For 20 years I have chronicled the deductive feats of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, and in each tale I have endeavored to provide a faithful and accurate account of the case and its resolution. Seldom have I omitted a detail, but there is one case I have not divulged, dear reader, for I am bound to secrecy by an ethereal sorcery — an Unbreakable Vow. I commit these words to paper not for publication nor for posterity, but for my very own sanity. I feel I must record my memories lest they fragment and fade to mist. What follows is my honest recollection of events one strange December in Great Britain.
The tale began, as it so often did, at 221B Baker Street.
It was a chill late-autumn morning in London. Fat raindrops pattered the windows, and stout winds rummaged the trees. The sort of day that presages a bitter winter to come.
The week prior had been a trying one for Sherlock Holmes. To his supreme annoyance, there had been very few murders in London recently, and Lestrade had had no need of Sherlock's intellect. It was as if London's sordid underworld had taken an early holiday.
That afternoon found us in the living room seated before the fireplace. I was reading Dickens' A Christmas Carol, bundled in blankets to ward away the cold. Sherlock was bent over a moleskine notebook diligently computing logarithmic tables, a seemingly pointless enterprise that nevertheless captivated him. I was just getting ready to set a kettle of tea when Sherlock's phone rang.
He ignored it.
Again it rang, and again he ignored it. I knew better than to ask why. My friend has long had a prickly disposition, and he could be downright savage when someone interrupted his reverie.
A few moments later I received a text from Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother who worked for the Prime Minister.
A case is forthcoming. It is a matter of national importance — and it is imperative that Sherlock accepts.
"Mycroft says —"
"—there's a case forthcoming."
"He says it's a matter of—"
"National importance. Always is, and it never fails to bore me. Anyway, I'm busy."
"Busy? You're solving math problems. Yesterday you were inspecting Chilean rocks."
"Minerals, John. It was a matter of personal importance."
A knock came at the door. Three sharp raps.
"That must be Lestrade," I said. "I'll get it."
"Three knocks? Don't be daft, John. Lestrade's knock has a different cadence." He motioned to me, inviting me to answer the door. "Indulge your curiosity. Discover what new threat bedevils Queen and country."
I obliged him. Answering the door, I found a handsome woman of about forty years with bushy brown hair and brown eyes. Behind her, torrents of rain gushed from leaden gray skies. What first struck me was that this woman had no umbrella and yet there wasn't a drop of rain on her.
"Hello," she said, "you must be John Watson."
"I, err, yes. And you are?"
"Hermione Granger. I'm here to consult with Sherlock Holmes on a case."
"You're welcome to try. I don't know how accommodating he'll be…"
I led her upstairs to our flat, expecting Sherlock to promptly dismiss her. Instead, he took one look at her and leapt to his feet, knocking over his moleskine notebook.
"I'll take the case!"
"I thought — a minute ago you said otherwise. Said you were too busy." I was dumbfounded by my friend's sudden change of mood. Ms. Granger had not even made an introduction, let alone describe her case.
"Not too busy for this. Oh John, we've been tugging at the threads of this one for ages."
"…We have?"
"The Case of the Vanishing Girl. The Case of the Buckingham Disappearance. The Case of Collective Amnesia."
The three cases were alike and peculiar. In each, a brazen crime had been committed in broad daylight, and yet CCTV camera footage from the time was scrambled, and all potential eyewitnesses claimed they could not recall what had happened.
"What about them? All of them were unsolved."
"Unsolved," he said coolly, "but not insoluble."
Hermione gave a puzzled expression. "I follow your blog religiously, but I don't recall reading about those cases."
"That's because they were never published," I said. "Sherlock doesn't like me publishing the unsolved ones… Look, I admit it's improbable that all of the eyewitnesses could not recall what happened —"
"Not improbable. Impossible."
"But what else explains it?"
"Each has a rather fantastical solution. I believe Ms. …?"
"Hermione Granger."
"I believe Ms. Granger can supply a satisfactory explanation."
Indeed, Hermione had a rather knowing look. She didn't seem at all surprised about what we were saying. Still, I wanted to know Sherlock's reasoning.
"What makes you think that?" I said.
"Simple deduction. She wears a Balenciaga perfume — Jasmine Eau de Parfum — and her handbag is Chanel Black Quilted Caviar. She's wealthy and fashion-conscious, but her fashion is drabby and uninspired. A Keep Calm and Carry On t-shirt with that bag? Incongruous. 4.5 years out of date. Her technology is eight years out of date. An iPhone 2 is poking out of her bag, it's screen miraculously intact. It's an antique — a lightly used one. A prop one might say. Someone is trying very hard to blend in."
Hermione looked down at her t-shirt, apparently put off by Sherlock's suggestion that her fashion was drabby.
"Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Holmes," she said.
"I certainly hope so."
For a moment, there was a palpable tension between them — both fire and ice. It was, I daresay, a tension not dissimilar than that which existed between Sherlock and the woman, aka Irene Adler.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock said.
"Scotland."
"Scotland? How long will we be away?" I asked.
"A few days, I suspect," Hermione said. "Assuming Sherlock lives up to his reputation."
"We should pack some things. A change of clothes, toiletries…"
"We have no time for such trivialities, John. A case of national importance beckons."
"Trivialities? Gingivitis is the number one leading cause of gum disease—"
"Come on Watson! The game is afoot!"
Outside, a sleek black SUV waited by the curb. We climbed inside, and my first impression was that the interior was impossibly large and roomy. The seats had been arranged so that the middle row faced the back row.
Before we even had a chance to buckle up, the driver floored the accelerator, careening into the mayhem of London afternoon traffic. It felt like we were going in excess of 80 mph, but I could not say for certain. The windows were so heavily tinted as to be opaque.
Sherlock was not concerned in the slightest. His hands were steepled under his chin, his gaze fixed on Hermione.
"The Case of the Buckingham Disappearance. A boy drops dead in front of Buckingham Palace. He was in perfect health and there were no signs of injury. Even the coroner could not identify a cause of death. Hundreds of potential eyewitnesses — including his own parents — observed his demise, and yet all claim to have no recollection of events. CCTV camera footage from the time is mysteriously unavailable. This has to be the work of one of your people."
Hermione winced. "I… yes, I remember the case. It was many years ago. A Death Eater was responsible."
A Death Eater?
"I don't care who did it. I want to know how. How were the witnesses handled, the camera footage destroyed?"
"A memory charm," she said. "To wipe the memories of any Muggle witnesses, including the parents."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Muggles?"
"Non-magical folk."
I looked from Hermione to Sherlock and back. I was certain this was some elaborate ploy, some comical ruse. Or perhaps I was dreaming. I pinched myself just to be sure — no, I was definitely not dreaming.
"What do you mean, non-magical folk? Are you implying that there people who are magical? Like dark sorcerers and witches and warlocks? Like Gandalf?"
I made a hollow laugh, expecting Sherlock to bat away such an absurd notion. But Sherlock said nothing, his expression inscrutable. Hermione reached into her pocket and withdrew a long, thin stick.
A wand.
"No," I said, "come now, this is ridiculous."
"Watson," Sherlock said, "there exists within London — within the world — a society entirely a part of and wholly separate from our own. Have you noticed anything unusual about this car ride?"
"Well, I don't know. My ears have been popping, but that's—"
"Hermione, if you will…"
Hermione flicked her wand and said, "Claritas!"
A bolt of citrine light erupted from the end of Hermione's wand, and suddenly the tinted window nearest me suddenly became crystal clear. I looked out, and scarcely believed my eyes. The car was flying. We had already ascended about ten thousand feet; below, I could make out London's northern suburbs. The cars were like ants.
"H-h-how?" I said.
"Magic," Sherlock said, quite unhelpfully. "As ever Watson, you see but you do not observe. Since entering the vehicle, not once has it braked or decelerated, and changes in cabin pressure unveil our change in altitude."
"You kn-knew about th-this? About magic?" I was so frazzled I could barely find purchase on the words. I kept glancing out the window, as if at some point the scene would change, and I would find incontrovertible evidence that this was all an elaborate prank.
"I've known for many years," Sherlock said quietly.
"One of your many clever deductions, I reckon."
Sherlock said nothing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" It felt like a betrayal.
"I swore a vow. An Unbreakable Vow."
"And now," Hermione said to me, "you must take the same Unbreakable Vow, John."
"Or else what?"
"Or else you will have to return to London, and have your memory erased. By custom, the Wizarding world keeps its existence a secret from Muggles. I'm afraid you won't be able to post on your blog about this particular case."
"What happens if I break an Unbreakable Vow?"
"Agonizing pain. Death." By her tone, I could tell she was being absolutely serious.
And so, there and then, I complied, taking the vow which binds me to this day. It only took about ten seconds. It didn't hurt (I didn't feel a thing, in fact), but I felt as though a great weight had settled on me.
"This bores me," Sherlock said petulantly. "Why are we here? Tell me about the case."
"Very well. My name is Hermione Granger, and I am Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…"
Clasping her hands, she leaned forward and told us about the case.
