"There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight."
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
…
The Hallows
…
Sherlock had never initiated a kiss in his life. He had been kissed before, but none of those were Sherlock's kisses. He had to tolerate it a few times, mostly for cases. He would say that kissing was actually kind of unpleasant, an invasion of his personal space. He would say that, but it was clearly wrong. Obviously, he had just never kissed the right person.
All of his senses buzzed, but his mind was blank at the same time. A most wonderful paradox. He noted the exact texture of skin he was touching, but could make no deductions about it. He noticed an inexplicable sensation in his throat, like his heart was trying to jump out of his mouth and waltz away. Sherlock decided it resembled fear, but didn't have the rough, cutting edge of anxiety. Like he was hanging off a cliff by a finger grip, but if he were to let go, he would fly, instead of falling. A perfect rush.
Harry had not moved. He was like a living statue beneath Sherlock's lips. Sherlock wondered what the wizard was thinking during this second of absolute bliss. The detective's stomach sank when he thought about the wizard's reaction. What if the kiss was not a good one? He was, after all, a novice when it came to physical affection.
Despite not wanting to break the spell, Sherlock decided to step back so he could re-examine the situation.
Harry was looking at him with a properly confused expression; one that was appropriate to someone who was hit over the head with a flying flower pot.
Had he misread the other man's words?
I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you.
That's what Harry had said, and now that Sherlock thoroughly thought about it, Harry was certainly not inviting a kiss. The wizard probably felt like that about Granger, and maybe even Mrs. Hudson.
Oh, oh no. What had he just done? Why had he done it?
He's not angry, at least, Sherlock comforted himself, even though he knew perfectly well that the wizard could not be, in any circumstance.
Harry lightly touched his bottom lip with his fingertips, as though inspecting the evidence left by Sherlock's actions. Sherlock, who usually was adept at matching facial expressions to the thoughts inside, had no idea what Harry was thinking. To Sherlock, the wizard still looked simply befuddled.
As the full magnitude and the possible consequences of his action dawned on him, the floor dropped from under Sherlock. It was the wrong move, and now he will leave, forever.
The silence echoed for a full three seconds, before Sherlock decided to repair the situation in any way he could.
"I must apologize. I'm not sure I knew what I was thinking, or rather why I thought it, and indeed, I don't believe you were inviting this action, so I do not understand why I acted, though of course, I take full responsibility, it's just that I'm not sure I meant to…" Sherlock began speaking, but judging by Harry's expression, realised his words probably didn't make much sense. He took a breath and started over.
"The thing that I want to say is that I feel very... or, rather, I find myself, very partial to you, though of course, if you don't return the sentiment I would absolutely understand, and …" Sherlock stopped, thinking that he still wasn't talking very clearly.
Harry tried to raise a hand, and opened his mouth, wanting to interrupt Sherlock. But Sherlock needed to let the wizard know that he would not repeat the action if it was unwelcome.
"I hope you can accept my apologies. I will refrain, in the future, from-" Sherlock didn't get very far. Harry suddenly got very close, and for a moment, Sherlock was disturbed by the notion that Harry might have chosen to physically assault him, so he braced himself for the impact. Instead, Harry closed the space between them, and Sherlock felt his lips being pressed against Harry's again.
Oh, he's kissing me back. That's good, isn't it? Sherlock's mind had time for just that thought, before everything faded away from him. It was comparable to getting high for the first time. His brain must have been going crazy, releasing oxytocin left and right. Except, there would be no unpleasant withdrawal or come-down, this time.
Coming out of the initial shock, he felt Harry stir beneath him. Harry began to move and Sherlock could only respond to him. With a hitched breath, he felt the wizard's other hand on his waist, fluttering and hesitant, resting lightly on his hip. Too lightly, Sherlock thought.
Sherlock, by his nature more demanding, grasped the man's waist in a tight grip, his fingertips digging into the wizard's flesh. A possessive surge flared through him. You're mine, all mine, and I'll not let you leave.
The wizard responded to Sherlock's grip with a muffled gasp. His lips then started to move, only slightly, against Sherlock's. Sherlock was lost again. His heart was hammering against his ribcage, and he could clearly feel another rhythm, off from his own, emanating from the wizard's chest. Pulse, elevated. Good sign.
Harry leaned into him, and for a second, Sherlock felt the wizard all along his frame, from his thigh to his shoulder. Harry lingered in the moment, but then, he broke the contact by stepping back.
The wizard's expression was as confused as before, except now he had a very becoming blush creeping down his face, down his neck, and past his collar. Sherlock thought it might be very nice to follow it, and see on which area of his body it would terminate.
"I, er- I'm sorry, it's just that, it's been a while, and I didn't expect it to- well, I thought I couldn't do this anymore, but now, I'm not sure-"
Apparently, now that Sherlock was done sputtering nonsense, it was Harry's turn.
No doubt, Harry caught on to the fact that he was talking incoherently, so he stopped, and let out a nervous laugh.
"Um, so." He said, but did not follow with anything.
"So," Sherlock echoed. He felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, like he was twelve, and had just got off an insane carnival ride.
"Let's sit down," Sherlock suggested.
Harry merely nodded. They both gingerly took a seat on Sherlock's brown, leather couch. Not close enough, Sherlock thought with a frown, when he examined the space between him and the wizard.
"Tea?" Harry asked.
"Good idea." Sherlock answered. It seemed both Sherlock and the wizard were lost for words.
Harry lifted his wand, and Sherlock heard the kettle start from the kitchen. He suddenly remembered that the first magic he had ever seen was a floating tea set. How long ago that seemed.
As the seconds ticked by in silence, Sherlock found that he was not sure what to do next. He had no experience in this area, and had no idea how to approach the next step in their courtship.
They were sitting side by side, and both staring straight ahead. It was, in a way, a strange form of a staring contest; instead the loser would probably be the first person to look at the other contestant.
"You said something just now, about how you 'couldn't do this.' Care to elaborate?" Sherlock spoke up.
Harry looked uncomfortable.
"You know how I can't get angry?" He asked Sherlock quietly.
"Yes."
"It's like that." Harry answered simply. Sherlock thought he saw the connection. It wasn't just aggression and anger that was missing from the wizard's psyche. Not good, he thought.
"So, you're not interested?" Sherlock asked quickly.
"Well, no, it's just that I haven't been…" Harry said, timidly.
"So you aren't." Sherlock need clarification on this. His heart was pounding in his chest, but unlike earlier, it now felt very uncomfortable.
"I-"
"Why did you let me kiss you, then?" Sherlock asked. He knew it was a stupid question, since he didn't give the wizard much choice. He kissed you back, too, a part of his mind whispered, did you forget about that already?
"You didn't let me finish." Harry answered, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.
"In your own time then," Sherlock conceded, though he had to add, "but quite quickly."
"I didn't think I was capable of being 'interested.' I hadn't been in a long time. And back then, well, it was women, so this is erm- this is new territory for me." Harry said.
"So not only are you not 'interested,' you are also heterosexual?"
"Sherlock…"
"Fine, fine. Go ahead." Sherlock said, and resigned himself to listening.
"I… it's difficult to put into words." Harry said, frowning.
"If you're trying to be delicate, there is no need." Sherlock added.
"I suppose I could say that you kissing me changed my perspective on whether I was interested, and in whom. Also, living here, around you. I don't know when exactly, but I started to notice you..." Harry trailed off. Sherlock's thoughts brightened. A soul could heal, after all. If Harry had not been able to experience attraction because of his previous illness, he could overcome it.
"But before…?" Sherlock wanted to ascertain that he understood Harry.
"You want me to be honest, right? I hadn't even considered it. I just haven't thought of anything like this in a long time. I thought I might not be capable of it anymore. Not necessarily a bad thing, mind, if you're living in exile." Harry turned, and looked at Sherlock, "And you, you told me that you were resolutely asexual."
"I never said this…" Sherlock never put it in those exact terms to Harry, but he had admitted to never pursuing anything sexual.
"You implied it." Harry countered, "Something about not wanting to waste time? How your work was all you lived for?"
Sherlock huffed. "Maybe I've changed my perspective as well."
With that both men became quiet again.
The kettle whistled from the kitchen. Instead of getting up, Harry flicked his wand in the direction of the kitchenette. Sherlock heard the sounds of the tea making itself, and, even though he had been around magic for nearly two months, he found himself impressed.
Magic really was wonderful.
"What about Hermione?" Sherlock asked. The thought of the witch popped into his head. He was, to be truthful, slightly jealous of her, and the familiar way she could afford to interact with his wizard.
"What about Hermione?" Harry echoed his question.
"Wouldn't she be the likely suspect if you decided to pursue someone?" Sherlock voiced his doubts.
Harry pursed his lips.
"There's nothing between us. She's like a sister. Always has been." He answered. Sherlock detected that this might be a sore subject. But, he could also tell that Harry was being truthful.
"Have you ever been interested in men before?" Sherlock asked.
"Not really," Harry shrugged.
"It might have just been a fluke, a faulty experiment, then." Sherlock said, to himself and the wizard. Sherlock had never been attracted to anyone, and Harry was recovering from soul damage. So it was not an unlikely conclusion to reach. Two lonely men sharing one flat; was it so surprising that the proverbial sparks would fly despite a lack of kindling?
To his surprise, Harry smiled.
"Well, we could give it another go, and see if we can reproduce the result," the wizard told him, with a crooked smile. Sherlock tried to ignore how his body reacted to Harry's words. It was uncharacteristically bold of the wizard to say so. Harry must have thought it too bold, since his smile faltered as he blushed deeply.
"That would be the scientifically correct way of going about it," Sherlock agreed, before Harry could retract his comment. "Gather more data, so that we can reach the correct findings." He was proud of the wizard for thinking in such logical terms. But how to proceed?
Sherlock reached out tentatively, and place his palm over Harry's hand. Unlike the kiss, which was mostly improvised, Sherlock had been aching to do this. The wizard wound their fingers together, and squeezed back gently. Sherlock thought then that it was a very nice feeling to have something live and warm in his hands. He never thought of it before, but he supposed that he had held the hands of far more corpses as a result of his work, than live, human beings.
He swallowed back his doubts. Harry was right. If there was anything to this attraction between them, they would need to experiment further. He moved himself on the couch, closer to Harry. The wizard let go of his hand, but before Sherlock could protest, that hand was around his shoulders, which was also nice.
Sherlock noticed slight tremors in the wizard's arm, and noted that Harry's other hand was clutching his knee in a white-knuckled grip.
Sherlock raised one eyebrow, examining the wizard's face.
"Alright?" He murmured.
"Sorry, just nervous." Harry answered.
"Want me to back off?" Sherlock asked, with little enthusiasm at the prospect.
Harry set his jaw, and shook his head . Sherlock reflected then, that courage was a fantastic quality to have in an assistant, or a flatmate, or- whatever he and Harry were.
The tip of Harry's tongue darted out and licked his bottom lip. That had sealed it for Sherlock. Pulling Harry closer, he extinguished the space between them. He pressed himself against the wizard's body, and their lips were touching again. Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what he was doing, but he did know that he wanted to be closer, deeper in the warmth that emanated from Harry.
Harry, on other hand, was a touch more knowledgeable. He parted his lips, and Sherlock felt the moist warmth of tongue on his bottom lip. Instinctively, he opened his own mouth, and tried to mimic the gesture.
Perhaps it was a result of the increased heart rate, but Sherlock suddenly felt like he could not get enough air. He had to disconnect his mouth from the wizard's in order to breathe, but did not want to end their 'experiment.' He pressed his cheek to the wizard's and lightly brushed his lips to the crook of Harry's jaw, where once, under the invisibility cloak, he had noticed a birthmark.
Was that good? Did people do that: kiss each other on parts of the face outside of the mouth? Sherlock was trying to remember what it looked like when normal people kissed, but his mind was drawing a blank, a condition which he was quickly associating with being in intimate proximity with Harry.
He tried again, drawing back slightly and pressing his lips against the wizard's cheek. Drawing back even further, he studied Harry's reaction. The wizard's pupils were enlarged, which was a positive sign.
"Results seem to reaffirm my initial hypothesis." Sherlock said. "However, we do not have enough data, yet. More investigation is needed."
Harry chuckled lightly. "You want me to fetch a clipboard?"
"Don't be ridiculous, I will be able to remember the outcome of each trial without the aide of a clipboard." Such as they were, the outcomes were going to be branded into Sherlock's memory forever.
"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, "We forgot the tea…" Harry said, glancing towards the kitchen.
"Bugger the tea-" Sherlock growled, and pulled Harry in again. The wizard made no move to resist. He was, consistent with his personality, very passive.
Sherlock was hungry for every inch of contact. They were sitting, which made it difficult to be completely enveloped in the wizard's warmth. Their knees were in the way, and Sherlock could only get so close. It would hypothetically be easier if they were standing. It might be even better had they been lying down. Deciding to follow that track of thought later, Sherlock was in the moment again.
He parted his lips, darting out his tongue cautiously, taking cues from Harry on what was appropriate. His hands wound around the wizard's waist, and held him securely in place. Before long, Sherlock thought he was really getting a hang of this whole 'kissing' business, since he was a rather quick learner. He tried to nip and pull at the wizard's bottom lip with some success. Harry, he noticed, was now the one having a hard time drawing in enough oxygen. Sherlock had not predicted that inducing this reaction in his wizard would be the best part of their investigation.
The wizard pulled back just a touch to catch his breath. In the pause, the thoughts that had been bubbling in Sherlock's mind throughout the evening floated to the surface. The strangled words left his mouth before he could stop them.
"Stay with me," he panted, "please. Don't leave." Sherlock was immediately mortified by his own words. But Harry looked into his eyes, and nodded.
"Yeah, I will." He whispered, back.
…
Sherlock woke up with the late morning sunlight across his white sheets. He took in a deep breath of air, and relaxed as thoughts of the previous night flooded him. Without beckoning, his mouth stretched into a slow, lazy grin.
How easy that was, once I let go, he thought.
Sherlock felt like he was discovering the existence of magic all over again. A secret world, that had heretofore been hidden to him, was revealed, and it was magnificent. Except, it was his own vanity and preconceived notions that had hidden this world away from him.
He chastised his past self. He ought to have been more curious. How many crimes had he encountered that were a result of love gone wrong? How many times had his own hide been saved because of people's love for him? Sherlock knew how powerful love could be. Destructive, certainly, but too good to pass up when it strolled in so beautifully and perfectly into his own life.
Laying in his bed, and stretching like a cat, Sherlock began to wonder why he had never tried to escalate a friendship into romantic intimacy before. Perhaps, before Reichenbach, John might have been a candidate. It was in the past now; John was married, and Sherlock had discovered Harry, so there was little use dwelling on it. But the thought of all those wasted years did irritate Sherlock.
Thinking on the past, Sherlock suddenly became very anxious. He tried to see the reason why, as memory after memory flitted behind his closed eyes. The anxiety only grew worse, and he felt for a second as though he were back in his labyrinth, wading through the darkness, afraid that he would never resurface.
He growled in his throat. What good was it to think on the past anyway? He was in the here and now, and the wizard had promised to stay at Baker Street. They had only kissed so far, and Sherlock knew there was more to it than that. More avenues to explore, more to learn.
Provided the wizard actually kept his promise, and didn't abscond in the middle of the night. Sherlock jumped from his bed in alarm. He didn't think Harry would have lied to him, but…
He ran out to his living room and into the kitchen, clutching to the walls as he made the corners.
Harry was calmly sitting at the wooden table, and drinking something from a steaming mug. Sherlock smelled the air. Coffee.
Harry raised his eyebrows when he saw Sherlock's half naked state.
"Nice," half of the wizard's mouth pulled into a grin, "Want some?" He pointed to the mug.
"Not just now. Excuse me." Sherlock replied, and, trying to reclaim his dignity, returned to his room to properly dress.
Not the most brilliant start to the day, he thought as he pulled on his socks, but it could have been worse.
When he came back out, he plopped himself next to the wizard with a steaming cup of his own.
"I'm glad to see you've stayed," Sherlock said.
"I said I would." Harry looked down, a trace of a frown on his lips. Sherlock had the impression Harry wanted to argue about it, so he decided to beat him to it.
"We're both perfectly safe here. If I didn't think so, we would leave. I have the resources to move us elsewhere." Sherlock stared into his coffee. This was not strictly true, but he thought he could manage Mycroft well enough to make it very nearly true. The British Government could be relied upon to be useful every now and again. Especially if he were convinced that his little brother was in trouble.
"Alright," Harry said, and left it at that.
The two men took turns sipping their coffee.
Sherlock wanted to bring up the previous evening, but was finding it difficult to start. Now, in the morning light, it could have all been a dream. A fantastic dream for which he would drug himself into an endless sleep, but a dream nonetheless. Sherlock had almost convinced himself it was nothing but delusion, when Harry gently placed his palm on Sherlock's shoulder.
The wizard, ever unsure of his actions, retracted it, and spoke instead.
"Have you, er- thought about last night any?" He asked.
"Certainly. Have you?"
Harry nodded. "What do you make of it?"
Sherlock blinked. He turned on the stool to fully face the wizard.
"May I be honest with you?" Sherlock asked. Getting a small nod from the wizard, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. An unusual predicament for him.
He tried again, opening his mouth and shutting it. What did he think? He could hardly say it to the wizard, who was looking at him with earnest, green eyes, a polite but expectant expression on his face. I think I'm falling in love with you, would have been just a touch forward.
"I don't really know what to think. I am an expert in many subjects, but not this." Sherlock finally admitted.
A corner of Harry's mouth twitched upwards. "I don't think anyone's an expert."
"There are many second-rate authors who would beg to differ. But you're right. No one properly knows what they're doing." Sherlock said. "I'm not prone to chasing desires, but I could not have prevented my actions last night for long. I've thought of it, of you, for months." It's been driving me mad, Sherlock added, silently. He reached out one long finger and let it trace the contour of the wizard's arm, his touch feather-light. How many times had his addled brain urged him to do this? To, then, grip the wizard's wrist and drive him closer to Sherlock, leaning his weight against the other man's bones?
He was resisting it, still; Sherlock knew not to let himself go completely. He let his hand rest lightly on the other man's, which was enough for Harry anyway. The wizard pushed his shoulder against Sherlock. Sherlock reached out with his unoccupied hand and tilted the wizard's face towards his own.
Toothpaste and coffee had never tasted so good.
…
All the lights in the Baker street flat had gone out at once. Sherlock's eyes barely had time to start adjusting to the darkness before there was another metallic click. Like turning on a light switch, the lamps, the fireplaces, even the digital clock on the microwave, came back to life. The quiet evening gloom was held at bay once more.
Hermione held a silver instrument that resembled an antique cigarette lighter.
"The deluminator," she said, handing it to Harry, "I found it in Ron's desk." She explained that she had been searching for anything Ron might have left behind, as Sherlock instructed.
Harry gingerly took the instrument from the witch. He held with a quiet reverence, examining it top to bottom.
"What do you think it means?" Harry asked her.
Hermione huffed. "I haven't a clue. All I know is that it's a strange place for Ron to leave it. I can't imagine it's useful to his work."
"Why is that? Where did it come from?" Sherlock decided to chime in. He knew he was missing something important.
Hermione looked at Harry first, before she began speaking.
"Professor Dumbledore, upon his death, left us some artifacts." She spoke timidly, like she was frightened of waking Dumbledore's memory. "Ron received this deluminator. Harry got the first snitch he'd ever caught. And I got a book. There was also a sword, but the ministry wouldn't release it, since it was never Dumbledore's property to begin with."
"And these items were some kind of magical artifacts, designed to help you fight Voldemort?" Sherlock made his next deduction.
He saw Hermione grimace, and Harry's lips pull into a quick, amused smile. That's a no.
"Not exactly," Hermione echoed his thoughts a second later. "We never quite figured out the point of the book… The deluminator I think, must have had some purpose. But we could never get it to work. Besides putting out the lights, I suppose." Sherlock could hear her disappointment echoed over decades. Someone like Hermione, who loved clever things as he did, would have been driven mad by an unsolved puzzle.
Sherlock took the deluminator out of Harry's hands and began examining it for himself.
"Harry? Did you ever figure out how to open the snitch?" Hermione asked.
Harry frowned. "I don't think it opens. Honestly, maybe these were meant to be just momentos, not weapons or artifacts, or whatever." The words came out hurried, and unsure. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He would bet his favorite coat that Harry just lied.
Hermione's shoulders sagged. "Well, what about this symbol in the book?" She pulled out a tattered, leather volume. A quick glance at the cover told Sherlock that the book was old, possibly ancient. She flipped open the text, and finding a specific page, held it open for Harry. "Do you know what it means?"
Harry made a show of examining it. Sherlock himself peered over the wizard's shoulder. The symbol was a circle, inscribed inside a triangle, with a line symmetrically bisecting both. It was scratched in ink over the beginning of a chapter, but Sherlock could not read the archaic text to find out what the chapter was called.
"Hmmm, really not sure. I don't think I've ever encountered it anywhere else." Harry said, and again, Sherlock was sure that he was lying. The wizard caught his eye, and seeing Sherlock's suspicious glare, looked down blushing.
Hermione took the book back, and carefully closed it.
"What are the contents of the book? Is there any reason why that symbol was inscribed over that particular page?" Sherlock asked Granger.
"It's a collection of children's stories. The symbol is at the beginning of one called 'The Tale of the Three Brothers.' Ron and I traced the symbol. We had to talk to Mr. Lovegood about it. He gave us some crackpot theory about objects called 'the deathly hallows,' but I highly doubt that's what Dumbledore was trying to get at." Hermione explained. Sherlock, who was looking at Harry, noticed a telltale flinch when the words 'deathly hallows' came out of Granger's mouth. If Harry knew anything, and he did, there was more to this 'crackpot theory.'
"Do you know this story?" Sherlock asked her.
"Yes, shall I read it?" Hermione held up the book, and Sherlock nodded. She opened the book, and after flipping through pages a few times, began to read.
"There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…"
The bluish gloom outside of Baker street's windows gave way to nighttime as Hermione finished the tale.
"...Greeting Death as an old friend, they departed this life as equals." She finished.
"The deathly hallows, are those the objects mentioned in the story?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, but they're not real! It's just a children's story." Hermione bit out.
"A couple of months ago I would have said the same thing about witches and wizards, yet here you two stand." Sherlock pointed out.
Hermione huffed, putting the book away, and muttered something like "...it's not at all the same thing."
Sherlock looked at Harry, who had been silent the entire time. His wizard had a cloak of invisibility, which was one of death's gifts from the story. Sherlock wondered how common such a possession was among wizards.
It was an interesting children's story indeed. The age old desire to live forever had haunted people since the beginning of time. Sherlock was unwillingly reminded of Moriarty, grinning from a digital billboard, back from the dead despite the very real bullet he had put in his own brain.
He was always so disgustingly familiar with Sherlock. Even the first time they met, at the pool, he acted as though they had been the closest of friends. He sometimes spoke so intimately with Sherlock, if someone had listened to their conversations, they would have figured them for old lovers. A dark, ball of dread started to rise from the pit of Sherlock's stomach. The lights in his flat seemed to get dimmer, and he could almost picture the stone walls of his labyrinth closing in around him.
Sherlock snapped out of his memories. He would deal with Moriarty when the time came. Right now, he had to focus.
"What about the deluminator then? You said you could never get it to work?" Sherlock asked, still holding the slim, silver instrument.
"We thought it might function as a honing device. There were a few times…" Hermione stopped speaking, as a look of realization came over her face.
"Yes?" Sherlock prodded.
"We did get it to work, we just never realized it." She said quietly, looking at the silver lighter. "We heard your voice, Harry, and when we clicked it this white light came out, and it sort of us told us where to go. Ron and I, we apparated to the outskirts of Hogwarts, but we thought that it must have been wrong. There's no way you would be there, when it was occupied by Snape but…"
"But he was there." Sherlock finished for her. "So this puts us back to square one. After speaking with Snape, Weasley must have realized that it works after all, and tried to use it to find Harry. Obviously, we don't need it, since Harry is here with us. Did you find anything else?"
"No, nothing else." Hermione said.
"I suppose Weasley had no way to know he would get poisoned. It was always a possibility that he would leave nothing of importance." Sherlock said.
"We could always talk to Snape." Harry said.
Hermione grimaced.
"Erm, there's something I should mention," she said, timidly, "I don't have the paper with me, but there was a short snippet about Azkaban that ran early this morning." She said, with a guilty look on her face.
"What happened?"
"There was a… break in attempt." She said.
"Break-in? Who would want to get into that place?" Harry said, an incredulous expression on his face.
"This is where it gets weird." Hermione gingerly sat down on one of the armchairs. "They caught Head Auror Toadle, trying to get in, but you need to have filed for a temporary clearance to even approach the island. So, when he was denied entry, he left in a hurry. An inquiry was filed later, and when they asked why he had attempted to get into Azkaban, Toadle denied ever going."
"This was all in the newspapers?" Sherlock asked, surprised.
"No, all the Prophet had to say was that added security has been installed in Azkaban. I had to cajole and trick my way through the auror department to get the full story. Unfortunately, I still have no idea what this extra measure is." She shrugged.
"Do you think it was someone using polyjuice?" Harry asked, but her Hermione shook her head.
"Ever since the war ended there's been anti-polyjuice measures around the island. I suppose they didn't want another Barty Crouch situation. From what
I understand, they're extremely effective."
The wizard and the witch both fell into silence, and Sherlock decided not to disturb it for a few seconds. No doubt they were both coming to the same conclusion as he had. This "break-in" sounds very similar to the original frame-job on Harry, sans the murders.
"Were the same measures in place at the ministry ball in '97?" Sherlock asked, to confirm, even though he knew the answer.
"Yes, otherwise we could have used a polyjuiced doppelganger as our primary defence." Hermione replied. "What do you think this means?"
"It means that the person we're looking for was in Azkaban last night." Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes.
"He was trying to kill Snape, wasn't he? Make sure that whatever Snape knew died with him." Harry broke in, a desperate edge to his voice that Sherlock didn't like.
"Yes, very likely, but I doubt very much he'll have any luck at all. If he couldn't get in the first time, he stands no chance now that they're on the lookout for something suspicious." Sherlock purred, trying to reassure his wizard.
"But, as you said Sherlock, if this person is a ministry employee, why wouldn't he just finish Snape off while he was in the holding cells in the ministry building?" Hermione asked, with doubt.
"One murder attempt, and one actual murder, and the victims would both be discovered in the ministry. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that only an inside man could be responsible. He's playing this carefully. That would not have been a careful thing to do."
Hermione tilted her head to the side, thinking the information over. Harry had his hands steepled under his nose. The question floated in the room. Who could it be?
If only Sherlock were a wizard. As it was, working through another person was a challenge Sherlock didn't particularly enjoy. He missed the legwork of muggle cases. Running from one scene to the next, finding clues and being able to dissect them on the spot, that was what his work was about.
Of course, it didn't matter whether he enjoyed the case or not. Harry would never be free from his fears if it remains unsolved. Sherlock knew that he must be the one to solve it.
…
A soft, silver glow illuminated the end of the stone hallway. As the glowing light approached, Snape felt slightly warmer, and the memories which he had tried so hard to shut away receded of their own volition.
The glow turned out to be a german shepard, or more accurately, someone's patronus, which was a german shepard. Two aurors came after it.
They unlocked the heavy steel bars that served as the doorway to his cell, and stepped inside.
Snape thought he recognized the olive skinned auror from his trip here, to the very worst place on earth.
"So, c'mon, tell it. Who's trying to bust you out?" The auror started without preamble.
It took Snape an embarrassingly long time to make sense of the words. Bust him out? There could be no one. He no longer knew anyone, all of his friends were long dead, and there is not one person on earth who would want Severus Snape, nearly-convicted death eater, to see the light of day.
"Wh-what?" Was all he managed to choke out. He decided then that the prison wouldn't be so bad if he weren't reduced to a mentally deficient husk.
"You've got somebody on the outside, trying to get you out. We know it. One of your old death eater pals, I'd bet." The auror was saying, while taking a turn around the very small cell. "Why not tell us? It can't hurt making nice with us now, can it?"
"I have...I... I don't know." Snape said, through his dry throat. And he didn't. They must have made a mistake. As lovely as it would be to believe someone would want to free him, he knew better than to have hope in something so idiotic.
Then the second auror, who Snape had never seen before, started asking him questions. The former professor recognized that the auror was speaking about potions: permutations something, polyjuice something, research, powdered bicorn horn…
Snape looked away, and tried to comprehend what was being asked of him, but he found that it was nearly impossible. Everything in his mind was frozen and he could not find any relevant associations.
The first auror approached him, lit his wand, and shone into his eyes. He could see the auror's face wrinkle up in disappointment, as he put his wand away.
"No use, I think." He said. "We might as well head back."
And with that, the soft, warm glow from the patronus, and the two aurors were gone.
A horrible thought floated to the forefront of Snape's addled mind, as he watched them leave. I have barely been here a day. What will happen to him after months, years?
He'd badly underestimated the dementor's influence on him.
A cold wave flooded over him again, and he saw them.
Green eyes, sightless, staring up at nothing. A pool of red hair, and green eyes, and a baby wailing in the background.
Lily's eyes, looking blankly out of a boy, who was technically alive, but who could not speak or move. Shaking the stupid boy, calling his name, and getting no response. It was over. They lost the war. And Voldemort would truly live forever...
…
AN: Another chapter up, and I am truly sorry that this one had such a long wait. The big, ugly monster known to some as life is wreaking havoc on me.
Please leave me some comments about what you thought, what you liked or didn't like, and if you have any suggestions, send them my way! I live for all of your reviews!
IMPORTANT NOTE: starting next chapter, I will be changing the rating of this story to M. This is honestly a bit overdue. If you are not comfortable reading 'm' rated fiction, please, please, please, do not hesitate to contact me. When the next chapter is ready, I will send you an edited version that takes out the more explicit parts.
Also, I posted (much) shorter story called 'One Time, In The Woods,' that has nothing do with this one. I'd be very happy if you guys checked it out!
Thanks!
