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 Two: Error in Expectations
Arthur Weasley regarded his in-tray. He was expecting a minor avalanche after a month away from the office, but this was ridiculous. On top of a tottering, two feet tall pile of parchment was a toy car emitting jets of fire from its tiny exhaust, a pair of reading glasses that blinked sleepily and a plastic figurine of a bristly bearded ancient warrior holding a battle-axe that belched. Arthur was scratching his temple, pondering what he should tackle first and if it was possible to take another month-long holiday, a pale violet paper aeroplane flew into his office.
Arthur groaned as he unfolded the first inter-departmental memo of the day.
" 'Need to talk. The Embalmer struck again. Kingsley,'" he read aloud.
Arthur considered his in-tray again. He decided the Embalmer, a notorious and elusive killer known to poison his victims, preserve their bodies and entomb them in underground enclaves in ghastly poses, was greater priority than belching Muggle figurines.
Arthur left his tiny office, marching through a dimly lit and shabby corridor, turned left, then another corridor (less shabby), turned right, into another passage, and walked through a set of oak doors and turned to another set of oak doors. He passed by a cubicle that had a lopsided sign that read AUROR HEADQUARTERS and a couple of scarlet robed witches before he arrived at Kingsley Shacklebolt's cube.
"Morning, Arthur," said Kingsley in his deep voice. "Shin June Hu caught me on my way in and told me his son-in-law picked up a case that looks suspiciously like the work of the Embalmer. A Muggle woman is dead and her body is showing no signs of decay even though it's been close to a week since she was buried."
Arthur winced. "How did the son-in-law come across it?"
"He works for the Muggle law enforcement in London— the Scotland Garden."
"You mean the Scotland Yard," said Arthur, shaking his head. "What do you need me for? The Embalmer isn't enchanting Muggle artefacts, surely?"
"Shin specifically recommended you as the wizard contact," Kingsley replied. "The son-in-law also found evidence of potion use in the Muggle hospital the Muggle woman died in. His daughter is a witch, so he's familiar with potions and their ingredients. It's possible the Embalmer enchanted a Muggle healing artefact to administer whatever poison he used to kill his last victim."
"Alright," Arthur sighed. "So what are you planning to do?"
"I'm going to meet the son-in-law at the Leaky Cauldron. The Muggles are investigating the death, too. He's the lead investigator at the moment; wants to close the case as cleanly and quietly as possible."
Arthur brightened at the prospect of working directly with a Muggle. "Sounds like a plan."
Arthur and Kingsley prepared for the meeting. In case they had to navigate Muggle London, they changed into Muggle clothing. Arthur donned his trusty jeans, golf shirt and bomber jacket, whereas Kingsley opted for a black suit and tie. Kingsley picked up a thick file from his desk and together they headed to the nearest fireplace to Floo to the Leaky Cauldron.
They waited at the bar upon arrival. As they did so, Arthur told Kingsley everything he knew about Greg Lestrade, Grandmaster Shin's one and only Muggle son-in-law. Arthur had met the man briefly last year at Diagon Alley whilst doing the annual school shopping, but he had had no chance to talk to him. He vaguely remembered the silver-haired man, as grave, solemn and extremely good-looking as the rest of the Grandmaster's family.
"Hopefully he's not as intimidating as Shin," Kingsley joked. "Though, knowing that family, he's going to be straightforward and professional."
Arthur was about to agree when the bell attached to the Leaky Cauldron's door leading to Muggle London tingled. A middle-aged, tired and rumpled-looking man wearing a long coat, dark blue suit and sturdy shoes walked in. Tom, the barkeep, hailed him over.
"You're early, today, Greg!" said Tom, smiling.
Greg smiled back. "Nah. Still at work. Maybe later." Then with a more sombre expression, he headed over to Arthur. "Arthur Weasley? Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade."
They shook hands. Arthur introduced Lestrade to Kingsley. He didn't have to explain their Ministry positions as Lestrade had a good working idea of what they did.
"Sherlock told me about yours and another wizard told me what an Auror is. You guys keep popping up out of the woodwork," said Lestrade, grumbling in a good-natured way, "So business?"
They sat down. Lestrade set down the manila folder tucked under his arm.
"Strictly speaking I'm not supposed to show this to you," he said. "But you guys don't exist as far as non-Magicals are concerned, and this is really your case."
Kingsley grinned. "Strictly speaking we're not supposed to tell you anything either, magic children notwithstanding, but the Ministry doesn't need to know that. I'm sure our Head won't complain if you help us catch the Embalmer."
"Brrr, sounds like a moniker for a serial killer," said Lestrade, giving them a boyish grin. "So what can you tell me about this Embalmer?"
Kingsley gave Lestrade a brief history of the Embalmer. An elusive figure, everything about him was unknown except for the fact that he was most likely a wizard. He had five confirmed victims so far: Ann Nichols, Mary Chapman, Lizzie Stride, Kitty Eddowes and Jane Kelly. All of them had been killed by the same unnamed poison. Lestrade winced at the wizard photos of the victims, which were taken shortly after their bodies were discovered.
"Definitely looks like the work of a serial killer," he growled. "Thanks for the info. Now this is what I've got."
He opened the manila folder.
"So far we've ID-ed three victims," said Lestrade, showing them three Muggle photographs. "Adelaide Agnes, age 36, Janice Smith, age 29, and Victoria Savage, age 32. All of them were blonde-haired servicewoman being treated for scaring or burns. We think the killer is specifically targeting women in their late twenties or early thirties who have heavy scaring. Not sure if the blonde hair is a requirement or if war service is just a coincidence, but it's possible. The killer did shift-work at the hospital where he found his three victims. After he did his thing, he removed the memory of all the hospital members and left."
"How do you know this?" asked Kingsley wonderingly.
"There is conspicuous absence of memory for very specific days of the week for all hospital staff," Lestrade explained. "You can expect a few people to not remember much about their past days, but the lack of memory was very systemic and too overarching. No one could remember much of anything for a specific shift schedule. Very suspicious, don't you think?"
"That's clever," Kingsley remarked. "You're good."
"I wish I could say this was my idea, but no, I had help."
"It was Sherlock, wasn't it?" said Arthur knowingly. "Is he helping you with the case?"
"Are you talking about Sherlock Holmes?" asked Kingsley. "Isn't he the Muggle who adopted Harry Potter?"
"That would be him."
"Are you sure we want his help? There's an unofficial flee-on-sight command for him and his partner; too many Obliviators who ended up obliviating themselves instead."
Lestrade snorted. "Of course you wizards know the Baker Street Bastards. Anyway, no; Sherlock signed himself off the case."
"Why? I thought this was right up his street," said Arthur.
"Normally, yes, especially when there's a serial killer on the bottom of it, but not this time," said Lestrade grimly. "Remember the preferred victim description?"
"Women around their thirties or late twenties, blonde-hair, involved in war and has profound scarring," Kingsley replied.
"Doesn't that sound familiar?"
Arthur frowned. Clearly he was supposed to find the description familiar, but he couldn't figure it out.
"Fits John to a Tee," Lestrade clarified when either wizard failed to answer. "Most serial killers like to follow the press coverage of their crimes. If Sherlock gets involved, the killer might notice John and select her as the next victim."
"Wait, aren't you talking about Mr. Holmes' male partner?" asked Kingsley, looking confused.
"Male—" Lestrade caught himself. "No, John Watson is his wife."
There was a brief moment of silence as Kinsley struggled to wrap his mind around this. Arthur sympathized — with both Kingsley and Sherlock.
"I remember now," said Arthur. "My son Ron wrote a letter to me once, about John's scaring when he was a first year. He, Hermione and Harry were researching potions that could reduce them. How bad is it exactly, do you know?"
Lestrade grunted. "I saw it once by accident. Looked like someone tore off the left arm, put it through an acid bath and then sewed it back on."
Both Kingsley and Arthur cringed.
"Even if John is looked over as a target, the killer is way too liberal with the memory removal spells," Lestrade went on. "Sherlock freaked out majorly when he figured that out. I think that's the main reason why he washed his hands off the case."
"He doesn't want to risk John's mind," said Arthur, recalling the time a memory charm hit Sherlock at Flourish and Blott's last year. The last time he heard, Sherlock still had not recovered his lost memory, but managed to work around the absent memory to figure out what had happened (the man's genius was truly something). Either way, Sherlock had firsthand experience on what it was like to have one's memory removed. Clearly he did not wish this upon John.
"He'll sooner turn the whole island over and throw it into the Irish Sea than put John in unrecoverable danger," said Lestrade. "You wizards have too much advantage as it is. You guys only need to have one successful hit, but we can't afford to make one mistake and that's not counting our memories going caput. Not fair."
Arthur ruefully agreed. "I understand. I do wish he could at least help us figure out the clues."
"Oh, he'll be more than happy to do that. Just don't expect him to show up in the crime scenes. Or to appreciate your blood, sweat and tears. Or to think you're doing something right. Twat," Lestrade grumbled.
Arthur smiled. Clearly Mr. Lestrade had a lot of experience working with Sherlock Holmes.
They exchanged some more information on the Embalmer. Lestrade offered the theory the Embalmer had a pathological fixation on the idea of fixing his physical appearance, the skin in particular. Kingsley asked if he could view the bodies of the three victims. Lestrade said he could as long as he could make himself look like an official person from the Home Office.
"Will this do?" asked Kingsley, holding up a small card.
Lestrade frowned at it. "That's a blank business card."
"It's bewitched to look like whatever ID a Muggle is expecting to see."
"It's a blank card," Lestrade insisted.
"Trust me, it works," said Kingsley calmly. "I use it for my guard shift at Downing Street."
Lestrade looked dubious, but let it slide. Before they could go, Lestrade told Arthur he needed to change his clothes.
"Why?"
"You're not dressed like a person from the home office," said Lestrade flatly. "Kingsley, you're good. Arthur, magic an outfit that looks like his."
In the end, Arthur had to put a disillusionment charm on himself because Muggle business suits were not things one can conjure from thin air. Lestrade had asked why, and Arthur explained natural fabric fell under Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration and its five exceptions. Lestrade remained confused, but was content to remain so as he led them to his car parked outside where it was raining buckets. Kingsley took the seat next to Lestrade, and Arthur took the back seat.
"By the way, are you actually—" Kingsley started to ask after drying them off with a quick flick of his wand.
"NOPE. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT," shouted Lestrade.
Arthur stared at him in astonishment. Kingsley blinked. Lestrade kept his glance squarely on the windscreen, which the rain was battering.
"I'm just saying—" Kingsley tried again.
"NOPE! I'M IN PERMENANT DENIAL! IF I DON'T ACKNOWLEDGE IT, IT'S LIKE IT'S NOT TRUE," Lestrade bellowed.
Kingsley remained silent for rest of the ride. Arthur, meanwhile, surreptitiously pulled out his mobile fone and started to text someone…
-oo00oo-
John finished replying to Arthur's last text and resumed quietly staring at Sherlock. They've been at it since this morning when Mrs. Hudson, who was more than a little worried about the state of their marriage due the ferocity of their recent rows, told them not to leave the flat until they talked it out. Since both of them thought normal and healthy communication was for pansies and the persistent thunderstorm raging outside put a stop to any thought of long walks, they sat down at the sitting room table, made their demands and refused to budge until the other caved.
That is, until John's phone chirped after Arthur sent his text full of much needed information.
"So you're not taking the case because I could be a potential victim and the killer is worse than Lockhart when it comes to Memory Charms."
Sherlock looked away briefly. John sighed through her nose.
"I wouldn't have—you could've told me that."
A lightning flash briefly illuminated Sherlock's porcelain mask-like expression and glance. John didn't bother to decipher either. If one wanted to know the true state of Sherlock Holmes, one had to study his hands. Sherlock spoke loudly with his hands—whether it was for emphasis, for embellishment, or for no particular reason—and even when he shut himself off from the world, his hands still spoke.
John reached across the table and held his wrist. Sherlock curled his fingers around John's. There was a fine tremor running through the long, sensitive fingers, and the pulse was elevated. After studying their loosely joined hands, John looked up.
"So you want to know all my ex's?"
Sherlock's eyes burned. "Who are they?"
"Number one was a star pupil at King's. Triple firsts in Medicine, Physics and Mathematics. He proposed, but I refused to drop my army ambitions. We parted afterwards. I never saw him again. No idea what he's doing."
"Number two?"
"A hotel chain owner from HK; I broke it off when he said sleeping with me would be like sleeping with a preteen. He kept trying to start things over again for years. Not lately though."
"I know."
"Do you have anything to do with it?"
"Perhaps."
"Mycroft it is," John exhaled. "Number three was a short, meaningless fling. Number four was an utter debacle. All you need to know was that I was trying to figure out if I was lesbian daughter number two. Number Five was an American journalist from NYC. A lot older, lots of fun, but I broke it off because I wanted something deeper and more meaningful."
"Number six was Robert," Sherlock spat.
John felt the heightened tremor. "I met him after my tour in Iraq. You know what happened to me in Iraq."
Sherlock's fingers tightened their hold. "You were emotionally compromised."
"And Robert has this switch," said John. "He turns it on for his patients. It makes him temporarily angelic."
"Explain."
"Blimey, how do I do this … okay, he's kind of like you in the way he dedicated his entire life to his work. In his case it's being a doctor. I've met plenty of brilliant doctors, and Robert is definitely world class in both skills and knowledge, but what set him apart were his bedside manners. Hard to believe when you saw him outside the context of doctor first, but it's true. You know patients always lie about their symptoms, right?"
Sherlock nodded curtly.
"Here is the rub," John continued, "Different patients lie differently. Obvious, yeah? But most people rarely stop to think about it more deeply. This is what he told me: patients who want as many people to like them as possible lie in a way they think will make their doctor like them. Patients who want to be loved will lie in a way that will make them feel more loved. Patients who want respect lie in a way they think will preserve whatever respect they do have and gain their doctor's respect. Etcetera and so forth. Robert can figure what a patient wants from other people within the first two sentences, and curtail his bedside manner accordingly. There was hardly any patient he couldn't manage. Of course, anyone who knew what he was doing called him a calculating, manipulative b-tard, but no one could argue his results — not even his worst enemy."
Sherlock looked intrigued.
"If he told you this, you must have noticed his systemic approach."
"I'm a doctor, of course I noticed. I asked as soon as I could find the opportunity. He was pretty open about sharing his system. It was a revelation to me. The past twenty-nine years of my life finally made sense."
"Why?"
"You can apply the system to everyone, not just patients. I applied it to me, and I quickly realised everything I did was motivated by my desire to be liked."
Sherlock snorted rudely.
"So how did the friendly knowledge transfer relationship transform into engagement?"
John smiled ruefully.
"Emotionally compromised, remember? Even after knowing why I did the things I did, old habits die hard. I was convinced I finally found someone who can really understand me and tried to build a new relationship on that basis. I don't think Robert was prepared for someone to use his system on him."
"You figured out his heart's desire."
"It was almost too easy. I knew since I was a teen most guys are susceptible to respect and girls are susceptible to love. Show them you genuinely respect them or love them and they'll do everything in their power to keep your regard. I basically did the same thing, only I gave Robert what he wanted: showed him I liked him exactly as he is and not just his Doctor persona, which he only set up to make himself more likable."
"How did the engagement break off, then, if you were so successful?"
"Robert hates lies," said John flatly. "He said the only way we could work is for either one of us to become someone we are not."
"He broke it off."
"Mmmhmm. We were both really broken about it. For me, my fiancé rejected me shortly after Iraq. For Robert—well, I don't think he ever felt liked until I came along and showed him I liked him really blatantly. He had to give that up."
Sherlock studied John thoughtfully.
"In the light of this startling revelation," he said sardonically, "I wonder if I've been interacting with the genuine you, or a persona you've subconsciously created to make me like you."
"Oh, c'mon," John snorted. "When was I ever able to successfully lie to you? Anyway, after the first two minutes of hearing you speak, the 'punch me in the face' subtext killed any thought of making you like me. Your subsequent behaviour kept it well and truly dead. Christ alone knows why we both thought getting married was a good idea under such circumstances, but since we ended up there despite knowing the absolute worst about each other within the first twenty-seven hours, I guess it was meant to be."
-oo00oo-
Lestrade stopped at a building called St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The rain had reduced to a drizzle when he took them to the morgue inside. There they met a young woman who had long, mousy hair wearing a white coat and blue rubber gloves. She was hovering next to a young man literally elbow deep inside a dead woman's body. Arthur felt his gorge hoist anchor at the sight.
"Hey Molly," said Lestrade to the young woman. Arthur perked up instinctively at the mention of his wife's name.
"Hi," said (not-wife) Molly, smiling nervously. "You're here for, um, Ms. Savage? Dr. Ju is looking at her right now. You'll have to wait for a bit."
"Dr. Ju?" said Kingsley, craning to get a better look at the young man who was squelching through organs, making Arthur's gorge go from free-floating sensation to a quick drop-anchor. "Not Robert Dongyi Ju?"
"You know him?"
"He's known as the modern day Hua Tou."
Healer Robert Ju raised a stained, rubber-gloved finger towards the ceiling at that comment.
"Do you hear that?" he said out of the blue.
Arthur, Molly, Lestrade and Kingsley frowned. All they could hear was the light humming coming from the ecelectic lights on the ceiling.
"Hear what?" asked Lestrade.
"That whirring sound," said Ju, not looking up from where his nose was almost touching the open chest.
Lestrade frowned more deeply. "Sorry, I don't—"
"It's the sound of Hua Tou spinning in his grave," muttered Ju, bringing his raised hand back into the open chest cavity. "There's a direct correlation between the degree of insult and revolutions per second. From the sound alone I can tell the last insult was too profound for words. So please stop."
There was nothing one could possibly say to that so no one did. Arthur heard of Robert Ju's reputation for eccentricity, but he was completely unprepared for this.
"…Right," sighed Lestrade. "So what have you got?"
"Powdered moonstone, half-digested Armadillo skin, and Hellebore," said Ju, lifting up an organ and almost bringing Arthur to his knees. "Not something that directly caused her death, but it clearly indicates the killer made Ms. Savage digest a very specific combination of compounds."
Lestrade nodded as he wrote that down in his notebook. "That's definitely something we can work with."
"For further evidence, I suggest you recheck the stomach contents of all the victims. Never hurts to be too careful."
"I can put in the request," said Molly brightly.
"Thank you," Ju looked up a fraction. "So you're the Molly Hooper Rory was talking about."
Molly blinked. "How did you…?"
"I remember every fellow medical professional I've ever met. I met Rory four years ago in Germany. I called him up the moment I arrived in London."
"Oh."
Molly looked down and started fidgeting her hands. Ju straighten himself facing the opposite direction.
"Rory is a fine nurse. I can trust him with my life and that of my patients." Ju paused. "Don't let his uncanny resemblance to a certain person stop you. The resemblance is pretty much the only thing they have in common. Rory is not a tyrant, for starters."
Molly looked up at Ju timidly. "Did you just call John a ty—"
"A benevolent tyrant, but a tyrant nevertheless," said Ju relentlessly.
Molly darted her glance back down to her feet, wide-eyed and blinking.
"I believe the Home Office people would like to take a look at the body," said Ju.
Molly started. "Uh, but there's only—"
Ju removed a glove and held the door open rather pointedly.
Molly eventually shuffled out, muttering, "Okay."
Ju shut the door behind her. He removed his other rubber glove, disposed both into a bin, and walked over to Kingsley.
"The poison was administered in a vapour form via inhalation," Ju said quietly. "The beautification potion ingredients were distraction only. I'd check the vents or the oxygen machines."
Lestrade swore.
"How do you know this?" asked Kingsley sharply.
"Ms. Savage's nasal mucosa shows signs of recent rupture — in laymen terms, she had a nose bleed. If the poison affected her lungs, a good Anatomical Pathology Technologist would've seen it. But the lungs are fine and the poison left its mark in the sphenopalatine artery. There are so many white blood cells there you can practically smell it. There are poisons that specifically target the blood. Nose-bleeds, vapourized blood-targeting potion, you have your murder method."
"Damn," Lestrade whistled.
"We need to check the hospital," said Kingsley rapidly to Lestrade. "See if the vents had been tampered with."
"I can do better than that. I have the bottle Mrs. Agnes used for aromatherapy. She'd inhaled the stuff for weeks."
"Excellent. Arthur, can you work with Culverton?" asked Kingsley, referring to the Hit-wizard assigned to do to the undercover work for the Muggle victims of the Embalmer. He was very talented, but so uneasy on the eyes enchanted mirrors had a tendency to scream when he came too close. "We can't rule out tampered vents or bewitched oxygen machines yet."
"Will do," said Arthur, before turning to Ju. "By the way, how did you know I was …?"
But Ju was not where he last stood; he was gone.
Not only that, Ms. Savage's open chest cavity was sealed shut and her body covered under a sterile white sheet.
-oo00oo-
Ron scanned the crowd from his vantage point at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour's outdoor seating with Hermione, when Hermione wasn't teasing him over his freckles (doubled in number thanks to the Egyptian sun) and Ron teased right back for her deep tan (France was sunny). They eventually spotted a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy wearing a dark jacket, charcoal skinny trousers and grey trainers, who was shouldering a white messenger bag that had blue edges and lettering. The girl next to him had her thick dark-brown hair up in a ponytail and was dressed in a plain white hooded jacket, black jersey, and knee-length black shorts that had white vertical stripes on the seams, carrying a bulging white tote bag. Ron yelled at them:
"HARRY! JULIA!"
Harry Potter and Julia Lestrade caught sight of them immediately and hurried over, beaming and waving, Harry looking incredibly pale and Julia as incorrigibly white as usual.
"Finally!" said Ron, grinning at the two as they sat down. "We went to the Leaky Cauldron, but they said you'd went to Diagon Alley. So we went to Flourish and Blotts, and Madam Malkin's, and—"
"We got all our school stuff last week," Harry explained. "Looks like you two got sun. All we got was rain, rain and more rain. Did I mention we had rain?"
"And gale when the rain got tiring," Julia added.
"Harry, why are you carrying that bag?" said Hermione in a very serious voice.
Ron looked at Harry's bag and roared with laughter when he realised it read: 'this bag contains a gun, a bomb, a very large knife and loads of drugs' in blue block letters. He laughed some more when he noticed Julia was trying to hide the front of her tote, which simply said: bloody hell.
"I got it for my birthday," said Harry defensively. "So, have you got all your new books and stuff?"
"Yep," Ron pointed at the large bag under his chair, "What about those Monster Books, eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we wanted two."
"What's all that, Hermione?" Julia asked, pointing at not one but three bulging bags in the chair next to her.
"Well, I'm taking more new subjects than Ron, aren't I," said Hermione. "Those are my books for Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, the Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies—"
"What are you doing Muggle Studies for?" said Ron, rolling his eyes. "You're Muggle-born! Your mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all about Muggles!"
"It'll be fascinating to study them from the wizarding point of view and they've changed the curriculum this year to prepare you for the GSCEs," said Hermione earnestly. "Mum and Dad were so relieved when I told them about it. Besides, Harry's taking it too and he's Muggle-raised!"
"I didn't sign up for everything except Divination like you. Speaking of, are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year?" asked Harry, while Ron sniggered. Hermione ignored them.
"I've still got ten Galleons," she said, checking her purse. "It's my birthday in September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an early birthday present."
"How about a nice book?" Ron said innocently.
"No, I don't think so," said Hermione composedly. "I really want an owl. I mean, Harry's got Hedwig, Julia has Sasha—"
"Sasha's Uncle Jeremy's owl," Julia piped.
"—and you've got Errol," Hermione finished.
"No, I haven't," said Ron. "Errol's a family owl. All I've got is Scabbers." He pulled his pet rat out of his pocket. "And I want to get him checked over," he added, placing Scabbers on the table in front of them. "I don't think Egypt agreed with him."
Scabbers was looking thinner than usual, and there was a definite droop to his whiskers.
"There's a magical creature shop just over there," said Harry, who knew Diagon Alley like the back of his hand. "You could see if they've got anything for Scabbers, and Hermione can get her owl."
So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street to the Magical Menagerie.
Twenty minutes later, Ron and Harry found themselves outside Quality Quidditch Supplies pulling out Scabbers from under the wastepaper bin he'd taken refuge under. Ron stuffed the trembling rat back into his pocket and straightened up, massaging his head.
"What was that?"
"It was either a very big cat or quite a small tiger," said Harry, referring to the huge orange thing that came soaring from the top of the highest cage in the Magical Menagerie, landed on Ron's head, and then propelled itself, spitting madly, at Scabbers. The rat made a daring escape by shooting from between the counter witch's hands like a bar of soap, landing splay-legged on the floor, and then scampering out of the door.
"Where's Hermione?"
"Probably getting her owl…"
They made their way back up the crowded street to the Magical Menagerie. As they reached it, Julia and Hermione came out, but Hermione wasn't carrying an owl. Her arms were clamped tightly around the enormous ginger cat.
"You bought that monster?" said Ron, his mouth hanging open.
"He's gorgeous, isn't he?" said Hermione, glowing.
Both Harry and Julia glanced to the side. For good reasons: The cat's ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight, however, the cat was purring contentedly in Hermione's arms.
"Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!" said Ron.
"He didn't mean to, did you, Crookshanks?" said Hermione.
"And what about Scabbers?" said Ron, pointing at the lump in his chest pocket. "He needs rest and relaxation! How's he going to get it with that thing around?"
"That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic," said Hermione, slapping the small red bottle into his hand. "And stop worrying. Crookshanks will be sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours, so what's the problem? Poor Crookshanks, that witch said he'd been in there for ages; no one wanted him."
"Wonder why," said Ron sarcastically as they set off towards the Leaky Cauldron, where Hermione, Ron and the rest of his family were staying overnight.
"Isn't it strange, though?" said Harry, walking with his hands clasped behind his back like the old man wannabe that he was. "Scabbers has to be four-years-old at least, six if Percy had him since he was a first year. If an ordinary garden rat can't live longer than three years or so, how did he stay alive for so long?"
"Maybe his special power is longevity," Julia suggested.
Ron rolled his eyes. The truth was that Scabbers had never shown the faintest trace of interesting powers. It would figure his perennially second-hand belongings would last longer than strictly convenient. How Scabbers survived the incident that left him with a tattered left ear and a missing toe on his left paw was anyone's good guess, but he came like that when Percy gave him to Ron two years ago. Scabbers was definitely hardier than he looked.
"Well, we'll know when he's still alive by the time you leave Hogwarts," said Hermione reasonably. "How come you still haven't got an animal, Julia? Didn't your uncles offer to buy you a cat?"
"I want a dog," said Julia firmly, "A big dog. Like an Alsatian or a Great Dane."
"Aren't Great Danes bigger than you?" said Harry, lips twitching.
"That's why I want one. I'm going to name it 'Horse' and ride on its back."
They reached the Leaky Cauldron and found Ron's Dad sitting in the bar, reading the Daily Prophet.
"Harry!" he said, smiling as he looked up. "How are you?"
"Fine, thanks," said Harry as he, Hermione and Ron joined Arthur with their shopping.
Arthur put down his paper, and Ron saw the picture of Sirius Black staring up at him.
"They still haven't caught him, then?" Harry asked.
"No," said Arthur, looking extremely grave, "It's been three weeks and still no sight of him. The entire Ministry is focused on catching him now."
"Would we get a reward if we caught him?" asked Ron. "It'd be good to get some more money—"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," said Arthur, who on closer inspection looked very strained. "Black's not going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old wizard. It's the Azkaban guards who'll get him back. You mark my words."
The rest of Ron's family joined them after that moment. Ginny, who had a crush on Harry ever since she'd seen him, turned bright red when she spotted Harry and muttered "Hello," without daring to look at him. Percy immediately made an utter arse of himself by holding out his hand solemnly to Harry as though he and Harry had never met and said, "Harry, how nice to see you."
"Hello, Percy," said Harry, miraculously straight-faced.
"I hope you're well?" said Percy pompously, shaking hands.
"Very well, thanks—"
"Harry!" said Fred, elbowing Percy out of the way and bowing deeply. "Simply splendid to see you, old boy—"
"Marvellous," said George, pushing Fred aside and seizing Harry's hand in turn, "Absolutely spiffing."
Percy scowled.
"That's enough, now," said Molly.
"Mum!" said Fred, as though he'd only just spotted her and seizing her hand, too. "How really corking to see you—"
"I said, that's enough," said Molly, depositing her shopping in an empty chair. "Hello, Harry and Julia, dears. I suppose you've heard our exciting news?" She pointed to the brand-new silver badge on Percy's chest. "Second Head Boy in the family!" she said, swelling with pride.
"And last," Fred muttered under his breath.
"I don't doubt that," said Molly, frowning suddenly. "I notice they haven't made you two prefects."
"What do we want to be prefects for?" said George, looking revolted at the very idea. "It'd take all the fun out of life."
Ginny giggled.
"You want to set a better example for your sister!" snapped his Mum.
"Ginny's got other brothers to set her an example, Mother," said Percy loftily. "I'm going up to change for dinner…"
He disappeared and George heaved a sigh.
"We tried to shut him in a pyramid," he said. "But Mum spotted us."
-oo00oo-
Greg Lestrade and his two young sons, Martin and Rupert, as well as his baby daughter Elise joined Julia, Arthur and the rest of his family (and honorary family) at the Leaky Cauldron that night for dinner. Lestrade looked harassed and exhausted: his chin was grey with stubble, his silver hair was standing on end, and he was stumbling over his own two feet carrying an enormous nappy bag. He practically collapsed from relief when Arthur levitated the bag off his shoulder and Molly happily took baby Elise.
"I need a break," he mumbled behind his hands. "Superintendent Chambers — and G-d help me, one of these days I'm going to call him Super Nintendo Chalmers if Bradstreet keeps quoting the Simpsons — looks like he's about to have a hernia if we don't catch the Embalmer soon. Any progress on your end?"
"No, sorry," said Arthur, looking deeply apologetic. "Black has greater priority. All the other dark wizard cases are on hold until we find him."
Lestrade groaned unhappily. "My next press conference is going to be hell."
"I thought they transferred the case to someone else since you have a conflict of interest."
"The higher-ups always make me sit in press conferences, especially when a high-profile case is going nowhere," Lestrade crabbed. "I don't understand why. I suck at press conferences."
Arthur was of the opinion Lestrade's superiors were hoping to distract the public from the bad news with his face. "I'm sure we'll find something soon," he said brightly.
Lestrade's returning growl was heavy laced with doubt.
They had a delicious five course meal that ended with sumptuous chocolate pudding. Arthur admired the way Julia handled her little brothers, who were a lot younger than her. Martin Lestrade, age five, turned his nose up at the onion soup until Julia told him he was allowed to skip it as long as he agreed to forgo his dessert—which she would eat in front of him. Rupert Lestrade, age three, had not yet mastered the use of eating utensils, but stubbornly refused any help. Thus half of his food ended up on his face and bib rather than inside his mouth. Rather than forcing help, Julia just handed over a clean handkerchief and Rupert, with an almost alarming degree of maturity, used it clean himself up. Greg Lestrade smiled proudly at his older children as he fed Elise, who, at age one and a half, already had strong opinions about food and did not hesitate to throw it back when it displeased her.
The others chatted amongst themselves as Arthur studied the Lestrades and reminisced about the days when his children were still babies. Hermione asked Arthur about Ms. Jacqueline Shin's case, and he assured her the first thing he did after returning from Egypt was clearing the charges against Ms. Shin for supposedly enchanting a laptop compooter. It was obvious from the fact the laptop still worked as intended that no magic was ever performed on the machine. Molly inquired over Mrs. Lestrade, and Lestrade simply replied: "It's Tuesday." Harry explained John and Mrs. Lestrade were part of a church women's group that met every Tuesday. Several Weasleys and Hermione laughed aloud when Harry casually mentioned the ladies of the small group once successfully apprehended a murderous Chinese acrobat Sherlock was investigating.
"How?" everyone except Lestrade and Harry wanted to know.
"Dunno," said Lestrade as Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not surprised, though. Those ladies are fearsome."
Everyone except Percy and Molly almost died laughing as Lestrade gleefully told them the time the intrepid ladies kidnapped John from a crime scene for an impromptu makeover, and Sherlock was unable to do anything to stop them.
"My wife is so awesome," said Lestrade fondly after he finished.
"By the by, where is Sherlock and John?" asked Arthur.
"They're off doing something in the continent," said Lestrade, "I'm not sure if I want to know what for."
His voice was firm and steadily, but Arthur couldn't help noticing that Lestrade didn't meet anyone's eye, like the last time Kingsley tried to ask him about his magic status.
"So you're on your own? Who are you staying with, Harry?" asked Molly in alarm.
"I'm staying with Mrs. Hudson," Harry replied calmly. "She lives downstairs. I always stay with her when Sherlock and John can't take me with them."
Molly was immediately relieved. "Oh, that's good to know. Now don't you worry about taking the cab or the Muggle underground tomorrow, dear, we'll pick you up on the way to King's Cross. You'll fit into our car just fine."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Thank you."
After dinner, everyone felt full and sleepy. Lestrade coaxed a fussy Elise into her baby car seat as he called his in-laws. Rupert and Martin clutched Julia's hands on her either side. Harry tried to convince Arthur he could take the Tube, but both Arthur and Molly objected strongly. It was dark outside, and young boys had no business walking around on their own (especially when there were deranged dark wizards roaming free, but Arthur didn't say that).
Harry had resigned to taking a ride back to Baker Street in Arthur's Ford Anglia when a sleek black car parked right in front of the Leaky Cauldron. Lestrade started swearing under his breath when he saw it.
"Go back inside," he growled.
"Why?" Arthur asked as Molly peered at the car curiously.
The rear door behind the driver seat opened, and a tall Muggle man dressed in a dapper three piece suit stepped out, a black umbrella hanging on his left elbow. He clicked his leather shoe heals together and stood imposingly in front of them.
"Harry," he said, rolling his vowels and smiling in a way that strongly reminded Arthur of Lucius Malfoy.
Poor Harry looked like he wanted the ground to open and swallow him up. "Hello, Mycroft," he muttered sullenly.
"Did you have a good time with your friends?" Mycroft inquired.
Harry didn't answer. Mycroft appeared not to be fazed by the silence and turned his attention to Arthur and Molly. Arthur suddenly felt like a peasant farmer facing a Lord.
"Good evening," he greeted. "Thank you looking after my nephew. I believe you've already met my little brother?"
It took an embarrassing amount of time for Arthur to make the connection.
"You're Sherlock's older brother?" he blurted stupidly.
"Yes," said Mycroft, smiling like a snake eyeing a juicy rat it wished to devour. "Whom do I have a pleasure of addressing?"
"Uh…" Arthur hesitated. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Lestrade was shaking his head minutely in dire warning. "Arthur. You can call me Arthur."
"Pleasure," said Mycroft.
Arthur shivered. Though Mycroft Holmes had done nothing and said nothing wrong or untoward, something about his sharp, penetrating gaze made Arthur's scanty hair stand on end. It felt as though all of his secrets were being siphoned off from his person as Mycroft raked his grey eyes once over him.
"As much as I would like to stay and chat, I'm afraid I must take Harry back home," said Mycroft at length. "Good eve to you. I hope we'll see each other very soon. Harry, come."
Harry miserably climbed into the black car. It drove away as soon as Mycroft got back inside and closed the door behind him. Arthur stared at the road it disappeared into for a very long time.
"Who is that?" he whispered.
"One of the most dangerous men you're ever going to meet," Lestrade muttered darkly. "G-d, I'm so sorry. I didn't want this to happen to you."
Arthur shivered again.
-oo00oo-
Ron woke up next morning to Tom the innkeeper's toothless smile and a cup of tea. He left his room soon afterwards because Percy started accusing him of dripping tea on his photo of Penelope Clearwater—Percy's girlfriend (what kind of girl was she, agreeing to date Percy of all people?).
"The sooner we get on the train the better," he said irritably at Hermione over breakfast. "At least I can get away from Percy at Hogwarts."
He didn't get to talk to her much afterwards in the chaos of leaving; they were too busy heaving all their trunks down the Leaky Cauldron's narrow staircase and piling them up near the door, with Hermes, Percy's screech owl, perched on top in his cage. In the middle of the fray, Hermione deposited a wickerwork basket beside the heap of trunks. It spitted loudly.
"It's all right, Crookshanks," Hermione cooed through the wickerwork. "I'll let you out on the train."
"You won't," snapped Ron, "What about poor Scabbers, eh?"
He pointed at his chest, where Scabbers was curled up in his pocket.
The journey to King's Cross was uneventful. His Dad had somehow got hold of two Ministry cars, each of which was driven by a furtive-looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet. They stopped by at 221B to pick up Harry. Harry was waiting for them outside his flat, chatting with a smartly dressed old Muggle lady. Harry hugged her and the old lady kissed him on the cheek before he joined Ron and Hermione in their car.
"That's Mrs. Hudson," Harry explained with a mischievous look. "She's not my housekeeper."
They reached King's Cross with twenty minutes to spare; the Ministry drivers found them trolleys, unloaded their trunks, touched their hats in salute to Arthur, and drove away, jumping to the head of an unmoving line at the traffic lights.
Arthur kept close to Harry's elbow all the way into the station.
"Right then," Arthur said, glancing around them. "Let's do this in pairs, as there are so many of us. I'll go through first with Harry."
Arthur strolled toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten, pushing Harry's trolley and apparently very interested in the InterCity 125 that had just arrived at platform nine. With a meaningful look at Harry, he leaned casually against the barrier. Harry imitated him. They both vanished on the next blink. Ron and Hermione joined them after Percy and Ginny went through the barrier, taking it at a run.
"Ah, there's Penelope!" Percy was saying when Ron and Hermione entered platform 9 and ¾, smoothing his hair as he went pink. Ron caught Hermione's eye, and they both turned away to hide their laughter as Percy strode over to a girl with long, curly hair, walking with his chest thrown out so that she couldn't miss his shiny badge.
Once everyone made it to platform 9 and ¾, they walked to the end of the scarlet steam train, past packed compartments, to a carriage that looked quite empty. They loaded the trunks onto the carriage, stowed Hedwig and Crookshanks on top of the heap, then went back outside to say goodbye to Ron's mum and dad.
His mum kissed all her children, then Hermione, and finally Harry. Harry looked embarrassed, but quite pleased, when she gave him an extra hug.
"Do take care, won't you Harry?" she said as she straightened up, her eyes oddly bright. Then she opened her enormous handbag and said, "I've made you all sandwiches. Here you are, Ron… no, they're not corned beef… Fred? Where's Fred? Here you are dear…"
"Harry," said Arthur quietly, "Come over here for a moment."
He jerked his head towards a pillar. Harry followed him behind it, leaving the others crowded around his mum.
His dad looked very tense and grave as he spoke to Harry at length. Harry listened quietly, and only frowned at the end when his dad said something more intensely still. Harry said something in reply as the train whistled loudly.
"Arthur, quickly!" cried his mum.
His dad said one last thing, which only served to make Harry look more confused.
Steam was billowing from the train as it started to move. Harry ran to the compartment door and Ron threw it open and stood back to let him on. They leaned out of the window and waved at Arthur and Molly until the train turned a corner and blocked them from view.
"I need to talk to you," Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione as the train picked up speed.
"Go away, Ginny," said Ron.
"Oh, that's nice," said Ginny huffily, and she stalked off.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off down the corridor dragging their trunks, looking for an empty compartment, but all were full except for the one at the very end of the train. This had only one occupant, a man sitting fast asleep next to the window. Harry, Ron, and Hermione checked on the threshold. The Hogwarts Express was usually reserved for students and they had never seen an adult there before, except for the witch who pushed the food cart.
The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard's robes that had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his light brown hair was flecked with grey.
"Who d'you reckon he is?" Ron hissed as they sat down and slid the door shut, taking the seats farthest away from the window.
"Professor R. J. Lupin." whispered Hermione at once.
"How'd you know that?"
"It's on his case," she replied, pointing at the luggage rack over the man's head, where there was a small, battered case held together with a large quantity of neatly knotted string. The name R. J. Lupin was stamped across one corner in peeling letters.
"Wonder what he teaches?" said Ron, frowning at Professor Lupin's pallid profile.
"That's obvious," whispered Hermione. "There's only one vacancy, isn't there? Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already had two Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, both of whom had lasted only one year. There were rumours that the job was jinxed.
"Well, I hope he's up to it," said Ron doubtfully. "He looks like one good hex would finish him off, doesn't he? Anyway…" he turned to Harry, "what were you going to tell us?"
"It's about Sirius Black," said Harry quietly. "The ministry thinks he's after me."
Harry told them how Minister Fudge went out to Azkaban on the night Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black had been talking in his sleep for a while now. It was always the same words: "He's at Hogwarts… he's at Hogwarts." In Ron's dad's opinion, Black was deranged and thought murdering Harry would bring You-Know-Who back to power. Black lost everything the night Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he had twelve years alone in Azkaban to brood on it. Anyway, the Ministry had asked Albus Dumbledore if he would mind the Azkaban guards stationing themselves around the entrances to the school grounds. Dumbledore wasn't happy about it, but he agreed. All the security around Harry today had been in place because they feared Black may have a go at him if he was alone. The last thing Arthur warned Harry before he got on the train, was to never, ever go looking for Black.
When Harry finished speaking, Ron was thunderstruck and Hermione had her hands over her mouth.
Then Hermione finally lowered them to say, "Sirius Black escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry… you'll have to be really, really careful. Don't go looking for trouble …"
"I don't go looking for trouble," said Harry, looking nettled. "Trouble usually finds me."
"How thick would Harry have to be, to go looking for a nutter who wants to kill him?" said Ron shakily.
"That's what I said," said Harry irritably. "The way your dad put it, it was almost like he expected me to go after him if I had good enough reason."
Harry looked far too calm for someone who had another madman after his life. Ron supposed he became callous from overexposure. After all, most people didn't have two madmen who tried (and is still trying) to kill you since you were baby.
"No one knows how he got out of Azkaban," Ron said uncomfortably. "No one's ever done it before. And he was a top-security prisoner too."
"But they'll catch him, won't they?" said Hermione earnestly. "I mean, they've got all the Muggles looking out for him too…"
"What's that noise?" said Ron suddenly.
A faint, tinny sort of whistle was coming from somewhere. They looked all around the compartment.
"It's coming from your trunk, Harry," said Ron, standing up and reaching into the luggage rack. A moment later he had pulled the Pocket Sneakoscope he bought for Harry's birthday out from between some robes. It was spinning very fast in the palm of Ron's hand and glowing brilliantly.
"Is that a Sneakoscope?" said Hermione interestedly, standing up for a better look.
"Yeah…mind you, it's a very cheap one," Ron said. "It went haywire just as I was tying it to Errol's leg to send it to Harry."
"Were you doing anything untrustworthy at the time?" said Hermione shrewdly.
"No! Well…I wasn't supposed to be using Errol. You know he's not really up to long journeys… but how else was I supposed to get Harry's present to him?"
"Stick it back in the trunk," Harry advised as the Sneakoscope whistled piercingly, "or it'll wake him up."
He nodded toward Professor Lupin. Ron stuffed the Sneakoscope into a particularly horrible pair of mustard yellow socks, which deadened the sound, then closed the lid of the trunk on it.
"We could get it checked in Hogsmeade," said Ron, sitting back down. "They sell that sort of thing in Dervish and Banges, magical instruments and stuff. Fred and George told me."
"Do you know much about Hogsmeade?" asked Hermione keenly. "I've read it's the only entirely non-Muggle settlement in Britain."
They talked about Hogsmeade, which third years and above were allowed to go to on special occasions. Hermione, of course, nattered about the stuff she'd read off of books, like the inn was the headquarters for the 1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack's was supposed to be the most severely haunted building in Britain. Ron didn't pay attention to the lecture and ruminated over Honeydukes and their many famous sweats. Harry, as usual, just soaked in all the talking without saying much himself.
The train ride went on peacefully. Professor Lupin slept on, despite Hermione's one timid attempt to wake him up during lunch. He might not be very good company, but Professor Lupin's presence in their compartment had its uses. Mid-afternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, they heard footsteps outside in the corridor again, and their three least favourite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.
"Well, look who it is," said Malfoy in his usual lazy drawl, pulling open the compartment door. "Potty and the Weasel."
Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly.
"I heard your father finally got his hands on some gold this summer, Weasley," said Malfoy. "Did your mother die of shock?"
Ron saw red. He stood up so quickly he knocked Crookshanks's basket to the floor. Professor Lupin gave a snort.
"Who's that?" said Malfoy, taking an automatic step backward as he spotted Lupin.
"New teacher," said Harry, who got to his feet, too. "What were you saying, Malfoy?"
Malfoy's pale eyes narrowed; he wasn't fool enough to pick a fight right under a teacher's nose.
"C'mon," he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and Goyle, and they disappeared.
Harry and Ron sat down again, Ron massaging his knuckles.
"I'm not going to take any crap from Malfoy this year," he said angrily. "I mean it. If he makes one more crack about my family, I'm going to get hold of his head and—"
Ron shook his fist violently in midair.
"Ron," hissed Hermione, pointing at Professor Lupin, "be careful…"
But Professor Lupin was still fast asleep.
The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering grey, which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept.
At long last, the train started to slow down.
"Great," said Ron, getting up and walking carefully past Professor Lupin to try and see outside the completely black window. "I'm starving. I want to get to the feast…"
"We can't be there yet," said Hermione, checking her watch.
"So why're we stopping?"
The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows. They got up to look into the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments.
The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they were plunged into total darkness.
"What's going on?" said Ron, backing away.
"Ouch!" gasped Hermione. "Ron, that was my foot!"
"D'you think we've broken down?" asked Harry's voice in front of Ron.
"Dunno…"
More confusion followed. Neville blundered into their compartment a few minutes later, followed by Ginny, who was looking for Ron.
"I'm going to go and ask the driver what's going on," came Hermione's voice. Ron felt her pass him, heard the door slide open again, and then a thud and two loud squeals of pain.
"Who's that?"
"Julia?"
"Hermione?"
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for you—"
"Come in, sit down, it's a bit crowded here—"
"Not here!" said Neville hurriedly. "I'm here!"
"Quiet!" said a hoarse voice suddenly.
Professor Lupin appeared to have woken up at last. Ron could hear movements in his corner.
None of them spoke. There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked alert and wary.
"Stay where you are," he said in the same hoarse voice, and he got slowly to his feet with his handful of fire held out in front of him.
But the door slid slowly open before Lupin could reach it.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering flames in Lupin's hand, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Ron's eyes darted downward, and what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, greyish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water…
But it was visible only for a split second. As though the creature beneath the cloak sensed his gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its black cloak. And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings.
An intense cold swept over them all. Ron felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart… It was the weirdest feeling, like something vital had been sucked out of him, leaving him gaping and empty. As a dim fog clouded the edge of his vision, he saw Ginny start shaking like mad and Hermione curling into herself.
Then, to his horror, he saw Harry go rigid, slump off from his seat and start twitching on the floor. The small sliver of his open eyes showed nothing but whites, like his eyes had rolled to the back of his head.
Before anyone could do anything, Lupin stepped over Harry and pointed his wand at the creature.
"None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go," he said.
But the hooded creature didn't move. It just stood at compartment door, drawing another rattling breath.
Lupin muttered something. A silvery thing shot out of his wand and went after the creature. Only then did the creature turn around and glide away.
Sometime later the lights went back on. The train also started to slowly shake itself back into motion. Feeling better with the lights on, Ron knelt down next to Harry and shook him awake.
Except he wouldn't wake up. He just kept laying there as rigid as a board. Ron slapped his face a few times, but Harry remained unconscious. His skin felt very cold and clammy to touch.
"Do you think he had a seizure?" Julia asked, kneeling next to Ron. She looked very pale and worried.
A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces.
"Eat this," he said. "It'll help. When Harry wakes up, give him this."
Professor Lupin handed a very large piece of chocolate to Ron. Ron took it and a smaller piece nervously.
"What was that thing?" Julia asked Lupin in a voice barely higher than a whisper.
"A Dementor," said Lupin, who was giving pieces of chocolate to everyone else. "One of the Dementors of Azkaban."
Everyone stared at him. Professor Lupin crumpled up the empty chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.
"Eat," he repeated. "It'll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me…"
He disappeared into the corridor.
They sat in a very heavy silence for a long minute.
"It was horrible," said Neville suddenly, in a higher voice than usual. "Did you feel how cold it got when it came in?"
"I felt weird," said Ron, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. "Like I'd never be cheerful again…"
Ginny, who was huddled in her corner, gave a small sob. Hermione went over and put a comforting arm around her. Julia, who was almost the same colour as Muggle foolscap, clutched at Harry's sleeve looking incredibly anxious.
Professor Lupin came back a few minutes later. He paused as he entered, and turned very grim and upset when he noticed Harry still hadn't woken up.
"I need to take him to Hogwarts immediately."
Lupin picked up Harry like he weighed nothing and swiftly left again.
They didn't see him for the rest of the day.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: The chapter started out very depressing and angsty, but, fortunately for all parties, it didn't work out and had be scraped. Phew. I really can't do prolonged angst.
If I ever find the time and brains, I would like to write a John/Molly post-TRF fic. The idea of Sherlock having to deal with an engaged/married John and Molly is … hard to resist. Despite the minimal grounds on which the relationship would build. And the AWKWARD that would surely follow when Sherlock comes back. Oh, yeah…