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. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!
Chapter Sixteen: Introduction to Magic 101
In Harry's opinion, 'family bowling' was one of the most bizarre things he'd experienced this summer, and some very usual things had happened so far. Watching Albus Dumbledore play tenpin bowling was surreal enough, but John's casual and blithe attitude towards it, plus witnessing Mr. Lestrade, who in Harry's mind was the suited and perpetually exasperated detective inspector Sherlock was secretly fond of, in jeans and a t-shirt with his family at a wizard bowling alley was just two steps away from absurd. That Miss Jackie, the church music director, came from a long line of witches and wizards and was related to Mr. Lestrade by marriage, whose daughter was also a witch, barely registered after the first two. But then to Harry Miss Jackie was a familiar if distant fixture like the organ she played in chapel. Harry wasn't sure if he'd be that much more surprised if someone told him Miss Jackie was a Jedi.
Dumbledore won the first game by a tiny margin. John would have won if Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade didn't trigger Sherlock into throwing a violent tantrum and needed to be restrained. Harry, who'd been distracted by Miss Jackie's lightsaber-transforming pen, asked John what they did. John refused to answer and scowled at Mr. Lestrade instead. As peace offering, Mr. Lestrade offered to buy the drinks and followed John and Harry to the food stand.
"So what got his knickers in a twist?" Mr. Lestrade asked, referring to Sherlock.
John sighed. "All of a sudden magic isn't okay anymore."
"Why, what happened?"
John told him about the Mirror of Erised. Mr. Lestrade said the mirror sounded precisely like the sort of thing that would exist if Magic were real (which it was). John agreed.
"But that's the thing," said John. "If magic can touch something like desire, what else can it do? Where does it stop?" A pause, "It reminds me of the Baskerville case. Sherlock freaked out when he doubted his own senses. He eventually figured out it was mind-altering gas, and that's rational enough for an explanation, but this? You could say this was done magically for pretty much anything— makes you intellectually lazy."
"I see what you mean," said Mr. Lestrade thoughtfully. "Can't ignore magic now that he knows it's real, but he can't incorporate it fully into his deductions since he doesn't know the limitations."
"It's not as if he can directly perceive it, being a Muggle and all," John agreed.
"Muggle?"
"Non-magic people," John explained. "People like us."
Mr. Lestrade frowned. "Isn't sliding through a solid door performing magic?"
"That's just using magic," John clarified. "It's kind of like opening a door: I didn't make the door and I didn't install the door, but that doesn't stop me from opening the door. Of course, I wouldn't have known there was a door if a wizard didn't tell me. We Muggles can't perceive magic unless it's spelled that way."
Mr. Lestrade and John carried back their orders: two trays full of tankards of Butterbeer, chips and savoury pasties.
"Can't he just ignore it? It's not as if he couldn't solve crimes before he knew magic is real," said Mr. Lestrade.
"I don't think he can bring himself to," John replied. "Remember the Giant Rat of Sumatra? Ravi turned the killer into a rat because he felt threatened, and that was just by accident. Can you imagine what it would look like if a witch or a wizard did something deliberately? Magic people keep themselves hidden from us non-magicals for the most part, but they're not completely removed from our society. Besides, Harry—"
John visibly stopped. Mr. Lestrade shrewdly noted John's obvious shift of gears and avoidance of eye contact whilst settling the trays.
"I mean, Harry's a wizard," John finished.
"You know, I'd really appreciate it if I knew what to expect before my daughter goes facing the magical equivalent of terror gas like the Baskerville HOUND," Mr. Lestrade deadpanned.
"Sorry," said John apologetically. "I don't mean to hide it. There's just too much to explain. It's like trying to write down the answer to the question: 'describe the Holocaust' for an exam and it only gives you this much space." John's thumb and forefinger parted an inch from each other. "Pop over to Baker Street if you want to have a brief introduction to contemporary wizard history. I'll make popcorn."
Mr. Lestrade huffed. "Fine. Speaking of magic, what convinced Ellen magic is okay?"
"Well-"
"Oh that is brilliant, that is gorgeous!" shouted Sherlock.
The three of them looked up. Sherlock was twirling around and waving hands in jubilance like he was told there were multiple serial killers collaborating together and on the prowl. Mrs. Lestrade, who looked quite alarmed, was hiding her witch step-daughter behind her back. Dumbledore and Miss Jackie looked bemused.
"What's up with you?" Mr. Lestrade asked.
Sherlock ignored him. "John! John, it makes sense now!" he crowed, grabbing John by the biceps and twirling them both around in a weird waltz before he turned to Miss Jackie. "Jacqueline, say it again!"
Miss Jackie blinked slowly a couple of beats.
"I told Sherlock," she said, enunciating each word, "That magic can only touch things that are real. Matter is real, so magic can alter that. Space is real, so magic can stretch that. Desire is real—that's why mirrors that show the deepest desire of a human heart can exist. Conversely, and perhaps more accurately, one could say that if magic can touch something in some manner then it is evidence that the something is real."
"Okay, so now you know magic only affects real things. Good for you," said John. "Why is that comforting?"
"Don't you see it?" said Sherlock. "Take Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration and its five exceptions."
John endeavoured to look interested.
"One of the five exceptions is food," Sherlock continued, joining his palms under his chin. "Food cannot be produced out of thin air. You can move it, change it, copy it, multiply it, but you can't make it out of nothing."
John's eyes grew abstracted. "I really don't…"
"Here is the rub," Sherlock interrupted. "Things that are real cannot internally contradict itself. You can give memory a form by means of a medium, but you can't turn memory blue since memory by definition doesn't have a form. You can conjure a life form, at least something that imitates a life form, but you can't kill it at the same time."
John smiled feebly. "Ordinary mortals like me need all the steps spelled out, Sherlock, and you're skipping some of them. So what is the connection?"
"I was getting to that," said Sherlock. "You should know that with the exception of salt, water and other such inorganic minerals, food is mostly comprised of things that were once alive, but at the end are dead."
Comprehension dawned on John's face. "Oooh…!"
"So in order to produce food out of a vacuum, you must conjure things that are at once alive and dead."
"And things can't be alive and dead at the same time in the same sense," said John thoughtfully. "Talk away, Sherlock. I just love it. It's fine!"
Sherlock smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration. "Now do you see what troubled me?"
"You were worried magic could bypass the law of non-contradiction," said John, nodding. "Magic being able to transform things didn't bother you. You can figure out if something was transformed based on the traces left behind. Magic adding impossible features to objects didn't bother you either, since you can observe what those features are and that's the important part."
"Mind-altering spells and memory removing enchantments are troubling, but the threat is similar to barbiturates," Sherlock continued. "But if logic can be bypassed…"
"…Then it's not just your Work that collapses—the entire scientific enterprise become moot," John finished.
There was a short moment of silence. Sherlock wriggled in his spot looking very pleased with himself, and John smiled at him fondly. Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled like mad, and Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade still looked confused. Harry couldn't read Miss Jackie or Julia's expressions—they had the same mild look that could be anything from bemusement to amusement.
"Can we take down the Voldemort wall paper down now?" asked John at length.
On the lane next to them, a warlock who was on the verge of rolling his ball went white and forgot to release his grip. Both him and his ball skid across the lane and smashed into the pins.
"Nonsense, that research isn't over," said Sherlock.
"What research?" Mr. Lestrade asked. "And who is this Voldemort?"
A young witch carrying a silver tray gasped and crumpled to the floor, scattering tankards and spilling mead everywhere. Elsewhere someone let out a shriek a pitch bellow ultrasonic levels.
"…Perhaps we should talk elsewhere?" said Mr. Lestrade.
-oo00oo-
They moved to the lounge area. The adults discussed the history of Voldemort in hushed voices. Harry tuned out. He'd been bombarded with nothing but Voldemort this past month and it was very tiring to hear about him again. Instead Harry let his mind wander to the setbacks they'd experienced this past month trying to gather data.
The first problem was the lack of available data. There were plenty of books and memoirs that wrote about the time Voldemort was at the height of his powers, but there was precious little written on what he could do. Sherlock was disgusted at the rampant speculation on Voldemort's supposed abilities, like killing people at glance and sucking out a person's soul ("they're confusing him from a Basilisk and a Dementor!"). As for books that speculated Voldemort's origins, John dismissed them as tripe ("They're as badly researched as Dan Brown's historical fictions."). In the end they gave up on the books and wrote letters to people they knew who lived through the era: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Hagrid, Dumbledore and … Snape. Then they encountered their second setback: though Hedwig could deliver letters to the intended recipient without fail—Hermione confirmed this—their responses never reached back.
Sherlock was determined to find out how this was happening and why, which meant John and Harry had to traipse all over London carrying a large snowy owl in a cage, to the bewilderment of Muggle Londoners. Eventually Sherlock figured out someone was intercepting all incoming owl post addressed to Harry Potter at 221B Baker Street. They first tried to fool the interceptor by asking people to address their mail to H. Watson at 221 Baker Street, but the interceptor immediately cottoned on and started stealing all owl post addressed to and from Baker Street. Finally, after Sherlock concluded the interceptor was someone from the Magic world, therefore on the balance of probability ignorant of Muggle technology, he sent activated mobile phones to those who didn't have one already from the Leaky Cauldron. Mr. Weasley, Ron's Dad, was the most enthusiastic, though not necessarily the most competent. He always got overexcited whenever he dialled, and had a tendency to incinerate the phone whilst trying to add charms to the device. Snape refused to communicate after Harry watched John teaching him how to do clinchers, and Hagrid's fingers were too big to properly manipulate the keypads. Dumbledore was the only person who could learn to operate a phone and had a wealth of information on Voldemort he was willing to share, but it took a month to get to that point. Not because Dumbledore had trouble figuring things out, but because he was busy.
"I'm afraid my time is not my own," Dumbledore said when he managed to call back. "The school board expects me to pull a miracle in regards to the school budget and the Wizengamot harbours the delusion I am omniscient, which we all know cannot be true. I can recommend books, of course, but they tend not to be very helpful as you noticed."
"Can you recommend someone who can fix our problem with owl post?" asked John.
"I shall speak to Hagrid," Dumbledore promised. "Barring that, I should have some time the following Saturday evening. Until then, please keep your eyes and ears open for anything unusual. The incident smacks of an agent possessing considerable amount of magic ability."
Sherlock installed secret cameras all around the flat so they could hopefully catch the interceptor in the act. It was a good thing he did, because the Tuesday evening after the call from Dumbledore, Harry almost sat on the culprit.
Every Tuesday evening John had small group with the ladies from their church. Usually, John departed from 221B for these meetings, but for the first time ever John had offered to host. Sherlock vetoed, saying that he needed access to their kitchen lab. John told him he was more than welcome to stay in the flat as long as he didn't enter the living room. Sherlock refused with extreme prejudice. Apparently Mr. Lestrade warned him the ladies of the small group spoke all manner of TMI, Sherlock's ginger chest and armpit hair being the tamest example.
"Why would you even mention my chest hair?" demanded Sherlock, looking quite mortified.
John shrugged helplessly. "I felt obligated to say something after Becky shared how her husband farts in his sleep, Joanna's fiancé refuses to seek treatment for his athlete's feet, and Ellen said the first night on their honeymoon, Greg—"
"DELETED!" shouted Sherlock, every line of his body cringing. "I'm deleting this immediately!"
Sherlock fled the flat when Tuesday evening came. Harry said hello to Mrs. Lestrade and Miss Jackie (a small turn out; apparently the other ladies were scared of seeing Sherlock in his natural habitat) before returning to his room and collapsing on his bed.
The trouble was there was already someone sitting on it.
Harry managed not to yell, but it was close thing. The little creature on his bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green tennis-ball shaped eyes. Harry knew instantly the creature was a house-elf, though unlike the house-elves at Hogwarts, this elf was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase with rips for arm-and-leg holes. Harry and the house-elf stared at each other for a long time, neither knowing what to say.
"Hello," said Harry, after he decided he'd stared rudely long enough.
The elf slipped off of his bed and bowed so low the tip of his long, pencil shaped nose touched the ground.
"Harry Potter," said the house-elf in the high-pitched voice when he raised his head. "Long has Dobby wanted to see you, sir … such an honour it is…"
"Uh, thank you," said Harry nervously. He had a distinct feeling the only person allowed to know the existence of house-elves was John, and even that was iffy. "Is there a particular reason why you're here?"
"Oh, yes, sir," said Dobby earnestly. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir … it is difficult, sir. Dobby wonders where to begin…"
"Take a seat," said Harry, gesturing his spare chair.
To his horror, the elf burst into tears—very noisy tears.
"Take a seat!" he wailed. "Never … never ever…"
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, hoping against hope the Muggle guests downstairs couldn't hear them. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything—"
"Offend Dobby!" choked the elf. "Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard—like an equal—"
Harry ushered the elf to the chair, wondering if there was a polite way to clamp his hand over the elf's mouth. The elf sat there hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. When he finally managed to control himself, his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery adoration.
"I'm guessing you don't know a lot of decent wizards," said Harry, trying to move on and cheer up the elf.
Dobby shook his head. Then he launched himself to window and started beating his head against a still, squealing. "Bad, Dobby! Bad, Dobby!"
"What are you doing?" hissed Harry, alarmed, pulling the elf away.
"Dobby had to punish himself, sir," said Dobby, who had gone cross-eyed. "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family…"
"Your family?"
"The wizard family Dobby serves, sir. Dobby is a house-elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…"
"Do they know you're here?"
"Oh, no, sir, no," said Dobby after a shudder. "Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for seeing you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears on the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir—"
"Won't they notice when you shut your ears on the oven door?"
"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments…"
Harry stared. The contrast between Dobby and the happy house-elves at Hogwarts couldn't be starker.
"Can't you leave? Escape?" Harry asked.
"A house-elf has to be set freed, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free. Dobby will serve the family until he dies…"
Harry stared again.
"That's not right. How are house-elves set free? Can the Ministry of Magic force your family to let you go? Is there any way I can help?"
Harry immediately wished he didn't say anything because Dobby dissolved into wails of gratitude. Hedwig, who had been sleeping in her cage, woke up with a screech and started beating her wings against the bars of her cage.
"Please," Harry whispered frantically. "Please be quiet. We have Muggle guests today. If they know you're here…"
"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby," Dobby warbled. "Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness Dobby never knew…"
Harry felt himself go hot in the face. "Whatever you've heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I'm not even first in my year. That's Hermione."
"Harry Potter is humble and modest," said Dobby reverently. "Harry Potter does not speak of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named…"
"Voldemort?"
Dobby clapped his hands over his ears and moaned, "Speak not the name, sir! Speak not the name…"
"Sorry," said Harry. "I know a lot of people who don't like it. Ron and Hagrid—all of my wizard-raised friends— they, uh, pretty much react like you."
Dobby leaned towards Harry, his orb-like eyes aglow.
"Dobby heard tell," he said, "that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord again for a second time, just weeks ago … and Harry Potter escaped yet again!"
"By sheer dumb luck," Harry muttered. He winced as he remembered the scathing critique Sherlock delivered for what he did at the chamber where the Mirror of Erised was hidden. He would've gone on at greater length except John put him in a clincher and kneed him hard in the mid-drift. Despite what he said, Dobby's eyes shone with tears.
"Ah, sir," said Dobby, dabbing his face on his grubby pillow case. "Harry Potter is bold and valiant! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter; to warn him even if Dobby does have to shut his ears in the oven door … Harry Potter must not go to Hogwarts."
There was a silence that was only broken by the soft laughter of the guests and the distant rumble of John's voice.
"But why?" Harry stammered. "Why must I not go to Hogwarts?"
"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make the most terrible things happen in Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry this year," Dobby whispered, trembling all over. "Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too great, too good, to lose. He is too important, sir!"
"No, I'm not. And what terrible things? Who's plotting them?"
Dobby made a funny choking noise and started banging his head against a wall. Harry grabbed his arm to stop him.
"Okay, fine!" cried Harry. "You can't tell me. I understand. Is the reason why you can't tell me the same reason why you can't just leave your family? You can just shake or nod."
Dobby nodded slowly.
"A house-elf must always— always—keep the family secrets, sir."
He gave Harry a wide-eyed look, like he was giving a hint. Harry didn't get it, but he mentally filed it.
"Okay," said Harry, "Now about this trouble, why are you warning me? Does it have anything to do with Vol- I mean, You-Know-Who?"
Dobby shook his head this time. "Not—not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir."
He had the same wide-eyed look on his face, like this was another hint. Harry was still completely lost.
"Well, I can't think of someone else who can to make horrible things happen in Hogwarts," said Harry. "Whoever it is has Dumbledore to contend with. As for me not returning to Hogwarts, even if I decide not to go back this coming September, I need to give a reason. I'd have to tell Dumbledore and my Muggle Parents: 'a House-elf named Dobby said a terrible danger is going to happen this year at Hogwarts.'"
Dobby's eyes bulged and paled when Harry reached the logical conclusion. It would've been funny if the elf didn't look so pathetic clutching his filthy pillowcase.
"I need to warn my friends too," Harry went on. "I can't let them face the danger alone without warning."
"Friends who don't even write to Harry Potter?" asked Dobby slyly.
"Well, I've been having trouble with Owl Post, I'm sure they- wait a minute," Harry frowned. "How do you know I haven't got any letters from my friends?"
Dobby shuffled his feet.
"Harry Potter mustn't be angry at Dobby. Dobby did it for the best—"
"Have you been stopping my letters?!"
"Dobby has them here, sir."
The elf pulled out a thick wad of envelopes from the insides of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione's neat handwriting, Ron's untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked like it was from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.
"Harry Potter mustn't be angry … Dobby hoped … if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him … Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir…"
Harry stared at the ceiling and breathed deeply through his nose, like he was supposed to whenever he was about to explode in rage. It was almost instinctive now, after two years of practice.
"Well you hoped wrong," Harry snapped at the ceiling. "I have to go back. Nothing you say is going to change that. Now give me back my letters. Please."
The elf let out a sad little sigh.
"Then Dobby has only one choice."
Before Harry could move, Dobby darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open and sprinted down the stairs. Heart in his mouth, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him. Harry felt as if his stomach disappeared when he reached the kitchen.
All the test tubes and glassware in the kitchen were hovering near the ceiling. On top of the fridge crouched Dobby.
"No," croaked Harry, "Sherlock will kill me…"
"Harry Potter must say he won't go to Hogwarts…"
"Dobby, please…"
"Say it, sir—"
"I can't—"
Dobby gave him a tragic look.
"Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter's own good."
The glassware dropped to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Shards of glass scattered everywhere and liquid chemicals splattered the floors and walls. Screams filled the living room. The kitchen slide-doors flew open. John stood frozen at the doorway, and all the ladies of the small group were staring at the carnage.
Harry worked on his jaw, dry mouthed.
"…It wasn't me," he pleaded, very lamely.
The unamused look John nailed Harry with was so weighty and pointed he felt an urge to make a false confession if it let him to get away from it.
"Uummm, isn't it impossible for someone to drop so many test tubes all at once?" said Mrs. Lestrade.
John gave her a short side-glance. The unamused look remained.
"Take a photo for evidence and let Sherlock judge," Miss Jackie suggested.
"No need," John growled before barking out orders. "Clean up."
Mrs. Lestrade helped Harry scrub off the chemicals and Miss Jackie hoovered the shards. The evening would've more or less returned to normal except a huge barn owl crashed into the window by the time small group ended and John asked Mrs. Lestrade and Miss Jackie to stay behind a bit longer. It staggered midair before righting itself, then perched on the iron bars outside the sitting room window and kept tapping until John let it in. The owl swooped in, dropped a letter on the table and flew out. John read the letter.
Then let out a fine flow of angry army personnel speak so profane even Miss Jackie, who didn't express emotion very often, looked visibly full of horrified fascination.
"I actually understood some of that…" she said.
John marched to the communal laptop and played the recordings from the security cameras installed inside the kitchen. At the right time frame, the feed showed the hovering glassware and Dobby very clearly. Harry wondered, for a brief moment, what would happen if they posted the video on YouTube.
"Right," John growled. "This definitely wasn't the way I wanted to break the news, but I can't think of another way. Ellen, you saw that right?"
Mrs. Lestrade nodded. It was remarkable how she looked like a wounded gazelle on the Serengeti stalked by a pack of ravenous hyenas, when normally she was the kind of person who sent photos of naked buttocks to the tabloid papers when they insulted her husband.
"That, for the lack of better term, was magic," John declared. "Now hang on a bit before you blow up. I can explain. Jackie, help me out here."
"Oh, I don't know," Miss Jackie demurred. "The magic we're talking about isn't sleight of hand. It's not Wiccan practices that tap into spirits and elemental powers either, though Wiccans may claim relation. It's hard to explain what Magic is exactly, but I call it the power over things unseen but nevertheless real."
Mrs. Lestrade looked completely lost. John sighed.
"Less philosophy and more practical demonstrations, please."
John ended up showing Mrs. Lestrade old editions of the Daily Prophet and Harry's textbooks to show what magic was like on a day-to-day basis. Harry wondered why it was all so necessary until Miss Jackie mentioned she was the thirty-fifth generation witch from her father's side, and the hundred and twenty-fourth generation witch from her mother's side. This persistent strain of magic meant Julia Lestrade, Mrs. Lestrade's stepdaughter and Miss Jackie's niece, was very likely a witch too.
John stared. "A hundred twenty-four generations? Seriously?"
"As old as my native country's history, dating back to the Old Three Kingdoms period," said Miss Jackie. "It's nothing to write home about. You can find longer lines in India and the middle-east."
John continued to stare. "I'm more surprised that you guys kept track."
"Genealogy is very important," said Miss Jackie cryptically.
John then asked Mrs. Lestrade if she noticed strange things happening when Julia was upset. Mrs. Lestrade rambled how all the electronics exploded or just plain died when Mr. Lestrade had to cancel an eagerly anticipated father-daughter date because a madman was terrorizing London by decking his hostages with SEMTEX, and the one time Mr. Lestrade went down with a dangerously high fever, Mrs. Lestrade swore she saw snow falling locally at his sickbed.
"I noticed magic manifests according to the way a kid feels," John remarked. "Harry used to teleport himself up a tree or ledge whenever he got upset. He also blew up Marjorie Dursley—she inflated like a balloon and floated up to the ceiling—and she was going on about how 'if something is wrong with the bitch there's something wrong with the pup' to Harry's face. It was kind of awesome."
"Don't say that," Miss Jackie chided. "Anyway, in a few more weeks someone from the British magic community is going to contact you and Greg. They're going to offer Julia an opportunity to go study magic at a boarding school. If she consents, she'll go and receive one of the finest magic educations available in the world—but she'll have to leave our world it until she's done."
Mrs. Lestrade was startled. "She won't come back?"
"She'll come home for the holidays, but for the majority of the time, she'll be away."
Mrs. Lestrade let out a silent 'oh'.
"…Greg's not going to like that," said Mrs. Lestrade. "Like, at all. They don't get to spend a lot of time as it is."
"I know. It's tough, like any other boarding school can be," said Miss Jackie kindly. "But you may not have other options—not good ones, at any rate. Julia is magical enough that training makes sense. If I were to rate my magic ability in terms of investments, I'm a little better than an average savings account. Cecilia was like having a half million pounds for investment capital and Warren Buffet as your advisor; twenty to thirty percent gains on average."
"And Julia?" asked John.
Miss Jackie fingered her chin. "A good index fund plus some stock options; won't beat the market unless the individual stocks do extremely well, but will never underperform the market either."
Mrs. Lestrade clutched her forehead, like all this talk about investments and magic was causing her pain.
"It isn't some kind of secret government program, is it?" she asked.
"The non-magical governments don't know magic exists, and it is best to keep it that way," said Miss Jackie, looking very serious. "Government-sanctioned witch hunts are contemporary history. The Western European and American magical communities were lucky. Their witch-hunts happened before the sixteenth century, so non-magical people weren't equipped to properly hunt down witches and wizards, as we sometimes call ourselves. They had plenty of time to perfect the art of hiding. They even set up the International Confederation of Wizards to ease the way, but it only encompassed countries associated with Western Europe. The other magic communities were slow to adapt separation—having magic people living alongside non-magical people is still part of the culture in some places—so the modernization of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century caught them off guard. The Chinese magical community was decimated when Mao Zedong carried out the Cultural Revolution, the Khmer Rouge systemically executed all the Cambodian magicals that didn't manage to get away, and the magic communities in the former states of Soviet Union no longer exist. Joseph Stalin made sure of that."
Harry felt a bit shaken when Miss Jackie finished speaking. He hadn't learned any of this in his History of Magic classes. Professor Binns preferred to drone on about goblin rebellions and ancient sorcerers, and that never struck him as relevant as the facts Miss Jackie was telling them.
"So it's a separate society all together," said Mrs. Lestrade, looking just as shaken as Harry.
"We keep ourselves hidden as much as possible," replied Miss Jackie.
There a moment of silence. At length Mrs. Lestrade sighed.
"This is too much," she said. "I'm sorry, but this is too much. I mean, magic, seriously." She shook her head. "Why couldn't they just ignore it like you, Jackie? What's wrong with living normally?"
"I was only able to ignore it because I never had enough of it to truly matter," said Miss Jackie. "And there's nothing particularly wrong or right about living normally, whatever that is. It's how people inevitably react when they see something unfamiliar and uncomfortable and potentially more powerful than you."
Mrs. Lestrade grimaced at that.
"…Okay," said Mrs. Lestrade. "I'm not afraid of you, by the way. I never could be."
Miss Jackie smiled. It looked sad, but also very, very grateful. "Thank you."
Mrs. Lestrade left the flat shortly afterwards. Miss Jackie lingered a bit longer to help sort out the official warning Harry got from the Improper Use of Magic Office for using a hover charm in front of Muggles. She printed out several screen shots of Dobby, wrote a formal letter of appeal to Mafalda Hopkirk, and suggested John get in contact with Harry's head of house at Hogwarts since Ministry Officials may have trouble accepting Muggle photos. John mentioned Mr. Weasley, who worked for the Ministry, and Miss Jackie told John to get in contact with him. Then she, too, left.
Sherlock was very excited when John told him what happened later that night.
"Underage magic is detected by proximity only, and the actual person who did it may not be identified under certain conditions," he muttered, eyes gleaming. "Harry was standing close to the house-elf. It's reasonable to assume the Ministry of Magic is keeping track of all underage magicals. In this predominately non-magical neighbourhood, it's not surprising the Ministry of Magic assumes Harry did all magic performed in his proximity. But should Harry perform magic in a magic-dense area where wizards and witches are everywhere, chances are the Ministry won't be able to tell."
"No," said John pre-emptively rejecting whatever Sherlock was going to suggest.
"But John," Sherlock said, using the wheedling tone and look.
"No," John said, more firmly. "No magic experiments until the warning is rescinded. You don't want Harry to get expelled, now, do you?"
Sherlock waved dismissively. "There's no reason for the warning to stand, not with the evidence we supplied."
"You do realize we're dealing with bureaucracy, right?" said John. "There's going to be delays, and a rejection or two just to spice things up a bit. Paperwork will get lost. Then something else will go wrong. It won't help our case if we did something we said we didn't do."
As it turned out, the appeal process didn't take the month John predicted. They got another letter from the Improper Use of Magic office yesterday morning, which stated the Ministry of Magic had accepted their appeal and will retract the warning. Thank you, have a good summer holidays.
"That was quick," John remarked.
Sherlock sprang up from his seat. "Diagon Alley!"
John shoved him back to his seat. "Stamford Greene's Magical Bowling Alley. Dumbledore's going to meet us there."
"That's not until tomorrow evening!" Sherlock complained, trying to get up.
John sat on him. "Exactly. No rush. Now do you want me to invite Lestrade over the phone, or do you want to do it yourself in person so you can meddle in the case he's been working on this past week?"
Sherlock beamed. "I knew I asked you to marry me for a good reason."
"It only came up because you were going to die," John reminded him.
"But you agreed to it. Obviously my qualities as a husband met your expectations."
"You didn't even meet my minimum requirements. But that's okay, no one's perfect."
"Now this Voldemort character…"
Harry blinked back to the present. The adults had moved on from talking about Voldemort at his height to his fall.
"So he showed up Halloween night at the Potters' safe house and tried to kill Harry," John was saying. "Harry was, what, a year-old? Now I can understand LV wanting to kill Harry's parents, since they were elite members of the Resistance, but why would he target a baby? Revenge? Warning? Prophecy foretelling his Doom? What?"
Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows ascended to his hairline.
"You've actually mentioned the main reason, John, I can tell you that much. I can also tell you Lord Voldemort didn't lightly attack people in person."
John's eyebrows ascended too. "Really?"
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Only the most powerful witches and wizards received his personal attention, which raises the question why he considered personally killing three children that year."
"Three?"
Dumbledore nodded grimly. "Harry was one of the three."
There was a pause.
"Did he kill Cecilia?" asked Mr. Lestrade. He had the torn look of someone who desperately wanted to know but dreaded knowing the answer.
Dumbledore regarded Mr. Lestrade thoughtfully. Then he bowed his head. Mr. Lestrade covered his mouth and his eyes welled up with tears.
"I had to know. I'm sorry, but I had to know," Mr. Lestrade muttered. "I got into Serious Crimes because I had to know: who killed her and why. Damn it, I finally know who did it, but I still can't close the case. Damn you, Cecilia!" he suddenly roared. "Of all the ways you could've got yourself killed, why did you pick murdered personally by evil dark lords?!"
Then Mr. Lestrade let out a choked sob and buried his face in his hands. Mrs. Lestrade wrapped her arms around him and wept silently. Miss Jackie had her arms around Julia, who buried her face in her bosom, and she held her tightly. Miss Jackie didn't weep, but her eyes seem to contain all the sorrow in the world.
Harry looked away. There was nothing else he could do.
-oo00oo-
The exchange left everyone very subdued. Miss Jackie glided over to the food stand and returned with enough tea to go around twice. Once the tea was drunk and the biscuits were consumed, Dumbledore spoke with the Lestrades.
"It is a tad early, but I believe today is as good as any," said Dumbledore. "Hogwarts is happy to extend Julia a place. Her name has been down in our admissions books since she was born."
"You have magical ways to find magic kids? Because I'm pretty sure my father-in-law didn't apply Julia to your school," said Mr. Lestrade.
"Indeed, yes," Dumbledore replied.
"What is she going learn there? Besides magic, I mean?" asked Mrs. Lestrade.
Dumbledore told them about the astronomy classes, History of Magic, and flying lessons. Mr. Lestrade looked satisfied, but Mrs. Lestrade frowned.
"So you don't offer English and Literature? No art classes?" she asked.
"Alas, no," said Dumbledore regretfully. "We have extracurricular clubs that allows students to study those subjects on their own, but they are not part of the official curriculum. I've been petitioning the school board for additional budget so we can have music classes at least, but so far my defeat has been complete."
Mrs. Lestrade scratched her head. "No offence, sir, but the education Hogwarts offer sounds very … um, skewed."
"It's a school of magic, what else were you expecting?" Sherlock groused.
Mrs. Lestrade glared at him. "Doesn't mean you have to cut off everything else!"
"Good riddance," Sherlock dismissed.
"It's a good thing people like you are rare," Mrs. Lestrade snarled.
Harry mentally clapped. Mrs. Lestrade definitely had strong nerves.
"The other side of the problem is the lack of qualified teachers," said Dumbledore calmly, while Sherlock and Mrs. Lestrade glared at each other. "We don't have schools for those who wish to dedicate themselves to literature and arts. It would be nice if the transition from Hogwarts to a Muggle university were easier, but many of our kind do not see any point in learning from our Muggle peers."
He sighed. Then he turned to Miss Jackie.
"May I ask what educational path you've taken, Ms. Jacqueline?" Dumbledore asked.
Miss Jackie rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.
"I studied at Emmanuel College, and got a degree there. I tried the scholar route, but I couldn't … Well, I applied to Royal Academy of Music for a lark, and I got in and finished with a degree in classical music. I teach piano now."
"When you're not teaching cello, guitar, drums, violin or whatever instrument the student fancies," injected Mrs. Lestrade.
"Or composing and performing," Mr. Lestrade chimed in.
"Stop it," Miss Jackie muttered to her hands, flushing ugly pink up to her ears. Sherlock looked disgusted.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, beamed.
"Could I possibly entice you to be Hogwarts' first music instructor?"
Miss Jackie looked up surprised—and confused. "But you just said Hogwarts doesn't…"
"Please?" said Dumbledore, looking distressed in an exaggerated way. "After hiring yet another Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher after the previous one lasted only a year and meeting the only available candidate, I'm inclined towards a bit of recklessness. Giving the students the gift of music is the least I can do."
Miss Jackie stared, wide-eyed and then floundered. After waving her slim hands about, she drooped and said she'd think about it. She only moonlighted as a music teacher, and she had a day-job as a systems engineer for a Muggle firm in London.
"Thank you. Now," Dumbledore clapped his hands. "I have only one more thing to ask from you. Would you terribly mind if you gave us a small concert? Consider it part of the interview process."
Mr. Lestrade immediately requested Miss Jackie to play Smooth Criminal on Cello. Mrs. Lestrade said no, Jackie must play the Charlie Brown Medley number on Piano. John suggested the My Sassy Girl version of Pachelbel's Canon, and Sherlock, true to form, called everyone philistines and declared Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu was the obvious choice.
"That's all nice, but there's this small problem of not having any instruments," said Miss Jackie.
Dumbledore conjured a cello, several violins, two guitars and a black grand piano with a casual flick of his wand. Miss Jackie stared at the instruments, at Dumbledore, and back again.
"Of course. Magic," said Miss Jackie, dazedly. "Appa was right. I can never be a witch. Julia, what do you want me play?"
Julia Lestrade thought for a moment.
"STAR WARS!" she declared.
Miss Jackie flashed the first grin Harry had ever seen.
"Okay."
She sat down with the cello between her knees. She picked up the bow and adjusted the strings. Then she tapped the frog smartly on her palm.
The bow turned into a lightsaber.
Before Harry could wrap his mind around this, Miss Jackie proceeded to play The Imperial March.
By the time she played five different Star Wars Themes, it was clear "playing the cello" didn't adequately describe what Miss Jackie could do with a cello. Besides the normal bowing and plucking, Miss Jackie used the cello as a percussion instrument, drumming the body with her palms and fingers, and beating the strings with the stick-side of the bow. She never missed a note when transitioning from percussion to bowing and vice versa, and somehow all worked.
The entire bowling alley burst into an applause when Miss Jackie finished. Dumbledore wiped his eyes.
"Ah, music," he said, sounding very moved indeed. "Magic beyond anything a wizard can do. Miss Jacqueline, I welcome you to Hogwarts."
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: I really shouldn't spend so much time writing, but I had a lot of free time at work, so ... ahem. I hope I didn't scare people with the logic. It was mostly inspired by this quote from S2E1: "My brother has the mind of a scientist or a philosopher, but he elects to be a detective." I figured I'd give Sherlock the chance to play the philosopher a bit. The thesis is going well, thank you all those people who wished me luck. :)
Big kudos and recs to ThePianoGuys. The concert is a very obvious nod to Steven Sharp Nelson and the Cello Wars.