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 Twenty Six: The Grandmaster
John knew the moment the kids stepped off Hogwarts Express that something was wrong. Harry was worrying the inside of his mouth, and Julia clung to Lestrade and refused to let go. Neither of them was inclined to talk, so John and Lestrade were left to share confused and worried looks until they went their separate ways.
The cab dropped John and Harry off in front of 221B. The room above was brilliantly lit, and, even as John looked up, Sherlock's tall and sparse figure passed twice in a dark silhouette against the window. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest. To John, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was in Work-mode. John unlocked the door and helped carry Harry's trunk upstairs.
Sherlock's manner of greeting was not effusive. It seldom was. But he was glad, John thought, to see Harry. Hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved Harry to the armchair, and indicated the mug of hot-chocolate on the side table. Then he stood before the fire and looked Harry over in his singular introspective fashion.
"Violin suits you," he remarked. "You've progressed well beyond scales and are learning actual pieces."
"I was going to start pieces this week," Harry said.
"I would've thought you had a preview at least. Ah, you did, but you never had an actual lesson," Sherlock frowned. "So Jacqueline was the latest victim?"
"How did you know?"
"Jacqueline prefers to move quickly to actual pieces, and let students acquire technique along the way. You already know how to read sheet music, so it is a matter of acclimatizing yourself to the violin. The callus development on your fingers shows you've been practicing almost daily, some fingers more frequently than the others. Doing more than just scales, obviously; therefore, pieces. But Jacqueline hasn't started those lessons. She never interrupts lessons for anything short of ill-health, but you're fine, and she has been in regular communication with me until last week. The interruption is from her side then, but it's not illness. Nothing short of death, unconsciousness or forced immobilization will stop Jacqueline from doing her job, so— she's the latest victim."
"But I saw her last Thursday at the clinic!" John protested.
"It was probably her clone," said Harry.
"Come again?"
"Miss Jackie has a spell that lets her duplicate herself," Harry explained. "She's been sending her duplicates to do most of her Muggle work."
"Doppelganger spells. Figures," John muttered. "How do you know it's the actual her that was Petrified?"
"Clones can't do magic, and the not-petrified Miss Jackies couldn't do any," said Harry. To Sherlock he said, "So you were working with Miss Jackie to get to Hogwarts. I thought you might be, when I found Miss Jackie's notes."
"Do you have them?" asked Sherlock, eyes gleaming.
"We found this stuffed inside a Tuba," said Harry. He opened his messenger bag and pulled out a large leather-bound journal that had a red lanyard closure with an intricate Chinese butterfly knot and black stone ornament attached to the front cover. "No one could understand what she wrote down, though."
John took a look at the notes as Sherlock perused the journal and immediately understood why. Jacqueline hadn't written down her notes in a linear fashion like a normal human being, but had drawn them out in beautifully illustrated diagrams that had branches radiating out from the center node, and less than 10% of the written words were English.
"We only thought this was her anti-magic barrier notes because of this," said Harry, pointing out a page that had a branch labeled in dark red letters 'Anti-magic' somewhere in the middle of the upper right hand quadrant. A branch radiating out from the anti-magic branch was labeled 'Sherlock' in black letters. "Dumbledore said the notes were written in code—it doesn't make sense if you just read it."
John sighed. "Jack, why?"
"Dumbledore said the same thing," said Harry, sighing too.
Sherlock glared at the notes as if they were personally offensive. Then, slowly, his furrowed brow cleared.
"Ah," he said. "I see."
"What do you see?" John asked.
"You know my methods," said Sherlock. "Use them."
"I can't make out anything, so quit stalling," John groused.
"On the contrary, you have at least one idea. Tell me."
John scowled at Sherlock before stating, "No one can possibly read these notes."
"Yes, exactly," said Sherlock. "These notes are not meant to be read. You recall Jacqueline got a laptop to work in Hogwarts. If she wanted someone who doesn't have non-magic prejudice to read and understand her notes, she would've typed it up in an electronic document."
"I have her laptop," said Harry brightly.
Sherlock beamed at him. "Excellent."
They pulled the laptop out from Harry's trunk. It was password protected, but the hint made the passcode rather obvious: 'what am I working on right now?'
"Anti-magic barrier," said Sherlock, typing.
He managed to log in after two tries (the first A had to be capitalized). Sherlock opened the folder labeled 'notes' on the desktop screen. The folder contained several documents, all of which had rather whimsical file names such as: 'The Magical Mobile Network – let the mockery begin', 'Sir Tim Berners-Lee will kill me if he sees this' and 'How to get sentenced for life in Azkaban without using any of the Unforgivables'. Sherlock ignored all of them and went straight for 'Dear Sherlock'. The document contained a typed letter from Jacqueline:
Dear Sherlock,
If you are reading this, that means I have failed to fulfill your request myself. So first off: I'm sorry.
As per our last conversation, there are three barriers that prevent you from visiting.
1. Physically arriving there
2. Without being seen by anyone
3. Without magic knocking you senseless
I have solutions for problems 1&3: use Floo and wear something soaked in special ink—regular ink won't do—mixed with J's blood. I haven't figured out how to solve problem 2 since the anti-magic properties of solution 3 would cancel out any disillusionment or invisibility charms, but AD assured me you have a way.
Sincerely,
JS
"Okay," said John. "Obviously Dumbledore is hinting at the invisibility cloak for problem two. But what does Jack mean by special ink?"
Sherlock palmed the black stone ornament attached to the red chord of the journal.
"This is an Inkstick," he said, "used in East Asian Calligraphy. You grind this against an inkstone with a small quantity of water to produce ink."
"Oh," said John. "I see. So the journal was meant to be found, not read. It was the lanyard that was important."
"Precisely," said Sherlock. "Most people who find this journal would overlook the lanyard as decorative—note the ornamental butterfly knot that further obfuscates its nature—and waste time trying to decipher the contents."
"Brilliant," said John. "So all we need is an inkstone."
Sherlock headed to the shelf full of odds and ends, and took a flat stone mortar that was carved so there was a small reservoir at one end and a tiny ceramic water pot.
"She sent these to me mid-November," he said.
Harry frowned at that.
"This file was last saved at the mid-November, too," he said. "And Dumbledore called me and Ginny to his office early November. Why did you wait for so long? Why did he want to talk to Ginny, anyway?"
"There is more than finding the culprit at stake," said Sherlock grimly. "The motive is simple enough to follow: Lucius Malfoy is using this fiasco to destroy the reputation of several people. The Hogwarts student populous has been on the verge of panic since Hallowe'en. If Dumbledore searched a student's belongings in such an atmosphere and news of it breaks out— which it will—the whole school will go in an uproar and the student's parents would face an inquiry. Summarily searching the belongings of all students will only generate a bigger uproar and a multitude of opportunities for the student to hide the trigger somewhere it would be harder to find, so that can't be done lightly either."
Harry looked flabbergasted.
"So Lucius Malfoy was behind this whole thing after all?" he stammered, "But how? The Chamber of Secrets was before his time and Draco isn't a parselmouth, so his family can't be Slytherin's descendants!"
"Lucius Malfoy planted the thing that triggered the attacks," said Sherlock. "Think, Harry: who is the biggest target of Lucius Malfoy's contempt? And when and where could he have planted the trigger on a Hogwarts' student?"
Slowly, comprehension dawned on Harry's face.
"Mr. Malfoy hates Mr. Weasley because he's against pure-blood supremacy. Mr. Malfoy gave the trigger to Ginny in Flourish and Blotts back in August. He picked up Ginny's old Transfiguration book and started that fight with Mr. Weasley to slip it into her cauldron."
"Or inside her book," said Sherlock. "Just think of the ways a book can be used for Dark Magic: one that burns your eyes out the moment you open it—hypnotizes you as you read the contents— the possibilities are endless."
Both John and Harry nodded.
"But speculation is pointless unless we can discover the trigger," said Sherlock. "So let's focus on making the ink."
He poured a bit of water to the inkstone and started grinding the Inkstick against the plane. John immediately noticed a bright glimmer that couldn't be explained by reflective lighting that sparkled off the black surface as the fresh ink collected in the reservoir. Sherlock poured the ink into a spray bottle and added more water to add volume. The black solution looked unremarkable unless you swirled it—then the bright glimmer returned to the surface as it rippled. John obligingly pricked a thumb with a sanitized pin and let a few droplets of blood mix into the ink. Immediately the ink bloomed with a darkness that seemed to swallow up all light that attempted to penetrate its opaque depths. Sherlock didn't bother to shake the solution; clearly it was unnecessary.
"Now to find an appropriate clothing to use this on," said Sherlock.
"How about your coat?" John suggested.
"Don't be absurd."
"You're going to wear it anyway, so why not?"
Sherlock scowled. "I'm not ruining my coat with ink!"
"It's either your coat or a bed sheet," John pointed out. "Bed sheets won't keep you warm."
"Bed sheet it is," said Sherlock, and flounced off to the bedroom.
John and Harry shared a look.
"Vain prat," said John fondly.
-oo00oo-
While Sherlock faffed around trying to find a substitute for his bloody coat, John and Harry sat by the sitting table and chatted. Harry talked more freely now that the burden of solving the mystery was fully in Sherlock's hands.
The double attack on Jacqueline and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick's fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas. The Weasley children were among the very few students who remained. Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny chose to stay at school rather than visit their oldest brother Bill in Egypt with Arthur and Molly. Percy, who disapproved of what he termed their childish behavior, told them pompously that he was only staying over Christmas because it was his duty as a prefect to support the teachers during this troubled time.
"Did you leave your phone with Ron?" asked John.
"Uh-huh," said Harry. "Should I tell him to wait for Sherlock in the Common Room with Ginny?"
"Yep. And as much as possible, try not to punch him," said John, and Harry grinned.
Eventually Sherlock burst into the sitting room brandishing his tartan bathrobe—"dressing gown, John," said Sherlock in a deeply offended tone—which he had sprayed liberally with the ink-blood solution. He put it on, draped Harry's invisibility cloak on top of it and completely vanished from sight.
"Perfect," said Sherlock's voice from somewhere around the fireplace.
John calmly drank a cup of tea whilst texting Dumbledore:
Sherlock is geared up and ready to brave Hogwarts. Ready when you are.
Dumbledore replied immediately:
Excellent. Now please enjoy a lovely Christmas at Mr. Lestrade's
-oo00oo-
Christmas arrived at London, cold and wet. John was woken up too early by Sherlock, who was doing unspeakable things. John retaliated in like manner until they both fell asleep again.
Harry burst into their room at around ten, still wearing his pyjamas.
"Merry Christmas!" he shouted, jumping into their bed.
Sherlock buried his face into the pillow and groaned. "What are you, six?"
John reached out to ruffle two set of black hairs as Harry ignored the grumpy comment and crawled into the space between them. "Merry Christmas to you, too," said John sleepily.
They unwrapped presents a couple of hours later by the Christmas tree, which this year John made to look like a five-foot tall Dalek with Mrs. Hudson, who was already imbibing the Christmas wine. Per tradition, John's gift from Sherlock was wrapped in the ugliest set of pyjamas known to man, with a pair of socks you wouldn't even wear at your own funeral tied on top like bow. John wore both items per tradition whilst ignoring the actual gift (a new laptop to replace the Macbook Sherlock destroyed in the name of Science). Hagrid had sent them a large tin of treacle fudge that had the consistency of solidified cement and needed to soften by the fire before consumption. The Grangers and Hermione sent singing Christmas cards and tooth-flossing string mints. Ron gave Harry a bulging bag of dung-bombs, and Molly sent three hand-knitted jumpers and a large plum cake.
"What did you get for Mr. Weasley?" asked Harry as he pulled his new jumper over his head.
"A remote control car," said John, unwrapping an anonymous gift was the clearly from Snape—it had a clear vial of transparent potion that was laconically labeled: 'for liars'—wondering if Snape got the bag of Kona coffee they'd sent and if Dumbledore was really enjoying the wooly socks he claimed to want instead of books everyone insisted on gifting him. "We wanted to get him a helicopter, but it was too expensive and Molly would probably burst a vein."
"And an RC car won't?" said Sherlock, wrinkling his nose at his Weasley Jumper, which was violet, large, and didn't suit him at all.
"I don't think so," said John firmly. "Arthur only goes berserk when mundane air travel enters the picture."
They spent a lazy afternoon nibbling on Mrs. Hudson's minced pies and playing a wizard game called Exploding Snap. At John's prompting, Harry called Mycroft to bid him a very Merry Christmas in a bright, enthusiastic voice. Silence prevailed on the line for a full minute before Mycroft stiffly replied 'likewise' and abruptly ended the call, much to Sherlock's amusement. Thus having observed all formalities and necessary ribbing of family members, and tucking a dozing and drunken Mrs. Hudson to bed, Sherlock, John and Harry went to Lestrade's Christmas dinner party.
Lestrade's flat looked magnificent. Now that magic was a shared secret, Lestrade's former in-laws went out of their way to make the Christmas festivities as magical as possible. Minor issues like spatial limitations were quickly tossed to the side. The inner dimensions of Lestrade's modest three-room flat now rivaled a minor cathedral. Eight frost-covered, brilliantly lit Christmas trees bordered the living room walls, thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossed the ceiling, and enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the newly conjured glass chandelier decorated with real fairy lights, much to the delight of the kids. The floating candles John had only seen in photographs were everywhere, providing a warm glow to the overall lighting. Jason, who was an aspiring chef, not only provided a ten course meal worthy of a Michelin star restaurant, but gave them all a tour to his portable greenhouses in which he grew all his grains, produce and herbs, as well as his magical state-of-the-art kitchen. The concept was similar to a wizard tent, except Jason didn't use something as pedestrian as a tent, but kept the doors to his greenhouses and kitchen inside a drawstring bag, which had an undetectable extension charm, and attached the doors to a wall for instant access. Even Lestrade, who was still wary of magic, was impressed at this.
"So this is how you grow your own food," he said, staring at the vast interior of the greenhouse full of fruit trees and vegetables.
"Yep," said Jason proudly. "Feel free to take what you like when you like. I'll leave a door."
"Great. Thanks," said Lestrade with a funny look on his face. "So you wizards have a solution to world-hunger."
"I wish," Jason groaned. "Like, last year when South Africa had that huge draught, I stupidly tried to distribute fresh veggies and cereals, and everyone wanted to know how I got hold of the water supply to, you know, grow them locally, because obviously the fruit was freshly picked—"
"They asked you that kind of questions?" said Lestrade, surprised. "I figured they'd be too hungry to care."
"Oh, trust me, they do," said Jason, shuddering a little. "I also almost got caught in a huge riot in Haiti after that earthquake when the people there thought the UN was handing out expired rations. The hysteria was so bad I scrapped the idea of setting up a food kitchen and just focused on conjuring and handing out water bottles."
Ellen and Lestrade relaxed to their magical surroundings and displays of magic after this exchange. Jeremy transfigured a pile of sugar-cubes into all sorts of old-fashioned toys for Martin and Rupert to play with and convinced Lestrade to hand over his suits to make alterations that guaranteed the next time Greg wore them, it would cause people's internal organs and undergarments to implode on sight. Jacqueline's three clones provided live music when one of them weren't distracting Sherlock with the contents of Jason's greenhouses (he was deeply fascinated at the bees Jason kept for honey and pollination). Even the dour and saturnine Mr. Shin charmed Ellen, Greg and the all the children with his enchanted origami, which folded and unfolded themselves smoothly into a flock of birds that nibbled affectionately at their ears, a herd of tiny horses that galloped realistically, and a dragon that breathed real fire and paper cranes, directing their movements via his hands like a conductor of an orchestra.
"S'not bad, this magic business," said Lestrade, slurring slightly after his fifth helping of mulled wine.
John took a deep draught of wassail. "Yeah; and the way Dumbledore fixed my shoulder was pretty sleek."
"Oh, yeah?" said Lestrade, grinning stupidly as the children pointed and laughed at the paper dinosaur that lurched at their direction, roaring. "Hey, do you think he could fix your—"
John knew where this was going. "Stop gossiping with your wife, Lestrade."
Lestrade hastily dropped the subject and joined the kids in their battle against the paper dinosaur that was probably a miniature Godzilla. John headed to Jason's kitchen, ostensibly to fetch more wassail. John wanted to corner Jacqueline, but the idea of talking to her clone, even one that was a perfect copy of Jacqueline, felt weird.
Six Jasons were working inside the kitchen when John entered. John asked the Jason doing something vicious to a vat of eggnog where the real Jason was, and the clone pointed at the Jason slumped in front of the blazing pizza oven. John sat next to the hunched figure that looked younger than his purported twenty years.
"How are you holding up?" asked John.
Jason rubbed his eyes. "I'll live."
"Is it really necessary, pretending like nothing's wrong?" asked John quietly.
"Jack's going to recover, and this is more important," said Jason stubbornly. "Greg and Ellen needs to befriend magic and soon. You can't live in war against something that's part of you and stay sane."
John recalled the children's book by Brian Bumblebee. "Going insane hating your magic is a sad reality, I take it?"
"Happens more often from where Dad was raised," confirmed Jason. "It's a pretty common thing there, Muggle parents abandoning their Magic children in temples or handing them over to shamans. A lot Asian countries don't have the kind of Muggle-born support system the Western countries have. You can imagine how a child reacts when they realise their parents abandoned them because of their magic."
John nodded, sobered at the news. "Did Jack insist you guys carry on, no matter what happens?"
"She told us to not stop at anything short of death, yeah," said Jason, wiping his nose. He pulled a face. "Ew, gross, I can't believe I just did that. Excuse me; I need to wash my hands."
Jason marched over to the sinks and splashed water all over his hands, face and hair. Then he started shouting in Italian, which made all his clones bellow 'Bene!' and work like things possessed. Knowing Jason chose to work so hard he could momentarily forget the fact his older sister was petrified by the darkest sort of magic out there, John left the kitchen with a large pint of wassail. John wasn't about to point out the wrongness of the situation for the sake of pointing it out—that was Sherlock's thing—when the Shin family was already risking so much disclosing their hidden world as much as they could dare.
John surveyed the living room after stepping out of kitchen. Jeremy was dazzling Rupert and Martin with the pure white owl he purchased from Kazakhstan. Julia was levitating a snow globe with the new Ollivander wand her grandfather got her for Christmas, squealing: "Daddy! Daddy, it works!" and Ellen and Greg were clapping, looking a bit dazed. Harry had his own wand out, and was making a rattle do cartwheels for baby Elise's amusement. Elise giggled and squeaked in Ellen's arms, and made grasping motions at the rattle.
John looked down and contemplated the wassail. Downing it one go sounded like a very good idea. Unfortunately, Sherlock snatched the pint away before John could carry it out.
"I need your wits about tonight," he said.
"Need it for Dutch courage," grunted John, before frowning. "Wait, I'm going?"
"Of course," said Sherlock, looking affronted. "Since when did you back off from danger?"
"I don't think the cloak can cover you and me."
"We'll be fine."
"What about the Muggle-repelling spells?"
"John, I'll be wearing a dressing gown sprayed with your blood, which is incidentally coursing through your veins. So no, I don't think you need to worry about Muggle-repelling spells."
"Right, stupid question," John sighed. "So when and how do we start?"
The two of them jumped that very moment when Mr. Shin literally materialized next to Sherlock's elbow. John checked the paper Godzilla, and, yes, it was still roaring around according to the other Mr. Shin's directions.
"This Doppelganger spell is really useful and really creepy," John declared.
"The proper name is bunshin sool," said Mr. Shin brusquely. "I am going to Hogwarts now. Follow me."
He strode away. Though Mr. Shin was more than a foot shorter than Sherlock, and five inches beneath John's zenith, they still had trouble catching up to his odd, bowlegged walk. John swore there was some kind of magic going on that was letting Mr. Shin powerwalk faster than an Olympian sprinter.
Mr. Shin led them to the door to Jason's greenhouse dedicated to growing grain. John braced for the sight of yards upon yards of wheat and rice fields, and still couldn't help but marvel at the magic. Mr. Shin marched up to the small barn in the center, which had operational chimney.
Mr. Shin stood abruptly in front of the large fireplace.
"Are your shoes silent?" he asked.
"They're both rubber-soled," Sherlock replied.
"Your anti-magic protection?"
"Made according to your daughter's instructions."
"How will you stay out of sight?"
"We have an invisibility cloak."
"I see you have a natural turn for this sort of thing," said Mr. Shin, now reaching for the brass pudding pot on the mantelpiece. "You must remain silent and follow me at all times. You cannot be caught; we are violating more laws than you can count. I'm only helping because it is unacceptable to leave the situation as is any longer. Now hold onto me. Floo is not known for its comfort or ease."
"How will we communicate to you?" asked John, grabbing the back panel of Mr. Shin's coat.
Mr. Shin took a pinch of glittery powder.
"Think loudly," he said. Then he threw the Floo-powder into the fire and cried: "Hogwarts!"
-oo00oo-
John and Sherlock stumbled out of a fireplace inside a large chamber. Sherlock looked disoriented, which was expected since it was the first time he'd traveled through the Floo-network and all the spinning and speeding pass hundreds of fireplaces had that kind of effect to first-time travelers. Nevertheless he recovered more quickly than John; he seized John's hand in the semi-darkness, pulled her swiftly to his side and flung the invisibility cloak over them while Mr. Shin calmly brushed the soot off his coat. Still holding John's hand in one of his, Sherlock followed after Mr. Shin as he left the chamber through the open door and entered a long hallway.
John tried very hard not to let her eyes wander. The hallways of Hogwarts were exactly as Harry had described on numerous occasions. The paintings were indeed moving, and few of the subjects followed them through several portraits to keep up with Mr. Shin's regal strides, pushing aside the actual occupants and staring. The suits of armor were there, and so were the ghosts, gliding eerily at a distance. The torches on the walls were burning low, and their light lent long, gloomy shadows on the embedded columns and stone archways. The air was as frigid as one can expected of an old castle built of ancient stone, standing tall in the midst of a snow storm that battered its tall darkened windows.
Mr. Shin took a sharp turn and entered another corridor, broader and higher than the one they'd just left. At the end of the corridor were four people. John recognised Snape, in his usual black, and Dumbledore, resplendent in sweeping robes of midnight blue. McGonagall was standing next the headmaster, pale but stern in her robes of deep green. Lockhart was fidgeting a little apart from the group. He jumped when he noticed Mr. Shin's silent approach and tried to further straighten his Lilac-colored robes and matching hat.
Sherlock clutched John closer to his side as Mr. Shin came to a halt. They watched Dumbledore placed a hand over his heart and make a small bow.
"Grandmaster Shin," said Dumbledore.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," Mr. Shin returned, formally. "I come to see my daughter."
Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.
"The hospital wing is right here, Grandmaster Shin— please feel free …"
Mr. Shin and Dumbledore entered the Hospital wing. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professor McGonagall and Snape. Sherlock and John noiselessly followed just as the door started to close.
John silently surveyed the chamber. There were series of beds with white sheets, and privacy screens on standby for each, except the ones that were drawn around the beds. A large iron chandelier was hanging off the highest point of the arched ceiling, and the candles there were burning brightly. A middle-aged woman wearing a pink cardigan over brown robes and white apron came out of an office—the long-suffering and sainted Madam Pomfrey, John figured, putting a mental note to send her a long thank-you letter and an elaborate bouquet at the next opportunity. Madam Pomfrey led them to a screened bed at the far end, and drew the curtains away so Mr. Shin could enter.
The first thing that struck John was how frozen Jacqueline looked, how pale and still, with her eyes wide-open and face set in an expression of polite surprise. The expression grated John a bit—if there ever was a time Jacqueline, who could beat Sherlock in imitating a porcelain doll if she was so inclined, should show obvious signs of shock, it would be caught indirectly staring at the eyes of fifty foot long Basilisk.
Mr. Shin ran a thumb down her cheek, his face like a carved mask.
"Completely petrified," he muttered. Then in his native tongue he said something harsh and mournful. John, who'd been stationed at his homeland for about two years, got the gist of it: why must you worry me so, you silly girl…
"I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou," piped Lockhart, "a series of attacks, the full story is in my autobiography; I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once … Of course, the petrified victims had to be cured separately…"
Mr. Shin ignored him. "What is being done?"
"We are waiting for the Mandrakes Professor Sprout had procured to mature so we can brew the Mandrake Restorative Draught," said Dumbledore calmly. "She has informed me that they're turning moody and secretive, so they are fast leaving childhood."
Mr. Shin's expression only darkened. "You have no mature specimens?"
"We always start with seedlings in the beginning of our fall term."
Mr. Shin sighed. "I shall ask my son Jason if he has more mature specimens. He has been scattering the planting times to ensure the medicinal plants are always available."
"Thank you," said Dumbledore. "This is wonderful news. The sooner we can restore our victims, the better."
"I'll make the Restorative," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep—"
"Excuse me," said Snape icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."
There was a very awkward pause.
"What else do you need?" asked Mr. Shin quietly, his eyes burning dark.
"A way to find out how the attacks are taking place," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling brightly.
Mr. Shin fell into a brief introspective silence, as though he was seriously considering the request.
"You don't recognise my methods," said Mr. Shin. "Will you still allow me, despite knowing this, to conduct a search through the school?"
"Absolutely."
Mr. Shin bowed. "You are too kind."
"No," said Dumbledore, beaming, "I'm fascinated."
Mr. Shin gracefully rose to his feet and walked towards the exit. As he did so, he flicked back his coat, and what looked like hundreds of glass rose petals flew out from its folds. They fluttered in the air like so many snowflakes for a few seconds before they froze, crumpled into themselves and shot out the Hospital Wing looking like a phalanx of falcons when Mr. Shin opened the door.
"I may speak to some of the students," said Mr. Shin, pausing dramatically at the threshold with the door held open (so Sherlock and John can leave) to address the stunned teachers standing behind him. "Beware: I will not be kind."
Then he left. John felt Sherlock rumbling with silent laughter as they waited for Mr. Shin to walk pass.
"Western magic users love theatrics," said Mr. Shin as he walked ahead. "Give them a show of your power and you can get away with much."
So the petals were all for show? John thought. If it was, it was mighty impressive one.
"They do serve a purpose beyond dramatics," said Mr. Shin, replying to the thought. "You shall see."
He marched on. Mr. Shin seemed to know the layout of the castle. Twice Mr. Shin led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, and John was just wondering how much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt. John looked around, and saw nothing but an empty corridor with coats of armor here and there. But Mr. Shin was staring at a spot like there was something there—something invisible.
"Show yourself, Poltergeist!" he commanded.
A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered. Mr. Shin's eyes narrowed.
"Do you want me to banish you?"
There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air.
"Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle, "Sickly Little Jackie's Daddy! What fun!"
"You must be Peeves."
"That's me!" said Peeves, wiggling his curly-toed feet. "Peeves, I am, I am Peeves!" Then he broke into song:
"Sickly Little Squib Jackie,
always falling over and wacky
can't even do magic, no she cannot,
Sickly Little Squib Jackie …"
Mr. Shin's unamused look could've halted a Dragon on a rampage.
"So you do wish to get banished," he said quietly.
Peeves paid no attention to Mr. Shin's words, except to blow a loud wet raspberry.
Mr. Shin put his hand into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a blood-red paper talisman about the size and shape of a playing card, and tossed it into the air. The talisman stopped about a foot from Mr. Shin's hand and its black symbols glowed gold. The wicked grin on Peeves' face fell off as he desperately tried to get away from the paper talisman that started sucking him in like a localized black hole, but his efforts were in vain. John felt a chill as Peeves, inexorably caught in the talisman's power, rattled the corridor with his screaming until he was completely absorbed inside the talisman.
Mr. Shin caught the talisman mid-air as it fluttered towards the floor, no longer glowing gold.
"I ought to burn this and destroy you completely," said Mr. Shin, addressing the silent red talisman, "A fitting end to one who persecutes my poor daughter as a Squib when she is not."
The talisman said nothing. Mr. Shin sniffed and put the talisman back into his inner coat pocket. Then he resumed his trek down the corridor. Sherlock and John followed him, John thinking (quietly, she hoped) Jack wasn't joking when she said threatening Shin June Hu's family could literally be last thing you do.
They stopped at the very end of the corridor, where a portrait of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress hung.
"Password?" she said.
"Wattlebird," said Mr. Shin, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They climbed over hole and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs. Ron and Ginny were lounging on the armchairs close to the fire, roasting marshmallows.
"Grandmaster Shin!" said Ron breathlessly, jumping to his feet.
Mr. Shin acknowledged him with a raised hand.
"You may reveal yourselves," he said.
Sherlock flung off the invisibility cloak immediately. John picked it up and rolled it around an arm.
"Remember, no traumatizing children—" John started, but Sherlock was already on the move.
"Ginerva Weasley!" growled Sherlock, marching towards Ginny, who was shocked still at his unexpected appearence. "I know what you found, what you did and what you failed to tell Dumbledore! Now speak up before it's too late!"
Ginny went white. Then she drew a great, shuddering gasp, and tears began to pour down her face.
"I d-didn't know," sobbed Ginny. "I found it inside one of the books Mum got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it. I didn't think—"
"What are you talking about?" asked Ron, alarmed.
"A d-diary," Ginny sobbed. "I-I found a diary in my t-transfiguration book. I've b-been writing in it, and t-the boy who owned it before's been w-writing back to me … I - I s-swear I d-didn't mean to – I-I thought h-he was nice, b-but then he started to t-take me over - and – and—"
"Where is it?" Sherlock demanded, "Where did you put it?"
"I threw it away!" Ginny wailed. "I chucked it down Moaning Myrtle's toilet!"
John pushed Sherlock out of the way and held Ginny close. Ginny buried her face into the jumper and soaked it with her tears. John rubbed the back of her head, murmuring assurances before glaring at the idiot.
"What d'you do that for?" John hissed. "I thought we agreed Ginny was just a carrier!"
"We did. I just wanted her to confess quickly," said Sherlock, smiling and unrepentant.
John wanted to punch him, but had an armful of shaking and weeping Ginny to hold. Not hindered by such things, Mr. Shin went ahead and left Sherlock sprawling.
"God forbid you ever have daughters!" he thundered. "Your disregard of the human heart shall be your downfall!"
Sherlock got up unsteadily, clutching his jaw. "Well, that was…"
Mr. Shin raised his fist again, and Sherlock shut up, surprising John more than a little.
"You have no idea what she had to contend with—none at all!" barked Mr. Shin. Then he knelt before Ginny, and said gently, "You are a very brave girl. Not many would've done as well as you. Yes," he said when Ginny peered at him through tear-filled eyes. "I know what had enchanted you. And heaven help the man who so blithely used it on you."
"So what is it, this dairy?" asked John. "What happened to Ginny sounds a lot like possession."
Mr. Shin sighed.
"I envy western magic people. Even their evils are less harmful than the things I had to face as a boy. For you, wands are benign things, eager to help you. For me, wands are dangerous things, ready to possess you, take you over at the slightest weakness."
"So it's a type of blood wand?" asked Ron apprehensively.
"If only," said Mr. Shin mournfully. "One uses human blood, dragon heartstrings, unicorn hairs and phoenix feathers for wand cores because they are powerful magical substances capable of channeling magic. All of them have the capacity to overtake you, but never will because they neither have the power nor will to do it. However, there exists something far more powerful than all of these and thoroughly able to turn you into a puppet."
"Which is?"
"A soul," said Mr. Shin, "a soul of a human-being."
Mr. Shin turned his back on Ron and Sherlock, who were utterly shocked. John held the shaking Ginny more tightly.
"When I was nine years old, my adoptive father, who was one of the five leaders of my country's magic community, tried to use me to create a soul wand," said Mr. Shin tonelessly. "He selected me specifically; I manifested magic since the womb, and was hailed a prodigy since I was a hundred days old. He took me away from my birth father, after convincing him that I needed special care and upbringing. I was thus raised like a lamb for slaughter, calling the thief who stole me 'father', while my real father watched me grow up from a distance. The day I learned the truth was the day my real father sacrificed his own life to save mine." He closed his eyes briefly. "I later learned I was one of the hundreds who were so selected and their souls locked into objects to be used as wands. Since then I made it my mission to destroy all soul wands to set free the captive souls within. I destroyed many national treasures in the process."
"So that's why you were kicked out of your country," said Ron in awed voice. "Dad wondered about that a lot."
"There is nothing you can pay in exchange of a soul," said Mr. Shin flatly, "nothing. I have said this then, and I will say this now. I care not how historically significant or valuable an object is—if it was created at the expense of a person's soul, I will destroy it."
There was moment of silence after this pronouncement.
"We need to question Myrtle," said Sherlock, much subdued. "You know the proper way to ask questions to a ghost, yes?"
Ron nodded. "Ask how she died first."
"Find out who picked up the diary. When did you throw it away, Ginny?"
"The first week of December," answered Ginny tremulously. "Wednesday, I think."
"It took about a month for the new owner to fall under the diary's control," muttered Sherlock. "You said the old diary's owner wrote back to you. What is his name?"
"T-Tom," whispered Ginny. "Tom Riddle."
"Tom Riddle?" repeated Ron, taken aback. "But he was the one who banished the Basilisk the last time!"
"What does this mean?" said John. "Did the Heir of Slytherin make a soul wand out of Tom Riddle in revenge? And if Tom's soul is the one orchestrating the attacks, why is he working for the Heir of Slytherin now?"
"Interesting questions, but not important right now," said Sherlock, his impatience returning. "We need to find the new keeper of the dairy. This new keeper doesn't know anything about Jacqueline or Tom wouldn't have picked her as the third victim. Tom would only have the new keeper as his source of information, correct?"
"Correct," said Mr. Shin.
"How many people know Jacqueline is a witch?" asked Sherlock.
"Dunno," said Ron. "About thirty people take music lessons, and they'd've seen her use the duplication spell at least once. They would've told their friends about it."
"But there is a rumour that she is a Squib," said John. "Peeves called her one. So it may not be public knowledge."
A clock chimed.
"We must leave," said Mr. Shin. "Get under the cloak. I must tell Dumbledore what he's dealing with."
He clapped once. Two glass falcons circled around Ron and Ginny and landed on their outstretched hands.
"These are my sentries," he told them. "When you find the diary, they will alert me. If the dairy puts you in danger, others just like them will come and help you."
"Cool," said Ron, staring at the tiny falcon.
"Shouldn't Harry, Hermione and Julia get one, too?" asked John from under the cloak.
"I already gave Julia five and I will give Harry two when we return to Greg's flat," said Mr. Shin. "Now silence."
John and Sherlock kept quiet all the way back to the Hospital Wing. Mr. Shin told Dumbledore he detected the presence of a soul wand—or something very much like one, he wasn't sure if westerners had the knowledge to create such a dastardly object, as they were more enthusiastic about destroying references to creating such things—but he didn't know where it was or who had it.
"Sorry I cannot help you more," said Mr. Shin.
"No," said Dumbledore. "You have answered many questions I had for a long time. Thank you, Grandmaster."
Mr. Shin turned to leave. The other teachers hovered too closely around him for Sherlock and John to get close enough to grab hold of his coat. Also, a rheumatic and hunchbacked old man who had pale eyes, jowls that quivered and thin grey hair, wearing a brown coat, stood in attention next to the fireplace. Dumbledore just hung back, looking mischievous, which made John wonder how they were going to leave without being detected.
Mr. Shin calmly turned to the old man by the fireplace.
"Are you Argus Filch?" asked Mr. Shin politely.
"Yes," grunted Filch. John smiled; so this was frequently maligned caretaker of Hogwarts.
"My sincere thanks for helping my daughter," said Mr. Shin. He put his hand into his coat, and pulled out a blood-red card. "Please take this."
Filch took the talisman looking bewildered and deeply suspicious, like he was sure he being made fun of. Mr. Shin lightly tapped the card in his hand.
There was a pop like an opening beer bottle, and Peeves sprang out of the card. The poltergeist zoomed away, screaming and quivering with genuine fear.
"A talisman that captures spirits and locks them inside," said Mr. Shin calmly to the gaping Filch. "It also captures poltergeists. I thought you might like it."
The grin that spread across Filch's face was positively demonic. Sherlock smothered John under his arm to stifle John's uncontrollable sniggering.
"PEEVES!" Filch roared, waving the red talisman like a sword. "I'll have you this time, I'll have you!"
And without a backward glance, Filch ran flat-footed from the Hospital Wing. The teachers jumped out the way as he rushed out. During the distraction, Sherlock tightened his grip around John, quickly navigated the two of them to Mr. Shin and seized the hem of his coat.
A brief smile appeared on Mr. Shin's face.
"Merry Christmas," he said, and then he tossed the Floo-powder into the roaring fireplace and vanished.
-oo00oo-
John, Sherlock and Mr. Shin returned to Lestrade's flat about two hours after they'd left it. No one remarked upon their absence, and John instantly knew why: Mr. Shin's doppelgänger was sitting dourly next to an illusion of John dozing against a deeply uncomfortable-looking Sherlock. The latter scene was not an uncommon one, and the others in the flat were giving them a wide berth so as to not interrupt illusion-John's nap and enjoy the sight of illusion-Sherlock in obvious discomfort.
"May you have many sons just like you," Mr. Shin muttered in his native tongue as he discreetly banished the illusion and doppelgänger once the three of them took their place.
"If that's an actual curse, please don't," pleaded John after making a show of waking with a start, "I'm going to be their Mum."
Mr. Shin put on a deeply unhappy face as he said something else in his native language. John didn't understand the phrasing, but was pretty sure 'why', 'married' and 'him' were in there somewhere. So John twirled a finger in a circular motion next to her ear and shrugged helplessly, which made Sherlock put on his kicked-puppy face. Mr. Shin patted John's arm sympathetically. Then he walked away, calling John a kindhearted idiot. It was possibly the nicest and most honest thing anyone said to John after they experienced the full brunt of Sherlock Holmes.
Lestrade took Mr. Shin's vacated spot shortly after this, trying but failing to swat Sherlock out of the way.
"You understand what my father-in-law is saying?" Lestrade whispered furtively after he gave up.
"Sort of," said John. "Why?"
"There's something I've been wondering for a while," said Lestrade, nervously checking to see if Mr. Shin was beyond earshot. "He keeps saying this phrase when I pick up Julia. Jack won't translate it, Julia doesn't understand, and Jeremy and Jason keeps telling me I'm happy not knowing." He scowled. "But I want to know."
John was definitely curious. Lestrade took out the recorder inside his pocket and played it. John was overcome by giggles as soon as Mr. Shin's recorded voice finished grumbling.
"He's calling me a brainless twat, isn't he?" said Lestrade, staring at John, who doubled over. "I knew it."
"No, no," gasped John, "He actually—ohmygosh," the giggles just wouldn't stop, "no wonder even Jeremy couldn't spit it out!"
"John," said Sherlock reproachfully while Lestrade hissed. "Just tell me!"
"Okay, okay," said John, breathing deeply to stop the giggles. Once they were under control, John told them: "He's basically wondering why Julia didn't take after her nice and handsome father and more after his stupid and violent daughter."
The look on Lestrade's face was priceless.
"Shut up," said Lestrade, completely flustered. "You're having me on!"
"Nope. I'm not lying," said John, hand up, "Soldier's honour."
Before Lestrade could deny again, Mr. Shin briefly stole a look at their direction. Then he reached out and patted Julia's head, saying the exact same thing Lestrade recorded on tape in a rather loud voice. Jeremy and Jason kept their faces straight with practiced ease and pointedly refused to look at their father's direction.
John and Sherlock laughed at the look of rising horror on Lestrade's face. Sometimes it was nice to have your perception of a person completely flipped over like a crepe.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Thus ends Sherlock and John's first trip to Hogwarts. ;-) Can you guess who has TMR's dairy now?