"IF THOU hast come thus far, and yet he appeareth not, thou mayest be sure that he is sent unto some other place by his King, and cannot come; and if it be so, invocate the King as here followeth, to send him. But if he does not come still, then thou mayest be sure that he is bound in chains in hell, and that he is not in the custody of his King. If so, and thou still hast a desire to call him even from thence, thou must rehearse the general curse which is called the Spirits' Chain."

― S.L. MacGregor Mathers, The Lesser Key of Solomon

The Case of the Man With Many Faces

Rabastan Lestrange had been confined to a cell in Azkaban since the Battle of Hogwarts, in the late nineties. Consequently, after having spent such a long drag of time in the presence of dementors, he had, to all outward observers, lost his mind.

What does it really mean to lose one's mind?

There was still a brain within Rabastan's skull, and that brain occasionally sent waves of meaningful electricity through its complicated flesh circuitry. There was a mind there, still keeping on.

The mind of Rabastan, what Rabastan would call himself, inhabited a plane that was difficult to understand. If one were to observe Rabastan from an exterior vantage point, one would think that Rabastan's answers were nonsensical, if he answered at all.

However, that was not how the situation appeared to Rabastan. He did not believe himself to be irrational, or least of all, mad. But his mind had collapsed, and withdrawn into tighter and tighter inward circles, burrowing into itself like a snake which can eternally eat its tail and thus eternally grow smaller and smaller.

Inside Rabastan's skull, his mind wandered on well tread old memories like an old man wandering the same dusty path to and from the park. There was also a certain logic to the wandering. Some memories triggered others. Some mind-scapes provoked him to cry out (in the real, physical plane), or answer imaginary voices, and it might indeed appear to an observer that Rabastan was issuing forth cries of a mad man, but it was all rather orthogonal. Stimulus and stimuli.

His mental wandering had grown so familiar and rigidly habitual that any slight disturbances to the sequence of memories provoked a frightened reaction from the prisoner.

Who are you?!

Just an interested party.

There was someone in his mind along with him. Outwardly, Rabastan shivered. This had never happened. The person, whoever he was, felt completely unknown yet paradoxically familiar.

Rabastan attempted to focus on his eyes. It had been a long time since he had use for ocular receptivity. All the images he saw, these days, were only the very convincing simulations which lived inside of his complicated cephalum. It was hard to make his eyes work right.

Maybe he saw a dark, thin, ragged man standing over him. Glasses? That caught some kind of recollection, but Rabastan just couldn't put his finger on it… The man made Rabastan think of a street crow, a homeless vermin. The idea of a crow sent Rabastan's mind away from the reality of his eyes and back into a tangled spiral of memories, where he and his older brother chased crows down the streets of London.

I need to ask you some questions.

Piss off!

Rabastan gleefully ran after the shuddering mass of crows, and they burst in an explosion of feathers, wind and shrieks as they simultaneously took off into flight. Rodolphus chuckled behind him. How old were they? Not yet in Hogwarts, he'd wager. Young.

It's very important.

The memory of chasing crows stopped. Another memory was pulled up, but it was not along the well tread paths where Rabastan wandered. Steam covered the platform. He was crying his eyes out. His brother was taking the Hogwarts Express, and he, Rabastan, was too young to go.

A whole year before he could join his brother. A whole year of being alone with his parents. A whole year of being the only target of their father's displeasure. Rabastan was inconsolable as the train pulled away. His mother was softly hissing threats into his small ear, telling him that if he didn't begin behaving immediately, the displeasure he was so frightened of would be waiting when they returned home. But Rabastan didn't care. He could neither quiet nor calm himself, even if he really wanted to.

What happened to your brother?

His brother, Rodolphus, was always there for him when they were little.

First to defend Stanny (Rod's favorite name for his little brother) against their father's moods, then in Hogwarts (Stanny finally got to go!), against the older Slytherins.

A dark-haired girl, older by a few years, was especially vicious to Rabastan when he first showed up. But Rodolphus always stood up to Bellatrix, when he was around. If Rodolphus was by his side, he'd never let Stanny get hurt. It was a pity Rabastan couldn't always have his protector with him.

What happened to your brother?

The voice repeated and more memories, long buried, surged through Rabastan's head.

It would have been a scandal if anyone found out. Why had his brother done it? Why had his brother done something so foolish! It was beyond imagining!

It was Christmas break, and Rabastan had done poorly in his classes. His parents had told him that he would not be returning back to his home unless he straightened out his grades. Rabastan had OWLs that year. That meant that he was fifteen and Rodolphus almost seventeen.

Rabastan was up late, studying, the Slytherin dorm was dark and peaceful around him, when suddenly, his brother's head was in the fireplace.

'What are you doing!'

'Stanny listen, I don't have much time…'

Rodolphus explained about the muggle girl. About how she was suffering in their cellar. About how Rodolphus could simply not bear it any longer.

Yes, yes, Rabastan knew all about his father's strange and dark fascination with muggles. It was their father's business. And anyway, muggles were expendable, weren't they?

'No!'

His brother was growing angry now, furious that Rabastan could not understand him.

'You shouldn't be talking about this over Floo, you know that Rod!' It was all a secret. They both knew, ever since they were old enough to walk, to never mention their father's business outside the family's house.

'I have no choice. I'm running away and taking the girl.'

The fire crackled as Rodolphus' head spoke in the fireplace, and Rabastan could almost convince himself that he imagined the words his brother said. He looked around. The Slytherin common room was empty. But you never knew who was lurking. Was that a shadow in the corner animated by the moving flames or was it someone hiding?

'Stanny, come with me?'

'What?! NO! Father will skin you alive if he finds you…'

'Stan…'

'I'm not going anywhere, and you shouldn't either! You're due back in Hogwarts in less than a week!'

Rodolphus said nothing for a moment, but his flame-drawn image seemed sad.

'Good-bye, Stanny.'

He was saying good-bye because he was going to leave the Floo connection. Not because he was going through with whatever mad whim this was. Not because he was running away. It was unthinkable! His older brother would be back, surely, in Hogwarts in less than one week's time.

So then, if your brother ran away, who took his place?

Their father was dead, finally. Rabastan, as the only Lestrange heir, took charge of all the vast Lestrange estates, and it was his responsibility to keep the Lestrange name always noble, always pure.

His older brother never did come back. Rabastan would have to take on all the duties of his old house, alone.

Rabastan was nearing twenty. He would have to fulfill a promise his father made to the patriarch of the Black family. He would have to get married in less than a year. Except it had been Rodolphus that was promised as the groom to Mr. Black, not Rabastan. He was taking his brother's place.

The thought of the marriage filled Rabastan with such dread he could hardly hold a tea cup steady.

Not her.

That was all he could say to himself about the prospect. Any other pureblood witch, but not her!

The Black family had three daughters.

The first had, not unlike Rodolphus, run off, and had been blasted off the Black family tree. She was out.

The third was mild tempered, and Rabastan thought somewhat pretty, but was unfortunately promised to the Malfloy heir. Fuck him! What he wouldn't do to switch brides with that petulant blonde brat!

His was the second girl. She was beautiful, in a dark way, but she was also…

A goddamn fucking psycho!

Rabastan remembered all too well from his days at Hogwarts the misery and shame which Bellatrix seemed to relish inflicting on himself, and the other younger students. He had learned dreadful lessons from the tip of her wand.

Just picturing her face in his mind made Rabastan shiver with revulsion. He hated Bellatrix, in a primal animalistic way one can only learn as a hurt child. He would do anything not to marry her. He would sell his soul to the Devil, if he could only find that bastard's calling card.

Fortunately, the Devil sought him out, rather than the other way around.

One night, drinking himself insensible in Knockturn Alley (a habit Rabastan had acquired, and which had strengthened proportionally as the day of his wedding grew nearer), a stranger sat next to Rabastan.

No, not a stranger. A fellow Slytherin, a few years older than Rabastan. One of those gray mice, which had no pure lineage, and so had to practically disappear into the walls and tapestries to survive Slytherin society. Rabastan did not remember his name, which was fitting, since the stranger did not have one that was worthy of notice.

"I know about your father. And I know about your brother." The stranger said.

Rabastan quickly became furious, like someone had flipped a switch inside his heart.

How dare this no-name mention Rodolphus! How dare he bring up the Lestrage family's greatest embarrassment!

Rabastan dug for his wand, his hands numb from the alcohol.

The not-stranger-nor-acquaintance smirked and then grabbed Rabastan before he could drunkenly start a duel. They were apparating.

They were in a squalid muggle hotel room. Rabastan looked in disgust at the softly crackling radio. He had, unfortunately, wholly inherited his family's distaste for all things muggle.

After a sobering charm and assurances that the not-stranger meant him no harm, the not-stranger began to explain.

He knew a lot about Rodolphus abandoning the family.

'I was there the day he Floo'd you in Hogwarts.'

Rabastan knew there had been movements in the shadow! He had been right! Someone was lurking.

Rabastan thought he was beginning to understand.

'So what? You're going to give out my father's secrets? You're too late, my father died-'

'I don't give a damn about your father.' The not-stranger said calmly.

'Then, what? You're trying to blackmail me, but what is it you want?'

'Observe.'

The not-stranger began to change. His face morphed, and he grew taller. In several seconds, Rodolphus was standing in front of Rabastan, and an invisible hand was squeezing around Rabastan's heart, and he could not separate the strands emotions in the tidal wave of feeling which swept him. Punch him or hug him?

'I'm not your brother, idiot.' Rodolphus said.

'I don't understand-'

The not-stranger who was wearing Rodolphus' skin explained, patiently, that he could change his appearance at will, into anything he desired.

Then, the not-stranger proposed a plan. As Rabastan listened, he saw every one of his problems efficiently and quietly folding in on themselves and disappearing with a pop, like a Vanishing charm.

The not-stranger would take Rodolphus' place. He would marry Bellatrix. He would be the new patriarch of the Lestrange family.

'You want our money?' Rabastan asked, acting suspicious and unyielding, although in his heart he had already accepted the plan with open arms.

'No, although that won't be a terrible bonus.' The not-stranger answered calmly. 'I'm not trying to rob you, Lestrange. And anyway, won't you have your own inheritance, which would be untouchable by your older brother?'

Rabastan nodded his head.

'Why do you want this, then?' Rabastan asked. He just wanted to understand. Why would anyone wish to take on the terrible burden of marrying Bellatrix Black?

But he never did find out conclusively. The not-stranger hinted that he wished to join the noble lines, that his blood was not pure (obviously) but his sentiments lay with the pureblood society and the slowly coalescing center of power which was energizing and propelling the noble wizards into a more ambitious and brighter future.

'The dark lord?' Rabastan asked. He supposed it made sense. If the not-stranger wanted to join forces with Voldemort, he couldn't simply stride up and take a vow. He had to be chosen. Taking Rodolphus's place would indeed be the ticket he sought. Satisfied with his own conclusion and desperately happy that he did not have to wed Bellatrix Black, Rabastan shook on it, and the plan was implemented quickly.

It did not take long to bring the not-stranger up to speed about what his brother was like, how he behaved, and what he knew. Rabastan spent weeks tutoring the not-stranger about noble manners, the convoluted tangle of all the British lineages, and the rest of the trivia Rodolphus would be expected to know.

Their mother accepted Rodolphus' return so easily it almost broke Rabastan's heart. He did not like lying to his mother, but he liked even less the prospect of the Black Marriage.

If there was a noticeable difference in behavior, it could be easily explained by the fact that Rodolphus had run off, and spent three years god knows where, and he had come back from those years changed. And so, new-Rodolphus joined the fold, and no one noticed a difference, and although there were some rumors about the un-gentleman like things Rodolphus might have engaged in while he was gone (all speculation, since no one knew where the real Rodolphus had run off to, and the new-Rodolphus kept quiet about it), new-Rodolphus had been pretty much accepted back into pureblood society with hardly a wrinkle. Sometimes, even Rabastan forgot that his brother was a not-brother.

Who was the not-stranger?

He was Rodolphus. He had married Bellatrix Lestrange. He had taken the dark mark. He had been there, the rest of Rabastan's life. A cold shadow, his own family on paper, but as distant and closed off as an island. Rabastan wished he had the old Rodolphus back. The good humored teenager who protected him from bullies and who-

No, what was the identity of the man who took Rodolphus's place?

Rabastan should have agreed to run off with his brother, that day during Christmas holidays at Hogwarts, when Rodolphus had told him good-bye. He realized now that his true brother was perhaps the only person in the whole world that cared for Rabastan, and he should have left with him. True, Rabastan harbored no warm feeling towards muggles, unlike his brother. Rodolphus' angry face in the Floo appeared again, as they argued about the way their father treated the muggles he caught. Rabastan didn't see anything wrong with it. Just a bit of sport. Rodolphus could not understand how Rabastan could take that position. Could he have lived his whole life by his brother's side? No doubt, Rodolphus had hidden out amongst filthy muggles this whole time. Could Rabastan have borne that? It would have been difficult, perhaps, but at least then he would have Rodolphus, a true friend, by his side, someone who actually knew and loved Rabastan, someone he never had again…

The thoughts went around and around Rabastan's head. Regret, dismay. A life lived and finished, in a way he didn't quite want it to have been.

The foreign presence in Rabastan's mind prodded once, twice more, but there was no disentangling him from the spiral of pity.

It wasn't fair. He should have gone with Rodolphus, but his older brother hardly gave him a chance! He should have gone but he hated muggles! It wasn't fair!

Overwhelmed by the cacophony of his inner turmoil, Rabastan didn't notice as the foreign voice in his mind quietly slipped out, like an unwelcome guest at a rowdy party.

Save the prisoners, the Fortress of Azkaban had been nearly empty. The dementors had all left, no one knew where, and most of the wizards who were meant to guard it, alarmed by the dementors' un-controlled exodus, had left to the Ministry to report the occurrence. A skeleton crew was left in charge of the Fortress. It was only too easy to get around them.

Sneaking into and out of Azkaban had been a trifle, this time. Harry couldn't believe his good luck. He had gotten some answers, though not all, from the unraveling mind of Rabastan Lestrange. While he had sat with the man in his cell, half of his mind focused on the Legilimens spell, and half listening for footsteps down the stone corridor, the thunderstorm had abated somewhat. The flight back to Fair Isle from Azkaban would not be as arduous as he had feared.

But what did it all mean? How had the puzzle piece that he extracted from the younger Lestrange brother fit into the whole? Harry still couldn't see the entire picture. And where had the dementors gone? Harry was sure it would be in the Daily Prophet next morning. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe they were sending them after Snape. But the aurors around Azkaban had been so alarmed… it didn't make sense.

As soon as he flew over the first in a series of islands stretching from the northern coast of Scotland, he touched down and became a man.

Harry checked his watch. It was 2:32 am. Sherlock would be sleeping. Maybe.

He hesitated. The best person he could think of to fit a small piece into the large picture was Sherlock, but…

How would the detective receive him? After their fight, it had seemed to Harry that Sherlock never wanted to see him again. And Harry certainly had his own reservations about the man.

Harry paced back and forth, trying to unravel the mystery in his own mind. He spun the knot this way and that, but no strings yielded.

Harry didn't know for sure that Sherlock would be mad. Maybe, the detective would be pleased that Harry had brought him the latest clue which could help to unravel the mysterious case surrounding Harry and his doppleganger's murders.

Finally coming to a decision, Harry apparated, and the familiar living room of 221b was all around him. It was 2:45 am. Harry looked around. Sherlock was not in.

Where could he be at this time of night?

Sherlock had left his computer on, and Harry had the intuitive sense that perhaps the detective would return quickly. Harry gingerly sat himself on the couch, feeling every bit an awkward intruder. He decided he could wait, just a little, for Sherlock.

At 2:45 am, Sherlock was dashing through London in a taxi, riding to Holborn. He was supposed to meet Arthur Woods at Red Lion garden.

He found the man at the appointed place as promised. Mr. Woods was short, well dressed, and wore glasses.

Sherlock opened his mouth, to begin questioning Woods, but the latter held up a hand.

"Not here, please. Follow me." He said.

Mr. Woods beckoned Sherlock, and after a few turns, they were standing next to a small, tidy cafe, obviously closed at this time of night. Mr. Woods produced a key, and led Sherlock past the emerald green facade and into the dark interior. Sherlock was minimally on his guard. Based on his deductions, although Mr. Woods came from old money, he had chosen to move out to London and work as a librarian, probably following a passion of his heart to be amongst books. He was not what one would call a hardened criminal. Still, Sherlock's sharp eyes roved the dark interior of the closed cafe, it paid to be cautious. He heard a shuffle of feet above his head, and of course there had been a light on in the second storey.

"Are the people upstairs expecting us?" He asked Mr. Woods, casually.

Mr. Woods whirled around and glared at Sherlock, who smiled innocently.

"Yes, in fact they are. Other members of the Hell-Fire." Woods answered, once he could.

They trudged upstairs, and Arthur opened a door into a one-room flat, which Sherlock immediately saw was not used as a living space, but rather as a gathering spot for the Hell-Fire Club of London.

Four others were there, gathered in a neat circle, and seated on upholstered couches and armchairs. The place was well furnished and absolutely stuffed to the brim with books and candles. Sherlock immediately recognized Matty Jenkins and Bertram Williams, as he had spent a portion of the night examining their facebook profiles. The other two, faces he vaguely remembered as having belonged to Annie B. and Charles. L, were in and out of some of Laura's online photos.

Charles L. immediately spoke up as soon as Sherlock's foot stepped through the threshold. He was a thin and very nervous looking man, who worked as a low-level solicitor by day.

"How did you find us?" Charles asked.

Sherlock laughed.

"Just a suggestion, but if you plan on starting a very secretive occult organization, perhaps don't put so much of your private business on the internet. Especially if you're worried your clients might discover your interests, Charles." Sherlock answered.

Sherlock continued talking, cutting off the angry tirade he could see forming in Charles's face.

"I'm not here to threaten or blackmail you. Nor am I here to oust your secrets, seeing as you all do that well enough without my help. I am here because I would simply like an answer to a question." Sherlock said, looking around the room.

The woman, Annie B., laughed in a high pitched neurotic way, as though what Sherlock had said was insane. He saw twin smiles of indulgence on Mr. Woods and Matty's faces.

"We have some questions of our own." Mr. Woods said. Arthur Woods had a measured and methodical way of talking that seemed to work as a calming agent on the higher strung members of the club. Annie B. and Charles L. visibly stilled.

"Fine," Sherlock said, "But I go first."

Mr. Woods deliberated, then raised a hand and made a gesture to Sherlock that translated to something like 'by all means, then.'

Sherlock walked forward into the small flat. One incandescent lamp from above lit the entire cast in shades of mustard yellow. There were no other electric implements in the room. The books in the flat were all, without exception, antique cloth hardbound volumes. Sherlock's eyes did not pick up a single modern paperback, with garish pictures on the cover. The worn oriental rug at Sherlock's feet covered something on the floor, he was sure, as he could see the very edge of a squiggle, hiding next to Annie B.'s black, pointed boot. Sherlock had an odd sense of anachronism, like he was in a flat at the turn of the century, and Yeats and Crowley would be waiting in the wings, ready to spring forward and take their part in the drama. A theremin ought to have been playing.

Sherlock walked over to the bookcases lining the wall, and plucked out a volume.

"The Lesser Key of Solomon," he commented, "has been around for a long time."

The other faces in the room nodded at him.

"And so have many other publicly available books, which deal with Goetia. Yet in all that time, these books have helped none get closer to manifesting something real, something which could not be explained by natural sciences."

Charles L.'s face became angry again, but Sherlock held up a hand. "Please save your questions to the end."

Sherlock walked to the rug, and with a casual flick of his foot, he revealed the floor beneath. The Goetic diagram there was old. Cruder, and somehow mute, compared to the toxic, loud beauty of the pictograms from Laura's flat.

"Take this, for example. I'd wager no otherworldly beings have ever crawled from this particular magic circle, right?" Sherlock looked around. Again, Charles looked like he was on the verge of arguing, but the others were nodding their heads.

"So my question is this: what changed? Obviously, we all know Laura had something quite… potent, in her bedroom. But there IS a gap, between what is in the book," Sherlock held up The Lesser Key, "and what Laura, and I'd wager the rest of you, have been able to produce more recently."

"You're wrong there." The interruption came from Mr. Woods. Sherlock wheeled around to him, like he had been slapped. Wrong?

"None of us except Laura got anything to work." Annie B. said, and her voice had a bitter edge, "Even though all of us had been given the same gift! It wasn't just Laura's!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Well, that simplifies things quite a bit. Then, my question is simply, what was this gift, Annie?" Sherlock said. He wished to dramatically seat himself into a winged armchair, at that moment, but every sitting surface was currently occupied by a member of the Hell-Fire Club.

"We can't answer that." Mr. Woods said with simple finality.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"You're not a member. And even if you were, you'd need to be at least a Knight of the East and West to be considered worthy for such knowledge."

Sherlock arranged his features into such an expression that seemed to say: ah, well, at least I tried.

"So, then we have questions of our own." Mr. Woods continued.

Sherlock bid him to proceed.

"Have you been in contact with Laura?" Woods asked.

Sherlock spread his arms in an apologetic way. "Unfortunately, that's police business, and I simply couldn't divulge something like that to you."

"But we need Laura back! We need her tonight!" Charles piped up.

Sherlock had noted, when he first walked into the flat, that the Hell-Fire Club was not awake and dressed at 3 in the morning by accident. Tonight had been special, for the occultists. Why, Sherlock hadn't the foggiest, but if he wagered a guess, he'd assume some kind of astrological non-sense was behind it.

Sherlock looked sadly at Charles, like he had really wished he could help him, but he certainly could never betray the loyalties of Scotland yard.

"I think I see where this game is going." Arthur Woods took off his glasses, and was polishing them on a corner of his tweed jacket.

"Do you?" Sherlock asked with mock surprise.

"Oh, yes. Answer for answer. We tell you about our gift and you tell us about Laura?" Woods said.

"I'll do you one better," Sherlock said, "I'll try to find Laura myself, tonight, before… when does it all end, Annie?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't sure exactly what it was that was ending, but he knew he was on the right track when Annie spoke up.

"Last minute before sunrise." Annie said automatically.

"My, 6 am? We don't have a lot of time, then.'' Sherlock said pointedly.

Arthur Woods sighed. Then, replacing the glasses on the bridge of his nose, he began his story.

As Sherlock listened, he had to restrain himself from interrupting every other sentence. Arthur really dragged it out.

Sherlock made a quick summary in his head of all the relevant details.

Five years ago, the occult society known as Hell-Fire Club was approached by a mysterious stranger. This stranger wore a very long hood, and no one could see his face. How like a novel.

Said stranger offered some previously unknown books that would help expedite the Hell-Fire's delving into the abyss.

What did the Stranger want in return? Not much, besides occasional updates about how the work was coming. Laura was chosen as the intermediary. The Stranger would contact Laura directly, and Laura would pass on the information they chose to share with the Stranger.

The members of the Hell-Fire, drunk on their own self-importance, attempted to brag about their new-found knowledge to other very secret occult societies. Apparently, it was a bit like sewing circles, where each club knew the others, and there was a complicated tapestry of drama, alliances and petty grievances linking all the esoteric societies of Europe.

Well, anyway, all the other societies that Hell-Fire was in contact with had a similar thing happen. Some mysterious Stranger, on a dark night, delivers a book which would, in the Stranger's words, help expedite the search for the unknown. Turned out, the London chapter was not nearly as important as the Hell-Fire members had all felt it to be.

But then, what happened?

The Stranger comes back, several months ago, and demands his volumes back. They had made enough progress, the Stranger says.

The members of the Hell-Fire club protest, and say they need the volumes, absolutely need them, but the Stranger refuses to yield. Then, he did something that scared the club members right out of their skins to prove that he was being serious about his demands.

"What did he do?" Sherlock asked.

"I asked to see his face. Shouldn'ta done it. I'll never forget…" Matty Jenkins said, shivering.

"Tell me."

"He took off his hood, and, and it was… me."

"What?"

"It was me, at first, but then his face started changing, melting like wax. Scared me like nothing ever had…"

And these were the people who supposedly wanted to bring demons into the realm of men.

"He changed again, into Annie, and then into Charles, he just kept changing, until we told him to quit it, and he just started laughing."

So, then, the members of the Hell-Fire Club, properly spooked, apologized profusely to The Stranger, but told him they were not in possession of the volumes. Laura, the intermediary, was, and no one knew where she had gone.

The Stranger then left, but told them at the end of Summer, he would surely be back to collect the volumes, and if the occultist valued themselves, they ought to find Laura and cough up the books. (And this, Sherlock thought, explained what Arthur Woods was doing in Laura's flat. Searching for the said volumes).

And is that why they were all here, on the night of August 31st, waiting until Summer's end? Because they know the Stranger is coming to collect?

No, not at all. The Hell-Fire Club knows that tonight is the true night of Open Gates. Tonight, until sunrise, the veils between the worlds grow thinnest, and it is most possible to access the worlds beyond, and maybe they could cobble something together, some magic ritual that would help them find Laura, or at least the sacred books she made off with.

"And you see, it worked! Here you are, offering to find the books, and Laura!" Charles laughed hysterically.

Sherlock took it all in, staring at the nerves making themselves apparent on the faces of all the occultists. They did not relish the idea of not having the goods when the many-faced Stranger came.

"Right then," Sherlock said, "I'll go find Laura."

"Just like that?" Mr. Woods asked, surprised.

"Yes, why not? I'm not sure I'll make the deadline of dawn, but at least I can try to get her before your Stranger comes back." Sherlock said.

There was an air of disappointment on the faces around him. He could practically see that they were considering if they had been duped into revealing their secrets for nothing in return. They had, Sherlock confirmed in his mind. Although if he did find Laura in the process of the case, he would surely find their books, and return them.

Sherlock needed to get out of the flat. A strand of the mystery had just fallen into place. What he thought were two cases was actually just one. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that the man with many faces which had terrified the London occultist was not only a wizard, but might be the very same one that framed Harry. Sherlock needed to go, now.

Sherlock convinced the Club that time was of the essence, and every minute he spent in their flat was a minute he was not searching out Laura.

The occultists reluctantly agreed, and Mr. Woods walked him downstairs, through the closed cafe.

Sherlock checked his phone. It was only 3:27 am. Still plenty of time. Plenty of time for what, Sherlock? What is in your mind? Sherlock hastily shook his head, like a dog, and with barely a word of goodbye, left Mr. Woods standing sadly on the stoop.

Hermione had a very strange evening. She had not been back from Murmansk long, and many things have happened since her return.

Upon her return from Murmansk, Hermione had found a letter brought by owl in her townhouse. It was from Charlotte Weasley, and it demanded that Hermione come to see her. That was late afternoon, and Hermione immediately obeyed, apparating to a rural county outside of Norwich, where Ron and Charlotte owned a small bungalow, wondering what Charlotte could possibly want from her.

In Charlotte and Ron's living room, Hermione felt an odd mix of familiarity and foreign-ness. She had known Ron for so long, and his presence was felt in the small room, although Ron had been absent for many weeks; but Charlotte was a complete mystery.

"Any progress from the Healers?" Hermione asked.

Charlotte shook her head. Hermione made a mental note to visit her old friend Ron at St. Mungo's when she had a chance.

"So…"

Charlotte looked uncomfortable, as she began to speak. Golden sunlight poured through the bungalow windows, and lit Charlotte's pretty blonde hair, tied into a braid.

"Look, I know he's told you we were at the end of it."

"I don't know what-" Hermione wanted to deny it.

"I know he has. And it's true. We were already putting in the papers. Would have been divorced already if it hadn't been for-" If it hadn't been for the fact that Ron was now in a magically induced coma, fighting off a deadly poison, with no assurance of ever waking up. "But he was my husband, and a good one, for many years." Charlotte then paused.

Hermione kept silent, wondering where this was leading.

"I should have given this to you right away, but…" Charlotte sighed, frustrated, "Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't he have left it to the aurors or his partner? Why Hermione Granger?"

"I- I'm not sure. What exactly did he leave me?"

"Well, his desk I suppose." Charlotte answered. Hermione didn't understand.

Charlotte threw up her hands.

"He's got a hidey hole in his desk here where he keeps the good oak meade. Other oddments, too I suppose. Here is this key. One day, not long before Ron got- well, you know, he said, if anything should happen to him, Hermione ought to get what's in his desk. That's it."

"And you haven't said anything before because…" Hermione said out loud, and immediately regretted it. Of course she knew why. "I understand, Charlotte. Let me see the desk."

Charlotte, resigned, led her to a cramped room. There were no windows. A single lamp was set onto a large oak writing table, which was covered in stacked files.

The files were all blank naturally. They would have been charmed to be revealed to Ron's eyes only.

Charlotte produced a tiny silver key. She pushed it into the top ledge of the desk, and suddenly, a side of the writing surface popped out like a cashier's drawer. It was rather deep, and Hermione saw a mess of papers, a watch, and a bottle of the aforementioned oak meade.

"Take it all, please." Charlotte said, a note of frost returning to her voice.

Hermione was not about to let the chance slip away. She collected all the papers, and the watch into her small bag, which was enlarged inside.

"Take the bottle, too." Charlotte said, and Hermione could hear that the woman was fighting back tears. Hermione wondered what this felt like for Charlotte. Did the woman think she was giving over her husband to Hermione with this one act? Hermione was much too logical and uninvested in symbolism to feel so, but she knew others were not always like her.

"Surely I don't need-" She started but Charlotte insisted.

Fine, Hermione thought, I'll take Ron's oak meade.

Charlotte seemed to have no other words left. Hermione quietly thanked her, and left, apparating back home, where she was still sitting in front of Ron's notes, his auror's watch, and the unopened bottle of meade. The top leaflet in the stack was addressed directly to her.

Hermione-

We were wrong to stop trying. I'm going to make it right. It's a decade late, but better than never.

She looked at the mess of papers and the watch on her desk, wondering how in the world it all tied together. She had sat in front of them all evening, wondering what on earth Ron had been thinking in his final days before he was poisoned. It was very late, and she was just considering whether she ought to go to bed, or ring Sherlock.

She checked the time. 3:35 am! It was so late. Hermione yawned, and started making her way upstairs.

Her cell phone vibrated. Sherlock! She picked up.

The detective, on the other end, sounded frazzled but excited.

"I need to see you! Tonight!"

It was like he had read her mind, all the way from-

"Where are you?" She asked into the phone.

Mr. Holmes quickly gave her the location, a place in Holborn (which Hermione found strange, since it was so late at night, and why wasn't Sherlock at home in 221b?) and asked that she come apparate him right away.

Hermione did just so, sweeping Ron's papers, his watch, and even the bottle of meade into her magically enlarged purse, and apparating away.

Teddy Lupin went to sleep on August 31st with his school trunk packed for his last year at Hogwarts. He felt satisfied with the summer. He had relaxed, visited Victoire, and then, right at the very end, his grand-uncle had snuck him in to see Head Auror Toadle.

Ted felt a very strong assurance that he would have a job with the aurors, provided he passed all his NEWTs. Head Auror Toadle was ancient, and shaped a bit like a knobbly mushroom, but Teddy could tell by the sharpness of the man's eyes that he still had it.

Toadle had fired off a rapid series of questions. What was Ted studying? How did he feel about DADA? What were the hardest spells for him to master? What were the easiest? What would he do if he were left without a wand?

Ted tried to answer as straightforwardly as he could, and the Head Auror nodded after each one of Ted's answers.

Finally, the last question came.

"You a metamorph?" Mr. Toadle asked.

Ted nodded, not wanting to elaborate. Naturally, Estimius Toadle would remember his mother, Nymphadora.

Ted's answers was enough for the Head Auror.

He gave Ted instructions on how to apply for Junior Auror training, and that he should do so right after he took his NEWTs.

"Look forward to seein' you." The old man said, and Ted practically beamed. It had gone well! He would be an Auror, he was sure of it! Now, all he had to do was pass his NEWTs, and Ted would study like a maniac to ensure he was accepted by the selective Auror program! He was practically in!

Ted fell asleep dreaming of the next day, when the Hogwarts express would take him to the final year of his schooling, then onto a career with the Aurors, where all his dreams would come true. The dream was good. Very good.

It felt so good in fact that Ted's body, which had been stroked like a cat by the feelings of joy and wholesomeness, got up on its own. Like a sleepwalker, Ted got quietly out of bed, dressed, and took his wand. He was 17 now, the trace was no longer on him. He could do what he wanted. He grasped his wand, turned on the spot, and apparated he knew not where, the pleasant dreams still playing out vividly inside his head.

After fetching Sherlock from a deserted side-street at 3:45 am, Hermione apparated them both to 221B on Sherlock's instructions.

Sherlock immediately narrowed his eyes.

"Cast the spell to reveal wizards." He whispered urgently into Hermione's ear.

Hermione did just that. The glow of the spell faded, revealing no other magic in the flat beside herself. She said as much to Sherlock.

"No! He was just here!" Sherlock cried. Hermione observed the detective inhaling deeply, as though he could smell the wizard he believed to have trespassed in his flat.

"Who?" Hermione asked, lightly spooked by the whole episode. "And where's Harry?"

She looked at Sherlock's face, and immediately cast her gaze aside. It looked for a moment like the detective would cry. His face was crumpled and lined with some form of interior pain that Hermione was embarrassed to be privy to.

"No matter." Sherlock finally answered. "And Harry… he left."

"Oh." Was Hermione's eloquent reply. What had happened? Was Harry still in contact with Sherlock? Hermione had had the strangest notion that Harry and Sherlock were- well, together, more or less. Perhaps she had been wrong.

"Let me see the papers." Sherlock said brusquely.

Hermione produced Ron's Last Evidence, as she had begun to call it, and the watch, and the meade.

"So… his wife gave you all this?" Sherlock asked, picking up the notes one by one.

"Yes. She did. She should have turned it over right from the get go, but I suppose there has always been a bit of friction between me and Charlotte Weasley."

Hermione thought Sherlock would dig at this, but it appeared the consulting detective did not care one whit about Hermione's troubles with Charlotte.

What Ron's Last Evidence was, as Hermione discovered after she thoroughly read it, was a running narrative that Ron had kept for himself, lest he forget any developments in the case. More a series of diary entries than actual evidence, it chronicled Ron's interrogation of Snape, and his poking around which followed that event.

Sherlock had pulled a note, which Hermione herself had caught on, and held it up. It said this:

I don't want to believe it, but everything points to him. It must be Toadle. So, I'll keep this quiet for now. If I alarm the head auror, I'm sure he'd block me at every turn. Seemed like such a decent old bloke, but you never can tell.

"What do you think?" Hermine asked Sherlock.

He paused, and his eyes traced and retraced Ron's words on the paper.

"Seems too neat, doesn't it? The head auror?" Sherlock said. Then, he picked up Ron's watch.

"What's this?" He asked.

Hermione explained. It was Ron's auror watch. It was kind of like a police radio. When there's a situation that requires all aurors' attention, they send the information over it.

Sherlock nodded. He picked up the meade, and immediately set it down again. Then, the consulting detective began to re-examine Ron's notes, his brow furrowed, like he was trying to fit two jig-saw pieces that could not fit, no matter how he turned them.

Harry had waited for Sherlock in the living room of 221B until 3:44 am, but the sudden appearance of a wolf-shaped patronus had drawn him away.

The silvery glow came quite unexpectedly. Four radiant paws had touched down upon Sherlock's ancient Persian rugs. The wolf-patronus opened its mouth and Harry heard a young man's voice coming through the jaws.

"I need help! Please! He's got me in the Death Chamber!"

Harry, who had visited his godson only a few times (as a crow) still knew the boy's voice. His heart began to hammer. The death chamber? He remembered the softly billowing black veil, strung between the great stone arch. Harry had a vivid recollection of Sirius falling, falling through the arch, and never coming out the other side.

What was Ted doing there? Why had he sent Harry the patronus? How did Teddy even know that Harry, the presumed murderous maniac, would come help him in his hour of need?

Harry had little doubt that the patronus was genuine. It was not surprising that Ted's patronus took the form of his father, a wolf.

It smelled like a trap, but taking a quick survey of the situation, Harry realized he had no choice but to fall right into it. He could not leave Teddy in trouble, alone in the Department of Mysteries.

Harry apparated away, a moment before Hermione's crack of apparition sounded, and her and Sherlock entered the flat.

The electronic melody of Hermione's cell phone, usually so familiar, made her jump. Who could be calling her now, at four in the morning? Sherlock did not even glance up at her. Hermione strode to the side of the flat, hit a button, and pressed the surface to her ear.

"You're joking!" She said, after a brief moment in which a voice excitedly told her the good news.

"Sorry about calling you late, but you said-" The voice had added.

"No, not at all! Thank you for calling me!" Hermione answered, then hung up the phone.

Her exchange had caught Sherlock's attention.

"We can leave all these notes behind, and ask him directly." She said to the consulting detective, feeling a huge smile creep onto her face. "Ron's just woke up!"

As they strode through the dimly lit corridors of St. Mungo's, Hermione quickly filled Sherlock in about her friend, Dean, who worked the night shift of the wizarding hospital. Sherlock frowned, wondering if this trip would be a waste of his time. Somehow, by instinct perhaps, he felt that things were drawing tighter by the moment.

And that lingering scent in his flat… He was sure, for an instant, that Harry had been there. But it was possible that it was simply a delusion.

"I convinced him ages ago to get a cell. Thank god, an owl would have taken forever." Hermione babbled excitedly. When they came to Ron's room, the night-healer, Dean, shook hands warmly with Hermione, and gave Sherlock a sidelong look.

"He's alright," Hermione said, and Dean, who seemed to trust the witch implicitly, led them through to the small, white room, hung with bobbing blue lights.

Sherlock quickly did a once-over on Ron Weasley, who looked frail, but on the mend. He was sitting up in bed, and his face split into a smile at the sight of Hermione, then a confused frown, when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock took in the small details of the room while Hermione and Ron did the obligatory social dance of asking if one is alright, how one is feeling, etc etc. There was a bouquet of flowers next to Ron's bed. There were vials, some empty, some filled with a clear liquid, stacked neatly on a counter, next to the door. Each vial had a parchment leaf affixed. Monday, 8pm. Tuesday, midnight. Wednesday, at Lunar Zenith. And so on.

"Who's this?" Ron asked, with what Sherlock detected as an icy note.

Finally, they were to the interesting part.

Hermione looked around, then quickly cast a number of charms to ensure their privacy.

"Ron, this is Sherlock Holmes-" Hermione began to relate the story of how Hermione and Sherlock met, but Sherlock could see that this would take entirely too long.

"We're looking for Harry, too." Sherlock said to the auror. "I think he's innocent. I'm working a muggle case that involves him, and I'm close to figuring it out but-" Sherlock said, and Ron had sat up in bed.

"But what?" Ron asked. Sherlock saw with satisfaction that the pronouncement of Harry Potter's innocence was enough to win a small concession of trust from Ron.

"But I need to know something about Toadle." Sherlock finished.

"You think it's him?" Ron asked. Sherlock did not. But he ignored the question.

"Can Toadle turn himself into other people? Without an incantation, without potion, can he transform himself into complete strangers?" Sherlock asked.

"No, of course not. You'd need polyjuice to do that, or maybe…" Ron answered.

Then it can't have been Toadle.

"Who can do that? Without potions? Without spells?" Sherlock asked the question to the room at large.

"Well, I suppose a metamorph-" Hermione said, "But they're very rare. I only knew the one-"

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"Nymphadora Tonks. She's dead." Ron answered curtly.

"How did she become a metamorph?" Sherlock asked.

"She was born one. No one knows exactly how or why certain people can do this-" Hermione answered.

"Does she have relatives?" Sherlock continued pressing. If she was born one, then perhaps it was a genetic trait.

"Hermione, who is this bloke? Sure we should be telling a muggle all this?" Ron was becoming peeved, and it was quite bad timing. Thankfully, Hermione was still on Sherlock's side.

"She has a son-" Hermione said.

"How old?" Sherlock immediately fired back.

"Seventeen." Hermione answered.

Damn, that wasn't it. Unless her son had done the original frame-job on Harry when he was a toddler.

"Anyone else? Mother? Father?" Sherlock asked.

"Alright, enough! Hermione, let's me and you talk. I think I know-" Ron began, but Sherlock swiftly cut him off.

"It wasn't Toadle! God, you're worse than Lestrade! Hermione, Nymphadora's mother and father, where are they?" Sherlock asked.

Hermione rapidly looked between Ron and Sherlock, unsure of where she should take the conversation.

"And why wasn't it Toadle?" Ron had stiffened in bed, and it appeared that the auror was debating getting out and accosting Sherlock in his hospital gown.

"Because while you were sleeping, Toadle had broken into Azkaban." Sherlock fired back.

"But that proves it! Was Snape in there at the time? He was probably trying to get to the old bat-" Ron said.

"No! Listen, Hermione, Nymphadora's mother and father? What happened to them?" Sherlock fired back.

"Andromeda lives with her grandson. We've both known her for a very long time. I don't believe Andromeda Tonks has anything to do with this. Nor is she a metamorphmagus." Hermione answered.

"Her father?" Sherlock pressed.

"Her father's dead." Ron was the one to answer this time.

Sherlock swore.

He was so sure he had been onto something. He could almost grasp it. Almost.

He checked his watch. It was 5:55. Sherlock could now hear footsteps outside of the corridors. The wizarding hospital was slowly waking up.

"Wait, wasn't there another relative…?" Ron asked.

"Oh that's right!" Hermione said, and Sherlock swung his head towards her, expecting an answer to come at any moment.

"ALL WANDS!"

Everyone in the small hospital room, including the bed-bound auror, jumped.

Hermione, recovering from the initial shock, began to dig in her bag.

"ALL WANDS BULLETIN!"

She clutched an ancient, battered watch, the source of the noise.

Not only was the thing caterwauling, bright red and green lights were issuing out in succession. It gave Sherlock the impression of being stuck inside a room with an ambulance.

"My auror's watch!" Ron cried, reaching his hand for it. Hermione handed off the watch, and after Ron pressed something, the watch fell still. Ron tapped it on the side, as Sherlock looked eagerly to see what would happen next.

This time, the voice was far more controlled, but still quite loud.

"ALL WANDS BULLETIN! ALL wands immediately report to the Ministry of Magic, Ninth Level, Department of Mysteries! ALL wands immediately report to the Ministry of Magic, Ninth Level, Department of Mysteries!"

"Must be a break in." Ron commented. "Not my problem currently."

"Can you turn it off?" Hermione asked.

"ALL WANDS immediately report to the Ministry of Magic, Ninth Level, Department of Mysteries for the apprehension and detainment of Harry James Potter." The watch said, then fell silent once more.

Three pairs of eyes locked together, the sudden fear in the room palpable.

...