As promised, I'm back! The story's fully written and I'll be publishing the remaining chapters at intervals. That said though everything here on out is pretty much a rough draft, so my apologies if you encounter typos, plot holes, etc. If I find time in the future I'll come back and polish it up.
Hope you all are doing well!
When I awoke the next morning on my armchair, I immediately assumed that my recollection of Hogwarts and wizards and magic was merely a strange but vivid dream. The illusion was dispelled when a half-finished Chocolate Frog slipped off my lap. Yet another Hermione Granger card bounced on the floor.
"Rise and shine, John. We have a couple hours before breakfast. We need to do some research."
Sherlock was wearing Saks Fifth Avenue suit with a sleek black tie and gold cufflinks.
"Since when do you wear a Saks suit?" I asked.
"Since yesterday evening. When we were pacing back and forth imagining 221B, I envisioned our flat as it was with a few additional assets. Search the bookshelf, you should find a few tomes to help us get oriented in this… ah… Wizarding World."
I stood up, knees popping. A lance of pain shot up my right thigh. Since the war, I had never felt like a young or vigorous man, but now my age was truly catching up to me. More aches and pains; injuries took longer to heal.
I hobbled over to the bookshelf. A few intriguing texts were mixed in with our book collection. Among them: Spells & Jinxes, Charms, & Curses: A Primer; Magical Drafts & Potions; and Hogwarts: A History.
I selected the last title, running a finger along its pristine leatherbound spine. I returned to my armchair and cracked it open, and soon found myself spellbound (no pun intended) by the rich history presented within the text. I raced through several chapters, the time flying. Sherlock eventually interrupted me.
"Time for breakfast," he said. "Today, our work begins."
Exiting 221B was an out of body experience. Instead of the gentle bustle of commerce on Baker Street we found the expansive tapestry of ballet-dancing trolls. Yes, we really are in a magic castle for wizards. I had to pinch myself just to make sure I wasn't dreaming.
Sherlock led the way to the Great Hall, which was just as well, for I would have been hopelessly lost. The castle was a colossal labyrinth, a warren of corridors and moving stairwells. Sherlock, however, moved with a deliberate purpose as if he already knew the whole layout by memory, and perhaps he did.
Entering the Great Hall, we were greeted by a sea of puzzled faces. Students (many donned in black robes and pointy hats) pointed and stared at us, most of them curious or amused. Some glared at us in open hostility. The scorn came primarily from the Slytherin table.
I, for one, was not too troubled by their contempt. I was too busy once again basking in the delightful splendor of Hogwarts' Great Hall. Delicate snowflakes cascaded lazily from the bewitched ceiling, vanishing before reaching the students and staff seated below.
Hermione, who was seated at the faculty table in the front of the room, invited us to join her. When we claimed the two vacant seats to her left, Hermione tapped her silver goblet with a fork to get everyone's attention, but it seemed to be entirely pointless. Everyone was already staring at us; a hushed silence had descended upon the room.
"Students, faculty — good morning! I know many of you are excited about today's game. Before we begin breakfast, I have an important announcement to make. As you know, Dexter Zabini, a seventh-year Slytherin Prefect, tragically died here at Hogwarts several days ago. We believe his death to be the result of murder."
Scandalous murmurs rippled through the room.
"To assist in the investigation, we are consulting with the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his longtime companion Doctor John Watson."
Hermione gestured to us, somewhat unnecessarily.
"As you may have noticed, they are Muggles."
More murmurs, this time yet more scandalous. One boy, an older Slytherin teen, stood up abruptly.
"Muggles don't belong in Hogwarts! Having Mudbloods here is bad enough as it is, but Muggles —"
"Silence!" Professor Malfoy shouted. "A hundred points from Slytherin. A thousand for the next interruption."
With expert aplomb, Hermione carried on as if there had been no interruption at all.
"In the course of his investigation, Sherlock may require your assistance. He may wish to interview you about your relationship with Dexter, or about events on the day of Dexter's death. I expect your full cooperation in this matter. They are to be accorded every courtesy during their stay at Hogwarts. Your Heads of House can respond to any questions or concerns you may have. Sherlock — is there anything you'd like to add?"
Sherlock stood, sweeping his gaze across the assembled students.
"This is not my first brush with the Wizarding World," he said. "But it is certainly my most extensive foray into your bizarre world. Already I have deduced that your community is dull, insular, and stagnant —"
"—Sherlock," I whispered, tugging the hem of his sleeve, "I think Hermione is asking if you have anything to add about the case."
"—and in my brief sojourn I have already identified a loophole in one of your most fundamental laws of magic. Now let me say this — I intend to question anyone remotely connected with this case, but do not await me. If you have knowledge about the crime come forth — any detail, however tangential it may seem to you, is pertinent to me. Do not assume that what you know is irrelevant; I shall be the judge of that. And if you lie to me, I will know."
He sat back down. Everyone stared at him in stunned silence. Even Hermione didn't know what to say, but she was spared from responding when, moments later, a torrent of owls came fluttering into the Great Hall. They swooped and soared before landing near students seated below. The Great Hall resumed its normal chatter.
"Messenger owls," Hermione explained to me, gesturing above. "It's how wizards communicate."
"Antiquated, inefficient, unreliable," Sherlock muttered.
"I don't disagree," Hermione said, as an owl dropped a newspaper (The Daily Prophet) by her. It crash landed onto her bowl of porridge, and she used her want to quickly clean the mess. "But there are… oh wait, oh dear."
Hermione was examining the headlines, her brow furrowed in consternation. Many of the students also seemed to be alarmed by what they were reading. I bent to take a peak and saw the top story:
Attack on Prime Minister!
Weasley 's Condition 'Critical but Stable' says St Mungo's
Hermione handed me the Prophet when she was finished reading it. Last night there had been an assassination attempt on Percy Weasley, the Prime Minister of Magic. A man cloaked in black had forced entry into his London home and tried killing him in his sleep. After a short scuffle the assailant had fled and presently remained at large.
It was somewhat surreal to think that while Sherlock and I were in our alternate 221B, reading Percy Weasley's Chocolate Frog card, someone was out there attempting to murder him. Perhaps this was the reason why Mycroft had had to leave in such a rush.
"Sad news," I said. "But I'm glad he's okay. You know him?"
"My brother-in-law. Well, ex-brother-in-law. Strange happenings lately. You can keep the paper. I should go get ready for the game."
"What game?"
"Quidditch," she said. "A popular wizard sport. It's sort of like football, I suppose, but entirely different. The two of you should join me. We can watch together."
"We have work to do," Sherlock said.
"Everyone will be at the game. Take a couple hours off. Learn about our people and our world."
"I'd rather learn more about the crime scene," Sherlock said. "Where is Professor Dawlish? I thought he'd be here for breakfast."
"Hmm… probably in the Greenhouse. Or maybe meeting with his Quidditch team. He's head of House Hufflepuff, who's playing in today's match."
Sherlock sighed. "What about Dexter's social circle," said Sherlock. "Who can we talk to?"
"I… err… well frankly I don't know much about his social life. But maybe you can start with Fiona Clearwater. She was his counterpart Prefect in Slytherin."
"Very well. Let's start there. Introduce us."
After completing a short but filling breakfast (scrambled eggs and jellied toast), Hermione led us to the Slytherin table to meet Fiona.
She was a heavyset girl with large green eyes and milky-white skin. Her hair was tied back in a massive beehive bun. She was sitting by herself, and as we approached she was busy gathering her books and belongings. She offered a soft smile when she noticed Professor Granger.
"Hi Fiona," Hermione said. "I'm not sure if you heard my introduction, but—"
"I did, yes. Did you receive my treatise on snargleworts?"
"Snargleworts?" I asked. The Wizarding world was getting stranger with each passing minute.
"Sinister fey creatures who reside in Albania," Fiona replied. "They're diligently plotting the downfall of mankind, and they're only visible in the infrared spectrum."
"Yes," said Hermione, a bit uncertainly. "It was, erm, enlightening…"
"I'm planning to submit it to the Quibbler. I was wondering if you could write me a cover letter, since you know the editor so well."
"Yes, well… Ms. Lovegood recently penned an article saying that I'm a secret shapeshifter. We haven't actually spoken in years."
"But surely—"
Hermione cut her off. "Sherlock would like to interview you today."
"About Snargleworts?"
"About Dexter," Sherlock said. "The two of you were the 7th Year Slytherin Prefects, I understand."
"Right," she said. "Okay. I need to go now. I need to finish up some homework and get ready for the game. How about we meet later?"
We arranged to meet after the Quidditch match, and then Sherlock and I departed Hogwarts castle hoping to catch Professor Dawlish in the Greenhouse.
