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 Thirty One: Uncomfortable Truths
Harry sat for a long time trying to make sense of the world after Robert D. Ju happened. Judging from the incredulous look on his face, poor Mr. Lestrade was doing the same thing. As for Sherlock and John, John looked unperturbed and Sherlock appeared to be deeply offended that there was someone weirder and more attention grabbing than him.
"So which ex-boyfriend is he?" Mr. Lestrade asked after collecting his bearings.
"Your face looks really good for punching, did you know that?" said John.
Mr. Lestrade was unrepentant. "Can't be number five, he has the wrong occupation and he didn't sound like a New Yorker. The other ones were from the wrong side of the continent—"
"Five?" Harry blurted.
"—he must be the ex-fiancé then," Mr. Lestrade finished.
Sergeant Donovan let out a derisive snort.
John did an eye roll. "Piss off. You just caught him at the worst possible moment. And stop gossiping with your wife, Lestrade, or my next blog entry is going to be about that incident at your Honeymoon."
Sergeant Donovan displayed horrified interest as Mr. Lestrade turned puce. Sherlock, on the other hand, was scowling fiercely.
"You and he were engaged."
"Several years back, yeah," John paused. "It didn't work out, obviously."
Sherlock continued to scowl. "Who initiated the break-up?"
"Not going to talk about it here," said John loudly.
The temperature in Mr. Lestrade's office seemed to drop several degrees as John and Sherlock glared at each other. Sergeant Donovan took the better part of valour and fled. Mr. Lestrade, who was stuck, looked like he truly regretted opening his mouth.
"Okay, sorry I even brought it up," said Mr. Lestrade, looking really tired. "So you wanted to know more about Sirius Black?"
Sherlock reluctantly tore his attention away, which surprised Harry. He expected Sherlock to snap his focus back to the case the moment Mr. Lestrade mentioned the escaped prisoner.
"When did you hear about Black?"
"Second week of July."
"Did the Home Office mention what he was convicted of?"
"Nah. We're kind of assuming he had ties to IRA bombings back in the nineties."
"Well, you are wrong. He has ties to the Others."
Mr. Lestrade reluctantly reviewed the two copies of the Daily Prophet articles Sherlock slapped on to his desk.
"As if the IRA wasn't enough," he said at length. "What do you need me for? I'm more clueless than you."
"I need to question someone who has insider information in the Ministry of Magic."
"Don't you have Arthur Weasley for that? No, wait, he's on a holiday…"
"Your ex-father-in-law, Lestrade," said Sherlock impatiently. "He's a Ministry of Magic member, and the head of the Department of Mysteries."
Five minutes later Mr. Lestrade was driving them over to Mr. Shin's home.
"I'm warning you right now, my father-in-law is in a fine mood," Mr. Lestrade growled. "Whatever you do, don't piss him off. Actually, you know what, I'll do the talking. You shut up."
"You never ask the right questions," said Sherlock petulantly.
"You don't know my FIL," Mr. Lestrade retorted. "You're going wish he's just going to turn you into a toad when he's really angry."
Mr. Lestrade asked Harry about his holiday in Yorkshire rather pointedly after this. Harry let out a gusting sigh and massaged his still aching muscles. As punishment for skiving off to Hebrides, John had put him through two hours of Army drill training. It had been three days since then and it was still painful to move sometimes.
"Boring as hell, yeah?" said Mr. Lestrade knowingly. "Are you still in disgrace for your Hebrides trip?"
"No," said Harry, looking down in embarrassment. "Er, is Julia…?"
"She was grounded," said Mr. Lestrade gravely. "And I confiscated her broom and phone. She's not getting them back until Jack gives me the green light."
They pulled over at a modest house near the University towns. Harry had a distinct feeling of being watched as they stepped out of the car and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as they approached the front door.
Mr. Lestrade noticed Harry's twitchiness.
"You feel that?"
"Feel what?" asked Sherlock sharply.
"Something like killing intent?" said Mr. Lestrade, waving his hand around. "John, you don't feel it either?"
"Nope," said John.
Mr. Lestrade furrowed his brow, looking very troubled. John and Sherlock shared a look. Harry knew what it meant for once. The three of them had a theory Mr. Lestrade was either an extremely late-blooming wizard or a Squib (the snide comments Sherlock made about the former earned him a pummelling). They never mention it to Mr. Lestrade because both options were bad news considering his general unease towards Magic and which pureblood wizard family he was likely member of; all the Lestranges they uncovered were either dead or sentenced to life in prison for actively supporting Voldemort ("Makes you wonder what would've happened if he was raised by his own family," John remarked). Definitely not something you casually bring up over tea.
Mr. Lestrade rang the bell. The door creaked open a fraction and a wane looking Mr. Shin peered out. He frowned (up) at Mr. Lestrade, John, Sherlock, Harry, and then drooped.
"This is about Sirius Black, is it not?"
"Sorry, sir," Mr. Lestrade mumbled, "duty calls."
Mr. Shin let them in, grumbling.
Harry stared at the interior as soon as he stepped in. The hardwood floor parlour was a step above the tiled entryway, and could comfortably fit a group of twenty people. The walls weren't papered, but painted egg-shell white. Furniture was sparse, and the few present were made of polished wood of fine craftsmanship, some possessing decorative ironwork around the edges. Potted plants and Jade-blue porcelain vases were placed here and there, some of the vases holding flowers, some paintings, calligraphy or lithographic patterns on their bodies, others none at all. After taking in the sight, Harry moved to enter the parlour, but then he realized Mr. Lestrade had taken off his shoes and left them behind before he stepped into the raised foyer. Harry hastily followed his example and took off his converses.
Harry tried not to slip on the polished wood floors as he followed after Mr. Shin in his socked feet, keenly aware there was a hole where his left big toe was. Mr. Shin opened a hinged door off the side of an airy living room that a very low table surrounded by six square cushions made of silk that had embroidery work depicting cranes, streams and pine trees in the centre. There was a small, cosy room behind the hinged door. It was furnished like the Muggle dining rooms Harry was used to, with a six-light chandelier on the ceiling, a circular table that had a white tablecloth thrown on top, wood frame chairs with cushions, and an oak showcase on the side.
"I'll put the kettle on," said Mr. Shin ironically as they took their seats.
Mr. Shin jabbed a finger at the chandelier and it lit up. He then opened the showcase, made beckoning gestures, and the tea set inside bobbled over to the table. After closing the showcase, Mr. Shin made a causal upward flicking motion. The sugar bowl filled itself with sugar cubes, the creamer with cream, biscuits piled on top of the platter, and the teapot stared steaming. John lifted the teapot cover and revealed it was full of tea, nice and hot.
"How do you do this?" said John wonderingly as Mr. Lestrade and Harry stared, open mouthed and mesmerized. Mr. Shin and Sherlock pulled their faces.
"It's not as hard as other magical people make it out to be," grumbled Mr. Shin like an extremely reluctant and grumpy magician who was forced to perform tricks against his will. "So you have questions."
Sherlock opened his mouth immediately, but John dug fingers into his thigh as a warning.
"What can you tell us about the manhunt to catch Sirius Black?" asked Mr. Lestrade while Sherlock fumed.
"All hands in the Ministry have been pulled from their regular jobs to try and find him," said Mr. Shin.
"Any luck?"
"None."
"How did Black get out of prison?" asked Mr. Lestrade. "What kind of prison is Azkaban anyway?"
"We don't know," said Mr. Shin as he spooned sugar into his tea. "Azkaban was supposed to be unbreakable."
"High security prison, I take it?" said John.
Mr. Shin set his teaspoon on his saucer and cradled the teacup between his hands.
"Only the worst criminals are kept in Azkaban," he said. "The prison is a stone fortress on a small island, far off in the North Sea. But what keep the prisoners inside are not the walls or waters. It is the Azkaban guards."
"The Dementors?" said Sherlock sharply, which earned a glare from John.
Mr. Shin nodded.
"What kind of creatures are they?" asked John. "The only reference we found said they can suck out your soul."
Mr. Lestrade blanched as Mr. Shin's face turned more darkly mournful still.
"They are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places. They glory in decay and despair, and drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Get too close to a Dementor and every good feeling every happy memory you possess will be sucked out of you. Spend too much time in their influence, and you will turn into something like them: soulless and evil. Plenty of Azkaban prisoners go mad in weeks, while others simply despair and die."
The four non-Shins sat in a disturbed silence.
"Guantanamo Bay sounds like a walk in the park in comparison," muttered John, pale and white lipped.
"Both are horrible in their own way," said Mr. Shin quietly. "Sirius Black has been incarcerated in Azkaban for almost twelve years. Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them for too long. Therefore he shouldn't have been able to escape without help. Yet here we are."
"So either he had help or he found a way to resist the Dementor's influence on his own," said Mr. Lestrade thoughtfully. "But why wait for so long to break out? What made him try now?"
"Yes, that is the question, is it not?" said Mr. Shin, clasping his hands under his chin. "Something motivated him, and it wasn't something that made him feel hopeful or happy. But it was strong enough to move a man who wasted more than a decade into action. Know what that motivation is, and you will know what he is trying to do right now. But the Ministry is not asking this question."
Sherlock considered it.
"Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is much more vicious motivator. Love is not an emotion, though it can produce and manifest a myriad of them. Among the negative options, jealousy is one, anger is another. Jealousy is too trivial for this kind of undertaking. Anger then."
"Yes, that sounds more reasonable," Mr. Shin agreed. "But what made him angry?"
Sherlock clicked his tongue irritably. "Data! I need more data! I can't make bricks without clay!"
"What kind of data do you need?" asked Mr. Shin.
"Everything related to Black during the days before he escaped Azkaban: His activities, mental state, visitors, prison inspections, anything."
"I'll see what I can do."
"You don't have the authority to look up this sort of thing?" asked Mr. Lestrade.
"The Department of Mysteries is not what you think," said Mr. Shin. "You need to take the word 'Mystery' more woodenly."
Harry, John, Sherlock and Mr. Lestrade stared at him.
"The Department of Mysteries study Mysteries," said Mr. Shin simply, "The mystery that is Death; the mystery that is Love; Time; Space; Prophecies; that sort of thing."
"Ooooh," said Mr. Lestrade, dazed.
"Wait, hang on. Are you saying there are such things as real prophecies?" John exclaimed.
"Oh, yes. We have an entire hall full of recordings of real prophecies," said Mr. Shin, "Or rather, predictions of the future. Prophecy is such a misunderstood term—"
"But divination is—"
"I do not speak of divination," said Mr. Shin impatiently. "I speak of predictions that accurately describe future events and also take a vital, meaningful part in shaping them."
Harry was still confused. John and Mr. Lestrade looked no better.
"I don't understand," said John.
"Divination assumes there is a hidden esoteric relationship between future events and seemingly unrelated things such as star patterns, palm lines or tea leaves," Mr. Shin explained. "You may justly scorn this notion. Even if there is a relationship, what meaning does it have in the grand scheme of things? Does it answer the questions of why you are here, where are you going, and what does life really mean? Emphatically: No!"
Harry stared in amazement as Mr. Shin, who started waving his teaspoon enthusiastically about, became more animated and passionate as he continued:
"True prophecies, on the other hand, appear without warning and seemingly unprompted even by the seer who utters them. Without fail they have a vital influence in shaping the history they predict. Can you not see what this means? That real prophecies exist implies a future narrative that has yet to unfold also exists. That prophecies do not merely observe future events, but take an active role in shaping it means it has a meaningful role in the narrative itself. Also, if there is a story, there has to be a storyteller. In short, there is an overarching story to our very existence, and the things that happen to us are not a collection of random events devoid of meaning. There is a cosmic storyteller who is overseeing the unfolding of history, and prophetic word is a vital way in which the cosmic storyteller shapes it. Understand the role of prophecy and nature, and you will understand the heart of the storyteller."
Harry smiled feebly. He was sure Mr. Shin was enthused for very good reasons, but he couldn't see it. Mr. Lestrade had a slightly lopsided grin on his face, like he was far too amused at Mr. Shin's uncharacteristic show of energy to think about much else. John, on the other hand, looked very excited.
"That was the most insightful thing I've heard in a long time, sir," said John eagerly and sincerely. "I never thought real prophecies are evidence for the cosmic storyteller."
Mr. Shin beamed.
"Could you go over your reasoning behind your definition of a real prophecy?" John asked. "You seem to put a lot thought behind it."
"Besides accuracy, which is the main test, there are several characteristics all real prophecies have," said Mr. Shin. "There is always a date component that limits the margin of error to a very small window. It also involves individuals, either currently living or to be born in the future. But the most intriguing thing is that—"
There was sharp click at the door. Harry looked around and realized Sherlock was no longer in the room. John's excitement died a painful death when everyone noticed his vacated chair. Mr. Lestrade palmed his face.
"Sorry, he's a prat," said Mr. Lestrade wearily.
"Not everyone finds this good news or even interesting," said Mr. Shin, looking rather rueful. "Be kind to him. It was I who got too carried away."
Mr. Lestrade thanked Mr. Shin and they took their leave. They found Sherlock pacing the living room.
"Dammit, Sherlock, couldn't you at least thank my FIL before you take off? He's really sticking his neck out for you, you know," Mr. Lestrade growled.
Sherlock sneered. "Please. He knows he has a better chance at finding Black if he works with me."
"After what I heard in there, I don't think so. Seems like he can reason things out as well as you do," Mr. Lestrade snapped.
Sherlock whipped around, no doubt to say something cutting and cruel. Mr. Lestrade dug both feet to the floor and folded his arms. Both were clenching their jaws before the bloody-free-for-all when John stepped into the fray.
"Mr. Shin's a top-class researcher. Of course he can reason things well. You're an investigator of crime, this is your specialty, not his," said John tiredly to Sherlock before rounding on both men. "Now cut it out, both of you! Do you realize how stupid you look like right now?"
Mr. Lestrade and Sherlock backed away from each other slowly.
"So what you going to do?" asked John curtly.
Sherlock started pacing again. "There is nothing more we can do about Sirius Black until Shin gets back. Might as well look into the poisoning case; could be the work of a budding serial killer."
"Okay. You go and have fun."
Sherlock skittered to a halt.
"You aren't going?" Mr. Lestrade sputtered in dismay.
"I think I'll stay here and talk to Jack," said John, looking away.
Sherlock glowered. "Oh, you're angry at me, so you won't help."
"Of course I'm angry at you. You make me angry all the time," snarled John, glaring up at the ceiling. "I don't think I should face Robert right now. Might do something I'll regret."
A terrible silence was just starting to fester when the rice-papered sliding door connecting the living room to the rest of the house slid open and a familiar looking girl wearing a white hoodie with narrow red stripes popped her head in.
"Harry! And Dad, you're early!" said Julia Lestrade happily.
Mr. Lestrade looked immensely glad and relieved as Julia bounded in, ponytail bouncing, and hugged his chest tightly. Her presence immediately banished the heavy air that was threatening to smother the group. John was smiling again, and even Sherlock felt well enough to roll his eyes at the onslaught of Fluff.
"I'm still working. Sorry, sunshine," said Mr. Lestrade regretfully, "Had to ask Grandpa some questions."
Julia made a disappointed noise. "So you're going back to the office?"
"After a bit of detour. I—"
"Are you doing interviews? Can I go too? I won't be in the way," asked Julia, bright brown eyes sparkling.
"Aren't you still grounded?"
"Auntie Jack let me out yesterday. So please Dad?"
Mr. Lestrade hesitated. "It's routine and boring. I don't think—"
"Please? I never get to see you work. Please, Daddy, please?"
Mr. Lestrade caved like wet paper, leaving Harry to contemplate the unfair advantage girls had over boys when it came to changing the atmosphere and wheedling things out of their fathers. Well, he supposed no one had an advantage in wheedling things out of Sherlock…
"Take her with you," said John, smiling indulgently. "Having a kid around would probably help when you interview the patients and staff. Call it take your child to work day."
"Good idea," said Lestrade, wrapping an arm around Julia and beaming. She beamed back. They looked disgustingly cute.
Harry glanced at Sherlock. Their eyes met. Immediately both Sherlock and Harry recoiled. Eeew…
"You're pathetic, Lestrade," Sherlock growled, shuddering.
"Shuddup. I'd like to see you do better when Beatrix is born."
"Beatrix?" Sherlock repeated, frowning in confusion.
"You don't remember Beatrix? I gave imaginary birth to her a few minutes ago," said John sardonically, "She has skin as white as snow and hair as black as night. Just like her Daddy. I'm pretty sure she'll grow up to have his eyes and cheekbones too."
Julia giggled into Mr. Lestrade, who roared with laughter. Sherlock did a full-body cringe.
"For f—'s sake, John. DELETED!"
-oo00oo-
"We really need to stop swearing in front of the kids," Lestrade said as he drove Sherlock, Julia and Harry to the hospital Dr. Ju worked as a guest surgeon (John didn't go as promised, claiming the imaginary labour was extremely tiring). Lestrade glared at the reflections on the rear-view mirror. "Kids, don't ever repeat the bad words we say."
Both Harry and Julia batted their large almond-shaped eyes innocently, which probably meant his and John's bad language was already part of their daily vocabulary. Lestrade despaired. Sherlock paid them no mind and continued to stare broodingly out the window. Not for the first time, Lestrade wondered what he was thinking.
The hospital was one of the nicer ones in Greater London. The nurse on duty tensed when Lestrade showed her his badge, but relaxed when he casually mentioned Julia and Harry were here as part of 'bring your child to work day', thinking, as expected, the visit can't be a very serious one if the Detective Inspector brought his kid(s) to work.
"We got an anonymous tip about a patient here who died recently," Lestrade said. "I just wanted to follow up."
The nurse, Helen Macharia, instantly lit up.
"You mean Mrs. Agnes. I knew something wasn't quite right about the way she died. Our guest surgeon has been pleading with Dr. Smith to do something about it for weeks, but he just wouldn't listen."
Lestrade noted how nurse Macharia relished in speaking her words.
"Our source mentioned someone stole Mrs. Agnes' skin samples. Is there anything you can tell me about this?" he probed.
Nurse Macharia didn't know about the theft, but rung up the lab tech working in the Pathology Department for him. The LT confirmed one of Mrs. Agnes skin samples had gone missing a few months back.
"Could you take us to Mrs. Agnes's private rooms?" said Sherlock.
"How did you know she had a private room?" asked Macharia.
"Her elabourate obituary, taking up more column space than strictly necessary to announce her death means she was a woman of means. You belong to the burn ward, the odour coming off of you tells me as much. Mrs. Agnes was a long term patient according your statement: 'Our guest surgeon has been pleading Dr. Smith to do something about it for weeks', and you could say that because you've seen the exchanges yourself. Therefore, Mrs. Agnes was in the burn ward, needing long-term care. Considering the threat of infection, it is impossible Mrs. Agnes only came to the hospital for checkups. So, she had her own room."
"Oh my," said Nurse Macharia breathlessly. "You sound like that 'Net detective, detective sergeant!"
A spasm ran across Sherlock's face. Lestrade thought fervently if Sherlock was really his DS, he'd've transferred him to the Shetlands within the first week.
Nurse Macharia took them to Mrs. Agnes' old private rooms. She warned them there may not be much for them to find, as it had been stripped and scrubbed down since she died. She opened the door, and Lestrade was immediately hit by a brick wall of sickeningly sweet fumes. He threw his arm to his face and backtracked.
"Mrs. Agnes did a bit aromatherapy on the side," Nurse Macharia said, staring at Lestrade, whose eyes were starting to water. "But that's strange. I can barely smell anything. Are you sensitive?"
Lestrade shook his head. He noticed Sherlock was frowning at him and appeared not to be affected by the smell, which didn't make sense because Sherlock had keener senses. Harry and Julia were leaning against the hallway, pinching their noses.
Eventually the smell stopped being a bloody nuisance, and Lestrade entered the room. It was a fairly typical private hospital room, if a bit on the smaller side. Harry and Julia joined him.
"I have to be back on call," said Macharia. "Will you be okay?"
Lestrade gave her a thumbs-up. Macharia left. Sherlock was already donning latex gloves and staring at a small glass vial shoved off in a corner.
Sherlock picked it up and studied it under the florescent light. The small amount of liquid sitting on the bottom of the vial was a transparent blue and moved like oil. Sherlock sniffed at it briefly.
"Belladonna," he muttered.
Julia and Harry crowed closer.
"Diluted Bubotuber pus," Harry added.
"Tugwood," said Julia, frowning. "These are ingredients of common skin-clearing potions."
Sherlock stood up straight, his expression stony, pale and mask-like.
"Wizard crime," he declared.
Lestrade wet his lips. "Dr. Ju must be a wizard too."
Sherlock bit the inside of his mouth and worried it. His frown turned stormier.
"I have to talk to Robert Ju."
"Oi, you can't just—"
Sherlock, of course, didn't listen and flew out of the room. Lestrade stifled his swearing and chased after him, beckoning the kids to follow.
Apparently Sherlock knew where to go because he strode through the halls without asking anyone for directions. As he followed the prat, Lestrade remembered John said Dr. Ju worked at Johns Hopkins; Sherlock probably looked up Johns Hopkins's hospital directory and found out which surgery unit Dr. Ju belonged to. Neurosurgeon, then? Lestrade thought as Sherlock barged into the Neurosurgery wing like he'd owned the place.
Several nurses and doctors started when Sherlock swept inside. As luck would have it, Dr. Ju was standing in the hallway, wearing scrubs, shoe covers and a hairnet, and talking to a nurse holding a clipboard. Dr. Ju glanced over his shoulder as Sherlock loomed at him.
"One moment, please," he said calmly. "I'll get back to you shortly."
Dr. Ju resumed talking to the nurse. Sherlock made the nurse nervous by breathing down Dr. Ju's neck and glaring. Ju didn't look back and continued to list out … medications and tests, from the sound of it, as if Sherlock didn't exist. There was a calm assurance in his voice and his relaxed posture was completely at odds with the slightly manic and off-kilter behaviour he exhibited at the station.
At length, Dr. Ju dismissed the nurse (who fled gratefully), cracked his neck, and squared his shoulders.
"My office?" he said, locking his tawny eyes to Sherlock's pale ones.
Lestrade had a mental image of two Titans measuring each other for battle as Sherlock and Ju engaged in a brief staring contest.
At length, both Ju and Sherlock moved, Ju in the lead by necessity. Lestrade, Julia and Harry followed after them. Lestrade felt like a tag-along, but that was nothing new. As far as Sherlock was concerned, he was just the guy who had the badge.
Dr. Ju's office door didn't have a nameplate. The office itself was dustless and barren, with only a generic office desk, desktop computer and monitor, and three mediocre swivel-chairs occupying the small space. Besides the cheap biros sitting next to the computer mouse, there were no small items; no photos, no paintings, no framed certificates, no plants. There wasn't even a funny bobble head to relieve the starkness.
Ju seated himself behind the desk and gave them his full attention.
"You're a wizard," Sherlock began.
"You've discovered the skin-clearing potion," Ju returned. "But you are not like me."
Sherlock waved carelessly at Harry. "My son is a wizard."
"I thought so." Ju waved at the kids. "Hi, I'm Robert, nice to meet you."
Harry and Julia waved back awkwardly.
"So have you alerted the Magical Law Enforcement?" Ju asked to Lestrade. "When are the Aurors coming?"
Lestrade looked at him, confused. "What?"
"Aren't you the Muggle Liaison for the Scotland Yard?" asked Ju, frowning.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Lestrade. "What are Aurors?"
Ju raked his sharp eyes all over Lestrade. Whatever he observed made him groan. "Ooooh."
"What?" Lestrade demanded.
"A few questions first, please, and don't you dare lie to me," said Ju, leaning forward. "Inspector, did you have grey hair since you were a child?"
"Yes."
Sherlock and the kids stared at Lestrade in astonishment. Ju turned grim.
"Did you receive a full blood-transfusion as a child?"
"Yeah," said Lestrade, feeling apprehensive. "My Grandmother told me I had some kind of accident."
Ju let out an aggrieved sigh. "Always that excuse. Why can't they be more creative?"
"What do you mean?" Lestrade demanded again, thoroughly confused and frustrated now.
"I don't even know where to start." Ju fixed a piercing look at Lestrade. "Do you know there is a hidden world of Magic? That there are witches and wizards who have their own culture, government and history?"
"Yes."
"At least you know something." Ju sighed. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, you're a wizard."
There was silence for a span of a minute. Only the humming of the desktop could be heard.
"You're lying," gasped Lestrade. "This is a bad joke."
"I'm always completely serious," said Ju, expressionless and sitting ramrod straight in his uncomfortable office chair, "I cornered you specifically at the station because you were leaking magic everywhere. I thought you were doing it on purpose."
"How the bloody—heck could I be leaking magic?" Lestrade cried. "Look, I know how magic works for magical kids before they go to Hogwarts. Strange stuff happens whenever they're sad or upset. I've been sad and upset plenty of times when I was a kid, but nothing weird happened around me. I never got a Hogwarts letter. You're wrong."
Ju didn't even blink. "Have you been donating blood regularly for the last five years?"
"Yeah," said Lestrade, startled.
"Since the Surrey Zoo bombing, I presume," said Sherlock. "There was a blood supply shortage due to the large number of victims. You contributed, and have been regularly harassed for more blood donations since then."
"It was a good cause. But what does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything," said Ju. "Inspector Lestrade, you were robbed of your magic when you received a blood transfusion as a child. For a wizard, being transfused with Muggle blood is the equivalent of pouring water into a car's gas tank—or the petrol tank, to you Brits. The water in the tank doesn't stop the car from being a car, but it does stop it from being able to act like a car. In the same way, the Muggle blood you received didn't stop you from being a wizard, but it did stop you from being able to act like one. You were only able to properly refuel yourself of magic when you donated your blood."
Lestrade opened and closed his mouth. He just couldn't take it. Him, a wizard? Crazy talk, that's what it was. But Harry and Julia, they were sharing knowing looks as though they'd suspected this. Sherlock, too, looked smugly vindicated. Good Lord. Had his magic been wreaking havoc and he didn't even notice? No, that can't be right. He didn't have magic to wreak havoc to begin with. It was all just wrong.
"How does this work?" asked Sherlock. "The human body produces 2.4 million new erythrocytes per second. Even if Lestrade received Muggle blood as a child, his body would've long since recycled it."
"The phenomenon isn't fully understood," said Ju. "There's just not enough data. Wizards and witches use Blood-replenishing potions for blood-loss. Magic children are hardier thanks to their magic, so it's extremely rare for them to get hurt enough to achieve the necessary blood-loss. But the handful of cases where a witch or wizard lost their ability to perform magic for no apparent reason, all received a blood transfusion from a Muggle source."
Sherlock regarded Ju thoughtfully. "You developed the treatment."
"I formalized it. Witches and Wizards have always used blood-letting for Magic Enhancement Therapy. It's useless, dumb and downright dangerous as far as Magic Enhancement is concerned, but it does work for magic removal cases."
Another brooding silence fell in the office. Lestrade suddenly recalled Jackie's refusal to go through Magic Enhancement Therapy this morning. If the therapy involved blood-letting, it was small wonder she said she'd rather die. Poor Jack had enough health problems already. She didn't need hypotension on top of the others.
"No wonder Jackie was dead-set against Magic Enhancement Therapy," Lestrade muttered.
"Smart woman," said Ju in approval. "The practice is concentrated doodoo. It doesn't even have the decency to work like a placebo. But that's beside the point. Detective, there is a simple test that can prove you really are a wizard."
Ju pulled out a small square sheet of paper that had thick, black lines running parallel to all the edges inside from his desk drawer.
"I know what that is!" Harry exclaimed. "The black lines glow when a person who has even a tiny bit of magic touches it!"
"What he said," said Ju. "Go ahead. Touch it."
Ju placed the square on his desk.
Lestrade stared at the little square for a long time. Harry and Julia watched him, full of eager anticipation. Sherlock was practically vibrating in his seat. Lestrade felt ambivalent. He didn't want the black line to glow, to be honest. Knowing how his life usually went, either outcome would end badly for him. Besides, he was on the wrong side of forty. Even if he was a wizard, he was too old to do anything about his magic. What was the point, then?
"You don't have to do anything about it," Ju said, when Lestrade didn't move for several minutes. "It's just part of you. Wizard or not, you'd still be a hardworking, respectable Detective Inspector who has a lovely daughter." He nodded at Julia. "You raised her well. Even I can see you love her dearly and she adores you right back. No amount of magic in world would've helped you do that."
Lestrade felt slightly less reluctant. He vaguely wondered who this Robert Ju was and where the Robert Ju who faffed around in his office seemingly without the ability to act like a normal human being a few hours back was.
"C'mon, Dad, it's just a test," Julia urged after another minute.
Lestrade slowly raised a hand. He hesitated again and let the hand just hover over the paper.
"We haven't got all day, Lestrade," said Sherlock impatiently.
Lestrade glared at him briefly. He hesitated some more. Soon, the audience anticipation just became too much.
"Oh, what the hell," he growled, and slapped his palm on the square.
The black lines lit up like fire.
Lestrade groaned as the kids burst into applause.
I live over forty years as a Muggle only to learn I'm a Wizard. FML, he thought.
Robert Ju sprang to his feet. Lestrade was wondering what kind of pronouncement he was going to make, when Ju started stripping off his clothes without another word. Ju discarded his shirt, shoe covers and hairnet. Lestrade let out an undignified squawk when Ju pulled off his cotton scrub trousers as if he, Sherlock and the kids were just sacks of invisible potatoes. Lestrade hurriedly covered Julia's eyes as Ju marched over to a chair in the corner wearing only his pants and black socks. He put on the clothes folded there: black suit, white shirt, and hideous brown tie that had a pink palm tree on it. He put his feet into the polished black shoes under the chair, shrugged on a jacket and turned to his shocked audience as if they'd just turned back to humans again.
"Excuse me; I have to go."
Then he left, taking a biro and paper bag on the way.
Sherlock, Lestrade, Julia and Harry stared at each other incredulously.
"What is wrong with him?" Lestrade wondered out loud, because someone had to.
The question lingered in Lestrade's mind as they left the hospital until he stopped by Jackie's to drop off Julia. There they found Jack and John in the living room, John laughing at Jack, who was pouring over a large chalkboard on the sitting table, talking animatedly as she drew illustrations with coloured chalk. Jack paused only to open her mouth to let the bits of food John tearing into tiny pieces inside. Mr. Shin was standing in a far corner, staring and shaking his head in disbelief, as he watched Jack chew and swallow the food.
"Alright, scratch that," Lestrade muttered. "Sherlock, what is your wife."
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Robert is so ridiculous I don't even know. Lestrade now knows he's a wizard. What he'll do about this remains to be seen.
Opinions were evenly divided among the readers, so I decided on a weekly update schedule with chapters around the 6000-8000 word mark where applicable.