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 Forty Five: Strange Family Relations
Sirius followed Mycroft to the black car parked just outside the restaurant. He was then driven somewhere for what felt like hours. He had no idea where he was going; all the passenger windows were opaque, and he was completely segregated from the driver and Mycroft, who had taken the front passenger seat. Sirius tried to text Sherlock, but his phone had trouble connecting to the network. So he played Crossword instead to stave off his boredom.
The car eventually came to a stop some uncounted time later. Someone opened the door for him. Sirius stepped out and found himself in an underground parking garage. Armed, uniformed men were guarding all exits. Sirius could almost taste the tenseness in the air. Whether it was because of the facility or because his presence, he couldn't tell.
Mycroft led Sirius to an exit guarded by two harsh looking men holding machine guns. The burly man who opened the car door walked closely behind Sirius from the car to the exit. Mycroft handed over an ID card, and the guard did the usual scanning and checking, though he did ask Mycroft to place his eyes on what looked like a pair of binoculars. He let Mycroft and Sirius through the gate after verifying. The man who followed them stayed behind.
An oppressively grey hallway lay beyond the checkpoint door. The circular overhead lights were dim and sparsely placed on the ceiling. Occasionally Sirius thought he spied a tiny camera lens. They met no one along the way and no noise filtered through the walls. All they heard was the sound of their footsteps. Mycroft strode briskly like a man who had regular official business at the premises, and didn't have a wizard following after him.
Mycroft stopped in front of a metal door that looked solidly locked. He swiped a different ID-card through the card scanner and the little red light on the scanner turned green. The door clicked and slid to the side.
Another long grey hall lay beyond the door. The lights were dimmer here and walls were narrower. Sirius wondered if his movements were being spied by those infrared cameras John once mentioned.
The hall ended at another metal door. It looked no different from a regular door of its sort, often found in parking garages and fire emergency exits. Mycroft merely pushed the door open and walked in. Sirius followed him.
He found himself in a darkened room. Only one light was on, and it was just strong enough to illuminate the ceiling just around it. Sirius heard nothing but the quiet movement of fabric as Mycroft moved, presumably.
Then, abruptly without warning, another light turned on a little distance away. Sirius blinked at the sudden onslaught of illumination. As he did so, he noticed there was someone else inside the room, behind a glass wall.
Then Sirius gasped.
It was almost like staring at a mirror, except the man on the other side of the glass wasn't actually him. The man's matted black hair, parchment-thin skin, sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes were just like his, when memories of Azkaban was close to the surface. At the moment, the man was looking down and appeared far too gone inside his head to take notice.
Then the man slowly looked up.
Sirius shivered when he caught a glimpse of black eyes from beneath the shadows. For a brief moment, he saw the insanity peering out from the flint coloured orbs that so much resembled the eyes of a shark.
Sirius turned away and started at Mycroft.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"I will enlighten you once you verify whether or not that man possesses your power," said Mycroft.
Sirius raised his eyebrow at that.
"Why do you need to know?"
"It is a matter of vital importance."
"Why is it so important?
"Do you really want to know? It could mean too much involvement to you, and who knows what that might entail?"
Sirius glared at Mycroft. "And forcing me here isn't too much involvement already? You've forced my hand since the beginning. So why should I answer you?"
"Feisty," said Mycroft, lips curling. "I could always threaten you with the video recording of your indiscretion."
"What if I don't give a damn?" Sirius asked defiantly.
Mycroft's lips curled even more. "A hint then: He is the man responsible for your godson's change in guardianship."
Sirius's eyes went wide this time. John had briefed him and Remus how she and Sherlock ended up as Harry's adoptive parents. There was a name often mentioned in the unbelievable tale. A shockingly ordinary name…
"…Jim," he whispered.
"Yes," said Mycroft. "Dear Jim. Now…"
Mycroft jerked his nose at the prisoner. Sirius turned his attention to Jim Moriarty, former Consulting Criminal.
He didn't agree with the description John wrote on the blog, except superficially. The man John described was a deceptively average-looking man, capable of extreme and volatile displays of emotion, all of which sounded hallow and fake. There was a definite brokenness about the man that spoke of a vital quality that was missing. Whether the years of captivity had taken it away or he'd never had it to begin with, one couldn't say. Sirius wondered what it said about him when he felt rough sympathy for the man.
"You kept him since the Zoo bombing?" asked Sirius.
"Correct," said Mycroft.
Sirius nodded as he discreetly took out his wand. What he knew about the man and Mycroft made him feel almost unnecessarily cautious. He cast a simple Anti-muggle charm nonverbally, making sure neither Moriarty nor Mycroft saw him using it, though for the latter case, it was probably a useless precaution.
Immediately, Moriarty's glance kept sliding off from side to side, like he couldn't keep it forward. It worked.
"He's not one of us," Sirius said.
"How can you tell?"
"I put … something that makes anyone who doesn't have my power unable to see me from his side of the glass."
Mycroft studied Moriarty intently.
"Yes, I see he is unable to focus his eyes on you, despite the fact he knows where you are. Interesting."
Mycroft made a curt gesture. A man came from a side-door, roughly pulled Moriarty to his feet and led him away.
"Is that it?" asked Sirius after Moriarty left.
"Naturally not," Mycroft replied, "This way, now."
Sirius was then led to another room, entirely white, undecorated and unfurnished except for the florescent lights above, a couple of iron-wrought chairs set on the either side of a white plastic-top table. Mycroft and Sirius took a seat there and regarded each other for a brief moment.
"If you know of Moriarty, then you know what he used to force Sherlock to take his own life," Mycroft began.
"Some key that can unlock anything," said Sirius. "Broke into the Pentonville Prison, Bank of England and stole the crown jewels in the Buckingham Palace at the same time to prove he had it."
"But."
"The key was a lie. There was no key."
"I see you are adequately informed. Good." Mycroft planted both forearms on the table and leaned forward. "Have you noticed anything strange about that case?"
"Rigging an entire jury sounded unrealistic to me," Sirius replied. "I mean, some stubborn, righteous person should've raised a fuss, yeah?"
"You will be surprised how easy it is to make the average person capitulate to the crowd, but as it happens, yes, you are quite correct. Also, how could Moriarty convince so many key persons— many whom which were experts in the field of Computer Security— a universal key code can exist when it cannot?"
Sirius shrugged.
"I've heard detailed arguments that explained, very adequately and convincingly, the chances a computer code that breaks all security is vanishingly small," Mycroft continued. "Normally that is enough for me to discard the idea as false. However, I continue to affirm the idea that a universal key code that opens all doors can be real."
"So?" Sirius groused. "A lot of people hold onto ideas they know are likely false."
"An unreasonable adherence to an idea might find home to some, but not to me," said Mycroft severely. "I take pride in keeping my brain in an orderly manner. Holding onto false ideas are not merely a waste of space—it is cause for disorder. Nor is the phenomenon isolated. It is pervasive—but only limited to the persons who had the power to influence the outcome of that case, even those whom such stubbornness is entirely out of character."
"Okay, fine, let's say I buy it," Sirius growled. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"First, remove the thing that has infected this idea in my mind," said Mycroft grimly, "Do that and I will dispose the video footage that recorded your indiscretion."
Sirius considered saying no just to annoy him. But then he decided why not, Confunding Muggles were illegal anyway.
Sirius did a quick Finite Incantatum on Mycroft under the table.
"Happy now? Can I go home?"
Mycroft blinked a few times.
"Yes, much better," he said at length, "And no, not yet."
Sirius slouched moodily in his seat. Mycroft curled his lips at him again.
"How is working for my little brother? Hellish, I imagine?"
"It's fun, though I do fantasize turning him into a toad sometimes."
Mycroft's smile now displayed teeth. "That's good, that's good, isn't it? A pity it must end soon."
Sirius frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Sherlock is about to become a father to an infant," said Mycroft pointedly. "A baby changes everything, especially when you are in the business of fighting crime."
"Obviously. So?"
"You know my brother is preparing for a partial retirement. Reluctantly and often resentfully, but he is. In all likelihood, if or when he returns working at full volume, he will take a far less visible role so as to protect the little one from enemy reprisals. This means more delegation for him and more specialization for his agents. This would leave you, his general utility man, rather lean on exciting work."
Sirius said nothing.
"I'm by no means asking you to join my line of work, even on a freelance basis," said Mycroft. "At this point in time, you would be more of a liability than an asset. Now I don't say this to belittle your abilities, which is rather considerable, according to my observations. I particularly admire your ability to quickly make home in your new surroundings. But unless there is a war that threatens the existence of your society, your involvement in my line of work would be rather awkward, wouldn't it?"
"Would break way too many laws," Sirius grunted.
"I thought as much," said Mycroft. "Nor am I about to ask you to do something that would lie heavily on your conscious. No. All I ask is that you regularly sweep my person and stop enchantments from taking hold of my mind."
Sirius was surprised. "That's it?"
"Yes, that is all."
"For now, you mean," snorted Sirius. "Why do I have a feeling this is going to be the start of a downward spiral?"
"You are too wise to take my word woodenly," said Mycroft, smirking. "Good. I like a man who thinks. Thank you, Mr. Black. I promise you will be more than adequately rewarded."
"I don't need your money," Sirius sneered. "And since when did I agree to this?"
"You might find the compensation comforting when the feeling of tedium settles in," drawled Mycroft, brushing aside Sirius's protest. "Now you won't tell any of this to John, will you? I'd rather not cause distress to someone having a high-risk pregnancy."
"Yeah, sure, whatever," snorted Sirius. "Are you done? Great! I'm off!"
And with that, Sirius Disapparated.
-oo00oo-
"What took you so long?" John asked when Sirius appeared directly in 221B's living room.
"Mycroft wanted a word," said Sirius. He sniffed the air and noted the flat smelled like a Thai restaurant. Everyone got their food, then. Good. John's mood had a tendency to take a very war-like slant when deprived of sleep or the food cravings weren't satisfied within an hour. And today John had been more snappy and irritable than usual because Hamish/Malcolm/Benedict/Jeremy/Edward was restless and kept kicking at his mummy's spine and bladder.
Sherlock scowled. "What did he want?"
"Wanted to know if he caught a wizard," said Sirius carelessly. "No such luck."
"How did you do find out?" asked John. "Asked him questions? Made him pronounce Latin? Put your wand in his hand and see if it explodes?"
"I rather like my wand, thanks. I just cast an Anti-Muggle charm that made him unable to see me."
"Oh, that's works. What else?"
"Mycroft wanted me to remove the Confundus charm on him and asked if I could do it on a regular basis."
"He had a Confundus charm on him?" John exclaimed, half-rising from the sofa where she was attempting to rest on. "How did he know he had a Confundus charm? What was it doing?"
Sirius shrugged. "I'm not sure what he had to be honest. He kept going on about him not being able to get rid of an obviously false idea. 'Since my brain would never hold onto an idea I know to be false, therefore someone put an enchantment on me,' or something like that. How does that work?"
"Hell if I know. I stopped asking the How of the Holmeses," John grumbled, sinking back into the sofa. "Maybe a false idea he knows is false triggers fragmentation alerts."
"Ugh, you and your computer metaphors," Sirius complained. "It's like you're speaking a foreign language!"
"Oi, not my fault you wizards decided to segregate from us!"
"Not my fault I was born and raised there either," Sirius shot back, grinning. "Can I go play with my godson now?"
John waved him off, but Sherlock stopped him.
"What was the false idea the charm put into Mycroft's head?" Sherlock demanded, grabbing his arm.
"Can't this wait? I want to play with Harry!" Sirius whined.
Sherlock's grip was relentless. "What was it?" he hissed.
Sirius sighed and Apparated to 221C, taking Sherlock with him.
"I wasn't trying to hide it from you, okay?" said Sirius at the irate Sherlock. "I just didn't want to upset John—looked plenty upset just mentioning your brother had a Confundus Charm on him. The idea he couldn't get rid of was 'A universal key code that opens all doors can be real.'"
Sherlock stopped abruptly, just as Sirius expected.
After a long of brooding silence, Sherlock opened his mouth again.
" 'can be'," he repeated.
"I know you want precise data. Yes, it was 'can be'."
Sherlock went quiet again.
"…Elegant," he muttered. "You can see Moriarty's genius in the subtly: not is, but can be. A strong affirmative statement using 'is' may create strong rejection, but 'can be' gives the victim room to fill in the gaps themselves, rationalizing the idea in way that is adequate to him."
Sirius nodded.
"Also, since the charm was still in effect, the person who cast the charm on Mycroft is still alive and at large. A charm of this sort continues to be in effect until someone removes it or the caster dies, correct?"
"Yeah."
"And the man Mycroft showed you was Moriarty."
"Uh-huh."
"Incarcerated?"
"Looked it."
Sherlock smiled brutally.
"Good. Thank you. Now do take the job Mycroft offered, we can't let him lose his edge, you can imagine what it would do to the taxes."
Sirius grinned back. "Sure, whatever you say, your highness."
-oo00oo-
Sherlock returned to the first floor. John was no longer at the couch as previously. In fact John was absent from the living room entirely. Sherlock checked the kitchen and then headed to the bedroom.
The door was locked. Sherlock took out a penknife capable of unlocking any mechanical lock (enchanted, of course), and unlocked the door.
He expertly dodged the smelly, balled-up sock that came sailing towards his face the moment he opened it.
"Most people," John snapped from the bed, "would get the hint when they encounter a locked door."
"You've been irritable since this morning," Sherlock observed.
"I'll be as irritable as I want!" snarled John. "You try to be nice when you can't find a comfortable position…"
"Perhaps it would help if you didn't focus so much on positions."
John threw another balled-up sock at him. Sherlock caught it and put it on the bookshelf, where a lot of throwable ammunition was kept. John looked at them longingly as Sherlock sat on the bed.
"I hate being pregnant," John grumbled. "I'm never doing this again. Your DNA is not allowed anywhere near me."
"Yes, that would wise," Sherlock agreed as he massaged John's back.
"Just five more weeks and I'm done," John growled, glaring at the bump. "If you're not on time, I'm giving you an eviction notice. It'll be induction for you!"
"I heard overdue infants have health risks," said Sherlock agreeably.
"Shut up," John hissed. "Don't give him ideas."
Sherlock and John went quiet for a moment.
"A bit of macabre humour for you," said Sherlock, handing over his phone.
John took it. On the screen was a short text exchange:
Did you got rid of him? SH
He outlived his uses. The serum you gave me worked marvelously, but I still needed to verify if he was one of them.
Couldn't overlook possibility he deluded himself into thinking he is one of them, I suppose. SH
One can never be too cautious.
Fine. Now just because he agreed to check your brain, does not mean you can pawn him off to others to check theirs. SH
Must you always be so spiteful?
John put a look of grim satisfaction after finished reading.
"So he's finally dead. Moriarty."
"Yes, finally."
"…Good."
-oo00oo-
Harry came downstairs in the early morning hours of his birthday feeling both anticipatory and cautious. He peered into the living room from the kitchen to gauge the mood of the adults, John's in particular. Until Benedict/Jeremy was conceived, Harry thought pregnancy only involved weight gain and expansions to the front. Now he had a deeper appreciation of the amount of stress, structural remodelling, changing of initial layout and outright compromise of base structure women had to go through to have a baby. In his opinion, mothers ought to be lauded for life for even going through the 40-42 weeks of it.
John and Sherlock appeared to be in an extremely good mood, but in a way that said something ominous happened to a vicious criminal (possibly a syndicate of them). Harry, upon reflection, decided he didn't want to know.
"Here's the birthday boy," John said cheerfully.
"Happy Birthday," Sherlock rumbled, a smile crinkling the corner of his eyes.
Harry decided it must have been an exceptionally vicious criminal who'd fallen into an evil fate as he joined Lupin and Sirius at the table. Sirius ruffled his hair, beaming, and Lupin wished him a very Happy Birthday.
Harry took a moment to admire the breakfast spread. He knew Mrs. Hudson didn't prepare it because the food was non-traditional: French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar, savoury mushroom crepes covered in white sauce, croissants, tiny omelette rolls that had spinach tucked inside (tamagoyaki, if he remembered correctly), bagels, smoked salmon, American-style blueberry muffins and Greek yogurt.
Harry helped himself to some French toast whilst eyeing the crepes.
"We really shouldn't keep imposing on you and Mrs. Hudson," said Lupin apologetically.
"I keep saying the same thing about Mrs. Hudson," said John. "Then I wake up and breakfast is already there."
"She doesn't mind," said Sherlock, still looking pleased in a way that bode ill to someone else.
Sirius, who was practically vibrating in his seat, whipped out an envelope.
"Look what I got for you," he said in a sing-song voice.
Harry opened the envelope and let out loud whoop. Tickets! Three tickets to the Quidditch World Cup Final, Ireland verses Bulgaria! He was going to the Quidditch World Cup!
"Wow, Sirius, this is great!" Harry said happily.
"How'd you get those?" asked Lupin, admiring the tickets.
"I have connections," said Sirius mysteriously.
"Your connection doesn't happen to have the name 'Lestrade' does he?" asked John dryly as she held up three more tickets, tied in a bow.
Sirius turned a bit pink and Harry whooped again.
"Maybe. Say, Harry, do you have any friends you want to invite?" Sirius asked hastily.
"Well, Ron said his dad usually gets tickets through his work and Julia told me her whole family's going, so they're already set," said Harry. "Neville, though, I don't think his grandmother wants to buy tickets. So definitely Neville. Hermione, too."
"You should invite Ron just in case Arthur can't get hold of them this time," said Lupin, smiling. "It's a once-in-a-life-time opportunity, and he shouldn't miss it. Britain hasn't hosted the cup for forty-five years!"
Then everyone except Sherlock started talking spiritedly about the World Cup.
"It's got to be Ireland," said Sirius through a mouthful of blueberry muffin. "They flattened Peru in the semifinals."
"Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though," said Harry.
"Krum's one decent player, Ireland has got seven," said Sirius shortly. "I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was."
"What happened?" asked John.
"Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," said Sirius gloomily. "Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg."
"If you lot are going to talk about amateur sports, go fly a broom or something," said Sherlock, waving a hand in dismissal in a good-natured sort of way as he read the paper.
Singularly vicious, Harry thought, correcting his assessment of the unnamed/unknown criminal for a third time, while everyone ignored Sherlock and kept talking about Quidditch.
Then he shrugged his shoulders and tucked into his food.
-oo00oo-
Lestrade surveyed the large group of Ministry of Magic workers before him. To a person they were wearing crisp business suits of either black or midnight blue, and their shoes were appropriate for their suits. The wizards were wearing sedate ties and the witches had their hair up in conservative updos and were free of animated or living ornaments. Had they all worn dark sunglasses, the group would've looked like extras for the MIB. As they were, they could've blended into the streets of Central London and none would've been wiser.
Lestrade took a deep breath. After harping and grousing at the Magical Law Enforcement for their inadequate Muggle attire knowledge for months, he thought they'd finally got it. He certainly hadn't had to do major corrections as late, and to his tiny regret, there hadn't been any new entries to his private gallery of shame.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Lestrade started solemnly. "You've gone a long way. Gone are the days you've thought wearing a kilt over a poncho is acceptable and felt there is nothing wrong when a wizard traverses Muggle London wearing a flowery nightdress as long as he's wearing trousers underneath. I'm very proud of you."
The Ministry of Magic workers whispered amongst themselves, smiling and nodding.
"Having said that," said Lestrade, putting a stop to the whispering, "I'm disappointed that you have not yet grasped the subtleties of situational awareness. As you wouldn't wear dress robes and expensive jewellry when venturing to Knockturn Alley incognito, you wouldn't dress formal when going to a remote countryside arranging a festival that is meant to be casual and silly. As you are right now, you would look like a bunch of secret government agents out doing shady business."
People started looking down as Lestrade's words sink in. Then a loud murmur aroused. A few hissed: 'See! I told you this wasn't right!' while others protested, 'but we really are secret government agents…!'
While they muttered, Lestrade took out his phone and took a picture of the lot.
"Aw, c'mon, guv!" protested a wizard after the shutter sound effect.
"Cripes, I knew I'd end up in the gallery of fail again!" complained a witch who looked very familiar.
A few more people lodged similar protests. The others merely shook their heads or palmed their faces in shame over their collective failure.
"That is all," said Lestrade, tucking his phone away. "Now go change."
The ministry wizards and witches trooped back to the clothing racks, grumbling. Once Lestrade was certain they were reaching for casual outdoor wear, he took his leave.
Lestrade stopped by Baker Street. Not for a case, but to pick up his wife, who was there for Small Group. He levitated Ellen a scant inch above the floor and brought her downstairs by magic, saving her the trouble of waddling down the stairs.
"This is the best," said Ellen blissfully as she floated to the ground floor. "I love being pregnant."
Lestrade swelled with husbandly pride. "So what did you guys talk about?"
"Well, John and Sherlock are still fighting a lot," Ellen replied as she got into the car. "They make up quickly, though, and Sherlock is getting more used to the idea of having a baby in flat, we think: He finished moving his chemistry rig and set up a co-sleeper."
Lestrade laughed hard at the ensuing mental images. "Great."
"Speaking of, when are you going to learn to transfigure stuff? John said they only had to get the co-sleeper and car seat 'cause the two wizards living downstairs are transfiguring everything else for them."
Lestrade looked to the side. "Dunno. It's, uh, a lot tougher to do than charms."
"Well, hurry up, 'cause magic toys are a lot cooler and they're 100% germ-free. Sherlock tested it."
"Anything else?" Lestrade asked loudly.
"Oh! Oh! Jacqueline is officially dating someone!"
Lestrade, a father of six, did NOT almost ram into the car in front them.
"…Shut up!" he nevertheless howled.
"Yea-huh! It's, like, Facebook official. She, like, actually changed her status to 'In a Relationship'!"
This time Lestrade, father of six, did NOT brake abruptly, thus causing the vehicle behind him to honk long and loud.
"Blimey, this is serious. So who's the lucky guy?"
"She said he's a doctor who works at a tiny little hospital called Johns Hopkins. His name is Robert."
Lestrade recalled the only doctor who worked at Johns Hopkins Hospital whose name was Robert that he knew of. He immediately discarded the idea. Nah, it couldn't be him. How could the two have even met? Even if they had, Jacqueline would've been her relentlessly formal self, and she too smart to let something like Dr. Robert D Ju happened to her.
"He's soooo good for her," Ellen went on dreamily. "Seriously, she's like in a state of glowing-ness. I've never seen her look so … so alive. She even showed us a picture of them two together. They looked soooo cute."
"Sounds like a keeper. What did John say?" Lestrade asked just in case; because no way John wouldn't find it awkward that her ex was dating one her closest girlfriends.
" 'So what are we supposed to call you two? Jackbert?' " Ellen thought it over. "You know, Jackbert sounds weird. What about Rojack?"
Greg smiled as Ellen came up with different ways of meshing up the names 'Robert' and 'Jacqueline' into one. It was something that sprung up between the small group ladies when he and Ellen started dating. At one point Ellen referred to their relationship as 'Grellen' and since then, Joanna and Steve were called 'Stevanna', Amy and Dennis was christened 'Aennis', Rebecca (Becky) and Boaz were 'Borebs'…
Lestrade commanded himself to not ask. Seriously, don't ask, don't ask, don't ask …
"What do you call Sherlock and John?" … Blast!
"J-Lock," said Ellen, simply. "We used to call them Johnlock, but it didn't sound right, so we switched it to J-lock."
Lestrade felt weak. "…Right."
"I got it, Rocq! We should call them Rocq!" said Ellen excitedly, now back to the subject of christening Jacqueline's first ever relationship. "It's perfect."
"Sounds French."
"Whatever," Ellen said, playfully slapping his shoulder. Then she sighed and made the familiar motions of rubbing her pregnant belly.
"…He's not moving," she said pensively, studying her sizeable bump.
"What do you mean? How long has this been going on?" Lestrade asked, feeling a bit uneasy. Babies were plenty active at 37 weeks.
"Since this Sunday," said Ellen, running a hand over her stomach. "He usually goes, like, boom, boom, boom, boom when I press like this, but he only went like eh, eh, eh a few times before quieting down." She said so while miming rigorous punching motions for the 'booms' and feeble knocking for the 'ehs' one-handed.
"Did you ask John about it?"
"She said, 'Ellen, I'm a doctor in emergency medicine, not obstetrics and gynecology'," said Ellen, passably imitating John's dry tone and voice. "She said drink some Cola and lie down. The sugar should make him excited."
"Have you?"
"Uh-huh. But he only moved a little bit." Ellen paused. "I think I'm gonna call the midwife."
"Okay."
-oo00oo-
Harry had a long, satisfying day of fun for his birthday. After unwrapping all his presents, he spent the morning roaming around London with Julia trying to do freerunning (and failing miserably). Then the two of them went to the Burrow and played Quidditch with Ron and his siblings (Neville and Hermione was there, too, but they preferred to keep their feet on the ground). After consuming Mrs. Weasleys' excellent cooking for lunch, he zoomed around Hebrides on his broomstick with his godfather while his most favourite teacher, Remus Lupin, watched. The three of them returned to Baker Street just around sunset for another grand feast, featuring foods from restaurants Harry knew didn't cater or do takeaway and the most superb birthday cake that had three layers. He felt himself nodding after eating five to six helpings of everything, and then went out like a light as Lupin started to serve hot chocolate.
Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange dream.
He was in a darkened room. An enormous snake was on the hearth rug. A small man named Peter, nicknamed Wormtail, was talking to someone sitting in a high-backed armchair in the room. From the chair came a cold, high voice … the voice of Lord Voldemort. No one noticed Harry was there and it was hard to make anything out because everything was fuzzy and distant. It was as though he was watching a show from a broken-down television from ten feet away—or he was a partially anchored invisible ghost. But he was certain Voldemort was talking about killing someone … him!
Then he saw an old man—a man he'd never seen before. He limped on a cane and was eavesdropping on Wormtail and the person on the chair. The old man got caught. Wormtail turned the chair around so the old man could see who sat there. The old man started screaming in horror. Then there was a flash of green light, and the old man fell to the ground.
Harry woke up with a start as he was about to see who sat on the chair. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, burned painfully as though someone had cut the flesh again with a thin blade.
For a while Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He noted he was lying on the couch as he stared at the ceiling.
"You okay?" asked John from the sitting room table.
"Nightmare," grunted Harry as he ran his fingers over the scar.
John walked over to the couch, sat on the coffee table, and placed a palm over Harry's scar. Slowly, the stinging sensation drained out as John's hand warmed his entire forehead.
"Doesn't look like you have a fever," John remarked, "But your head hurts?"
"Just the scar," said Harry.
John frowned at that. "The last time just your scar hurt was when LV was close by, back when you were first year."
"But Voldemort couldn't be here, right now," Harry protested. "That's absurd… impossible…"
"Well if he is, he's being very quiet about it," said John. "Let me ask Mycroft if spied any spectral, evil-looking half humans lurking around 221B."
John actually took out her phone and started typing up a text. Harry wondered how John was wording the question. All he could think was: Hi Mycroft, sorry to bother you, but Harry said his scar hurts and the last time it happened an evil dark wizard called Voldemort was close by. Can you check the CCTV around the flat just in case? Thanks. Even inside his head the words sounded stupid.
In the middle of typing, John's phone pinged.
"Oh, who is it," John grumbled half-heartedly.
The expression on John's face transformed into that of shock after reading the new text.
For one stupid second, Harry thought Mycroft pre-emptively replied: yes, he had spied a spectral, evil-looking half human lurking around 221B.
Then John whispered, "Oh, G-d, Ellen…"
"What happened?" asked Harry, alarmed.
"Ellen just went through an emergency C-section," said John, hurriedly getting up. "She's okay, but the baby is in the NICU. 80% blood loss. Could mean severe brain damage. Getting a transfusion now."
Harry's heart stopped.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: I had a long note full of funny stuff, but then this happened. Poor Lestrade. Poor baby. Just know there is a purpose to all this… anyway … uh, happy New Year, dear readers (BOC shuffles out).