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 Six: Consequences of Ideas
When Sherlock told him to go find the secret passageways in Hogwarts, Harry imagined long, exciting excursions looking for unknown places inside the castle with his friends and Hagrid and perhaps Miss Jackie if she felt up to it.
The Weasley twins changed all that. After the first Quidditch practice Harry participated since the match against Slytherin, Fred and George stopped him outside the lockers.
"We have something to show you, Harry," said Fred, with a mysterious wink. "Come along."
Curious, Harry trotted after Fred and George, who walked across the grounds, entered the castle and went up to the third floor. Harry followed Fred and George inside an empty classroom left to a statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch. George closed the door quietly and then turned, beaming, to look at Harry.
"Consider this either a very late birthday present or an early Christmas gift," he said. "Show him, Fred."
Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large, square, much worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. Harry stared at it, suspecting a joke.
"What's that supposed to be?"
"This, Harry, is the secret of our success," said George, patting the parchment fondly.
"It's a wrench, giving it to you," said Fred, "but we decided last night, your needs are greater than ours."
"Anyway, we know it by heart," said George. "We don't really need it anymore."
"Why would I need a bit of old parchment?" said Harry.
"A bit of old parchment!" said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. "Explain, George."
George spun a yarn of him and Fred noticing a filing cabinet marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous inside Filch's office when the caretaker brought them in and threatened detention (and disembowelment) for dropping a Dungbomb in a corridor when they were young, carefree and innocent first years. True to form, George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb and Fred whipped the drawer open and grabbed the parchment.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," said George. "We don't reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn't have confiscated it."
"And you know how to work it?"
"Oh yes," said Fred, smirking. "This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school."
"You're winding me up," said Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.
"Oh, are we?" said George.
He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider's web from the point that George's wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:
Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP
It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing was the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labelled with a name in minuscule writing. A labelled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker's cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the fourth floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. As Harry's eyes travelled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else.
This map showed a set of passages he had never entered. And many of them seemed to lead—
"Right into Hogsmeade," said Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. "There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four"— he pointed them out— "but we're sure he doesn't know about these. Don't bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it's caved in—completely blocked. And we don't reckon anyone's ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow's planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We've used it loads of times. As you might've noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed old crone's hump."
Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map. Then he looked at the twins.
"How did you figure out how to work it?"
"We asked it," said Fred. "The thing about enchanted objects is that they want to be used the way it was intended."
"We tapped it with our wands and asked it to reveal its secrets," George explained. "After a few tries, the parchment started writing back to us. Mr. Moony asked what for. Fred said because we were curious. Mr. Padfoot asked if we were up to no good. I said yes. Mr. Prongs asked if I would solemnly swear I am up to no good. When I said so after taping the parchment with my wand, the map appeared."
Harry nodded slowly. Who would've thought merely asking could do the job? But—
"Why are you giving me this?"
"For information—" Fred started.
"—and inspiration," George finished. "You see, the map is second to none when it comes to learning the floor plans and goings-on of Hogwarts, but you have to look at it to get the information. Monitoring a parchment 24-7 no matter how cool gets old quickly. Try as we might, we couldn't figure out how to add more features to the map."
"So you want me to—"
"Find a way to improve it," said George. "Or make something even better. The holographic map of yours is pretty cool."
"If you can make your map show who's in Hogwarts and what their names are like the Marauder's map, and alert you when someone, say, unexpected shows up, that would be even more cool," said Fred.
Harry nodded. Yes, that would be cool; very cool, as a matter of fact…
"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs," sighed George, patting the heading of the map. "We owe them so much."
"Noble men, working tirelessly to help and inspire a new generation of lawbreakers," said Fred solemnly.
"Right," said George briskly. "Don't forget to wipe it after you've used it—"
"—or anyone can read it," Fred said warningly.
"Just tap it again and say, 'Mischief managed!' And it'll go blank."
"So, young Harry," said Fred in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, "I expect great things from you."
"Have fun," said George, winking.
They left the room, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.
Harry stood alone in the room, staring at the map. He watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor. It was amazing no matter how much he looked at it. What kind of spell did the Marauders use to track the people inside Hogwarts? How did the map reveal their names? Where would he have to look in order to find the necessary spells? What kind of spells would he have to learn? How could he stop any additions from interfering with the existing magic? As the questions piled up, the more daunting the challenge looked.
Single concepts, Harry, said the Sherlock voice in his head. Spells only work properly when there is only one concept to focus on.
Harry started to break it down. Spell one: reveal who is here. Spell two: reveal their names. Spell three: go blank when tapped with password. Spell four: reveal map when tapped with password. None of these were so heavy-handed that they would work against other spells. He'd done something very similar to make his Holographic map. The principle was the same: Break down the tasks to the smallest and simplest idea, and then add the spells one by one according to their dependencies.
Harry rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a couple of inches. There was no one outside. Very carefully, he edged out of the room and behind the statue of the one-eyed witch. Then he unrolled the map to see what it could tell him about the hidden passageway that lead to the cellar of Honeydukes.
Harry marvelled when the map showed him a new ink figure about where he was standing in the third floor corridor. He felt oddly pleased the figure was labelled 'Harry Watson' instead of 'Harry Potter'. His little Ink-self tapped the witch with his minute wand, and the tiniest speech bubble appeared next to his figure. The word inside said, 'Dissendium.'
"Dissendium!" Harry whispered, tapping the stone witch with his real wand.
At once, the statue's hump opened wide enough to admit a fairly thin person.
Harry let out a long breath as he stared at the opening. He glanced quickly up and down the corridor to make sure it was still empty. Then he raised the map, tapped it with the tip of his wand and muttered, "Mischief managed!" The map went blank at once. Then he tapped the statue again and the hump returned to its place. Harry folded the map carefully, tucked it inside his robes, then, heart beating fast, he raced back to the Gryffindor tower.
He found Ron and Hermione in the common room. He quickly herded them to a discreet corner and told them about the Marauder's map.
"How come Fred and George never gave it to me!" said Ron, outraged. "I'm their brother!"
"But Harry isn't going to keep it!" said Hermione, as though the idea were ludicrous. "He's going to hand it in to Professor McGonagall, aren't you, Harry?"
"Are you mad?" said Ron, goggling at Hermione. "Hand in something that good?"
"If I hand it in, I'll have to say where I got it! Filch would know Fred and George had nicked it!" Harry argued.
"But what about Sirius Black?" Hermione hissed. "He could be using one of the passages on that map to get into the castle! The teachers have got to know!"
"Fred and George didn't give the map to me just so I can hand it over to the teachers," said Harry indignantly. "They wanted me to reverse engineer it and improve it! Don't you want to figure out how it works?"
"Yes, but— but—" Hermione seemed to be struggling to find another problem. "That doesn't stop us from telling Professor McGonagall about the secret tunnel! And what if Sirius Black turns up today? Now?"
"Same problem as handing in the map; McGonagall will want to know how I found it out."
"Come on, Hermione," said Ron, "This is valuable info. We need this too. At least until we can copy the features?"
Hermione bit her lip, looking extremely worried.
"Are you going to report me?" Harry asked her, grinning.
"Oh— of course not— but honestly, Harry—"
"So what are we going to do?" said Ron, looking very excited.
"First, we tell Sherlock about the breakthrough," said Harry, brandishing his phone. "Then we check all the floor plans on the Marauder's map and add the missing stuff to our map before someone finds out…"
-oo00oo-
Lestrade felt a stab of jealousy as John and Sherlock crowded the other side of the morgue to talk to Harry over the MMN. The last time he'd talked to Julia was two weeks ago, and it had been short and perfunctory. It was as though she was fast running out of things to say because she was now too cool for her daddy.
"Excellent," Sherlock rumbled in approval, "You're making good progress."
"We're going to examine each floor tomorrow and see if the info checks out," said Harry brightly. "Should I send you a copy of our new map?"
"Yes, that would be perfect."
Lestrade looked away. He knew it was going to happen sooner or later, but he hoped he could milk out at least two more years of adoration.
"You stink of envy," Robert Ju murmured quietly from where he was examining the body of Ann Nichols, the first victim of the Embalmer. On the other side of the chilling room's glass window, the two Ministry of Magic wizards who brought in her magically preserved corpse were looking decidedly green as they watched Robert in action between their trembling fingers.
"If I wanted another person who can figure out my inner thoughts, I'd say so," Lestrade growled, glaring at the grey and vaguely pink tartan pattern suit jacket Robert was wearing.
Robert blinked up at him.
"You mean there was a better way of bringing up the subject. I'm sorry, I didn't know."
Lestrade felt himself deflate a little. Robert may have the social grace of a five-legged giraffe that had two deformed ankles and an amputated foot, but he could act professional, at least temporarily, and unlike another genius he could name, he didn't have problems apologising when he was wrong.
"Just—stop saying stuff like that in front of other people," Lestrade said gruffly. "It's creepy enough as it is it."
"Noted."
Robert resumed his examination of the corpse and Lestrade his brooding.
"You don't like magic," Robert pronounced.
"Just because I have it, doesn't mean I have to like it," Lestrade retorted.
"In short, anything related to magic for you is bad news."
"Well, yeah."
"You love your daughter and for her sake you tolerate it."
"Is there a point to all this?" asked Lestrade testily.
Robert paused for a second.
"Maybe your daughter is trying to spare you unnecessary bad news, which in your case is magic."
Lestrade stared at him.
"Food for thought," said Robert without looking up.
-oo00oo-
Harry woke up the next day thoroughly determined to start the Marauder's map verification and holographic map update. Nothing was going to stop him, Harry vowed as he ate breakfast with gusto.
He was promptly derailed the moment he saw Professor Lupin at Defence Against the Dark Arts class that morning.
It was the first time he'd seen Lupin within a week after the full moon. He looked more exhausted than back in the train, there were more greys in his hair, and his old robes were hanging loosely. No one would've doubted he had been ill, though perhaps not for the reasons one may assume.
"He really doesn't look well," Harry muttered as he sat down.
"He looked worse on Monday," said Ron. "So I guess that means he's getting better?"
But Harry was far from assured. Hairy Snout, Human Heart had talked about the immense toll werewolf transformations put on a wizard's body. The author said he felt like he'd aged years after a full moon and quickly started to look like he was—just like Lupin. All his joints were ruined after too many shifts, which eventually made him hobble around like an old man. The epilogue of the book said the author had passed away after forty years of battling lycanthropy. Harry didn't know when Lupin was bitten, but he must have been very young when it happened, because he already had lycanthropy when he'd entered Hogwarts. That meant Lupin had already lived with the curse for over twenty years. Could it be Lupin only had twenty more years to live?
Harry went through the otherwise enjoyable lesson studying Hinkypunk very distracted. When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things and headed for the door. Harry lingered, his mind preoccupied with dark thoughts.
"Wait a moment, Harry," Lupin called. "I'd like a word."
Harry went over and watched Professor Lupin covering the Hinkypunk's box with a cloth.
"I heard about the match," said Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase, "and I'm sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?"
"No," said Harry. "The tree smashed it to bits."
Lupin sighed.
"They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance."
Harry's brain latched onto the fact the Whomping Willow, a very violent tree that stood alone in the middle of the grounds, was planted the same year as Lupin arrived at Hogwarts, and that there was a secret passage beneath the Whomping Willow. He didn't think this was a coincidence.
"Um, Professor Lupin," said Harry cautiously. "Does the planting have anything to do with your—?"
Lupin looked at Harry quickly. After studying his face, Lupin relaxed a bit.
"I keep forgetting how sharp you are," he said. "I supposed you know there is a secret passage that starts at the Whomping Willow and ends at the Shrieking Shack?"
Harry didn't know the passage ended at the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted place in Great Britain supposedly. But he nodded since he knew the passage led to Hogsmeade, where the Shrieking Shack was located.
"I was taken to Hogsmeade each month for my illness when I was student," said Lupin calmly. "The rumours that particularly violent spirits were haunting the Shack started around that time. Dumbledore may have encouraged the rumour to keep people away."
"That's very clever," said Harry.
Lupin smiled wryly. "I suppose so."
"How did you enter the passage?"
"I don't think I should tell you that," said Lupin, his eyes twinkling. "Not when I'm a teacher."
"Oh. Right," said Harry, feeling a bit let down. Then he shrugged. He'll just consult the Marauder's map. Hopefully the map had that bit of info too.
"Well, it seems like you're not dwelling on the match," said Lupin, thoughtfully. "But you seemed rather distracted today. What was on your mind?"
"Well I thinking… about stuff…"
"Such as?"
Harry hesitated. He didn't think he could voice his worries over Lupin's monthly werewolf problem, not in a semi-open classroom where people could eavesdrop. He supposed he could mention the Dementors as he had meant to ask Lupin about them, but now that the moment had come, he felt too embarrassed. What if Lupin thought he was just weak? As the silence stretched on, the feeling he'd missed his cue got stronger.
Then Harry decided what the hell.
"You made that Dementor on the train back off," he said suddenly.
"There are— certain defences one can use," said Lupin. "But there was only one Dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist."
"What defences?" said Harry at once. "Can you teach me?"
"I don't pretend to be an expert at fighting Dementors, Harry— quite the contrary…"
"But if the Dementors come to another Quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them—"
Lupin looked into Harry's determined face, hesitated, then said, "Well … all right. I'll try and help. But it'll have to wait until next term, I'm afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. My illness came at a very inconvenient time."
-oo00oo-
Lestrade spent many busy weeks working closely with Arthur, Kingsley and the Baker Street prats since the thought provoking conversation with Robert. The Embalmer case officially transferred to him after Morton was obliviated for the umpteenth time by Obliviator Smith, who couldn't navigate the non-magical world incognito even if his life depended on it. With Lestrade in charge, Smith could go on committing the most egregious faux pas without compromising the Statute of Secrecy, which meant the Yard could finally make some tangible progress on the case.
The Embalmer case wasn't all that hard to crack down as long as the wizards didn't make the police officer in charge forget what they knew to cover up the blatantly wizard thing Smith had done ten minutes ago. Hospital security footage showed who interacted with the three non-magic victims before they died, so Forensics was able to get plenty of visuals of the man who placed the potion that killed them. Based on the payroll records the Hospital provided, the security footage, and the highly volatile nature of the administered poison, Lestrade determined the Embalmer was actually a two person team: one was largely in charge of the potion related work and his/her partner did the actual administering and body-snatching.
Kingsley turned very grave when Lestrade told him about the team thing.
"Are you sure about this?"
"There's no other explanation," said Lestrade grimly. "The perp caught on camera worked thirty-hour shifts twice a week, and judging from the number of times he showed up on tape, he stuck around for most of it. That's too long to stay away from the cauldron or so Robert tells me. He said the customized nature of the poison made the stuff highly perishable and volatile; for it to be as effective as it was the perp would've had to monitor his cauldron constantly, administer the potion as soon as it finished brewing and reapply as often as possible."
Kingsley turned graver still.
"What's wrong?"
"The primary difficulty of catching the Embalmer is that he's too quick and too patient," said Kingsley, "He goes underground the moment the investigation against him gets hot. Then he starts again when the case goes cold."
Lestrade stared. "Smells like insider information."
"It does," Kingsley shook his head, "At least we know we're dealing with two, not one. Thanks Lestrade. You have no idea how much effort you saved us."
Lestrade smiled crookedly.
"You're welcome. Now can you do me a favour and tell me how the bloody hell am I supposed to explain all this to my very Muggle Super? And if I catch Culverton leering at the lady's with his magical eye again, I'm going to pry it out of his socket and shove it up somewhere a lot less comfortable."
Arthur followed up and gave Lestrade a list of potion ingredient suppliers that checked out from the non-magic end. Since all the half-digested ingredients they'd recovered from Ann Nichols' body were poisonous and the suppliers confirmed repeat purchases of those ingredients, he was able to establish a probable cause of death. That was the good news. The bad news was working with Arthur brought him straight into the realm of magical hate crime, starting with shrinking door keys.
"Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?" said Lestrade incredulously.
"Just Muggle-baiting," sighed Arthur. "Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it … Of course, it's very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking—they'll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they'll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it's staring them in the face… But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn't believe."
After the shrinking door keys, Lestrade encountered regurgitating toilets, biting kettles, fire-breathing dinosaur toys, and cars cursed to malfunction in embarrassing ways. None of the cases needed more than the usual legwork to solve, but filing paperwork for the amputations, second-degree burns, automobile accidents that blocked three intersections and taking the victims to Robert so they could get their fingers and skin regrown without having their memories summarily erased put Lestrade in an extremely blood-thirsty mood. He almost felt relieved when Culverton tried to put a hex on him after getting reprimanded for his peeping-tom activities.
Lestrade wasn't sure if it was his in-laws who did something to him or if it was the belt John gifted him around the time he started working with wizards that he happened to be wearing that day. But the hex bounced off a force-field that immediately surrounded Lestrade and hit Culverton square in the face. It was entirely unnecessary to use a Taser after that point, but he did. Just in case.
"That was a very impressive Shield Charm," Arthur said a bit too casually when he came to transport Culverton to a wizard hospital. "I thought you, um, didn't do any magic."
"No idea what you're talking about," said Lestrade gleefully. "I've never seen a real force-field outside a movie."
Arthur sighed. "Right. Now can you take a look at this? I'm pretty sure there's a befuddlement type of charm on this bobble-head, but I'm not sure what it's trying to do besides making me feel confused. All I know is that a Muggle jumped off a bridge because of it."
The bobble-head turned out to be critical in uncovering a very clever theft scheme targeting Muggles. The perp bewitched harmless looking trinkets and sent them to his potential victims. The trinkets then Confunded the victims to mail their personal bank information to the perp. Once he got the info, he erased their memory, removed the first trinket, and then left a second trinket that made them not report any suspicious banking activity. He siphoned hundreds of thousands of pounds this way. Cyber Crime was able to trace him as soon as Lestrade alerted them because, while the perp knew about online banking, he didn't know all his online activities could be recorded and traced.
"I hope he doesn't just get a warning for charming trinkets," Lestrade snarled when they arrested the bastard.
"Oh, trust me, he won't," said Arthur grimly. "We have a new Muggle Protection Act precisely for this kind of case: if a wizard or witch uses magic in a way that causes the loss of a Muggle's property, health, life or other intangibles protected by Muggle law, he or she will be prosecuted according to the applicable Muggle law."
"Good! You guys can charge him of involuntary man slaughter, fraud, theft and breaking and entering!"
Arthur looked very alert after he said that. "Could you document that for me?"
Lestrade wondered what would happen if he made up a couple of laws and exaggerated the penalties of existing ones as he sloppily put together a report. Arthur had confided to him though the new Muggle Protection Act was written and ratified in order to stop wizards and witches from exploiting Muggles in ways Magical Legislature didn't cover, it wasn't put into much use because the Ministry of Magic lacked the necessary legal knowledge.
So his days went, and before he knew it, it was mid-December.
"Hey, babe," Lestrade said as he brushed off the filthy raindrops that clung to his coat.
"Hi Greg," Ellen called out from kitchen. "We're having spicy sausages and roasted asparagus today. Oh, Julia called me about an hour ago. She's coming back home next Saturday."
Lestrade grinned happily as he opened the fridge for a beer. "Great. How was everyone else?"
"Rupert made his toy train move."
"So?"
"He wasn't touching it."
"…And?"
"It was flying."
Lestrade sat heavily in one of the chairs at the dinner table, cracked open a beer and took a long drink. One of the unfortunate side-effects of being a wizard was that your children more often than not ended up with your magic genes.
"I guess that means he's going to Hogwarts, too," Lestrade groaned.
"Yes. Just so you know, Martin keeps banishing his peas and I caught Jeremy chasing after Elise who was riding something called a toy broomstick."
Stupid magic genes. "Sorry, babe."
"Ummmm, why are you even apologising?"
After dinner, he and Ellen did what they always did before falling asleep: snuggling in bed, gossiping.
"I really don't mind, you know," said Ellen, poking at his nose.
"I know," Lestrade mumbled.
The first three weeks after Robert out-ed him as a wizard, the fact loomed over Lestrade like the proverbial sword of Damocles. Before long everyone who hadn't suspected it before started to guess the truth Lestrade was very determined to deny as long as he could. Ellen had learned it from Julia, and was two seconds away from confronting him about it when she was mercifully intercepted by his in-laws. Jacqueline advised her to give him space so they could talk about it when he was feeling less raw. She'd agreed to wait for a week.
She lasted a day. Lestrade was shocked she managed to hold it in that long.
Nevertheless he wasn't prepared when Ellen went nuclear. He stared frozen in fear as Ellen stumbled over to him, her eyes overflowing with tears and wailing incoherently: "You—three weeks—hiding something—I can't—just tell me!"
Four years of marriage told him when Ellen was in this state, giving her what she wanted was the only way out. The whole story tumbled out of his mouth at the same level of incoherence as she. After a lot of crying (from Ellen), a lot apologising (from Greg), and several sleepless nights of Talking About It, they both acknowledged the wizard thing was there to stay like the hideous Christmas jumper your grandmother gave you and left it at that. The policy of keeping the issue inside the closet from whence it came worked fine. Usually. Mostly.
Unless…
"Why is Hogwarts so beautiful?" said Ellen wistfully. "J showed me the Holographic Map thingy today. It's like the most perfect enchanted castle. No wonder Julia loves it there. Martin, Rupert and Elise are going to love it too."
…Unless someone brought up Hogwarts.
It felt like someone was ripping his guts out, whenever Sherlock whipped out Harry's blasted map of Hogwarts to go over the latest on Sirius Black. As he stared at the miniature 3D images of the corridors, classrooms and staircases, he couldn't help but wonder what his childhood would've been like if only he hadn't lost his magic, and felt irrationally jealous of his own daughter for getting what he'd never have.
"You are so lucky, you can go there if you want to," said Ellen.
Lestrade had a moment of dumbfounded shock as he realised this was true. Then the cynicism born from thirty years of hard living and over twenty years at the Force reared its ugly head.
So what if he could go to Hogwarts? He was still on the wrong side of forty. He wasn't like his father-in-law, who had the grit to request distance education around the same age as him and had the brains to finish the whole curriculum in two years, shocking all his teachers. He barely scrapped through Secondary School and left as soon as he could after taking his O-levels. Besides, he wasn't sure he wanted to be part of a world who thought having magic meant they could do whatever they wanted to those who didn't.
But…
"I might have to go to court."
"You always have to go to court."
"Not normal court. Magic court."
"Why?"
"Remember the bastard who enchanted people into telling him their bank logins and stole all their money? The wizards are going to charge him of breaking our laws."
Ellen perked up. "They need you to testify?"
"And tell them what laws he broke."
"You're not a barrister."
"This is the first time justice will be meted out according to the victims' laws. The wizards just need someone to tell them what those laws are."
"Why can't they get a proper barrister?"
"None of the barristers are wizards."
"So they reach for the next best thing."
"A copper with good working knowledge of criminal law, who is incidentally a wizard, yeah," Lestrade sighed. "I don't know if I can do this."
Ellen looked at him intently.
"If you don't speak for the victims, who's going to make it right for them?"
Lestrade said nothing.
He kept his silence late into the night, long after Ellen fell asleep. His mind was too full of ambivalent thoughts to let him slumber.
When it came down to it, Lestrade didn't have any problems with magic. Magic was cool and very useful. The problem he had was with wizards. He didn't want to be a wizard and all that entailed: the robes and the wand and the twisted mindset that refused to understand anything that didn't involve magic. Just because he had magic didn't mean he had to embrace the magic culture too.
"Can you be a magic user and not a wizard?" he wondered out loud.
-oo00oo-
Harry greeted the very last weekend of the term with a deep sense of satisfaction that only came after an extraordinarily productive two months and a Hogsmeade trip to look forward to. He and his friends had almost finished copying all the floor plans and features of the Marauder's map to their Holographic Map, and with a bit of tinkering, they might even get the individual detection/alert charm to work before the holidays. The only thing that fell on the wayside was Quidditch practice. Harry didn't have a replacement broom yet, and Madam Pomfrey was breathing fire because she was convinced Harry would collapse if someone sneezed at him the wrong way. It was very difficult to participate under such circumstances, even when one didn't factor the chilly haze of rain that transformed into snow by December, Wood's manic energy that made him very unreasonable, and the school broom Harry rode at team practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very slow and jerky.
On the last Friday evening of the term, Harry, Ron, Neville, Hermione and Julia went to Music Chamber to discuss the last finishing touches they should add to the Holographic map. As soon as they opened the door, they heard a shout:
"Appa, NO!"
The five of them stood gaping as Miss Jackie seethed at the holographic image of Mr. Shin, who looked pained.
"Jacqueline…" started Mr. Shin.
His image abruptly vanished when Miss Jackie ended the call. Then she threw the phone into a corner and started sobbing loudly into her arm.
For the next five minutes or so they plastered themselves against the door, pretending to not exist because they'd never seen Miss Jackie this distraught, therefore was at lost what to do.
They only started moving very cautiously when Miss Jackie cries reduced to a sniffle and she raised her head.
"Hi, Auntie Jack," said Julia quietly when they got close enough.
Miss Jackie looked at her miserably. It took a several dry swallows before she was able say anything.
"Hi Julia darling. Sorry, I'm a big baby today."
Harry tried to deduce what was up. He didn't have to look further than her arm, where there was giant, purple bruise that covered almost half of the length of her white forearm starting from the wrist.
"What in the world!?" Hermione screeched.
"I met a reporter at Hogsmeade," said Miss Jackie, looking deeply shaken. "She wanted to interview me for the Prophet. I said no, but she wouldn't listen. She grabbed my arm and dragged me all the way to the Three Broomsticks. Luckily Hagrid was there; he managed to pry her off and escort me back to Hogwarts."
"That's assault, that is!" said Ron furiously. "You should report her!"
"I tried to, but Appa got a wind of it. He was about to go jopok on the reporter, so I stopped."
Harry had no idea what she was saying, but her uncharacteristic incoherence was highly alarming. His alarm only increased when he saw the fresh tears leak out of her eyes.
"I don't know how much longer I can do this," she said hopelessly. "The workload isn't getting any better and I can't find anyone suitable to hire."
"We can help more," said Hermione earnestly.
"Yeah, I even know how to use the Internet now," said Ron, crossing his fingers behind his back. "If you just changed the rules a bit—"
"No!" said Miss Jackie sharply. Then in a softer but equally firm voice, she said, "No. I'm not running a sweatshop. I won't hire anyone younger than thirteen, and anyone underage will not work more than five hours a week. That's final."
"Oh, c'mon…"
"And I won't employ students who have average marks below Acceptable," said Miss Jackie, looking sternly at Ron. "Are you still getting serial Trolls?"
"No," said Ron quickly.
"Are you really?"
"Yes!"
"Good," said Miss Jackie. "If I hear you getting serial Trolls again, I'm giving you the sack. Are we clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Ron in a small voice.
They left the music chamber a few minutes later, after Miss Jackie asked if she could have some privacy as she wanted to apologize to Mr. Shin. They wouldn't have stood to stay much longer even if she didn't ask. It was painful to see Miss Jackie locked in a job she couldn't thrive in. If only she'd been allowed to quit earlier, when all the customers were just students, it might not have been too bad. But now she couldn't just quit because she was responsible for older customers who were more than capable of sending horrible curses over Owl Post, to say nothing of the Howlers they kept sending because the concept of a phone was so foreign to them, they kept using it the wrong way and thought it didn't work.
"Some year Miss Jackie's having, eh?" said Ron ruefully.
"Yeah, and no thanks to us," Julia sighed.
They couldn't possibly work on the map under such circumstances. So Harry, Neville, Ron, Hermione and Julia went to the library and discussed the MMN business instead.
"What we need," Hermione declared, "is someone the customers can contact, who can explain how to properly work the phone and fix them if need be."
"And we need him quick," said Ron grimly. "It's Christmas season and I reckon there's going to be huge influx of new customers."
"We should lower the bar to the bare minimum," said Harry. "If the candidate can properly turn on a computer, that's good enough."
"How about giving them a test?" said Julia. "We can setup a computer in the Three Broomsticks or wherever the interview is going to happen, make each applicant go into the room alone and make them to do simple tasks like 'turn on the computer', 'play a music CD' and 'query so-and-so in any search engine of your choice.'"
"Yeah, that sounds good. Make them do stuff you can do in five minutes or less as long as you know what a computer is. That way we won't waste our time with people who don't know a thing about Muggles…"
They managed to narrow down the test to eight questions:
1. turn on the computer
2. open an internet browser
3. query the term 'mobile' on a search engine of your choice
4. open a web page in the Favourites
5. put a CD into the CD player
6. plug earphones to the jack
7. play the music CD that you have put in
8. open a text editor and type up the following paragraph. Then print the page
"Should we add two more and make it a nice ten?" Hermione wondered.
"Why should we? This is good enough," said Ron.
They handed over the questions to Miss Jackie later that evening, and explained what they were for. She looked both amused and depressed as she read them.
"I think we can remove the questions related to CDs," she said. "Otherwise good job. I think this covers the basics."
"How do you want to word the ad?" asked Hermione.
"Whatever you like. Just don't make the position sound too interesting. I don't want to filter through hundreds of people like last time."
The ad they eventually sent to the Prophet was worded like this:
The Magical Mobile Network Job Opening
Position: Customer Service Representative
All witches and wizards above age seventeen are eligible
Will train necessary skills, but expect Muggle knowledge test
Apply in person on December 21st, at ten o' clock
Inquire Ms. Jacqueline Shin at the Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade
DO NOT CONTACT BY OWL OR MOBILE OR FLOO
-oo00oo-
"Thanks, doc, appreciate your work," said Lestrade.
Robert nodded vaguely as he rearranged Jane Kelly's internal organs and closed the Y-incision with a whispered spell. The cut flesh knitted back together in a minute, leaving only faint traces where he'd used the scalpel.
"Anything else you need?" Robert asked he covered Jane's remains in a shroud.
"Got more than enough to go on," said Lestrade. "Just need to find the bastards who did this."
Robert spared Lestrade a glance.
"You want to make it right for them."
"Well, yeah," Lestrade growled.
Robert's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, "You're a good man, Inspector."
Lestrade was about to reply, only to realise Robert wasn't there anymore. He pondered this conundrum for a couple of seconds before checking the door.
John Watson looked back at him, looking deeply apologetic.
"Sorry, I didn't know he was here," said John.
Lestrade sighed. Some of the madder things Robert did spawned from his determination to not be in the same room as John if Sherlock was not present also, and even then only if John kept a respectable distance of two meters. He once launched himself out of a window from the second floor when John cornered him and covered all exits. But as long as both conditions were met, Robert had no problem interacting with John, though he did inject the phrase "Go love your husband," quite a few times. Sherlock was as baffled at his behaviour as everyone else.
"So why are you here?" asked Lestrade.
"Himself wanted to check out the Embalmer victims."
"Of course he did. Now hold a bit," Lestrade glared at Culverton on the other side of the glass. "Oi, all eyeballs forward!"
Culverton's magical glass eye swivelled back into proper position.
"I'm having a lot of trouble with him," Lestrade growled.
"I heard," John sighed. "I better go. Robert will never show up as long as I'm here and heaven knows what Sherlock is doing to the poor girls."
John went back out to the hallway. Much to Lestrade's annoyance, Culverton's magical eye followed John's trek.
Robert reappeared inside the morgue shortly after John left. He finished cleaning up Jane's body and prepared it for transport as if he hadn't vanish for a moment, chilling the body with another whispered spell and a gentle, almost loving caress down the shrouded body.
"I can't help but notice you don't use wands," said Lestrade.
"I was raised in a sect that didn't believe in letting one's magic depend on tools," said Robert.
"Makes sense."
"It doesn't. You can only do rough and crude spells without a focusing tool."
Lestrade snorted. "Why keep at it then?"
"Why use an enchanted, self-inking quill when a pencil is just fine? Why use fire spells when a lighter is more reliable?"
"True enough," said Lestrade, grinning. "Say, doc, can you—"
But Robert was already leaving the morgue. Lestrade followed after him into the hall, where Smith and Culverton was staring at his rapidly retreating back.
"I can't believe he can cut open a woman's body like it was a slab of meat," said Smith, shivering.
Lestrade sighed. Not this again. "I've never seen anyone treat the dead with so much respect."
"Are you sure he isn't the Embalmer?" hissed Culverton behind his hand.
Lestrade groaned. "Autopsies are standard procedure and all Muggle healers learn how to do it at medical school."
Both Culverton and Smith looked thoroughly disgusted.
"Don't you people have something like a sickle-test spell?" Smith demanded.
"No idea what you're talking about."
Culverton sneered. "I knew Muggle medicine wasn't worth anything."
Lestrade felt his temper rising. "Yeah, tell that to the last small pox victim."
"Robert Ju's reputation as a healer is clearly overblown," Culverton went on as if Lestrade wasn't there. "If he's as good as everyone says he is he wouldn't be dabbling in Muggle medicine rubbish."
"I'll take you seriously when you stop thinking medieval and backwards," Lestrade said loudly. "You two were completely out of line. I'm reporting this to Kingsley."
Culverton went red and Smith started to bluster, "Now see here—"
"No, you see here," growled Lestrade. "If you got a problem, go ahead. Try me."
As expected, Culverton and Smith didn't dare.
Lestrade returned to the station after leaving Culverton and Smith to transport the bodies back to the Ministry of Magic. Superintendent Chambers called him to his office shortly after he arrived.
"What have you got on the Embalmer?" Chambers demanded as soon as Lestrade stepped inside.
Lestrade rattled off how they'd found the same Potion ingredients in all the victims, including the ones the 'Home Office people' brought in. The killer, therefore, was the person who bought this obscure combination of substances. Because the substances were so esoteric, once they identified the seller, they should be able to find the culprit.
"Good, so we have a lead," said Chambers, as he scowled at his report. "I see you've referenced Ju here."
"He gathered all the evidence," said Lestrade, frowning at Chambers' tone. "What's wrong about it?"
"Remove it."
"Why?"
"We don't need the association," said Chambers tersely. "The case is controversial enough without his reputation hurting our chances of convicting the killer."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you know?" said Chambers patronizingly. "Robert Ju is notorious in the states for dabbling in 'alternative medicine', and I don't mean natural herbal remedies. He would've been ostracized from the American medical community long ago if he wasn't such a good surgeon."
"But—"
"Just say we found the potion ingredients during the routine autopsy," Chambers interrupted. "Don't worry about Ju raising a fuss. He can't afford to associate himself with voodoo medicine anymore. I heard Johns Hopkins is keen to get rid of him—just one hint of a scandal and he's out."
Lestrade was aghast. He was certain the voodoo medicine Chambers was talking about was magic. Apparently Robert didn't withhold magical healing from his Muggle patients even when wizards weren't directly involved in their hurts. That he was scorned and persecuted for it was galling.
Almost against his will, Lestrade remembered Culverton's sneering jibes against 'muggle medicine'. It made him wonder if the wizards ridiculed Robert for using backwards non-magic medical practices.
"On a brighter note, the Home Office was very impressed at how you're handling the Embalmer case," said Chambers.
"Really?" said Lestrade sceptically.
Chambers nodded. "Much preferred working with you than with Morton."
Lestrade refrained from rolling his eyes. If he, like DI Morton, was 100% Muggle, he'd have troubling working with wizards too. Lestrade darkly wondered how many times Smith obliviated the poor sod before Kingsley intervened.
Lestrade left Chambers' office feeling deeply ambivalent about the heavy hints of a future promotion. After slogging through some paperwork, he drove to the Leaky Cauldron where Robert was renting a room ("cheaper, better accommodations and food is included.") He started looking around as soon as he entered the pub, walking slowly towards the bar and surveying the diners.
"Go home and love your wife, Inspector," said a voice behind him.
Lestrade swore as he turned around. Robert was standing right behind him, wearing a shirt that had a rose-white-black pattern that might've worked on an accent pillow adorning a black futon, but never a man's body, especially when said man was wearing jogging bottoms the most blinding ton of blue and a rainbow cardigan.
"I would've just called if you had a phone," said Lestrade, opting to hide his unease by acting overly indignant.
"I'll get one when they stop blowing up on me," Robert replied.
"Yeah, you do that. I recommend the new MMN phones. Now listen," Lestrade dropped his voice. "The Super wants me to remove all references of you in my report. You okay with that?"
"Why shouldn't I be okay?" asked Robert curiously.
"You worked over a hundred hours to collect evidence for us! Don't you want some credit?"
"No," said Robert, frowning at Lestrade like he was talking nonsense. "It would hurt your court case."
Lestrade exhaled loudly through his nose. "Please don't tell me you advised my Super to leave you out."
"Of course I did," said Robert, still frowning. "You would've found out my reputation sooner or later. Isn't it better for you to know it now before the defence attorney uses it against you?"
Lestrade sighed deeply through his mouth. When John warned him Robert was prone to shooting himself professionally on the foot, she wasn't joking.
"You're having dark, malicious thoughts," said Robert, far too accurately.
"And you're being creepy again," Lestrade retorted. "So what are you up to?"
"Packing."
Lestrade started. "You're going back to the States?"
"Maybe. I don't know," Robert stared at the ceiling. "I was planning to go on a sabbatical after the guest surgeon gig."
"And it's done?"
"It's been done for a while. I just wanted to take care of Lizzie, Mary and Jane before I left."
"How long of a while?"
"Twenty days," Robert tilted his head sideways. "Don't worry, I can afford the room and board."
Lestrade wondered how Robert knew he worried about that. "Where are you going? What are your plans?"
"Maybe swing by Scotland," said Robert, shrugging. "There is a tourist trap called Hogsmeade there. I might as well act tourist."
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: This chapter was the most painful thing to write. So much I wanted to cover, so much didn't work out. Argh!