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 Sixty Seven: The Most Tragic Phrase
During his mad dash to the Headmaster's Office, Harry thought how he should pitch his idea to Sherlock. Then about halfway up a staircase, Harry came to an abrupt stop.
How could he tell Sherlock and Dumbledore about his plan? The plan didn't work without the memory harvesting charm, but he'd signed a binding magical contract to never divulge the charm's existence. He didn't know if Dumbledore or Sherlock already knew about the charm, but he couldn't ask because mentioning the contract or the spell behind the charm were both forbidden, and if he broke the contract, his magic would be forfeit. What should he do, then?
Harry thought about it for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders. He didn't have to tell his plan to Dumbledore or Sherlock. He could just collect the memory from Winky and show it to them later. There was no reason why either of them would tell him not to. In fact, Sherlock might chide him for bothering to ask.
So Harry turned around and headed downstairs.
He didn't run this time. Besides feeling a bit lightheaded, Harry remembered something else about the memory harvesting charm that put in him in a state of unease. Miss Jackie went through the trouble of putting him and his friends under a binding magical contract because the charm's potential for danger. Harry had to agree it would be terrible to live in a world where even your memories weren't private because people could syphon them off of you without your permission. How would Winky react, if or when she realised Harry stole her most guarded secret? Because that was basically what he was thinking of doing: stealing. But if he didn't use the memory harvesting charm, Lord Voldemort might return…
Unease followed Harry throughout his quiet trek to the kitchens. Then before he knew it, he was opening the door to the kitchens.
The house-elves screamed as one when they spotted Harry at the kitchen's entrance. It took a few blinks before Harry realised what they were seeing: with his face and robes covered in blood, and more blood still flowing freely out of his nose, he must look like someone tried to murder him and almost succeeded.
"WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO HARRY POTTER!?" Blippy screeched.
"I'm okay," said Harry as he tried to wipe off the blood on his face with his robe sleeve. "This is just a nosebleed, so never mind. Where is Winky?"
Before any of the elves could answer, Harry spotted Winky at her old spot at the fireplace. She wasn't as filthy as the last time he saw her, but she was swaying as though drunk.
"Winky!" Harry said as he hurried over to her. "Winky, listen…"
Winky looked blearily up. Her eyes brightened when she noticed who was speaking to her.
"Has you word from my master?" she asked breathlessly—desperately.
Harry froze. It felt like a deep chasm had yawned open before him, and what he chose to do now would make all the difference in the world.
Could he really do this? Could he really just steal Winky's memory? One of his worst fears was waking up one day in Baker Street and John frowning at him like she'd never seen him before, then asking the dreaded question: "Who are you?" Was there any real difference to what he was planning to do and Obliviate?
"Harry Potter?" asked Winky timidly.
Harry lost his nerve.
"…No," he muttered. "No, I don't have the news you want."
Winky completely deflated.
"But you still need to hear this," said Harry urgently. "Your master—Mr. Crouch—he's in trouble."
Winky gasped and her face paled.
"I think someone's using Mr. Crouch to do something horrible," Harry explained. "I also think this person … is responsible for the bad thing that happened to Mr. Crouch on Christmas the year before."
Winky was visibly shaking now.
"I want to stop this person," said Harry. Then he paused for a moment, and willed the spots clouding the peripheries of his vision away. "Mr. Crouch—gave one of my best friends justice, even though it cost him almost everything. So I want to help him. But to do that, I need something from you."
"…What is you needing from Winky?" Winky asked guardedly, as she trembled from head to toe.
"Your memories of the person who celebrated Christmas with Mr. Crouch two years ago," said Harry.
Winky turned white. For a long she just stared unblinkingly at Harry, her hands over his mouth. Then she curled into a tiny ball and rocked backwards and forwards. She was the very picture of someone torn between two opposite choices—one bad, the other perhaps even worse.
"Is my master really in trouble?" Winky asked without looking up. "You is not lying to Winky?"
"No," said Harry firmly. "You can ask Mr. Lestrade if you want."
"How is that memory going to help my master?" Winky asked again. "Why is you needing that memory at all?"
"How I should help Mr. Crouch depends on who is responsible," said Harry impatiently. "Look, I'm not out to get him, okay? I told you I owe him one!"
But Winky still hesitated. Harry desperately tried to think of something else he could say that could convince Winky, but he couldn't. His brain felt clogged and heavy.
"You should listen to Harry Potter, Winky," said a wrinkled old elf overseeing a tall soup pot; one of the older females, if Harry remembered correctly. "No wizard has cared about us house-elves as Harry Potter has. And he would not bother asking you if he is not caring about you."
Winky hung her head after that comment. She then pulled at her long, bat-like ears. Harry kept opening and closing his eyes to clear the spots that threatened to overtake his vision while he waited.
"…You promise you is not using Winky's memory against Mr. Crouch?" Winky asked at last.
Harry let out a long sigh. "I'll do everything in my power not to," he promised.
Winky drooped.
"What does Winky need to do?" she mumbled.
"Just … remember," Harry whispered as he took out the charm.
Harry stayed alert long enough to see the silvery vapour flowing out of Winky's eyes and ears embed itself to his memory harvesting charm. Then black and white dots overtook Harry's vision and Harry keeled over. As he fuzzily wondered why he was so dizzy, face down on the kitchen's stone floor with all the House-elves panicking around him, Harry felt rather than saw the small puddle of blood gathering under his nose.
Blood loss… Damn my anaemia… Harry thought as he blacked out.
-oo00oo-
Harry drifted in and out of consciousness for what felt like hours. In the beginning, he heard a cacophonous chorus of high-pitched crying and screaming. Then he thought he heard Madam Pomfrey's voice, though he didn't know why she was within his earshot. He'd been pretty good about his health this year— no trips to the hospital wing for two months straight, a new record—but he also heard Dumbledore's voice, which made him even more bewildered. What kind of scrape did he get into this year?
When Harry finally woke up, he felt perplexed. Where was he? How long had he been out? Why had he been out? He managed to open one gummily shut eye, but he still couldn't make out his surroundings. The room was too bright and everything looked blurry.
Then Harry noticed the familiar, tennis-ball shaped eyes peering at him inches away from his face.
"G'way, Dobby…" Harry mumbled, closing his eye again.
"Harry Potter," said a trembling voice that didn't quite sound like Dobby's. "I is needing to tell you something…"
"…Later…"
"No, I is needing to tell you now…"
Harry groaned and turned his head to the other side. "Whaisit?" he asked irritably.
"Winky needs something from Harry Potter," said the not-quite Dobby voice. "Young master Barty says I must take it from Harry Potter by force, but Winky cannot. Winky does not wish to harm Harry Potter. So Winky asks."
Harry wondered why Dobby was calling himself Winky as he answered:
"…Fine."
Harry heard a tearful, shuddering sigh. Then he felt a prickle, much like the sensation of a needle drawing blood.
"…Thank you, Harry Potter," said the voice.
Harry grunted and turned away, thinking he'd better go back to sleep.
Then suddenly, he realised what had just happened.
"No, Winky, stop…!"
But he was too late. Winky had vanished.
-oo00oo-
Albus Dumbledore spent most of his morning placating Argus Filch, who had barged into his office in the middle of the first morning classes and launched a tirade against the student who left a long trail of blood on several stairways and corridors as a prank presumably. Filch refused to leave until Dumbledore promised he would punish the student, and Dumbledore steadfastly declined to punish the hypothetical student unless he or she was proven guilty. As often was the case in such stalemates, Filch threatened to resign and Dumbledore told Filch he regretted his decision to leave and mentioned the Squibs who expressed interest in replacing him. Only then did Filch relent, very reluctantly.
Dumbledore let out a weary sigh after the door closed behind Filch. Then he noticed his Magical Mobile phone was alight with bright purple flames and the words 'you have two missed calls' was hovering over it. So Dumbledore fiddled around with his phone to find out who had called him, referring to the holographic manual several times to figure out how to do this exactly.
After several tries, he got a name and called the person.
"Hello, Poppy," said Dumbledore to the holographic projection of Madam Pomfrey. "My apologies, but Argus insisted on my undivided attention. So why did you call me?"
"The house-elves brought Mr. Potter to the Hospital Wing this morning, headmaster," said the school matron. "The boy had severe Epistaxis and fainted inside the kitchens from blood loss. I just wanted to let you know."
"Dear me," said Dumbledore worriedly. "Do we need to send him to St. Mungos?"
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "I gave him some blood-replenishing potion. He should come around soon."
"Excellent. How are the elves doing?"
"Last time I saw them, they were all very distressed. Blippy even threatened to lock himself in an oven, but Plocks stopped him. She told him he can punish himself after they found Winky … though what she meant by this, I have no idea…"
Dumbledore's blue eyes went wide. "She mentioned Winky?"
"Yes," said Madam Pomfrey, surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"It could be significant," said Dumbledore. "Did you ask the elves why Harry was in the kitchens?"
Madam Pomfrey shook her head again.
"There was no use asking. I couldn't get a single coherent word out of them between the screaming and crying…"
Dumbledore had a word with the Hogwarts house-elves after ending the call. The elves could tell him precious little on what Harry came to the kitchens for, but they were vociferous in their declaration that Winky was a very, very bad elf. Finally Plocks, the oldest female house-elf in Hogwarts, managed to tell Dumbledore Harry Potter had wanted something from Winky—a memory of a person. As soon as she said this, Dumbledore had an inkling of what Harry tried to do. But before he could move on to confirm, he received a call from a very flustered Detective Chief Inspector G. Lestrade.
"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.
"I myself am wondering about the same thing," Dumbledore answered. "Can you tell me, please, what made you ask?"
"The free house-elf you lent to me, Winky, popped inside my office about an hour ago," said Lestrade. "She wanted to know if Crouch was in trouble."
"Did you ask why she wanted to know?"
"Nah," said Lestrade. "I actually thought she got caught into some harebrained scheme Sherlock cooked up but didn't tell me about. The bastard's done that to me before."
"So what did you tell her?" asked Dumbledore with a small smile.
"Told her I don't know; I haven't seen him for a while."
"That's rather usual," said Dumbledore. "Were you not working closely with Mr. Crouch? And are you not spending at least three afternoons a week doing Ministry business?"
"Yes, and I am," said Lestrade wearily. "Problem is: Crouch stopped showing up to the Ministry. Said he was too ill. His personal assistant, Percy Weasley, is acting as his intermediary via Owl post."
"I see," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "How long has Mr. Crouch been ill?"
"About two weeks."
"And Percy is certain it is Mr. Crouch who is writing to him?"
"I wondered the same thing and asked Percy. He got really offended; said he can recognise his boss's handwriting just fine, thanks."
"Ah, youth," said Dumbledore ruefully. "Thank you for telling me this, Greg. Now if it isn't too much to ask, could you be so kind and pay Mr. Crouch a visit? I've been concerned about him for some time, and this last bit of news is quite alarming. Just be sure June Hu is accompanying you when you go."
"Uh, yeah, sure," said Lestrade, startled. "I'll drop by this evening."
"Thank you. That would be wonderful."
"You're welcome. Oh, by the way," Lestrade added, "another house-elf popped into my office after Winky left. One of yours, I think; the tea towel he was wearing had the Hogwarts crest stamped on the corner."
"That does sound like one of our Hogwarts elves. What did he—or she—want?"
"Wanted to know if I saw Winky. When I told him she just left, he stomped around on my desk, shouting: Winky you is a bad elf! BAD ELF! No wonder you's master sacked you! "
Dumbledore drooped a little. "Oh dear…"
"Then he left," said Lestrade. "This brings me back to my original question—what the hell is going on?"
"I have guesses, but nothing more," said Dumbledore. "I do not think I am in liberty to speak them yet."
"You do that a lot," Lestrade remarked. "Deferring straight answers, I mean. No wonder Sherlock's annoyed with you."
"It's an old habit, one I am working hard to break," said Dumbledore gravely. "Thank you, again, Greg. I'll get back to you as soon as I gather more information."
Lestrade saluted and ended the call.
Dumbledore headed to the hospital wing afterwards. He exchanged greetings with Madam Pomfrey, who led him to the lone screened hospital bed.
"Something happened to him, Albus," said Pomfrey worriedly, "Something terrible. I just… well, you'll soon see for yourself…"
"Thank you, Poppy," said Dumbledore quietly.
Then Dumbledore entered the small screened area.
Harry lay on the bed within. He was staring emptily at the ceiling, as though he didn't have the strength to look anything else. He was also running a thumb over a small cut on his hand.
"I'm glad to see you awake, Harry," Dumbledore began. "You've given us quite a fright."
Harry didn't even blink. His eyes displayed emptiness only cataclysmic loss or life-altering failure could produce.
"I do not wish to pry," said Dumbledore. "But can you tell me why you were in kitchens?"
Harry didn't react for a very long time. But something in him seemed to collapse, bit by bit.
"…Too late," he whispered at length. "It's too late…"
Dumbledore studied him for a moment.
"Even if there is nothing at all we can do now, we still need to understand," Dumbledore said quietly. "Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery … and the possibility of correction."
Harry remained silent, but let his head roll to the side opposite to Dumbledore, thus looking away.
The silence stretched.
"Please tell me what happened," Dumbledore pleaded.
Harry breathed deeply though his nose. Then, after another bout of hesitation, he started to speak … how he figured out Winky had the memory of seeing the agent … how he went straight to Winky to ask for the memory instead of telling Dumbledore or Sherlock … how, after obtaining the memory, he passed out … and finally, how Winky asked for his blood and he let her have it, because he was too stupid and groggy to realise what she was asking for…
"…Winky took your blood," said Dumbledore, while standing very still.
"I was so stupid," Harry muttered bitterly. "I knew Voldemort was after my blood … I knew the agent was probably Barty Crouch, Jr. … Winky adores the Crouches, so of course she'd go and check on him … but I—"
"You were recovering from blood-loss, Harry."
"That was my fault, too!" said Harry miserably. "I used the wrong spell … I have anaemia, I don't have the blood the spare … if only—"
"Do not torture yourself over things you can only know in hindsight," said Dumbledore firmly. " 'If only' is one of the most tragic phrases in the world, and I advise you not to wallow in it use. Let the past be past, Harry, and keep on and keeping on."
This time Harry stared Dumbledore, looking aghast.
"But—I just proved I can't handle a case this big…I shouldn't…"
"You did not," said Dumbledore quietly. "You acted far braver, nobler and wiser than I could have expected of you. You were the first to realise Winky was the key witness. You did not take away Winky's memory, even though you had the power to. Instead you asked, thus granting her the dignity of choice. How many wizards and witches do you think would've acted as nobly as you?"
"But it was wrong!" said Harry in anguish. "I should've just taken the memory! Then Winky would've never gone to Crouch! Now Voldemort has my blood and—"
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, as he looked piercingly at Harry. "Lord Voldemort has your blood, but not the type of blood he sought! Remember, Harry, that Voldemort seeks the blood of his enemy, forcefully taken. Winky repaid your kindness by not taking your blood against your will, though Crouch no doubt ordered her to. So the blood she took to Voldemort is blood willingly given."
Harry blinked many times as he digested this.
"…And this is a good thing?" he asked incredulously. "Professor Moody said a wizard's blood, willingly given, can restore completely broken bodies. That's exactly what Voldemort wants."
"Yes, Harry, it is a good thing," said Dumbledore. "This is magic at its deepest and most impenetrable. But trust me … though Lord Voldemort may still be able to use your blood, I would not be surprised if the new body he gained through your blood does him more harm than good."
Harry nodded slightly as he pondered this.
Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
"…I wish I did better," he whispered to his hands. "I wish things happened differently."
"So do all those who wish to spare their loved ones suffering," said Dumbledore gently. "But that is not for us to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
Harry looked up. "I didn't know you read Tolkien, professor."
"Well, I've been compared to a certain wizard he created more than once, so I read his most famous work to see what the fuss was about. Professor McGonagall was not very pleased when I emerged from the reading with a penchant for grey cloaks and claymores."
Harry let out a weak laugh. Then, after wetting his lips, Harry hardened his expression.
"I'll get over this," he promised. "I won't let Voldemort win. Just … not now. Not yet."
-oo00oo-
A week had passed since Harry left History of Magic, bleeding. Hermione found her recollections of those days scattered and extremely painful. None of her friends could talk about them, least of all Harry.
Harry remained utterly silent since he returned from the Hospital Wing. Many in his extended circle of friends had some idea of the cause, as quite a few of them offered him help. Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott asked if he had been investigating into Bartemius Crouch Senior's disappearance, which the Magical Mobile Network's televised newscast and the Daily Prophet reported, and Susan Bones offered to talk to her Aunt, Amelia Bones, who was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry forced himself to smile at these friendly gestures before shaking his head.
The most painful and ironic help came from Fred and George Weasley. They took their younger siblings and Hermione to the side to have a word:
"We knew you three were helping Harry with a case when you lot started spending long hours in the Music Room," said Fred knowingly. "There are only so many times you can practice the piano and run over accounts, you know."
Ron put on an odd expression. Hermione felt a mixture of exasperation, fury and a strong desire to scream.
"Does Harry think Crouch had a part in Pettigrew's escape?" asked George, making Hermione flinch. "We didn't think it was a coincidence Crouch sacked his house-elf shortly afterwards. Crouch's recent disappearance just cinches it. Anyway, we asked Winky before Christmas break if she could tell us anything. She didn't tell us much—still keeping her old master's secret and all that—but she did tell us Ludo Bagman was a bad wizard."
Hermione, Ron and Ginny started.
"What do you mean?" said Hermione sharply. "Are you saying he's involved too?"
"Not exactly," said George gloomily. "The stupid git, he wouldn't have the brains."
"Well, what, then?" said Ron.
Fred hesitated, and then said, "You remember that bet we had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?"
"Yeah," said Ron slowly.
"Well, the git paid us in leprechaun gold he'd caught from the Irish mascots."
"So?"
"So," said Fred impatiently, "it vanished, didn't it? By next morning, it had gone!"
"But— it must've been an accident, mustn't it?" said Hermione.
George laughed very bitterly.
"Yeah, that's what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote to him and told him he'd made a mistake, he'd cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored our letters. So we kept calling him until he picked up."
"Was that the day before the delegation from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived?" Hermione said.
"Right in one," said Fred. "He still avoided the issue, and kept trying to get away from us when we tried to talk to him about it at Hogwarts. In the end he turned pretty nasty. Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn't giving us anything."
"So we asked for our money back," said George glowering.
"He didn't refuse!" gasped Hermione.
"What do you think?" Fred groused.
"But that was all your savings!" said Ron.
"Tell me about it," said George. "'Course, we found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan's dad had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he's in big trouble with the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still wasn't enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He's lost everything gambling. Hasn't got two Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins back?"
"How?" said Ginny.
"He tried to skim off from the money you gave the Ministry for the Triwizard Tournament broadcasts," said Fred.
"Shut up!" Ron exclaimed.
"Sorry, Ron, but it's true," said George, shaking his head. "We've seen him do it. Bagman didn't buckle when we confronted him about it. So Fred and I sent an anonymous tip to the Ministry. I expect they'll start investigating him for embezzlement soon. But as far as him and other criminal activity goes, don't you think he'd do anything for a bit more money?"
Hermione, Ron and Ginny said nothing and just stared at them.
"Will this help?" asked George, looking a bit concerned.
One by one, the three of them dropped their glances.
"…No," said Ron shortly. "No, it won't."
So the days passed by. Soon everyone's attention was focused on the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione had never been more uninterested and unmotivated about it, even though she and her friends had to do the filming and broadcasting.
Because what was the point, really? It was too late, the agent was long gone and You-Know-Who got what he wanted. They'd failed—she failed—and no money or success in the world was going to change this. But unfortunately, as Miss Jackie told them, the show had to go on.
If only … if only she'd trusted Harry— did what he asked her to do at History of Magic— things would've turned out very different. They would be celebrating a job well done by now, probably. But no, she was too busy being a 'good student' who knew better. Well, if she really was clever, she would've realised getting Outstandings in all her classes meant nothing—absolutely nothing—in a world You-Know-Who had power.
The time-turner hanging on the chain around Hermione's neck felt very heavy during the week. In her most guilt-filled moments, Hermione was severely tempted to use it … to travel back in time and fix everything. But Hermione knew the law, and she understood enough about time-travel theory to know the current time included any of her actions to change the past. No matter what she did, the outcome would still be the same.
The day before the Second Task, Hermione finally made up her mind. She stayed behind after Transfigurations to talk to her Head of House.
"Professor McGonagall, I'd like to drop Muggle Studies."
Professor McGonagall looked at her in astonishment.
"I'm surprised," she said. "I thought you were doing very well in all your subjects."
Hermione shook her head. "The time-turner … it's driving me mad. And I don't think Muggle Studies will help my future goals."
Professor McGonagall pursed her lips for a moment.
"Alright, Miss Granger, if that is your decision…"
"Thank you," said Hermione.
Hermione removed the time-turner from her neck and handed it over to Professor McGonagall like it was something that burned. Then she turned and hurriedly walked away.
She didn't look back.
-oo00oo-
Harry visited 221B every evening since the Winky incident. Thus John and Sherlock were with him when Dumbledore came to watch all the memories Harry collected from Winky.
As it turned out, Sherlock's deductions about the agent were more or less correct. One of the earliest memories showed them the day Crouch returned from Azkaban half-carrying a wispy little witch who eventually transformed into a fair-haired boy in his late teens. Crouch left the shivering, half-dead wreck of a boy in Winky's care, but not before he put the boy under the Imperius Curse. Later, when the boy recovered his health, Crouch, Sr. made the boy wear an invisibility cloak at all times—to ensure no one knew his son was in the house, clearly. Another memory showed a young witch Sherlock recognised as Bertha Jorkins sneaking into Crouch's kitchen to investigate, as Winky talked to the invisible Crouch, Jr., and Crouch, Sr. putting a memory charm on Bertha Jorkins when she confronted him about her discovery.
"So that's why Crouch Jr. got rid of her," Sherlock remarked. "He may have even killed her in Albania as a red-herring—make us think LV was still there."
"Sherlock, shut up," said John, while Harry blanched.
Most of the memories afterwards featured Winky convincing Crouch, Sr. to give his son treats for good behavior … the very last of these a festive Christmas Party for three. The memory of this Christmas Dinner went black abruptly after Mr. Shin finished telling Crouch, Sr. about Pettigrew, and Mr. Shin's disembodied head vanished from the flames with a small pop.
The final memory showed them Barty Crouch Jr. as he was right now: older, but still pale-skinned, slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair. There was a glint of insane glee in his eyes as he listened to Winky's concerns, whilst looking convincingly dejected and morose.
"You're right, Father and I are in trouble—deep trouble," whispered Crouch.
"Is there anything Winky can do for young master Barty?" asked Winky urgently.
"I can't ask you anything, not when Father dismissed you," Crouch demurred.
"No, no, just ask Winky, and Winky will do it!" Winky insisted.
"Will you, really?" said Crouch slowly. "You'll really do anything for me?"
"Yes, Winky will!"
"Thank you, Winky," said Crouch solemnly. "Thank you … Now Winky … there one thing you can get for me that will save me from all the trouble."
Winky clasped her hands earnestly. "Name it, young master Barty!"
An insane smile spread across Crouch's face.
"…I need Harry Potter's blood."
They stopped watching there. There was no point. Any further confirmation would've been just cold comfort.
"What happens now?" asked John in the silence that followed.
"All those that we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately," said Dumbledore. "I've sent a message to Arthur Weasley. He is well placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius."
"I take it he's not convinced?" said Sherlock.
Dumbledore shook his head grimly.
"I am also gathering the people who are already aware of the situation," Dumbledore went on. "Fudge's attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything. I have tasked Sirius to gather the old crowd. Severus will resume his old role as spy as soon as his Dark Mark burns."
"Aren't we forgetting something?" said Sherlock in low voice. "The perpetuator of this mess, for instance? Doesn't it make more sense to cut him down before he starts? Or has the fact he'd gained extra power via Harry's blood made you hesitate?"
"Voldemort will not gain more power through Harry's blood," said Dumbledore. "He may, at best, gain the ability to touch Harry because Lily Potter's sacrifice, which runs through his veins, would now run in him also."
"How exactly are you justifying this conclusion when you have empathically stated Love is the most powerful of all magic?" Sherlock demanded.
"Sherlock, 'powerful' can mean more than just possessing great force," said Dumbledore with a bit of impatience in his voice. "Friends banding together under a worthy cause—this is powerful. A man giving up his personal ambitions for the sake of family—this is powerful. A mother sacrificing her life to save her child—this, too, is powerful. The Magic reflecting this power will not necessarily grant a person greater raw strength, but can overcome the greatest of Dark Arts. This case, if nothing else, should've taught you this."
Sherlock turned every thoughtful after this statement.
An investigation into Bartemius Crouch, Sr. opened when Lestrade and his father-in-law discovered his body. He had been killed, transfigured into a bone, and then buried in the back garden. It was difficult to say when he died, as the transfiguration messed up the body's decomposition process, but the lack of any kind of detectable cause to his death made it clear how he was killed. There were no traces of his son or Winky in the abandoned estate.
"I let her go," said Harry brokenly when Lestrade told them the news.
John, who sat next Harry at the couch, tightened her hold around him. Sherlock watched the two of them whilst holding Benedict.
"There's no way you could've stopped her," said Sherlock quietly.
Harry said nothing. He just blinked his too-shiny eyes.
Silence laid heavily the room.
"We'll handle this," said John firmly. "We'll do this together. You're not alone."
Harry still didn't reply—for a very long time. But his breathing changed, and it didn't sound like a prelude to tears. John lightly nudged him.
"Babe?"
No response. At length, Sherlock and John peered into Harry's face.
Harry looked like he fell into a fretful sleep. His eyes were closed, but they were shifting rapidly under the eyelids. He was also sweeting and shivering all at once.
John and Sherlock watched this go on for another second. Then Sherlock fished around Harry's pockets, and found a paper charm that had Runes written all over it in his inner jacket pocket. Sherlock placed the charm on Harry's face. Silvery vapour flowed out of Harry's nose and eyes and seeped into the paper.
Once the paper turned completely silver, John took the charm from Sherlock and placed it on Harry's magical mobile phone…
-oo00oo-
Severus stayed in the castle while everyone else headed to the lake to watch the Second Task of the Triwizard tournament. He had no desire whatsoever to see it. It was not as if Potter was present for him to supervise. The brat was in London, having run away to his mummy and daddy like the frightened little boy he was.
Severus instinctively repressed the powerful sense of regret that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he thought about Watson and Holmes. He never got around to contacting Watson, and Watson never called back since Jeremy Benedict's birth. Just a random text message here and there, and even those stopped after Christmas.
But it was just as well he didn't contact Watson. Severus would soon have to resume his role as a spy, and any insinuation of friendship between him a Muggle—especially Harry Potter's guardians— from this point on would spell his death. It was better that they never reconciled, when the alternative was Severus breaking the truce again.
But if only…
About an hour after the Second Task started, Severus heard loud screams echoing from the lake's direction. Bagman's amplified voice shouted something hysterically. But before Severus could even wonder what was going on, he felt his left forearm burn as though someone had pressed a red-hot branding iron on it. Severus then knew without a shadow of doubt:
Lord Voldemort had risen again.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: So ends GOF (the case). Not as much action as Canon, but a lot of necessary growing up happened, I think. Stay tuned for OOTP. (…What am I getting myself into?)
LOTR quotes are inevitable in a chapter like this. Of course, as I hunted down the precise quote, my irreverent imagination conjured up a Halloween party in 221B where Dumbledore dresses up as Gandalf and Shin a Balrog, and the two enact the bridge scene in Moria… (BOC gets shot).
ETA: When Harry collected Winky's memory, she gave him all her memories of Barty Crouch, Jr. since Crouch, Sr. smuggled him out of prison.