing up against the thief?" said Hermione in alarm.
"It'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron.
-oo00oo-
Lestrade wearily stumbled into his car after a long day at the office. The super (the new one that got the job after the old one got sacked for the Richard Brooke fiasco) had kept him late asking him over and over the purpose of keeping a Giant Rat of Sumatra in the evidence locker. As telling the new super 'because Sherlock said so' wasn't even an option, Lestrade had to use his horrible dissembling skills. And that was the easier part of the day. Now he had to pick up his kids from his former in-laws.
It was unfortunate they couldn't afford a minder, Lestrade thought. He'd been born out of wedlock, and his mum left him in her mother's care when he was two. He hadn't seen his mum since then, and his grandmother passed away when he was sixteen. Ellen was orphaned after her eighteenth birthday, and had to quit school to take over the family florist business. The only thing close to an extended family they had was Lestrade's dead wife, Cecilia's, parents and her younger siblings. They'd been kind enough to look after Julia when he was young widower walking the beat, and later looked after the kids he had later whenever he needed a minder. Still, Lestrade could never shake the feeling he was going to be shot on sight and buried in the back garden for his transgressions whenever he visited his in-law's house.
Lestrade braced himself for the familiar feeling of purified hostility as he parked his car at the driveway. He heard the sound of a piano playing and was reminded of the other reason why he couldn't afford to stop taking the kids to Cecilia's parents. One simply didn't find minders who had trained at the Royal Academy of Music and offered free music lessons on top of free child minding services in this day and age. The boys didn't have the capacity to appreciate this, but Julia, who got her brains and talent from her mum, more than made up for their slack.
"Greg," said his former father-in-law, patriarch of the Shin family, as he opened the door. As always, he was expressionless and toneless. Lestrade often wondered if his father-in-law actually had the capacity to emote.
"Sir," said Lestrade, trying not to fidget. "Uh, Julia's not done yet?"
His father-in-law shook his head. Then he glided back inside the house. Lestrade winced when he heard a crash and the sound of his boys rampaging like a herd of Bull Elephants. He rushed into the parlour to tell them off.
He stopped short when he saw Sherlock, looking terribly upset.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
Sherlock glared at him. "John refused to budge on the subject of piano instructors."
Lestrade blinked. Then he remembered the conversation that happened in a London bedsit and grinned.
"Lost the argument, yeah?" said Lestrade.
Sherlock gave him a look of pure hatred. Lestrade decided then and there to tell everyone in bullpen about this the next time he went to the station.
"I know you're still new to the whole parenting thing, Sherlock, but just so you know: the wife always wins," Lestrade said cheekily.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grumbled.
They waited together. Lestrade listened to Julia play something that sounded too dreadfully complicated and classical for a ten-year-old. Sherlock complained the sound of Lestrade's breathing wasn't helping him think. In retaliation, he called the boys to his side so they could all squirm and respire loudly in Sherlock proximity.
"You're not helping," growled Sherlock, looking positively murderous.
Just then, Julia ran out of the music room, beaming and squealing, "Daddy!"
Lestrade felt the burdens of the day drop off. "Hello sweetheart."
Julia nuzzled her face in his chest and Lestrade held her close. Sherlock made gagging noises.
"Okay, kids, we're going home. Say goodbye to grandpa and Aunt Jackie," said Lestrade as Julia clung to him. "And don't forget your stuff!"
The boys scampered off to collect their toys. Julia mumbled something about leaving her bag in the music room. Knowing Julia would've filled her bag to the point of bursting with books, Lestrade headed there.
"No, Daddy, I can do it myself," said Julia firmly. The sort of firm that meant she wanted to hide something.
"I'm sure you can," said Lestrade easily as he continued his way to the music room.
"No, really!" said Julia, clutching at his sleeve and trying not to sound as agitated as she actually was.
"Mmmhmmm," said Lestrade. He opened the door.
Lestrade blinked several times to make sure his eyes were working. Where there was a small potted Orchard, there was an overgrown and still visibly growing plant that covered the entire length of the piano, with blooming Orchards and Jasmine flowers everywhere. The sweet smell of Jasmine was overpowering.
"What a surprise," said Sherlock dryly. "Lestrade, your daughter is a witch."
-oo00oo-
Three cups of tea, twenty minutes of sitting down and collecting his sanity later, Lestrade finally looked up to face his in-laws. He immediately went back into shock when he saw the obvious regret on his father-in-law's face.
"I'm sorry, Greg," said Mr. Shin quietly. "I rather hoped it wouldn't happen like this."
Lestrade shook his head. He didn't know what to say.
"She gets it from my bloodline," his father-in-law explained. "The Shin family has produced those with the ability for last thirty-six generations."
"Ability?" Lestrade breathed.
"Magic," said Sherlock. "The British users call it magic. Not the illusion kind, but the ability to actually bend matter and space at will."
"Right. Magic," Lestrade said, dazed. "Julia has magic."
"Yes, she's a witch. Do keep up," said Sherlock impatiently. "I can't believe you didn't notice strange things happening around her whenever her emotions were at height."
Lestrade glared at Sherlock. As a matter of fact, he had noticed strange things happened to Julia whenever she was upset. There was that incident of the frozen toad when she was three, and the zombie tulip Julia loved to pieces that refused to wilt for the last seven years. All the electronics in the flat would die an inexplicable death whenever he stayed at the office too long when Julia was younger, but it had stopped after he married Ellen. He'd dismissed those incidents as freak accidents, but he hadn't forgotten about them.
"So all that … stuff was her magic acting?" asked Lestrade.
"Yes," his father-in-law replied. "Magic triggers uncontrollably until you learn to harness it."
"And you know this already, how?" Lestrade demanded to Sherlock.
"Harry is a wizard," Sherlock said.
Lestrade clutched his head between his hands. This was too much. All this time he'd thought his in-laws were dour but kindly immigrants, who had one rebellious daughter whom he married, and Harry a poor traumatized normal kid who had the strange fortune to be adopted by Sherlock Holmes. Now his in-laws turned out to be a family of bloody sorcerers, his daughter inherited the same power, what that meant for her future he couldn't even imagine, Harry was a wizard and oh gawd he needed a drink.
"It's not as bad as it seems," said his father-in-law calmly. "Cecilia we sent to a school of magic because her power was too strong and obvious. Jacqueline only had enough to notice magic when present, so we raised her as an ordinary person. Julia is somewhere in between: she can choose to ignore it or harness it."
Lestrade looked up. "So it's not—" he made a vague hand-gesture.
"No," his father-in-law confirmed.
Lestrade sighed in relief.
But of course, Sherlock wouldn't leave it at that.
"Oh, don't be boring," Sherlock spat. To Julia, who Lestrade just noticed was crying silently behind her grandpa, the prat said in his most hypnotic voice: "Did you know this school of Magic is a large castle up Scotland?"
Julia stared at him, wide-eyed. Sherlock put a shite-eating grin.
"There's a magical entrance in King's Cross station between platforms nine and ten," said Sherlock. "Once you walk pass that entrance, you'll find the hidden platform of nine and three quarters. A scarlet steam engine called the Hogwarts Express takes you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It's an enchanted castle with which Disney can never hope to compete. It boasts no less than a hundred forty-two staircases; wide ones, sweeping ones, rickety ones, one that lead you to a different place on Friday, and one with a vanishing step half-way you have to remember to jump. There're doors pretending to be walls, and walls pretending to be doors. The coats of armour walk and portraits visit each other whenever they fancy."
Julia was hanging onto Sherlock's every word. So was Lestrade. His father-in-law, on the other hand, looked irate.
"Mr. Holmes, if you don't silence right now, I will hit you with this cello," his father-in-law threatened.
"There's more to magic than waving a wand and saying a few funny words," Sherlock went on. "There're greenhouses for magical herbs and fungi, and potions class in the dungeons. Every week students study the skies through telescopes. Of course there's the expected wand waving and spells. Which brings me to the subject of teachers."
Sherlock dodged the electric cello his father-in-law swung at his head.
"Charms is taught by tiny Professor Flitwick!" said Sherlock, still dodging. "He's so small he has to — uff — stand on top of a pile of books to see over his desk! And History of Magic is taught by a ghost — an actual ghost!"
Sherlock started to run away as his father-in-law went after him with an axe he produced out of nowhere.
"Rumour has it the history teacher fell asleep in the staff room and woke up next morning and left his body behind!" Sherlock shouted as he ran, his voice phasing out due to the Doppler affect. "Then there's madam Hooch, who teaches you how to fly on a broomstick!"
"BEGONE!" shouted his father-in-law.
Sherlock took off. Lestrade and Julia watched him run away for dear life.
At length, Lestrade took in a deep breath and looked at his daughter.
"Julia, come here," he said.
Julia bowed her head and took a step forward. Lestrade felt his heart clench.
"Oh, sweetie," said Lestrade, lifting her up like she was a toddler. It wasn't very hard—Julia was small for her age. "I don't care what you are. You're still my little girl."
Immediately Julia tried to strangle him and cried into his shoulder. Lestrade patted the back of her head.
"You've been hiding this for while, haven't you?" said Lestrade. "Did you think I'd get mad if I found out?"
Julia nodded into his shoulder.
"It was a shock," Lestrade admitted. "But I think I can get used to it. If Mr. Science of Deduction can handle magic, so can I."
"…Are you going to tell Ellen?" asked Julia.
Lestrade thought about it. Julia was probably more worried about Ellen's reaction than she was about his. Ellen was a sweet woman, but she and Julia had clashing personalities. Bringing up Magic would no doubt add another wedge to their relationship.
"It's going to come up sooner or later," Lestrade said. "We'll find a good time to let her know."
Julia clung to him and said nothing. Lestrade knew what she was thinking, and he had to agree; if they couldn't tell her now, what made them think they could in the future?
-oo00oo-
"How in the world did you manage to get banned from Jackie's house?" John demanded when Sherlock returned to Baker Street.
"I just told Lestrade about Hogwarts when he discovered his daughter is a witch," said Sherlock. "The grandfather objected to it rather violently."
John stared at him. "Julia Lestrade is a witch."
"I'm surrounded by parrots," Sherlock groused. "Yes, magic runs from her mother's side of the family."
John continued to stare. "Didn't it occur to you the family might have a reason to not want to talk about Magic?"
"Of course not. I was too preoccupied at their insistence of being dull."
John sighed. "Why do I bother?"
"Indeed, why?" Sherlock taunted.
"For that, I'm going to delete the text Harry sent about the Philosopher's stone thief before you read it," John taunted right back.
A long and furious scuffle commenced in 221B. John elbowed Sherlock in the face, and Sherlock attempted to put John in an arm-lock and got thrown into a wall for his pains. But Sherlock was a seasoned pick-pocket, so he got hold of John's phone before he hit the wall.
"Ah, so he found the Quirrell connection," said Sherlock as he quickly read through the text full of typos and net-speak. "Not bad for an eleven-year-old."
"So he's on the right track?" said John.
"He's still needs to think it more carefully," said Sherlock, tossing the phone back to John. "Remind him of Occam's razor."
John frowned. "Do you mean…?"
"Yes," said Sherlock.
"I guess it's a lesson on first impressions, too," John remarked while typing a reply.
-oo00oo-
Harry snatched his phone from his bedside cabinet the moment he heard the alert. He frowned at the message:
Occam's Razor. First impressions do lie. JW
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: I am soooo sorry for the long delay. I've working on my master's thesis, signed up for my final class and switched jobs. All in one month. I don't expect to have a lot of time in the future, so I apologize in advance.