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 Fifty Five: Turning Point
Sirius was often asked about his part in the strange ménage that was 221B Baker Street by those involved in law enforcement and knew of Sherlock Holmes. On the particular Saturday it was Molly Hooper, pathologist of Barts, who asked the question.
"Slave," Sirius eventually answered.
Ms. Hooper's pretty eyes went very round. "Really?" she squeaked.
"Indentured court wizard, to be more accurate," Sirius elaborated. "Sometimes I'm the pet dog."
Ms. Hooper blinked several times as she looked askance at Sirius, apparently uncertain as to whether she was talking to a madman or a jokester. Sirius put on his most charming grin to push the assessment towards the former.
"…Okay," Ms. Hooper muttered, looking down at her bundle of notes. "So, um, Sherlock wants you to see Eric Judson? That's— I mean, he usually wants to look at the bodies in person."
"Normally, yes, but Himself is a bit leery of leaving his baby boy at the moment."
Ms. Hooper looked at him again, startled. Then her expression slowly turned equal parts wry and wistful.
"So they really had a baby," she said quietly, almost to herself. "I heard about it, but I didn't think they'd really—"
That moment, Sirius's mobile vibrated. He pulled a face as he opened the call.
"Yeah?" Sirius grouched to the phone.
Sirius listened to the demands.
"No. Hell, no, I'm not doing it!" growled Sirius. "You sent me to Thailand for two weeks. You don't get to order to me to tail someone until I get my downtime. Oh, you think I'm being unreasonable? Let's see what you think when I turn you into a pig! And yes, I will do it!"
Sirius continued to rant whilst shaking a fist in the air. From the corner of his eye, Sirius noticed Ms. Hooper was staring at him in amazement.
"I'm not your food delivery boy either; order Chinese yourself," he grumbled. "No, you can't use that excuse. John isn't … What?! Oh, bloody hell, fine…"
Sirius ended the call, stuffed his mobile back in his pocket and fumed. Ms. Hooper gave him a sympathetic smile.
"He's hard to say no to," she said understandingly.
"I can say no to him just fine; it's actually NOT doing what he wants I have trouble with," Sirius growled. "Listen: Showing me the body is against the rules, isn't it? Then don't do it. He can bloody well come here himself."
Ms. Hooper withdrew her smile and looked away.
"Actually, if you can just take a look now, I'd…"
Sirius studied Ms. Hooper for a moment. From the way she carried herself to the way she reacted to the phone call spoke of a long history of Sherlock abuse. Sirius was instantly gripped with a strong desire to make it up for her.
"Hey, do you want to go grab some coffee? I'll show you magic."
Ms. Hooper hesitated. "Magic?" she repeated uncertainly.
"Real magic," said Sirius, grinning (invitingly, he hoped).
At length, Ms. Hooper smiled back.
"Okay."
Ms. Hooper took Sirius to the canteen after giving him a brief view of late Eric Judson, whose cause of death was simply listed Unknown ("Other than the fact he's dead, there literally nothing that can tell us why," Ms. Hooper explained). Once they sat down with coffees, Sirius conjured a flock of canaries—with a lot of theatrical hand-waving and gesturing to make it look Muggle-worthy.
"Don't magicians use pigeons, usually?" said Ms. Hooper as she stared open-mouthed at the yellow birds twittering around her.
"Pigeons are boring," said Sirius loftily. "So tell me about yourself."
Ms. Hooper smiled nervously. "Well, I've worked here for six years, and I have a cat named Toby and … um, that's about it. I'm kind of boring."
"That's okay. I'm very boring, too," said Sirius magnanimously. "At least you've done something with your life. I spent a good chunk of mine wrongfully convicted of murder."
Ms. Hooper gasped.
"That's how I met Sherlock, by the way; he proved I didn't do it and found the real murderer," Sirius said.
"That sounds just like him, he's really brilliant like that," said Ms. Hooper brightly. "So you've been helping him since … umm, getting out?"
"Pretty much."
They swapped Sherlock stories. Sirius quickly gathered Sherlock regularly haunted St. Barts for his cases, research or no discernible reason, and Molly Hopper was his favourite on-site victim/accomplice/chew-toy. He also found reason to be thankful for the remarkably short life-span of news in the Muggle world — or the fact no one watched BBC News Channel — because Molly registered no recognition when he finally told her his name.
"Sirius? Like the satellite radio?"
"The star, actually," said Sirius. "My family was crazy about constellations. I had an uncle named Cygnus and my favourite cousin is Andromeda."
Molly bit on her lower lip and grinned.
"Have I mentioned my father's name is Orion?"
Molly started giggling helplessly. Sirius felt triumphant over achieving this feat.
Sirius shared a few more egregious examples of his family's tendency to name their children after stars, whose lofty fame and brightness they were supposed to embody (ha). He refrained, of course, from mentioning Cousin Araminta Meliflua, who tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal, and resolutely refused to confirm the existence of cousin Bellatrix, who more than lived up to her name in a decidedly twisted manner.
"Try to guess what my little brother's name is," said Sirius. "You can use your smartphone."
Molly eagerly thumb typed on her mobile phone. A few clicks later she had a long list of potential names.
"Vega!" she guessed after skimming the first few items.
Sirius shook his head, amused, "Nope."
"Pollux?" Molly tried again.
"That's my Grand-uncle," said Sirius.
"Mmm… Betelgeuse?" said Molly as she reconsidered her options.
Sirius laughed. "Even my parents weren't that cruel."
"Oh. Well, um, what about Agena? No that sounds like a girl's name, doesn't it? Mmmn … Rigel?"
"Close."
Molly frowned down at her mobile's screen.
"Rigil Kentaurus?"
"Think 'R'."
Molly scrolled down until she reached:
"Regulus?"
Sirius gave her a thumbs-up.
Molly was beaming brightly when Sirius's mobile started vibrating non-stop for a whole minute.
"Oh, hell," Sirius groaned, pulling out his mobile phone. As expected, there were a growing number of texts demanding his attention. "Sorry, I have to dash; his lordship is demanding my presence."
"Okay," said Molly, her smile shrinking a bit. "That was a lot of fun. Thank you. Um, would you like to—" but then she stopped, and the lingering smile faded completely, "—never mind. Can you tell John congratulations?"
Sirius was too familiar with this form of backtracking, though he didn't know what caused it. Impulsively, Sirius conjured a bouquet of daisies behind his back.
"Sure. And I had fun too," he said, taking out the bundle of flowers. "Here, take this."
For several seconds Molly just stared at the bouquet like she didn't how she was supposed to react. At length she took them, and looked Sirius over the petals.
"Let's do this again," said Sirius, winking, "Text me."
Then leaving his business card on the table, Sirius went on his way.
-oo00oo-
Sirius checked his messages on his way back to Baker Street. He was entirely unsurprised at the fact Sherlock had figured out what he was doing. What did surprise him, though, was Sherlock's threat to have him hanged, drawn and quartered (among other horrible things) if his intentions were dishonest. The last message was the most ominous:
John will help me. SH
Sirius Apparated directly to the flat after picking up Chinese. Sherlock and John were at their favourite spot in 221B when he materialized: before the fireplace, sitting in their respective armchairs, side by side.
"I meant it," Sherlock said whilst signing to Benedict on his lap.
"You're very welcome," Sirius snapped.
"Welcome back," said John. "Had any trouble?"
"Aside from the food, mosquitos and murderous locals, no, not really." Sirius tossed a keychain to John. "Here, have a souvenir."
"Oh, these are so cute," said John as she held up the keychain, which had a white elephant ornament made of lotus-patterned fabric. "Jackie would love these."
"Grandmaster Shin's younger daughter?" asked Sirius as he set down the takeaway on the sitting room table.
"Yep," said John. "She loves elephants; been in love with them since watching Dumbo as a kid."
"Learn something new every day," said Sirius, smirking. "Now you two better eat these, because you've basically threatened my life over it."
John nodded, "Ta."
John and Sherlock (and baby) eventually moved to the sitting room table. Sherlock reviewed the candid photo of Eric Judson's autopsy report Sirius had sneakily took whilst viewing his body, and Sirius and John ate dinner whilst chatting about Molly Hooper. John said she and Lestrade had tried to set Molly up with John's cousin Rory last year, but it didn't work out—Molly couldn't get over the family resemblance, a huge stumbling block for someone who used to harbor a crush on Sherlock, and Rory had leftover feelings for his old girlfriend, Amy.
"Definitely the Killing Curse," Sherlock concluded, tossing the photographed report away carelessly.
"Is this the guy you sent me to Thailand for?"
"He's the dead middleman drug-dealer, yes," said Sherlock. "The wizard who actually committed the crime is still at large."
"How far are you in finding him?"
"John, you explain," said Sherlock, turning his attention back to Benedict.
John told Sirius about 'Parker', the military man who likely had a long history of using magic for muggle crime (and the man Sherlock wanted him to tail). John also explained what Harry and his friends were doing per Dumbledore's request, and what John had advised them to do to find the identity of Voldemort's new agent.
"So you think this agent was likely involved in an early, botched attempt to revive Voldemort," said Sirius grimly. "Well, I definitely know the people who got caught trying."
"Who?" John asked keenly, Sherlock also looking up in deep interest.
"The Lestranges: a married couple and the husband's younger brother; they're still in Azkaban," said Sirius. "And Crouch's only son was caught in their company."
John blinked, and Sherlock's interest sharpened.
"Barty Crouch had a son?"
"That's right," said Sirius. "Mind, he may not have been a death eater at all; just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, I saw the dementors bringing him in through the bars in my cell door. He can't have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though … they all went quiet in the end … except when they shrieked in their sleep…"
Sirius went still. He was back in his old cell in Azkaban, breathing the cold, salty air of the Northern Sea. A chill was seeping into his skin, and the hollow scream of a fellow prisoner was ringing in his ears…
Then some unaccounted time later he was back in the present, back in London.
"So he's still in Azkaban?" John asked, after Sirius recovered from the onslaught.
"…No," said Sirius dully. "No, he's not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in."
"He died?"
"He wasn't the only one," said Sirius bitterly. "Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his son's body. The dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it."
Sherlock frowned at this bit of information. John merely jotted it down on a page inside a one-inch binder.
"What was the son's name?" John asked.
"Bartemius Crouch, Jr."
"Do you know what he and the Lestranges did to try and bring LV back?"
Sirius shrugged his shoulders. "No idea. But knowing the Lestranges, nothing quiet or peaceful."
John hummed. "Crouch must've had huge political fallout when his son got convicted."
"You got that right," said Sirius. "One moment, a hero, poised to become Minister of Magic; next, his son dead, his wife dead, family name dishonoured, and since my exoneration, a big drop in popularity. Once the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray. The conclusion was that his father never cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
"Where he has been to this day," muttered Sherlock.
There was a bit of silence while John chewed thoughtfully on a spring-roll and Sherlock brooded over the data, his chin deep in his chest, against which Benedict was snuffling.
"Things keep coming back to Crouch," said John at length. "Pettigrew's escape, Winky's sacking … now you're saying his late son might've been involved in an early LV revival attempt. But…"
"…It doesn't go anywhere from there," said Sherlock in a low voice. "The son was perhaps involved, but he's dead. Unlikely Crouch associated with Voldemort or any of his supporters following the scandal. It's not as if he could."
"He's not very popular to those people," agreed Sirius.
"And yet the person who helped Pettigrew escape was in Crouch's home the day it happened," Sherlock went on. "Pettigrew couldn't have known Grandmaster Shin would contact Crouch if and when he was discovered. Very few people knew Crouch had asked Shin to keep him abreast of developments, and even less people expected Shin to honour the request. Therefore Pettigrew couldn't have planned his escape with Crouch's guest beforehand. It is far more likely the guest acted on impulse at the unexpected news. But who is this guest? Who would Crouch invite to Christmas? Where is this guest now? Is he Voldemort's second agent? If he is, how did he infiltrate the ministry? Unless I'm much mistaken, there are four possibilities."
Sherlock took one of the brown paper bags Sirius brought from the Chinese restaurant and started scribbling.
"Possibility one: Voldemort is controlling someone directly.
"Possibility two: The agent is an unregistered Animagus, sneaking in and out of the ministry as needed.
"Possibility three: The agent is using the Polyjuice Potion to impersonate someone in the ministry.
"Possibility four: the agent is using the Imperius Curse to manipulate a ministry employee."
Sherlock recapped his pen after he finished writing, and then set the bag for all to see.
"We can eliminate possibility one, considering Voldemort is no longer a disembodied spirit," he said. "That leaves the latter three options. The agent could've used any combination of these three to reach the Goblet of Fire and Confund it. He would have had plenty of opportunities. The goblet was left out in the open for twenty-four hours. Anyone who has access to Hogwarts could've gone up done it."
"Under Dumbledore's watch, when he's expectingpeople to try and hoodwink it?" said Sirius sceptically.
"The possibility isn't zero," said Sherlock. "Of course, the agent could've done it before the goblet was brought into Hogwarts. That limits the pool of suspects to the ministry personnel who transported the goblet."
"Bagman and Crouch," said John.
"Precisely," said Sherlock. "Now it's not beyond the realm of possibility Bagman is being manipulated. His ability to Confund a powerful magical object like the Goblet, however, is questionable. Crouch has the ability judging from his past history in the Magical Law Enforcement, and we also know he was Imperiused to help Pettigrew escape once. But Crouch has been under tight surveillance since then. The agent would've had a hard time reaching him, even if he wanted to use Crouch. Also, the chances of Crouch not reporting the guest's return are very, very slim."
There was a short pause.
"What about Bertha Jorkins?" Sirius asked. "Isn't she still missing?"
"Yes, the keyword being: missing," said Sherlock with awful sarcasm. "In other words, she's not here."
"She went on a holiday to Albania," Sirius argued. "That was the last place Voldemort was known to be before Peter escaped."
"Even if she did meet Voldemort in Albania, she didn't return for work," snapped Sherlock. "So she can't be the one the agent is manipulating or impersonating right now."
There was another pause.
"I'm missing something," Sherlock muttered, "A vital piece of information that would reshape the whole case. I just can't see what it could be…"
Abruptly, he turned to John and Sirius.
"Get out," he said. "I need to think. You might talk."
"I need to feed Benedict," said John calmly.
Sherlock shoved Benedict into John's arms.
"Bedroom. Stay there," he said curtly. To Sirius he said, "You: out."
John and Sirius went downstairs to 221C. There John fed Benedict and updated Sherlock's index of Death Eaters (each labelled with a status: confirmed/suspected/incarcerated/at large/dead) whilst listening to Sirius bitch about Sherlock.
"Seriously, why'd you marry him?" Sirius complained.
"To keep him alive," said John. At Sirius's incredulous expression, John added, "It makes sense in context."
"…There's a context where that makes sense?!" howled Sirius.
"Yes," said John simply. "Now take a look at this. Are we missing anyone?"
John handed the index to Sirius for him to inspect. Sirius went through the names, grumbling.
"You missed my little brother," said Sirius after reading through.
"Your brother was a Death Eater?" said John, surprised.
Sirius nodded grimly. "Yep. The idiot was soft enough to believe joining Voldemort would make him a right little hero in the family."
John looked at him for a moment. "Your parents were into blood-purity?"
"They were convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal," said Sirius, rolling his eyes. "Never became Death Eaters themselves, but believe you me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea. They weren't alone, either. There were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colours, who thought he had the right idea about things… Most got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though."
"So what happened to him?"
"Murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort's orders, more likely; I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."
John hummed thoughtfully.
"Mind if I put him in here?"
"Go ahead," said Sirius carelessly.
John scribbled down 'Black, Regulus' under the 'B' section. After writing down the accompanying notes detailing his demise, John closed the index shut.
"I'm going to put him to bed," said John, adjusting Benedict. "Are you okay waiting here? Harry said he'd stop by, but I'm not sure if he's coming today or tomorrow—full moon and all that."
"I'll be fine," said Sirius. "I'll send Harry up once he gets here."
"Thanks."
John went upstairs.
Harry stumbled out of the fireplace a few hours later, just before the full moon rose above the city's skyline.
"Hi Sirius," said Harry breathlessly. "Remus will be here in a minute."
Sure enough, the fire turned green again, and Remus stepped out from the flames.
"Hello. Thought I'd better spend the night here," he said briskly. "Harry caught a bunch of students milling about in the Defence Corridor, spying on my office."
"They suspect?" said Sirius, alarmed.
"They suspect something," said Remus wryly. "My guess is they're wondering why Jacqueline visits my office in the evenings."
Sirius was very intrigued. "Oooh, why does she?"
"Here are some hints. One: she only visits during the full moon. Two: I'm supposed to learn how to duplicate myself. Three: she isn't sure if a werewolf's clone will transform during the full moon."
Sirius was disappointed. "Oh."
Sirius was cleaning up the soot on the floor when Remus suddenly went rigid. Then his limbs began to shake.
"Go," said Sirius to Harry. "I'll keep him company."
Even as he spoke, Remus's head was lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and hands, which were curling into clawed paws.
Sirius quickly transformed into a dog as the werewolf went down on all fours, back arched up. Then, trembling and whining, it curled up on the floor. Sirius quietly sidled next to it.
Harry covered the two with a warm blanket. Then, after patting the werewolf's head, he whispered a soft goodnight and padded out of the flat.
-oo00oo-
Harry climbed up to 221B after locking the door to 221C. He found Sherlock marching up and down the length of the sitting room, deep in thought, so he quietly detoured to the first floor bedroom.
He backtracked to the bathroom when he found John bathing Benedict.
"Hi, Harry," said John, looking back and smiling tiredly. "Sorry, but can you fetch a fresh nappy?"
Harry brought the requested item from the baby cabinet. Benedict, who hated baths, flailed and squalled noisily in his infant bathtub until John lifted him out of the water, dripping, and started drying him.
"There you go, you're all clean and fresh," said John, patting Benedict's balding head dry.
John put Benedict in his co-sleeper after dressing him again. But Benedict was not interested in sleeping, and kept rolling from side to side, yowling like a cat.
"Can you please sleep?" John pleaded.
Harry carried Benedict around in the darkened bedroom, hoping the change of hands would encourage him to sleep. John fell into an exhausted sleep as he did so, and didn't wake up when a rip appeared in the middle of thin air and Dr. Robert Ju poked his head out from the narrow opening.
"Hello," said Dr. Ju. "Earl's wake is today, but your mother wasn't responding to my emails…"
"She's sleeping," said Harry as he adjusted his hold around Benedict. "Who's Earl?"
"One of the guys from Iraq—" Dr. Ju blinked at Harry. "You have no idea what I'm talking about."
Harry shook his head. John never talked about Iraq, and turned stonily silent whenever someone asked. Only Sherlock knew the story, and he never talked about it either.
"Then I won't tell you," said Dr. Ju. "Can you wake her up? She shouldn't miss this."
Reluctantly, Harry shook John awake.
"Earl's wake is today," said Dr. Ju without ceremony when John blearily opened her eyes.
"Right now?" said John, startled.
"Mmmhmm."
John sighed deeply.
"Okay give me a minute. Harry, can you go with me?"
"Yeah," said Harry quickly. "Uh, should I wear black?"
"Yes," John said.
John, Harry and Benedict stepped through the rip in space after changing into all black (Benedict wearing a black baby-vest). Harry smelled ozone as he walked through. Then he found himself inside a very empty looking flat. There were no decorations or furniture, just white faux wood blinds over the windows. The hardwood floors looked dusty, and the egg-shell white walls were unnaturally clean. Harry wondered if Miss Jackie ever came here or if anyone actually lived here.
"My car's in the garage," said Dr. Ju as he shrugged on an overlarge, black corduroy jacket over his ugly white-and-black-paisley-patterned shirt. "There should be a car seat in the trunk. I'll drive."
They left the flat after Dr. Ju put on a black tie (it was very fat). The elevator took them all the way down to the basement garage. There Harry spotted a car he was certain belonged to Dr. Ju. The car was garish pink in colour and the overall design resembled a crouching frog — or an alligator's head. There were headlights on top of the bonnet, two pairs of bulging holes for lights on the car's steep chin, and the fender looked like skin rolls over knees.
"That is not my car," said Dr. Ju in an offended tone when John and Harry shared a look.
The car Dr. Ju actually owned wasn't much of an improvement to the pink, alligator's head-like car. John declared it looked like a dented orange tissue box. Harry personally thought it looked like a brick propped on wheels.
Dr. Ju drove down a busy motorway. It was very strange to see all the cars driving on the right side. It suddenly occurred to Harry that he was in a foreign country illegally. No one else in the car seemed to be bothered by this, though. Benedict, for once, didn't cry after being strapped in a car seat. Harry assumed it was because Dr. Ju's car seat was equipped with a good cushioning charm. Indeed, Benedict only started wailing when John took him out of the car seat, after Dr. Ju parked his box-like car in a small church's parking lot.
Harry followed Dr. Ju into the sanctuary. John stayed behind in the lobby because Benedict wouldn't stop crying. All the pews were full of solemn-looking people dressed in black. There was a closed casket in the front, on top of a dais, which was surrounded by flower arrangements. The only sound he could hear was a hymn playing from the speakers and a woman's loud and broken weeping. The bulletin Dr. Ju picked up from the officiator's desk showed a grainy picture of a teenager wearing a jersey—he didn't look a day older than fourteen, though the birth date and death date printed beneath the photo told Harry Earl S. was nineteen when he died.
Suddenly the age struck Harry in the gut. Before he saw the picture, thought 'Earl' was an old American solider John once knew. But he was too young to have been in the war. So who was this person? How did John know him?
Harry read through the bulletin. The eulogy said Earl was the only son of Mr. and Mrs. S. He was survived by two older sisters, Ann and Vivian. The notice on the bottom said Vivian was unable to attend the wake as she was currently oversees touring as a military nurse, but will be present at the funeral.
Harry then studied the back of the bulletin. It was full of short comments written by people who'd known Earl S. Adrian B. said he was the kind of person who made fun of her pigtails in public, but then came back and told her he liked them in private. Tim K. mourned the fact Earl died just when things were looking up for him, and said he'd miss him very much. Some of the comments were noted as being copied from Facebook. The last was a lengthy one that looked like it was written by Earl S's girlfriend. She reminisced the times they spent together, how happy he was whenever the Ravens won, and wrote about their plans to start living together. It was as though she was writing to someone who was still alive to read her words later. But then the long paragraph ended in a tearful ramble:
I wish I listened to you when you asked me to pick you up. Maybe you wouldn't be dead if I did. Why didn't you make me do what you wanted me to do like you always do?
Harry swallowed hard after he finished reading.
The service started promptly at eight. Harry didn't understand anything but the eulogy, because the vicar didn't speak English. But Harry didn't let his attention wander, conscious as he was of the sad occasion that brought him there, and listened to the incomprehensible words with rapt attention.
Finally vicar left the podium, and people were getting up. The woman who wept throughout the service stood next to her black-clad daughter, still crying noisily, as though stopping the tears was impossible.
Only then did Harry realise the woman was Earl S's mother.
Harry stayed in his seat, feeling like an intruder. Dr. Ju travelled to the front, hugging Mrs. S and awkwardly patting Ann S's head when she clung to him. Harry mouthed if they could leave when he returned, and Dr. Ju nodded.
Together they went to the lobby. John wasn't there. Harry assumed she was inside, among the queue of people wanting to share their condolences to Earl S's family.
Harry and Dr. Ju stood there in the lobby, neither looking nor speaking to each other.
"…Were they close?" Harry asked abruptly.
"To Earl, no," said Dr. Ju. "Hailey—your mother— has a lot of history with the older sister, Vivian."
"Oh."
There was another long moment.
"What did the vicar say?" Harry asked.
"He read Isaiah 62:8: But now, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. Said it was Earl's favourite verse. He mentioned how strangely appropriate it was for the occasion, though we can't ask him why he liked it anymore."
Harry swallowed hard when he heard Ju say: 'we can't ask him…'
"D'you … where do you think he is now?"
Dr. Ju looked at Harry for a long time. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking from the set of his mouth and half-lidded eyes.
"You want to know where dead people go," said Dr. Ju. "You're wondering if you'll see John again after you die. You're wondering if there is a beyond."
Harry wet his lips and said nothing.
"What have people told you?" asked Dr. Ju.
"Professor Dumbledore said for a well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure," said Harry slowly. "I learned at chapel there's a heaven and hell. Sherlock says we're just gone."
"What do you think?" asked Dr. Ju again.
Harry shrugged his shoulders. Dr. Ju nodded twitchily.
"Got an organized mind?" he asked.
Harry shook his head. "No."
"Think I've got an organized mind?" Dr. Ju asked again.
Harry glanced at him from the side, wondering if he should speak the truth.
"You don't," said Dr. Ju, answering for him. "I agree with you. Even on a good day, my mind looks like a hurricane hit it after a massive earthquake."
Harry's lips quirked a bit.
"But for what it's worth, I've thought about death a lot," Dr. Ju said. "I don't mind sharing if you want to hear it."
"Okay," said Harry.
Dr. Ju looked around him. Then he beckoned Harry to follow. Harry did so, walking closely behind. Dr. Ju walked outside, into the cold November air, and sat down at a rickety park bench in the front garden, cross-legged. Then he patted the spot in next to him. Harry sat there and waited.
"There are people," Dr. Ju started, "both Magic and Muggle, who came back to life after being declared dead. What these people saw while dead don't agree. Some said they've seen their favourite singers or actors. Others have seen angels or dead family members waiting to escort them. Yet others found themselves in places that signify transition, like a boat or a train station. Very few people gain new information in this state, though some have gleaned greater insight into the facts they already know. From what I can tell, what a person sees during their near-death experiences seem to depend on what the person expects in death. Those who want to pass on peacefully experience a sense of peace. Those who don't want to be alone meet companions. Those who expect justice see themselves in a place they'd get it. Those who view death as a transition see themselves in a place that would take them elsewhere. So we can't tell for sure what it's like based on these accounts. But it does tell you what people long for in life and death."
Dr. Ju looked up to the dark night sky, dotted sparsely with stars.
"We hunger for a sense of wonder—things that make you go: 'wow'," he said. "Your brother Benedict will eventually learn to interpret the things that he can see, and the sights will make him go wow. He'll learn to eat more than just his mother's milk, and the new tastes will make him go wow. This world, which is so new to him, is full of things that make him go wow … But as he grows older, it will get harder and harder to find things that can 'wow' him. But that longing for wonder, it'll never go away. It's no wonder we hope after death there will great adventures to look forward to."
Harry nodded.
"We also hunger for truth," Dr. Ju went on. "Right now, you're feeling the need to know the truth about death. People telling you it's going to be alright just don't cut it. You know enough about what is at stake to realize what happens after you die will determine what you should do right now. If—if—Sherlock and, dare I say, Voldemort is correct and death is the end, then eat, drink and be merry, because when you die, you lose everything. If death really is the end, then Voldemort did the most reasonable thing in the world by keeping himself alive at all cost … even if that cost was murdering other people."
"But he can't be right!" said Harry hotly. "What about all those people who died because of him? And what about all the suffering he caused? All of it would be meaningless if he's right!"
"If he is right," Dr. Ju agreed. "You don't know for sure yet. And if you are honest, you can't deny you have personal reasons to want Voldemort to be wrong. But there are people who are convinced death is the end who aren't like Voldemort — very decent and likable people. Would you have had such a visceral reaction if Voldemort wasn't in the picture? Perhaps you'd agree to it because you like these people and you want them to be right."
Harry didn't know what to say. Would he have?
"See? All the more reason to believe truth in the absolute sense matters," said Dr. Ju quietly. "It matters so much we still hunger for it even when we don't like it. It's not always pleasant, truth. In fact it can be traumatizing. Take justice. Do you think it will ever be enough to just destroy Voldemort? Shouldn't he be punished for all people he murdered? Shouldn't he pay for the suffering he caused? If after death everything you've done in life just vanishes, then there's no such thing as justice. Voldemort won't be the only person who won't pay enough in life. For justice to be real, he must pay even after he dies. But who can stand if we have to make an account for everything we've ever done? No idle thought, no idle word, nothing ever forgotten … If death isn't the end, and when you die you must give an account for your life, then doing the right thing all the time is of the utmost importance. Knowing what the right thing is to begin with is important too. And you can't expect your good deeds to cancel out your bad ones because frankly they're different currencies. This should be obvious if you think about it: No good deed you'll ever do will make up for a murder you've committed, because you can't bring the dead victim back. At best you just make it easier for your collateral, surviving victims to bear the cost. You can't ask for justice only when it's convenient for you. It must cut both ways, and no matter how you look at it, you'll get cut too. The truth, therefore, is traumatizing. And yet the hunger for truth remains.
"We also hunger for love," Dr. Ju continued. "We long for relationships: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, colleagues, teachers, girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses, children … the list goes on. It's not even enough to have had them once — we wish they continue forever. Beyond even the grave. The thought that death may be the eternal separator should be too hard bear.
"That's why we hunger for security," said Dr. Ju. "The older we get, and the less we are able to take care of ourselves, the more we need it. Don't you want the security of knowing your family will be taken care of? Don't you want the security of knowing you'll be acknowledged for doing the right thing, choosing to die rather than let Voldemort run rampant? Don't you want the security of knowing your sacrifice won't be in vain — that it won't be meaningless? Don't you want the security of knowing you'll be acknowledged that it was wrong for the world to demand you to make such a decision at age fourteen?"
"Yes," said Harry fervently, feeling immensely relieved now that the things that bothered him were spelled out.
"So here is where we stand," said Dr. Ju, drawing a circle with his forefinger. "A proper answer to life and death should address the human hunger for wonder, truth, love and security. Hand-waving any one of these is unacceptable, so don't you dare do it." He paused. "You're in a crisis mode right now because Voldemort is an unavoidable problem that gets more urgent with each passing day, and what you should do about it is so intricately tied to having an answer to death, you feel overwhelmed — drained."
Harry nodded painfully.
"So why don't I do this," said Dr. Ju. "I'll take the burden of carrying Voldemort's soul fragment. That way you can focus on defeating him."
Harry forgot how to breathe.
For a while he just stared, open-mouthed, as his heart pounded like a racing train. This — this was what he wanted, more than anything. Though he knew what Dr. Ju taking the burden of carrying Voldemort's soul fragment meant, being without the burden was something Harry wanted so badly, he couldn't even consider refusing the offer.
But…
"It can be done?" he squeaked.
"Getting rid of the magic in a soul fragment may be an unknown thing, but transferring a soul fragment from one human vessel to another human vessel is an ancient, well-established art," said Dr. Ju, smiling crookedly. "Grandmaster Shin already knows how to do it. He'll do it if I ask him. Afterwards, God willing, Jackie and I will figure out how to kill just the soul fragment."
"But what if it doesn't work?" Harry murmured. "What about your family?"
"I don't have any," said Dr. Ju. "My biological parents abandoned me when I was a baby. The closest thing to a mother I had as a child has refused to see me since I was seven. As a Buddhist monk seeking nirvana, she couldn't afford to keep anything that would generate craving, namely me. My adoptive parents are dead. It's been years."
Harry felt terrible.
"What about your friends?"
"Don't have a lot of those," said Dr. Ju wryly. "I'm not good at making them or keeping them."
Harry started to shake from head to toe.
"What about … Miss Jackie?" he said in a trembling voice. "Aren't you two together?"
Dr. Robert blinked several times at the sky, his eyes too bright.
"…We're not together anymore," he mumbled. "We agreed there's no point in courting if we can't get married for sure," he closed his eyes. "If we got married now, we'll be too distracted. Your life is too important to risk it."
"But you two were … I mean…"
"I hope you're not asking me to have the conversation I think you want me to have with your mother," said Dr. Robert, looking down at Harry with a horrible, twisted smile. " 'Because I am far too invested in my romantic life to lose it, I'm going to let your son carry the burden of housing Voldemort's soul fragment and leave him to potentially die, even though I can do it better.'" He snorted. "I'd be dead before I finish talking."
Harry wiped his steaming eyes.
"But …why?" he choked.
Why are you doing this for me? I've never been kind to you. I made fun of you today. I don't care enough about you to refuse. In fact I'm relieved that it's you who will be doing it and not someone like John…
"Why not?" said Dr. Robert, grinning lopsidedly. "I'm fine about dying. Really, I am. The best thing about being Christian is that I belong to Jesus. The only God in the world who cared enough about his creatures that he became one of us in the fullest sense in real space time history; spared himself no suffering in order to have personal experience of being a creature living in a broken world — including ignoble death on a cross; God enough to promise he'd do it thousands of years beforehand, then went ahead and did it, par excellence; God enough to die in my place to pay for all the wrong I've done and will do; God enough to triumph over the grave by bodily resurrecting." He sighed contentedly. "I'm well loved. I'm well taken care of. No suffering I ever go through will ever be meaningless because he counts them all and redeems them all. There's nothing at all for me to worry about. I have the answer."
He wrapped an arm around Harry's shaking shoulders and squeezed one tightly.
"Let the one who can do the heavy lifting," he said.
-oo00oo-
After Harry recovered and John made her presence known, Dr. Robert performed a magical vow. Harry felt the magic burning into his veins as Dr. Robert wrote something with his blood directly on the inner side of his right forearm. The blood glowed eerily against his skin before vanishing.
"Not a full-blown Unbreakable Vow, but close enough," he said. "I figured you'll need the assurance that I'll really do it."
John looked at Dr. Robert stonily.
"Robert—"
"Go love your husband," Dr. Robert interrupted.
"I know I'm not your wife," said John wryly. "You've been telling me that since we were engaged. Just answer me this: what about you?"
"What about me?" Dr. Robert asked, frowning, like John was speaking utter nonsense.
"You know what I mean."
"No, I really don't."
John sighed deeply. "Would getting married now really cause that much distraction? Knowing the two of you, I seriously doubt it."
"Yes," said Dr. Robert bluntly. "How could it not?"
John sighed again. "Can you promise me not to do something stupid like never seeing each other?"
"Not seeing each other would be a good idea, considering, but we can't," said Dr. Robert seriously. "We still need to work out the bu-dong spell."
"Good," John growled. "That's a relief. You guys are so stupid, it's giving me heartburn."
"We cause you stomach problems?"
"Yes!" John shouted. "You and Jackie are bad for my health! If it's not acid reflux, it's freaking ulcers! Christ alone knows how I'll cope until you two settled down like normal human beings!"
Dr. Robert pulled a face.
"Don't give me that look," John snapped. "Don't bother with your stupid car. Send us back to London now. I might flood your chest with snot and feelings if you don't hurry up."
Dr. Robert swiftly created a magical rip. John clutched Benedict in one arm, Harry in the other, and marched towards it, not once turning to look at Dr. Robert.
"Thank you so much, you f—ing idiot," John snarled.
"Please stop tarnishing your soul," Dr. Robert chided. To Harry, he wiggled his fingers and said, "See you."
John and Harry stepped through the hole.
Then they stood quietly in the silence of 221B. It wasn't a complete silence, of course; Benedict was snoring against John, the sound of traffic filtered through the windows, and they could hear Sherlock marching up and down, up and down in the sitting room. Same as usual, really.
Except everything had changed. Nothing was the same. Already Harry could feel his heart hardening, grow firm and focused, as he became inexplicably but inexorably angry…
Angry at Voldemort, for causing this ugly mess … Angry at himself for dithering around and wallowing in self-pity, when he wasn't the only one suffering…
Angry for a certain idiot, who thought it worthwhile to die for him…
"…Idiot," muttered John, glaring at nothing. "That effing idiot…"
Harry balled his fists.
Until Dr. Robert can marry Miss Jackie, Harry vowed, I'll never, ever date.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: I've been very sick all of last week. Apparently I can write in spite of a raging fever, congested nose, coughs threatening to expel a lung and joint pains when the subject is funny enough. Writing Sirius and Molly was a riot. Weird pairings, ahoy! #itmakesnosense #wtheckBOC #stopwritingwhenyouresick #seriously
Amusement aside, the key thing of this chapter was the wake. I debated if I should remove the part Harry vowing to never date until he gets rid of Voldemort (in effect), but it was exactly the kind of impulsive but instinctively right thing he'd do, so I kept it. Harry's focus is in full swing, now that the burden of being a Horcrux is taken away. Voldemort best be on his toes…