"To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream."

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Minotaur IV

As the election for the position of Minister of Magic grew nearer, it seemed that every square inch of the ministry's corridors and public spaces were doomed to be covered with various colorful artifacts of propaganda.

There were posters, pamphlets, literature on how one could vote by owl, and bright slogans, declaring this or that candidate more suitable for the position.

At the beginning of summer, this electoral sundry had only covered maybe one fourth of the spare space of ministry hallways. Now, as autumn drew closer and the weather wavered between warmth and chill, unable to make a final determination, like a creeping fungal growth the papered spots spread until Teddy Lupin was hard pressed to find a spare stretch of the beige wall underneath the posters and leaflets.

They passed by yellow and orange posters with the candidates' shining pictures. Amos Diggory, the incumbent Minister, was always featured prominently, smiling a kindly, white-toothed grin. His opponent, Andrei Mirum, the current head of the Department of Magical Transportation, was more understated and subdued, and had a grim look of determination. There had been a third candidate once, Ted remembered vaguely, but he (or she) had dropped out.

Ted noticed that there were far more pictures of Diggory, smiling down at them from the walls as they passed by. On the other hand, it seemed Mirum's approach was to pin wordy leaflets, discussing the various problems Wizarding Britain was facing (under Diggory's leadership), and detailing the solutions that Andrei Mirum would enact.

Ted didn't have a preference for one candidate or the other.

"Originally," Henry Tonks said, as he led Ted along the corridors, "the enchantments on those posters made them talk. Facilities had to put a stop to that. Got so you could hardly stand the noise. People were casting muffling charms just to make it into their offices."

Ted chuckled at that.

His grand-uncle, Henry Tonks, was leading him through the ministry, but Ted wasn't sure where they were going. It had come as a surprise when Mr. Tonks had volunteered himself to give Ted yet another field trip through the ministry.

Andromeda, Ted's grandmother, was exceedingly pleased. She was becoming more and more agitated as Ted aged. No doubt she thought that Ted was going to sign up for Auror training as soon as his last Hogwarts exam was wrapped up. And, Ted knew, she wasn't exactly wrong. Consequently, Andromeda saw her opportunity to sway Ted's mind toward another magical career dwindling.

Henry Tonks' offer to give the boy a tour through some of the other departments (Transportation, or Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, etc.) had considerably warmed the older witch's disposition towards her brother-in-law.

Ted himself wasn't yet partial to Henry Tonks, but, Ted thought charitably, he could probably get there.

They passed by a section of corridor with a wooden double door, and Ted read the bronze sign hung above the frame.

DMLE

(Department of Magical Law Enforcement)

"Why are we going in there?" Ted blurted out.

He expected a boring trip with Henry Tonks, to some part of the ministry that held little to no interest. The DMLE, Ted knew, encompassed the Aurors' Offices. As much as Ted wished to go there, he had thought his grand-uncle would steer well clear of it.

"Didn't you say you wanted to be an Auror?" Henry Tonks asked Ted, with a put upon, confused expression.

"Yes, but you're not supposed to take me there, right?" Ted asked, thinking about his grandmother.

"Andromeda was very clear on that, yes. But a very long time ago, I was a young man myself, Ted. I know that trying to dissuade you, if you've made up your mind, will be pointless. But, let's just agree that we had a very productive day touring Misuse of Muggle Artifacts and go through these doors." Henry finished, pointing to the double doors that were NOT to the Misuse office.

Ted grinned at his grand-uncle and nodded. Maybe he would warm up to the old man sooner rather than later.

They walked past the rows and rows of DMLE office doors, the name of various wizards and titles printed in curling gold lettering on the frosted windows.

Finally, they came to the Aurors' headquarters. Here, the infestation of election propaganda had taken root, but had not yet obliterated the entirety of the walls. As they walked, Henry promised Ted that he could have a brief interview with Toadle, the Head Auror.

"You never know, Ted. If you make a good impression it could pay dividends when you've graduated and go applying for work." Henry told him.

Meet the Head Auror? Ted was suddenly feeling rather nervous. All he could do was gulp and nod at his grand-uncle.

Before they reached the Head Auror's office, they walked by a large bulletin board. Dozens of photographed faces leered and scowled from the board, all bound by identical black frames. For Ted, it was not hard to put together that these portraits were of the most wanted wizards and witches, the worst of Wizarding Britain's criminals, still at large.

Ted slowed his step unconsciously, looking for the one face he knew.

It was easy to find. Ted noticed that there were black numbers under each framed photo, and the number under his godfather's portrait was '1.'

It was ironic, where the rest of the criminals' photos looked at Ted, silently talking or shouting from the pictures, the black and white image of Harry Potter did not acknowledge Ted at all. Photograph Potter stared listlessly into the distance, a very blank look in his eyes.

Henry Tonks stopped, looking around, ostensibly trying to find his way, and Ted had a moment to keep staring at the bulletin board.

The last time Ted had seen an image of the man had been a long time ago. Ted was a young teen, only in his second or third year at Hogwarts. He had seen Potter's wanted poster between the yellow folds of the Daily Prophet. Back then, in Ted's eyes, his godfather had looked like a proper adult. But now, it seemed to Ted that the Harry Potter looking blankly out of the photo looked very young, just barely older than Ted was himself.

The photo was from the period of time when Harry Potter had been found guilty, and sent to Azkaban, the wizarding prison, which Ted knew very little about, save of course, that it had dementors. Potter must have been about twenty when the picture was taken, Ted mused. Not much older than Ted, indeed.

Ted has been thinking of his absent godfather more and more these days. And, even during the best of times, he couldn't sort out his feelings on the subject. This past summer it became more complicated.

The thing was, there had been a growing bitterness between Ted and his grandmother. They had always gotten along, before. Ted loved her very much, and it pained Ted to be so at odds with Andromeda. But the truth was, over the summer, while Ted was home from Hogwarts, he and his grandmother had rowed violently almost every night.

The cause of every row had been, unsurprisingly, Ted's future, and what he would choose to do with his life once he left Hogwarts.

Some of the arguments got very nasty.

'Do you think if your mother had a chance to take it all back, to pick a different job, so that she could stay alive and raise you, she wouldn't have done it in a heartbeat? Do you think she would have picked being an Auror over raising her own son, if she knew how it would have ended?'

The words still stung. Ted thought it was very unfair of his grandmother to bring Nymphadora Tonks into it. But, Ted knew, Andromeda was at her utmost limit. And anyway, painful though it was, her words had done nothing to change Ted's mind.

Ted's mum had picked being an Auror, and an Order member. She had picked fighting Voldemort. Ted felt a fierce rush of pride, thinking of his parents.

So, after getting into more and more heated arguments with his grandmother, Ted found himself fantasizing that his godfather would miraculously appear into his life. Maybe, Ted would dream up, Mr. Potter would be found 'not guilty.' Maybe it would be discovered he was never guilty in the first place.

Obviously, Ted never knew his godfather, but he had an inkling that Mr. Potter would somehow be proud of Ted for wanting to be an Auror, like his mum. Mr. Potter would understand, where his grandmother did not.

But, Ted would always come back to reality, with a cold sinking feeling. His godfather was not innocent, and he was not going to show up suddenly in Ted and Andromeda's little house, arms wide and welcoming.

Why'd you do it? Ted silently asked the photograph of the man. Mum and Dad choose you to take care of me, if something happened. Bitterness flooded Ted. His godfather had chosen to murder people. He could've chosen to be there for Ted, but he did not.

Well, at least he had Henry Tonks. Yes, Ted thought, his grand-uncle was here, sneaking him into the Head Auror's office for an interview. And where are you? Ted glared at the wanted portrait where his godfather's eyes looked so empty, one might say he was bored by being hauled off to Azkaban.

Henry Tonks slowed and stopped, near the board as well.

"Know him?" Henry asked.

Ted nodded.

"Yes, it's Harry Potter." They stared at the wanted posters for a moment longer, then walked on. Ted didn't know why he said it, but the words almost came up of their own accord, slightly acidic, and nauseous. "My godfather."

"That he is." Henry Tonks said thoughtfully, looking at Ted with a piercing gaze.

For just a second, their eyes met, and Ted felt an odd tickling sensation behind his eyes, as though someone was gingerly prodding the insides of his head.

Before they could reach Mr. Toadle, they were stopped by a harried young Auror, who told them to wait outside of the Head's office, while the boss finished up some business. Dutifully, Ted and his grand-uncle did just that.

"Incidentally," Henry added, picking up the dangling thread of their conversation about Harry Potter, "your godfather's capture is one of Mirum's campaign promises. He's going to devote more Auror resources to apprehending Potter."

Ted nodded, but the thought of his godfather was now drifting away from him, and he could barely listen to Henry Tonks. His stomach was in knots, and he felt slightly dizzy as he contemplated meeting Head Auror Toadle.

The young Auror was back, and told them to go inside. Ted took a deep breath, deciding he must face this head on, and strode through the door with his grand-uncle.

"Wrong bird again, you insufferable twits!" Sherlock shouted at his phone. John, who was as interested in seeing how the consulting detective would go about locating their missing wizard as he was in seeing to the mental well being of his friend, was sticking around to help Sherlock work the case.

"Corvus cornix, damn them! Not Corvus corone!" Sherlock gritted his teeth, flipping through the photo text messages. "John, why do these people fail me- I mean, I was so explicit. I gave them the markings, the description, I might as well have drawn them a picture, and they still manage to send me photos of the wrong species of crow!"

Suddenly, Sherlock had dashed across the room at John, presumably for the purpose of terrorizing John with candid shots of London's aviary populations.

A text message showing a picture of three black crows sitting on a power line was three inches from John's face. John gingerly pushed the phone away.

"Do you see? All black! These don't even have the distinctive gray bodies of Corvus cornix! It's like they're not even trying!" Sherlock whined, then flopped himself down, and continued flipping through pictures on his mobile. The texts from his homeless network were pouring in. Sherlock's phone hardly had a chance to stop beeping.

John refocused on his laptop, where Sherlock had assigned him the task of researching a flat off Holborn road. John wasn't sure yet how this flat tied into anything, but certainly Sherlock would fill him in once John dredged up any useful piece of info. Or atleast, John might piece it together himself, given enough time.

"Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!" Sherlock kept mumbling under his breath, as he looked at the photos.

"Nothing much on the free internet, Sherlock," John called over the laptop screen, "What information is available about the flat off Holborn road ties back to this Aleister Crowley chap. Looked up his biography. He sounds pleasant, in a 'what a pleasant thing, to have dead people's innards mingling with Thai leftovers in the icebox' kind of way. Right up your alley. But he's also been dead for three quarters of a century. Are we looking for him by chance?"

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive way that John interpreted as a command to keep digging.

"Alright, I'm going to pay for one of these dodgy background checks sites. Maybe they'll have records of who rented or owned the flat more recently than 1899."

The £15.99 that John paid to the fine proprietors of wholivedinyourhousedotnet to find the previous owners of the flat in Holborn did not, in the end, pan out. At first, John grew excited, looking at the name, and realizing he was familiar with it.

"Baskey! Sherlock, wasn't that the Harlesden Maniac's real name? Is this one of his flats?" John asked, thinking he must have hit pay dirt.

Sherlock was over his shoulder, his eyes racing across the screen.

"Yes, it's him. But I already knew that. He was renting it out to his daughter Laura. And the owner before Baskey was…"

They found the name of a realty company. After a quick search, they had the contact phone number as well.

John was left with the task of phoning the realtors.

"They said they sold the flat in Holborn to a Mr. Baskey in 2004- Sherlock? Does that help?" John called over his shoulder, covering the mouthpiece, still hearing the female agent's voice talking in his ear about how they apologize that particular Holborn residence is not available but their firm could certainly assist him in finding fine accommodations elsewhere in London, and was he interested in buying or renting?

"2004," Sherlock muttered, and then the detective was flipping through a stack of photographs.

"One second please," John said to the realtor on the phone, as he came to stand beside Sherlock and the glossy photos. They showed the walls and floor of a flat covered in indecipherable curving inscriptions. It reminded John of a horror movie. He saw a mental image of diagrams and carved spells used by Hollywood witches, lit by candlelight, with a pool of fresh blood from a virgin sacrifice soaking the floorboards.

"Spooky," John commented.

"What was that? You said you're looking for something spooky?" The female agent on the phone asked.

"Er, no sorry- I was just-" John was at a loss.

"2004 is wrong. The fresh markings here are not so old. You can hang up the phone John." Sherlock said.

"Right-o." John clicked the cell off, cutting midstream the female agent's new pitch for a lovely and affordable duplex in Kensal Green.

Their cab ride to Holborn was full of more mad mutterings about the right and wrong sort of crow.

John was peeking over Sherlock's shoulder, and looking at the picture texts from Sherlock's homeless network.

"Hang on, I think that one is gray…" John said, pointing a finger at one the crows. The bird was caught on camera fishing for something in a street trash bin. Was their missing wizard dumpster diving?

"It is gray John, but far too small. It's probably a female. Either way, wrong bird once again."

Once they dismounted the cab, Sherlock all but ran up the stairs into the flat on Holborn road. John trailed behind him, puffing, cursing his lack of regimented exercise. He needed to get back into fighting shape if he was going to be chasing Sherlock and his damned overlong legs.

Sherlock produced a key for the flat, which upon being asked of how he acquired it, Sherlock waved John off and told him he lifted it from Scotland Yard.

"Lovely," John huffed, and stepped into the flat. It seemed perfectly ordinary, until, trailing Sherlock, John entered the master bedroom.

The pictures didn't do the room justice. The inscriptions were everywhere, just as they were in the photos, but to John's eyes they seemed more imposing. They had a sort of dark personality. The inscriptions and drawings, carved into wood and plaster, were decidedly malignant. John took a few faltering steps into the flat, his eyes roving up and down, and he stopped. He felt prickles down his spine.

Thankfully, Sherlock stopped, too. His head whipped back and forth. Suddenly, he whirled around, and grinned at John.

"Someone's been here." He said.

"No doubt," John said, waving his hand at the general state of the cursed flat.

"No, John, recently, since Scotland Yard and I went through here, someone else has come by. I wonder why…"

The excursion of the flat was continued with a thorough ransacking as Sherlock attempted to locate a missing object, or a clue, as to who and why might have popped over for a visit. This was followed by a thorough canvassing of the flat's building, and the rest of the tenants.

Unfortunately, Sherlock found no obvious object missing from Laura Baskey's mad flat. Fortunately, a nice elderly lady, who lived across from the flat, was able to give them more clues.

"That Laura, she had so many gentlemen visiting her. She must have been a popular girl, I think. Pity she never settled down. You know, women have been settling down less and less these days. A shame. Laura should have just tied the knot with one of those gentlemen always calling at her flat."

John and Sherlock were sitting in a very cramped living room stuffed with tiny clay figurines from kitschy pastoral scenes staring down at them, interviewing Laura Baskey's neighbor, a Mrs. Founderling, and John could practically feel Sherlock vibrate with agitation every moment that they spent in the old lady's company. Since the old lady was nice enough to invite him and Sherlock in, and tell them all about her neighbor Laura, John insisted that Sherlock let him handle the questions. They didn't need to frighten the poor old women to tears, as Sherlock might, if given free reign of the interrogation.

John wound the conversation, as politely as he could, to the identities of Laura's gentlemen callers.

"Oh, well, of course I've never met them, myself." Mrs. Founderling assured them, "But I do recall some of their names. There was a Matty, he was rather tall. Then a Mr. Woods, let me think, yes, a Mr. Arthur Woods. He was not nearly so tall as Matty, but he dressed in a way that you could tell he was about something important. Then there was a Mr. Williams-"

"If you've never met these men- ouch, John, don't kick- how do you know their names?" Sherlock interjected.

"Certainly not eavesdropping, if that's what you're implying!" A little color crept dully into Mrs. Founderling's withered cheeks. As she explained how she came to know about Matty, and Mr. Arthur Woods, and Mr. Bertram Williams, it became clear to John that eavesdropping in the public landing between their flats was indeed the method which the old lady employed to gather her intel. John wondered if Laura Baskey was aware her aging neighbor was all but spying on her. Thank god for nosey old hens, thought John.

Calming Mrs. Founderling after Sherlock's sharp interruption, John picked his way back to the topic he really wanted to know about.

"And did any of these gentlemen call on Laura recently?" He asked.

"Why, yes! Mr. Woods came calling only a few days ago! Now, I told him, I said 'Oh, Laura must have gone on holiday. I haven't seen her in weeks.' And Mr. Woods, he was very polite, but he said that he owned a key to Laura's flat, and that she had some item of his, and he was there to just pick it up." Mrs. Founderling's face split into a sly, wrinkly smile, "Goes to show you, they do all the business of marriage but without the formalities. A gentleman, leaving something in her flat? A gentleman with a key? That makes you think, doesn't it?"

"Indeed it does," John answered, and then caught a whirl of gray coat as Sherlock, with no word of farewell, simply strode out of Mrs. Founderling's home.

John was left to exchange pleasantries with the lady, and extricate himself from her company, and as quickly as he could, he was following Sherlock out into the growing twilight of a late August evening.

The second night of reconnaissance of the Island Fortress of Azkaban was not going well. The dementors were agitated and they swarmed through the fortress and around it like ants in an ant hive that has been kicked over by a careless child. To add to the dementors, there seemed to be more wizards posted around the fortress. They paced the rocky shore, and in creaky wooden boats, patrolled the surrounding black waters. Their patronuses were like roving lamplights, and Harry's sharp avian eyes looked at the patronus forms to see if he could recognize one if the silvery shapes. Maybe a swann, or a terrier.

To add to this new problem of heightened security, Harry could barely get his magic to work. His animagus form, endlessly useful, was proving to be a lifesaver. He could fly the skies around Azkaban unnoticed and observe the fortress. But, on the ground, when he attempted anything with his new wand, it was like he was learning magic all over again.

Harry growled in frustration. For supposedly being all powerful, the Elder Wand was not very user friendly.

He tried again, flicking his wrist in complicated patterns. He was trying to cast Dissimulanter Silentio, the first spell in a series of enchantments which he used to cover his makeshift hiding spots. The grayish twinkling lights began to dance in the grass, emitting a faint buzz as they bumped against Harry's boots like fireflies, forming spirals around his footsteps, as he paced a circle and recited the spell. The start of the spell was going well. But, the finish to Dissimulanter required finesse, which in this moment Harry found exceedingly difficult.

As he neared the end of the incantation he readied himself for the final flicker and twist that would seal and hold the spell.

The wand was like a wild horse, and just as he neared the end, Harry felt it pull and kick off to the side, disrupting the work. The gray lights flickered out as one.

"Goddamn, useless piece of sh-"

He cursed under his breath and started again.

Three more attempts. Harry was breathing hard, and fighting his temper down. It would not do, he reminded himself, to snap the bleeding wand into pieces. He would then be wandless, wouldn't he? That wouldn't do at all.

Harry wished he had made a different choice and loaded Snape with this unworkable wand. He felt the lack of his Holly and Phoenix feather like he was missing a hand.

Sighing, and thinking about what was next, Harry decided he would have to do without the enchantments. He could practice more with the Elder Wand later. But for this time, which felt crucial, he would simply live as a crow, another bird amongst millions. Harry felt fairly confident that although life as a crow was not as comfortable as that of a human, he would at least be reasonably safe.

Stuffing his traitorous wand back into the pockets of his trousers, he shifted, grew small and feathery, and took off into the driving wind.

Sherlock was on internet research duty for the night. He had bid John a good evening, and the exhausted doctor went home, stating that he would be back the following morning. Before John left, he gave Sherlock another long-winded speech about Sherlock's labyrinth.

"You have all night, and god knows since we're on a case, you'll not spend it sleeping. Why not have a look around this labyrinth of yours? Google will be there in the morning."

"Yes, yes, I'll see you tomorrow." Sherlock shut the door.

The aching hole in his chest left by the departure of Harry Potter was only painful if he let himself think about it. If he could just keep himself occupied, Sherlock could manage to feel alright.

Sherlock knew that John would assume the Holborn road case was a pathway towards their missing wizard. But it was not. It was simply another case, left dangling when Sherlock became more interested in romance than in his job. It was something to tide him over, until he could find his wizard, again. To Sherlock's knowledge, Hermione has yet to return from Murmansk. There was no other lead to solve Harry's case. And the homeless network efforts to locate Harry-the-crow were, in a word, disappointing.

His phone kept chirping, notifying him that he had text alerts. Sherlock's eyes darted between the laptop screen and his phone. The network was still diligently sending crow pictures. All of them, so far, dead ends.

On his computer, in multiple tabs, Sherlock brought up Laura Baskey's social media pages. He started scanning the names of friends and connections, searching for the names the old lady in Holborn had given him. Arthur Woods. Bertram Williams. Matty.

It was juvenile work, and Sherlock quickly had the men's digital identities pulled up in long rows of tabs on his laptop. It turned out Matty's real name was Matthew Jenkins. Laura Baskey and these three men appeared to be fast friends. There was a consistent stream of comments, likes, and other means of visible online communication between the four.

Now what?

Sherlock started combing through the men, one by one. After hours of reading inane internet comments and looking through hundreds of gormless pictures, Sherlock felt like he had hit a wall.

Was it possible that these four were just friends? Was it possible that Laura kept her true interests, the ones scrawled on her floor and hidden in her bedroom by a carpet, separated from these men?

But then why would one of them have the key to said flat?

Why did Woods visit her apartment? Was the story he gave the nosey Mrs. Founderling true? Perhaps Woods had simply forgotten, say, his favorite watch at Laura flat, and his trip, an innocent enough affair, was simply to retrieve it. But Sherlock doubted it.

He flicked from Woods to Jenkins to Williams, scrolling through their profiles, the pictures of the men laughing, or smiling, or brooding theatrically from the photos.

Sherlock stopped.

A picture of Matty, aka Matthew Jenkins, was frozen on his laptop. Sherlock enlarged the photo. The man was sitting in an armchair alone, looking out of a window. The tag underneath the photo read: 'True scenes in the life of an armchair occultist.' Sherlock snorted. Right.

Beside Matty's armchair, there was an end table. On it, a book. Sherlock enlarged the photo again. He could make out the title of the book easily enough. The Lesser Key of Solomon. Sherlock was familiar with the volume. He had picked it up himself when he decided to transfer the inscriptions from Laura's flat to his own, and if it wasn't for the wizard's intervention, Sherlock would have paid the price for this foolishness with the loss of his mind.

In the book, The Lesser Key of Solomon, was a bookmark. Sherlock silently thanked cell phone manufacturers for making such bloody good cameras. Once he enlarged the photo, Matty now completely gone and the view centered on the book, Sherlock could read the text on the book mark.

'Hell-Fire Club. London.'

Sherlock's mouth involuntarily twitched into a grimace.

He remembered his conversation with Lestrade, that same day he had discovered Laura Baskey's flat for the first time.

"It sounds like you have a theory." Sherlock said, as he was always in need of some good entertainment. And Lestrade's theories were always suitable in this regard.

"I do, yeah." Lestrade said, with what Sherlock knew was false confidence. Sherlock stood up to face the DI, and bid him to continue.

"I think they were both part of some cult." Lestrade started, hesitating at first, but gathering more steam as he spoke. "Maybe they were both brainwashed, both the father and the daughter were part of some sort of occult club. Baskey killing all those girls, maybe it was some sort of ritual, a sacrifice. If I'm right then we'll have to find this group as soon as possible because the other member might be dangerous as well…"

If Lestrade, of all people, might have been right about this case… The thought grated Sherlock. Unfortunately, taking everything together, it was not as insensible a conclusion as Sherlock first thought.

Sherlock brought up a quick search of Hell-Fire Club, London. His mouth fell deeper and deeper into a frown. Damn Lestrade, he thought, and his possibly correct, possibly prescient theory.

There was, Sherlock learned as he read, a mythical Hell-Fire Club established in 1718 by London's bored gentry, for the main purpose of following pursuits not well liked by the society of the time. This historical Hell-Fire Club had almost no relation, besides lending the name, to the modern version.

Sherlock found a private forum with scant information readily available. The forum was blocked off to non-verified accounts. The 'Join' button, in order to access the website, was followed by a disclaimer: Serious Enquiries Only!

Sherlock mentally calculated that the time it would take to get a verified account on this Hell-Fire Club forum would not be worth the information he could squeeze from it. Nor would said information be worth the time it took to hack the forum.

He opted for a different, much quicker, approach.

He pulled up Arthur Woods' social media page, and found the message button. He typed the following words:

I know about the Goetic in her flat. I know about the Hell-Fire club. I know where Laura is. Need to talk.

Sherlock hit send, then checked the clock. It was 1:17 am. Unless Arthur Woods kept the same night-owl hours as Sherlock, a response, if it came, would not be arriving soon.

But now, Sherlock was out of things to do. Even the crow pictures from the homeless network had ceased to come, as the night drew on.

Sherlock paced his living room. With every second his mind spent unoccupied by other pursuits, it turned inward on itself, and bitterly and merrily, chewed itself apart.

Why wouldn't the damned occultist-pretender Woods just message Sherlock back? Why couldn't the homeless network send him a reasonable picture of a Corvus cornix that Sherlock could dash off into night time London to try to catch? Anything, anything, would be better than pacing his living room, seven steps back and forth, and reliving the time he spent with Harry, and feeling the heartache that followed the sweet reminiscence.

"What kind of name for an occult society is Hell-Fire Club. You'd think these people would be subtle!" Sherlock growled, out loud, for the benefit of the skull on his mantle.

Maybe the whole point is to not be too subtle. Sort of like advertisement.

Sherlock whirled around. The longed for voice sounded so clearly. Sherlock, eyes wide in surprise, carefully combed every inch of his flat with his penetrating gaze. He was alone, he was sure, but that voice… Sherlock opened every cabinet, examined every drawer, like he would find a tiny version of Potter folded up next to his cutlery. Did the voice truly sound only in his own head? Sherlock could have sworn, for just a split second, that the wizard was standing right behind him, and commenting on Laura Baskey's case.

Fantastic. He was heartbroken, stymied in two cases, and now, he was also hearing voices.

Spooked by the unnatural occurrence, Sherlock almost retreated back to his computer, where he might have half-heartedly attempted to break into the private forums of the aforementioned Club. Instead, he carefully looked around his flat, which was still empty, and continued talking out loud.

"John thinks I should excavate my labyrinth." Sherlock commented.

So you should, as I've been saying all along.

"Not you, that was Dream-Harry." Sherlock corrected the voice.

This did not yield a response. No doubt, the tangle of real Harry, the imaginary-talking-in-his-head-as-he-paced-his-flat Harry, the labyrinth-dreams Harry, the separate conversations they have had with Sherlock, and opinions the three personas held, were too confusing for the disembodied voice to make much sense of.

"And what would I look for, if I did decide to comb my labyrinth? A golden key that would unlock the secret of why I'm talking to my lover at 2 am, when said lover is not even here? A sign that says 'Sherlock, you knew all along you'd end up this way, you crack pot?'"

No reply from the voice.

"Alright then," Sherlock said as he gingerly placed himself into his favorite armchair, folding himself into it like he was packing a suitcase, "I'll attempt a visit to my labyrinth. Will you be there?"

The voice responded again.

If you want me there, yes.

To Sherlock's astonishment, he found himself almost excited by the prospect of hearing voices, and especially Potter's voice. It was like he had found a lump, somewhere on his body. Though the lump might have bode ill, there was a scientific inquisitiveness in Sherlock that wanted to probe the metaphorical lump, and observe, first hand, its effects on his body, as it spread and devoured Sherlock's insides.

Of course, Sherlock thought, magic was in the mix. It was possible that what he was experiencing was no auditory hallucination. What could it be? Was Potter trying to communicate over long distances, and using telepathy as his vehicle?

"Are you real?" Sherlock whispered to the room.

Sherlock, you know the answer to that. Just stay calm.

Suddenly, Sherlock thought, the voice did not sound like Harry at all. If he had to guess, it sounded like a maths teacher Sherlock had in primary school. But that was just a guess.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked again. Was this Goetic residue? Was a demon in his flat, whispering to him? Was Sherlock exhibiting the first symptoms of a complete nervous breakdown?

Let's say I'm your grandfather Ambrose, twenty years dead. Let's say I'm Pierce Whitehall. Let's say I'm Moriar- Let's say I'm Potter. Let's say I'm Jim. Sherlock, what does it matter?

The voice flawlessly executed the voice of each of the speakers it named.

Sherlock settled into himself. He let the question hang, unanswered. If he answered it, more questions would proceed, like whether the other actions he took during the day were rational, and whether his behavior, in any other way, exhibited any more symptoms.

No more questions.

To the labyrinth, then, once again.

A terrible storm overwhelmed the Island of Azkaban. The mutinous black waves crashed, ten feet high, against the stone walls of the fortress. Rain and wind were driven through every window, every crevice, and soaked the interior of the fortress with freezing, salty water.

Harry was set to fly back, not wishing to be caught in the tumult of the bad weather. His body was light, and it was a hard job not letting the gusts of wind carry him off his path.

Land was not yet in sight. The first island, in a series, that would lead Harry back to the northern shore of Scotland was still far off. The fortress of Azkaban was in the distance behind him, retreating into the blackness of the storm.

He felt a piercing cold beneath his gray and black feathers. It was unfortunate that he could not transform back into a human. The Elder Wand, still obstinate and unwieldy as ever, had doomed him to undertake this entire operation solely in his animagus form. Harry could not build a shelter from the rain. He could not light a fire, he could not dry off and warm up. But, gods, it was truly freezing.

Unbidden, images of the Yorkshire cellar flood his mind. He unconsciously squawked, his animal form responding to the distressing images as his mind reeled from them.

This was no time to lose his head. He was flying away from the lashing rain and wind, and he needed to keep on his flightpath if he wanted to outrun the worst of the thunderstorm.

The cold reached into his very heart and squeezed. Harry's crow form squawked again. Suddenly, he understood. He veered high, and executed a loop, to see what was behind him.

A procession of dark figures were emerging from the storm. The dementors were floating eerily forward, in a line, like they were all queuing up to come after Harry. The rain and wind seemed to have little effect on them.

More squawks of terror as Harry sharply flew to the side. How could they be following him? Dementors did not sense animals, or so he had thought. Harry changed his course, and began flying east, rather than south, occasionally performing a small loop to see what was behind him.

As he flew and flew, he noticed that the line of dementors did not alter their course in the slightest. Harry willed himself calm. He was growing exhausted. He could not keep this up much longer.

The dementors were flying south, indeed, but they were not chasing him, as far as he could tell. But they were leaving. Why, Harry tried to think, would the dementors abandon their places as the guards of Azkaban? The last time they had done so was on Voldemort's orders, and before that, to capture Sirius Black, who was presumed to be heading to Hogwarts.

Had they found Snape? It seemed impossible, after so short a time. Perhaps, the Ministry had suspicions of where Snape might go after his break-out from prison, and they were sending dementors to that very location.

What could Harry do?

He needed to warn Snape somehow.

And the dementors were leaving Azkaban, which meant-

Harry sharply veered north. It would be a terrible flight, but he knew what he had to do. Summoning the rest of his strength, he flew back into the raging heart of the thunderstorm.

It turned out that Sherlock had lost his virginity long before he stumbled upon a wizard named Harry Potter who was on the run from magical and mundane authorities for a decade.

The labyrinth had opened itself up to him, quite willingly, when he mentally prodded it with the express purpose of excavating it and opening its secrets. His secrets. All of this, after all, was simply in his mind.

The stone walls that had haunted his nightmares rose around him, and the way forward twisted and turned out of sight.

The voice, which he heard in his flat, had not let him down. As soon as Sherlock stepped into the cluttered confines of his mental maze, he saw Harry standing in the shadows. The wizard's face was blank, an observing mask of calm.

Where to start?

Sherlock began walking forward, dreading every step. Panic rose and billowed inside his heart, and he felt the walls close in all around him. He glanced back at the silently observing Potter, willing his help in the matter. Potter did nothing, simply stood there, and continued impassively gazing at him.

Much help he was.

Sherlock continued walking into his labyrinth. What hurts? What scares me and sends me nightmares every time I dream? He sent out his mental query, and his feet (figuratively speaking, he was after all, just a mental projection inside a mental projection) found their way through the maze.

That was when Sherlock stumbled upon his memories of Pierce. Not his only memories of him, of course. Sherlock kept some piece of Pierce outside of his mental trash heap. He remembered, for instance, going to Pierce's funeral. He remembered studying together for orgo-chem. But, it seemed he had deemed certain memories with the man as not worthy to be kept in his head, and dumped them here, in his labyrinth.

Pierce was of a slender build, blonde, and fairly intelligent. Clever, and talented with chemistry. Through economic necessity, he turned towards dealing cocaine. He had started out as Sherlock dealer, his first introduction into narcotics. All this, Sherlock remembered.

What Sherlock had forgotten, or rather, what Sherlock made himself forget, was that he and Pierce also had a physical relationship.

It was amazing what one could accept on cocaine.

Sherlock was not from a family with deep pockets, nor was he inclined to take a regular, hourly job. Consequently, he was consistently strapped for cash. Once Sherlock got a real taste for cocaine, the need for it drove him to find more and more clever ways to divest his dealer of his stash.

Sherlock never stole, not from Pierce. But there were other ways in which the young Sherlock could get cocaine without having to spend a pound.

The adult Sherlock, now wandering his mental maze, cringed when he saw the development of this particular relationship. It was child's play to deduce that Pierce was in the closet, and as their friendship progressed its course, it was obvious also, that Pierce began lusting after Sherlock. So, the quid pro quo, familiar to many serious drug users, was formed.

Sherlock allowed access to his body, and Pierce allowed access to his footlocker, where he kept a shoebox filled with little ziplock bags, all divided neatly by grammage.

The arrangement worked for many months.

Sherlock was feeling nauseous. He wanted to leave his labyrinth and the memories of Pierce's sweaty body on top of him. He did not enjoy the intercourse then, and he did not enjoy the memories, now.

Sherlock turned around and saw Potter standing behind him, the wizard's face still an implacable blank mask. A silent judge. Sherlock took a deep breath, and spun around once again. Alright, then, what else?

The memory was preserved crystal clear and noxious.

Sunlight streamed into a small, neat room. Pierce was no longer living in the uni dorms. He was renting a studio, as cheaply as possible, slightly bolstered by the cash flow from selling. Pierce was always very neat. Sherlock liked this about the man. Despite the shabbiness of the flat, Pierce kept it cheerfully tidy.

Sherlock was underneath Pierce, and things were heating up. Sherlock observed the dust motes in the sunlight, softly falling like snow. His shirt was being removed, and Sherlock half-heartedly let it fall.

This was the fourth time that Sherlock let Pierce take his liberties, and something went wrong.

"Let's do a line first," Sherlock proposed, interrupting Pierce's focused exploration of Sherlock's body.

"Later. Afterwards." Came Pierce's breathless reply. Sherlock suppressed a groan. So be it. He returned the minimal amount of affection, acting the part listlessly.

It was when they were both naked, and Pierce's body, which was hardly very heavy, was on top of Sherlock, that Sherlock began to think he was being attacked. It was a preposterous notion, but the panic was so sudden and overwhelming that Sherlock punched Pierce, and scrambled away from him in an attempt to find safety.

"What the fuck?" Pierce moaned, holding his nose.

Mortified by the outburst of unexplained violence, and still reeling from the heart-hammering fear, Sherlock hastily dressed and was out the door before he could find something to say in explanation.

The chemical hunger that had begun to plague Sherlock in earnest, had driven him back to Pierce's flat the very same night, where Sherlock apologized profusely, Pierce waved him off and easily forgave him (Sherlock realized now, with an adult's understanding, that Pierce was probably rather enamored with Sherlock at the time, and was probably frustrated by Sherlock's coldness but also desperate to make up, even after the episode of Sherlock's striking him), and they finished the act that Sherlock had so rudely interrupted, and Sherlock got his fix.

"Illuminating," Sherlock commented to the silently watching Potter, "but I think I'm done here."

I don't think so.

Sherlock reeled, looking at Potter as he spoke. What? Surely, this was it. This arrangement with Pierce, where he whored himself out for blow, and that he had foolishly made himself forget (presumably in embarrassment), was the cause of his present discomfort, his present unraveling.

Potter said nothing else, but looked forward into the heart of Sherlock's dark maze. Sherlock looked, too. In the distance, a pair of white sneakers were resting on the ground. No, no, NO! A chessboard, tipped over, lying forgotten.

The darkness was overwhelming, and the walls closed in, and Sherlock could take not a second longer of standing inside his labyrinth, so he slammed his eyes open, and left Potter and the mental landscape. His hands shook and his breath was rapid and exhausted.

He was back in his flat, in 221B, and it was 2:34 am.

A new message was on his laptop.

"Oh, thank god!" Sherlock all but crawled to his computer screen. Arthur Woods had sent him a reply. He was saved.

He had something else to do, now.

Sherlock read Woods' reply, which cautiously agreed to a meeting, and hastily texted the cell number that was appended to the message. All inside a minute, he was dressed and running out of the front door of 221B, leaving his flat, and the memories from his labyrinth were still burning behind his retinas.

AN: A longer chapter after a longer wait. Hopefully, you're still with me! Please leave a review, if you liked it, or even if you didn't. Thanks for reading!