"Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lover's meeting…"
-Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare
…
The Case of The Man Who Was Wanted III
…
It had been a sunny July day on which Sherlock had convinced Harry to donate a little blood for an experiment. That day felt like it belonged to a different decade, but it had only been several months ago. Several months in which Sherlock had… well, now was not the time to think of it. Sherlock was currently on a mission.
Harry had laughed, of course. Why do you need my blood, the wizard had asked. Sherlock supplied him with a myriad of reasons, the first and foremost of which was that he would like to take a look at it under the microscope, to see if he could spot the magic in it. You're not going to see any difference, Sherlock. I'm a human! But here, knock yourself out.
Harry had laughed then, but Sherlock was the one laughing now. Gray clouds and cold winds had descended on London, and the late September day was a far cry from that magical summer afternoon, when Sherlock had not yet realized that he had fallen completely and irrevocably in love with his wizard flat mate. But, Sherlock thought, although it was a different day, he ought to still have that blood. He was sure of it. Where had he put it?
He had run up the stairs to 221B, and immediately started ransacking his kitchen. Where had he put the test tube? After making a frightful mess of his freezer, (which was already a mess, frankly, so full that it was rather difficult to navigate) Sherlock determined it was not there. Barts? Had he left it at Barts? No, he didn't think he would. So where?
"Sherlock dear, is that you? Haven't seen you in days! What sort of case have you been on that's keeping you so busy? Oh, and has Harry come by yet? I would like a word with him, if you don't mind." Mrs. Hudson had strolled right in, as she normally did.
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson, I'm looking for something!" Sherlock barked.
"Well, if you kept your things tidier, I dare say they might be easier to find. What are you looking for?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"A tube full of blood." Sherlock replied. It had to be here. Maybe he hadn't frozen it? Maybe it was in his fridge? That would have been stupid, but it was at least worth a shot. Sherlock began to throw things out of the way. It had to be here.
"A tube of blood? It wouldn't be one of those you asked me to keep for you, would it?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
Sherlock spun around.
"It might." He said.
"Come down, then. Have a look."
…
Sherlock could kiss Mrs. Hudson. In fact, he did. There it was, neatly stacked in a tube rack next to other specimens Sherlock couldn't care less about, sharing Mrs. Hudson's freezer shelf with a bag of frozen peas.
His hands shook as he handled the cold sample. There it was! The label said only 'HP,' and next to it… He couldn't believe his eyes. Sherlock had, presumably in a fit of complete insanity, drawn a little star next to the initials. What was that star about? What was it supposed to mean? Was that his way of denoting magic blood? Wizard blood? He stared at the tiny drawing, and scoffed at his past self. I really ought to have figured it out earlier. Doodling stars, really.
Test tube in hand, he was set. He thanked Mrs. Hudson again, and then Sherlock was off, hailing a taxi, on his way to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
…
Well, if he didn't want people breaking into a vault that opened only with his blood, maybe he shouldn't have left his blood all over the place. Maybe he shouldn't have let me get a whole test tube full. Sherlock had to keep repeating this mantra to himself all the way through the cab ride, then on foot through the front gate and then the door of Number Twelve. Anyway, I'm saving his sorry skin, and he ought to be grateful.
Sherlock knew that wouldn't be the case. The most likely outcome was that Harry would feel very much betrayed by Sherlock's actions. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered besides making sure his wizard walked free. Potter could choose to not speak to Sherlock ever again after this, and that would be fine. As long as he walked free.
Sherlock would find the stone, make the deal with Unspeakable Blackbriar, and that would be the trial in the bag.
Sherlock crept up the stairs, hoping that the hideous creature Harry had called 'Kreacher' (creature, Kreacher?) would not disturb him as he thieved the priceless Resurrection Stone from Harry's locked chest. The severed elf-heads on the wall looked down in what Sherlock thought might be an accusatory way.
"Piss off," He whispered softly to them.
Finally, Sherlock was outside the master bedroom, and he was just about to go in.
CRACK!
The little monster appeared, startling Sherlock.
"Where's Master?" The wrinkled elf asked. No mistaking this. The elf's tone, expression and little crossed arms were very accusatory.
"Hi! Remember me? The muggle your master brought along last time? Your master is in a bit of a bind. He's currently in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic and will be sentenced to the Kiss by tomorrow, unless I get my hands on something hidden in this bedroom." Sherlock said, pointing to the door.
Kreacher's eyes narrowed.
"Go get yourself a newspaper. It's all over the Prophet. 'Harry Potter, caught, requests a second chance, trial in progress.' You don't have a fresh copy lying around, do you?" Sherlock added.
"Kreacher can get a copy of the paper. You stay right here." Kreacher said.
"Of course." Sherlock agreed. The elf popped away, and Sherlock was through the bedroom door in a flash.
He strode up to the constellation tapestry, which hid the Black Chest, and uncorked the tube of Harry-blood. A sudden thought seized him. What if it had to be warm? What if it had to be fresh? He looked down at the tube in his hands. Ought he have tried to… warm it up somehow? The blood had thawed, and was no longer frozen solid, but…
No, he didn't have time. He remembered very, very clearly the exact pattern Harry had made to open this little puzzle. Sherlock did so now, smearing the blood in the specific way.
It worked! The tapestry melted away!
Then, placing some blood on his palm, he pressed his hand against the small door that appeared. It clicked open. Sherlock heaved the heavy chest out, and plopped it on the bed. Harry had taken the curse off the chest right in front of Sherlock, but what if he had replaced it? Sherlock didn't think he would. But no time to dally. If he got cursed, Sherlock would just have to trust that he could get himself out of it, again. Unless this time, it's a different curse? One that really knocks you down?
Sherlock steeled himself and threw open the lid. No curse! But also-
No stone. The chest was empty.
"Impossible!" Sherlock shouted at the chest, as though it could hear him.
Harry had been incapacitated in the Department of Mysteries. He had had the stone on him, then. When the aurors went to remove the stone, it had vanished. Obviously, Harry had enchanted it to vanish and reappear in a safe place, should anything happen to him. Which safe place would it re-appear to? This place. It had to be here. It had to be! Where else could it have possibly vanished to?
Sherlock sank down on his knees. That was it. That was the Hail Mary. That was the last chance.
He had to get ahold of himself. He had to do something! But what?
CRACK!
"Master is in prison?" Kreacher was holding a fresh copy of the Daily Prophet. Sherlock, whose mind had gone totally blank, looked up. He idly wondered where the little elf had gotten the paper. Kreacher looked at the front page shocked, if it was possible to look shocked through the mass of wrinkles that was the elf's face.
"Aren't you supposed to be in Hogwarts?" Sherlock asked, his tone very light and totally foreign to his own ears. His thoughts were drifting away from him, and he didn't know what was happening.
Kreacher sniffed.
"Kreacher doesn't like Hogwarts. Kreacher's job is to take care of this house. Keep it clean and tidy, for Master's return." Kreacher said.
"Absurd. This is the single dirtiest house I've ever seen. But no matter, I suppose your master will probably not care. Never care again…" Sherlock felt the wave coming for him. He needed to get back home before it crashed.
Sherlock started walking away.
Wait-
"Kreacher, if your master had a black stone on him which disappeared if anyone but him touched it…. would you happen to know where it might have popped off to?" Sherlock asked.
Kreacher nodded his head.
Some feeling rushed back into Sherlock. Just for one blissful moment: hope.
"Kreacher knows the black stone. Kreacher thinks it would go into that chest." The elf said, pointing to the bed, where the chest still lay open.
Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes, that's what I thought, too."
…
Back in 221B, Sherlock let the wave crash.
He thought he really ought to call John, but he couldn't make himself pick up the phone. How could he explain it? How could he admit this to anyone? He had lost.
He placed himself on the couch, and looked up at the ceiling. He had lost.
The light slowly faded from the windows, and wind knocked against the panes. What was he going to do now? How could he move forward? What else could he possibly do?
If only he hadn't picked that stupid fight with Harry and driven him off, the wizard might still be right here, hidden and safe. They might be sitting on this very couch. They might be…
Sherlock felt a sob break out of him, but he felt no tears. He didn't deserve tears. He didn't merit the release they would give him.
How pathetic. Harry was about to lose his very soul, and Sherlock was just laying on the couch, feeling sorry for himself.
Sherlock's eyes fixed on the empty eye sockets of his skull, sitting on the mantelpiece. Harry had once lifted the skull from its place, and had jumped when Sherlock's secret pack of smokes fell out.
What's this? He had asked Sherlock, picking up the Marlboro pack from the floor. Sherlock had explained that he had (mostly) quit smoking, but occasionally, he needed a cigarette or two, to clear his mind. So this is like your hiding place? The wizard had asked. Sherlock huffed that it's not as sophisticated as the Black Chest in Grimmauld Place, what with the blood locks and all, but it worked for Sherlock just fine regardless. Sherlock avoided telling Harry that he had once hidden something much more intoxicating than cigarettes in his skull. Harry had then asked Sherlock to smoke one of his cigarettes, as he had never actually tried one. Sherlock obliged, and they spent a comfortable evening, with the windows open, making little puffs of smoke disappear into the twilight. That is, until Mrs. Hudson had busted up the party, and told him that smoking was absolutely prohibited by the terms of his lease.
Sherlock got up from the couch. If ever there was a night for a secretive smoke, this was it.
He lifted his skull from its place, and reached his hand inside for his cigarettes, and…
The tip of his index finger grazed soft, silky, cold fabric. Sherlock looked down in surprise. There was his pack of Marlboros, and next to it, glistening in the faint streetlight coming from the window, something else.
Sherlock's fingers glided over the silver material, just a little edge of it peaking out. He grasped it and pulled.
Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, or a coil of colored ribbon from a shirtsleeve, Sherlock had pulled a cloak out of his skull. It was made of a material so fine and light, that it felt like it barely had substance. It should not have all fit inside his skull. But, then again, magic.
He couldn't believe his eyes. It was Harry's invisibility cloak that he held in his hands. Sherlock looked down at the bottom of the skull again. His fingers reached down, as his mouth opened in a gasp. He picked the black stone out of the skull, and brought it up. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows shone on the smooth side. Then finally, Sherlock saw the handle of a wand. He plucked it out. He knew what it was, of course. The Elder Wand. All three Hallows were inside his skull, the whole time. He didn't know whether to start crying or laughing, but he sensed he would probably do both.
Then, finally, a little rolled up parchment, no bigger than his finger, fluttered out and landed silently on his carpet.
For some reason this was the object that made Sherlock completely break down. He clutched the piece of rolled up paper to his heart and sat down on the floor. He could no longer control his emotions. Not even one bit. He choked and blinked his eyes against the blurred vision.
Sherlock, if you're reading this note, something probably happened to me. Don't worry! I'm sure I'll be fine. I've gotten myself out of many tight fixes over the years. Anyway, I need you to take care of this stuff for me. Please, keep it secret and safe. Do not let anyone else have them. Sherlock, I trust you. I hope all is well.
-H
The realization of what happened hit Sherlock over and over again. Harry had enchanted the Hallows to vanish and reappear in a safe place, should anything happen to him. Which safe place would it re-appear to? Not the chest in his godfather's house. No. This place. 221B, inside Sherlock's hiding-skull. A place Harry judged to be sufficiently safe. Because he judged Sherlock to take care of it. Because he trusted Sherlock with his biggest secret.
Sherlock read the words on the paper over and over again. 'Do not let anyone else have them. Sherlock, I trust you.' Sherlock looked at the mythical artifacts spread out on the floor of his flat. How many wizards and witches had dreamed of owning these things? How many had tried to find them? How many spent their lives searching for Death's Favors?
And here they were, on the floor of a crying muggle, who could not stop reading a silly note.
He traced the words again, with one long finger.
Sherlock, I trust you.
"An altogether poor choice on your part, darling." Sherlock said out loud to no one, to the night.
…
Ron felt uneasy as he settled into his bench. This would, in all likelihood, be the last Hearing. It was also the most significant. They knew that the pieces of the story wouldn't fit together until Harry, who was the last witness, gave his statement.
The muggle, Sherlock, who Ron had grown quite accustomed to, took his place next to Ron. Ron greeted him, then did a double take.
He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but something was wrong. Sherlock's eyes looked dull, dead even. Like he was here in body, but miles away in spirit.
It deepened Ron's unease. Hermione had sung the praises of this muggle detective. She had called him the most brilliant man in London, maybe even in England. Ron had frankly been just a teensy bit jealous. He knew he had never been the smartest bloke around, but still. He was an auror. A senior auror. That ought to count for something.
Ron shook his head. The muggle detective, Sherlock, who was the most brilliant of all detectives ever, looked completely defeated, and Ron figured this was bad news.
"Erm, what's up?" Ron leaned over to ask Sherlock. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the question. Then, moving the least amount of muscles he could, Sherlock rolled his eyes up to stare at the ceiling.
"Brilliant," Ron said, "I mean what's wrong?"
"Wrong? I don't know. Why should anything be wrong?" Sherlock replied.
Cold water flooded Ron's stomach. Oh, no, something was definitely wrong. He could hear it in the man's voice. What had happened?
Sherlock pointedly turned away from Ron, and began paying attention to the proceedings below.
Just muggles being weird, Ron assured himself, nothing to worry about.
Andrei Mirum began the opening preamble, and with the man's usual speed, he was moving on.
"Next witness. I believe the last one as well. Harry James Potter?" Mirum asked.
Harry nodded below.
Hermione stood up. She had prepared very few questions for Harry, Ron knew. It was, more or less, in Harry's hands now.
"Mr. Potter, could you please take us through the events of your life that unfolded after the 2nd of May, 1998?" She began. They had picked this day very deliberately. It was the day Voldemort was defeated. A subtlety on Hermione's part. Draw attention to it, but not be overt. Hermione had not told Harry about this little subtly, a decision Ron agreed with. It was also the best place to start the story, or at least, that's what they had told Harry.
"Hold up," Mirum interjected, holding up a hand, "You're asking him to tell us his whole life story? That's your opening question?"
"I'd like to hear it!" Amos Diggory cut in.
"Me too, as a matter of fact." That was Levee.
Andrei Mirum sighed.
"Alright then, we'll be here for a while. Mr. Potter, I would ask you to be concise and please focus on the details of the night of May 10th, 1999. Proceed." Mirum said, and sat back.
Harry opened his mouth and began telling them the story.
The courtroom was eerily quiet as he talked. Ron was reminded very uncomfortably of his fifth year in Hogwarts. He remembered the nasty articles about Harry, with bylines like what will the wonder boy dream up next? Ron looked at the crowd. He looked at the Wizengamot. He wondered if they would believe him.
Occasionally, the Wizengamot would interrupt Harry to drill down on a point of interest. Hermione had foreseen where these interruptions would happen, and had prepped Harry on what to say.
"And how were you able to escape Azkaban?" Mirum asked, once Harry reached that point in his story.
"Oh. Um. Well, I have to admit to something quite illegal, here. I'm an unregistered Animagus. I escaped in my animal form." Harry said.
The courtroom burst into a hiss of whispers.
"Decorum, please, everyone. Are you really?" Mirum asked, with honest curiosity on his face, "What animal?"
"A crow." Harry answered.
"And, could you provide a demonstration for us?" Mirum proceeded.
"Yes, if you like." Harry said.
The two guards appeared and released the chains off Harry's chair. They stood nearby, both wands pointed at Harry, just in case.
Harry did not even get out of his chair. In the blink of an eye he was gone, and a large gray and black crow sat in his place. It gave one indignant caw, and Harry transformed back.
"Should we add that to the list of charges? Unregistered Animagus?" One of the Wizengamot members, whose name Ron didn't know but who Ron also immediately disliked, turned to ask Mirum.
"Oh, no, I don't think that's necessary. Think about the timeline here, Silvus. Potter probably learned this magic when he was on the run, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at large. Do you remember what the Ministry was like that year? I do. Potter knew well enough he couldn't come strolling into the Registrar's office asking to be put on the books as a crow-animagus. He would have been cursed on the spot." Mirum said.
Harry stayed silent. Ron knew that wasn't exactly the timeline, but he was glad Mirum took Harry's side in this small way. A little bubble of hope popped into his chest.
"Alright then, proceed Mr. Potter." Mirum motioned.
And so Harry did. He kept talking, until he reached the night of August 31st of this year. He recounted what Henry Tonks had said, why he had killed all those poor Ministry workers, and how he had attempted to perform a Goetic ritual once in 1999, and again, just a month ago.
And then, having reached the end of his tale, Harry suddenly stopped, like someone had put him on mute.
The courtroom was quiet.
Andrei Mirum was stroking his chin. Suddenly, he sat up.
"Cressilda, please fetch me a record. I seem to recall a break-in attempt at the Department of Mysteries, on the 31st of August, in 1999. If I remember correctly, the culprit tripped several alarms on his way out, but was never discovered."
Cressilda Lem hurried off to do just that. The courtroom remained silent.
When the court's clerk returned, she hurried over to Andrei Mirum, and gave him a piece of parchment.
"Yes, there it is, right here. Consistent with Mr. Potter's story. A minor incident, investigated, but never closed. Someone broke into… the Ceremony Room. Interesting." Mirum said, then passed the parchment around to the other Wizengamot members who examined it in turn.
Hisses of conversation started to seep through the silence.
While the record of the trespass was being passed around, Andrei Mirum was sitting back, looking at Harry. After some time, Mirum started talking.
"So, then. You've provided us with a very interesting story. And I admit, every witness the defense has called does fit nicely with what you've told us. Then there is that record of the break-in in 1999. I don't suppose you'd ever have had access to that record, Mr. Potter, so it is most convincing. But-" Mirum bit off the last word, and Ron, like many others in the courtroom, sucked in a breath.
"But, there are many parts of your story that we have no evidence for, besides your own testimony. For example, the confession Henry Tonks made to you about his murder of six people in May of 1999. That, Mr. Potter, we have to entirely take your word on. No doubt, if Henry Tonks were present, we could get to the bottom of this much faster, as we would have his testimony to compare to yours. But the person you accuse of these crimes, Henry Tonks, is either dead or missing. You claim dead. Well, that is convenient, as he cannot contradict you from beyond the grave, can he?" Mirum said. The crowd of the courtroom hung on his every word.
"And so, because of this, we are forced to either trust or not trust only your word on this Harry. And because of this, I think we ought to take precautions to ensure your words are the truth, the absolute truth. I propose to the Wizengamot that a dose of veritaserum be offered to the accused. Who is in favor?"
Immediately, every hand of the Wizengamot shot up.
Ron's stomach clenched. He and Hermione had discussed the very subject of veritaserum only the night prior. Ron had invited Hermione out for dinner, and she came along. Both of them had eaten very little, nervous as they were about the trial.
"D'you think they'll offer him the truth serum?" Ron had asked.
Hermione nodded. "I'm almost positive they will."
"And?" Ron prodded.
"And what, Ron?" She bit back.
"Do you think he will take it?" Ron clarified.
Hermione sighed. "Well, he would be a complete idiot not to, wouldn't he? I mean, he is telling the truth."
Ron waited a beat.
"Hermione, did you ask him if he would take it?" Ron asked again.
Hermione nodded.
"Tell me he didn't say no." Ron asked, trying to keep the worry at bay.
"Well, he didn't commit one way or the other, to be frank. But really. He would have to be a complete, hopeless, brainless idiot to not take the veritaserum." Hermione said, clutching at her fork with which she had barely touched her food.
Ron was now feeling that unease wash over him. He looked down at Harry, and then at the Wizengamot, all hands up in favor of the truth serum.
"So, then, Harry Potter. The Wizengamot has voted in favor of my proposal. We offer to hear your testimony under the effects of the potion veritaserum. The potion is widely known, however it is my duty to offer you a full explanation of its effects, if you would like." Mirum said.
"That's not necessary. I know what it does." Harry answered.
Ron relaxed marginally. Harry sounded calm. Reasonable. He would definitely take the potion.
"And do you accept our proposal?" Andrie Mirum began to scribble on a piece of paper. No doubt he was already penning a missive to bring a dose of the truth serum to the courtroom.
"I am very sorry, but I have to refuse." Harry said.
The courtroom exploded in a chaos of noise.
"Decorum! Decorum, please!" Mirum was shouting but it was hopeless. Every single person had abandoned any pretense at quiet.
The journalists had all stood up and were now yelling their questions at Harry. The Wizengamot judges were talking loudly amongst themselves, shrugging shoulders and shaking heads. The general noise only rose in volume as Mirum tried to impose silence.
Hermione had come right up to Harry's chair, and was on one knee, whispering urgently in his ear. Ron saw Harry resolutely shaking his head to whatever sense Hermione might have been trying to talk into him.
The absolute dolt! Didn't he realize it was finished? If he didn't take the potion…
Ron himself was leaning forward and shouting something down at Harry. It might have been profanity.
"Decorum! DECORUM! Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Mirum suddenly shot out of his seat, wand pointed at the room at large, "SILENCIO!"
An unnatural silence came over the courtroom.
"That's better." Mirum said, "Jostely, Parks, next person who talks out of turn is to be ejected from this courtroom, no questions asked." He told the two large guards standing close to Harry.
"Now then, Potter, are you absolutely sure about this decision? You understand what this means?" Mirum turned to Harry.
"I do. I'm sorry. But I don't have a choice." Harry said, speaking more to Hermione than to Mirum.
Mirum took a moment to process this.
"Are you refusing to take the potion because you have lied during your testimony?" He asked.
"No, I haven't lied." Harry said.
"Then why?"
Ron imagined that even without the threat of being kicked out, everyone would have quieted down to listen to this.
"Because…" Harry started, struggling with his words, "Because I know things that I can't talk about. Things that no one should know. I'm very sorry. I wish I could take it, I really do."
"And I suppose it would be pointless to ask you what these things are, wouldn't it? Well, then, let me think…" Mirum said, "Do these things of yours have anything to do with the testimony you gave today?"
"Not very much, no." Harry answered.
"Suppose we agree on a set of questions. We will draft them with your counselor, and an appointed member of the Wizengamot. Then, we will administer the veritaserum and ask you only the questions on that list." Mirum offered.
Another foolish spike of hope drove into Ron's chest. Mirum was being… very reasonable. Ron was starting to like the man, really. Now, Harry couldn't possibly refuse an of-
"No, I'm sorry. I really can't take that risk." Harry said.
The courtroom drowned in noise again. Jostley and Parks looked around in confusion, not comprehending how they could follow their orders and kick everyone out of the courtroom at the same time. Andrei Mirum was still shouting about decorum, but no one paid him any heed.
"THE TESTIMONY OF HARRY JAMES POTTER HAS CONCLUDED," Mirum had pointed his wand at his own throat. He had decided to simply shout over the din, instead of controlling it, "THE WIZENGAMOT WILL NOW BEGIN FINAL DELIBERATIONS. IF THERE ARE ANY MORE STATEMENTS TO BE MADE, BY ANY PRESENT IN THIS COURT, PLEASE PRESENT THEM NOW BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE."
No one noticed the stout, curly haired witch as she made her way to the front. It was not until she was standing right next to Harry, that people started to quiet down in order to hear what would happen next.
Ron thought he knew the woman. She was definitely an Unspeakable. Blackburn? Blackwood? Maybe Blackbriar? Something along those lines.
Once Mirum judged everyone sufficiently calmed, he addressed the woman.
"Matilda Blackbriar, do you have a statement to make?" He asked.
"I do, yes." She said simply.
"Then, please, go ahead." Mirum motioned with his hand and a chair appeared for Blackbriar to occupy.
"Thank you. I have come to enter into the Wizengamot's consideration this artifact." The witch said, then produced a little table. On this table, she placed a wand. Not the one she had just used, but a different wand.
Ron perked up.
What was this about? He looked at Hermione, but she didn't seem to know either, judging by her deer in the headlights expression. Then Ron looked at Harry. He flinched.
Harry looked furious. And he was looking right at Ron. What had Ron done?!
No wait, he wasn't looking right at Ron, but just to the side of him. At the muggle?
Ron turned to Sherlock. He saw the detective lock eyes with Harry. Then, Sherlock gave a barely perceptible shrug. If anything, Harry looked more enraged by this small gesture. Ron looked back and forth. What was going on between them?
"This wand has been in the possession and use of Henry Tonks as long as I have known him. And we have worked together for… a little over nine years now." Blackbriar continued, pointing to the wand on the table.
"I have also requested records from Olivander's. I have them here, if you wish to examine them. This is the first, and only wand purchased by Henry Tonks." Blackbriar said, then produced Olivander's records, and sent them fluttering over to the Wizengamot. Mirum took them out of the air, and began reading, and nodding his head. Once he was finished he passed it on, to the person on his left.
"And so, this is beyond a doubt Henry Tonks's wand." Blackbriar concluded.
She waited a beat.
"I suggest you take it for yourselves and see. Cast Priori Incantatem." She finished.
Ron felt a wave of air next to him. He was so engrossed he barely noticed. He turned his head to the side, and saw Sherlock's coat swish away. He was leaving? Maybe the man had to go use a loo, but still. Leaving now? At this moment?
Henry Tonks's wand had already been passed to the Wizengamot when Ron looked down.
"Who would like to do the honors?" Mirum asked, holding up the wand, "Amos?"
Mirum passed the wand to Minister Diggory, who took it gingerly.
"Is this going to show us what I think it will?" Mirum asked Blackbriar.
"Oh yes, it will." She said.
Amos Diggory looked down at the wand. "Priori Incantatem," The Minister pronounced, pointing the wand at an empty expanse of floor in front of Harry.
The ghostly shapes of spells began to appear. First, some drawing spells, making diagrams in the air. Then, a few red stunners. Then, the dark crawling vaporous form of the Imperius Curse.
"Coincides with Ted Lupin's statement." Grunspell said, looking at the echo of the Imperius.
Many spells followed, most quite mundane. Shaving charms. Heating charms. Levitation charms. A few analytical spells that Tonks no doubt used in his work.
They had maybe sat through a full ten minutes of a Common Compendium of Charms and Spells, until the next Unforgivable came from the wand. The two ghostly forms sprouted from the tip of the wand that killed them, and Ron's mouth fell open. Gasps were heard all around, and a few screams.
An elderly couple, muggle judging by the clothes, appeared. The woman was skinny and tall, and the man rather short and thick. The ghosts looked around themselves with mild disgust.
"Toadle!" Mirum called over to the auror, "Is that a match for the Dursley case?"
"It is, yes." Toadle called back.
More spells followed. Ron sat back in his seat when he realized they would have to watch an entire decade of spells before they got to what they really wanted to see.
A full hour elapsed, and still the spells which were sprouting from Henry Tonks's wand were nothing more deadly than the Igniting Charm. Ron had to keep reminding himself that he had, in fact, seen Harry's muggle uncle and aunt sprout from that wand tip. Their ghosts had long faded.
Then, long after the crowd had stopped paying the Priori spells much attention, and everyone had settled into conversations amongst themselves, somebody shouted, "Look!"
Ron spun around.
He saw the top of Kingsley's bald head sprout from the wand. Then, Kesserling, who was a thin, older man. Then Hestia Jones. Then Abraximus. Then Appalonia. Then finally, Valds. All six of the people killed on the night of May 10th, coming forth as ghosts from Henry Tonks's wand.
This was it, Ron knew. They were done. Harry was going to go free.
"Do I end the spell now?" Amos Diggory asked, looking sadly at the translucent ghosts.
"Not yet." Mirum said.
More spells followed. Another ten minute stretch of common spells and then…
Screaming filled the court chamber. The Cruciatus Curse. More ghosts. People Ron recognized. Old members of the Order. Nasty curses. Then, screaming again. Screaming and screaming and screaming.
Suddenly, the spell stopped.
Diggory dropped the wand in front of him like it was a diseased thing. He had ended the spell early. Ron breathed out in relief.
For several moments, there was absolute silence.
"Head Auror, please take this wand into your custody. Perform the full Priori. There may be cold cases to be solved there." Mirum said, levitating the wand towards the old auror.
"Matilda, thank you for bringing this to our attention. Do you have any further statements to make?" Mirum turned to the Unspeakable witch.
"No, sir, I don't." She said.
"Then you may leave. The Wizengamot will now begin final deliberations. Are there any more statements, by any present in the court?" Mirum asked.
No one said a word. No one moved.
"The Wizengamot will convene for no more than three hours. We will issue the verdict when we have come to an agreement, unless we have come to an impasse. As things stand… that doesn't seem likely. Please proceed out of the courtroom in an organized manner. We will announce when we have reached our decision."
…
Ron found Hermione in the hall, and immediately beelined towards her.
"Been holding out on me, have you? Why didn't you tell me we had the bastard's wand? You know how worried I've been?" Ron said to her.
"Ron, that wasn't me! I didn't even know she had the wand! I had no idea where it was!" Hermione said. She looked happy. Radiant. Ron supposed he did, too. Harry was going to be free. They did it. Well, someone did it. Ron and Hermione helped. Whatever had happened, Ron was just happy that it would all finally be over, soon.
They barely had time to say much more, when the announcement was made.
"All parties concerned with the Trial of Harry James Potter, please return to your seats in Courtroom Thirteen. I repeat, all parties concerned…" A disembodied voice sounded through the halls.
"It's barely been ten minutes!" Ron said.
Hermione smiled. "Let's go."
…
"...and so, the Wizengamot has agreed on a full acquittal of Harry James Potter. Mr. Potter, you will be returned to the holding cell where items that have been confiscated from you, (if any have been), will be returned. You may then proceed out of the Ministry. I recommend you stop by the Animagia Registrar's office before long. I wish to offer a full apology for the incorrect verdict previously issued by this court. You are hereby dismissed." Mirum finished reading, and immediately, the whole court burst into an unholy cacophony of sound. Ron laughed, and turned to his brothers. They all returned his smile. It was done. It was over. Ron turned to his other side. The seat here was still empty.
Where had the muggle gone? Didn't he want to see this?
No matter. Ron had to go find Hermione. Then, they could take Harry out of here. Together. The three of them again.
…
Amazingly, Harry wasn't overcome with joy when Ron and Hermione stepped into his holding cell. In fact, if Ron wasn't mistaken, Harry still looked furious. But why? How could that be?
"Harry?" Ron asked, a note of caution in his voice.
Harry's eyes were scanning over the tops of Ron and Hermione's heads, like he was looking for someone to come in right behind them.
"Where is he?" Harry snapped.
Ron hadn't been mistaken, Harry was properly pissed off. "Who?" Ron asked, confused by the whole situation .
"Where's Sherlock?" Harry repeated.
"Erm, strangest thing, he left during the trial. Right before the Priori Incantatem bit. I thought he'd wanna stick around for that?" Ron answered.
"Oh yeah? I bet he did. Well, jokes on him, I know where to find him. And I'll be free to do so, shortly." Harry said.
"Harry?" Hermione came up, and placed one hand on Harry's shoulder, "What is it? What's wrong?"
This calmed Harry a little, at last.
"Nothing, Hermione. We did it, yeah? You guys did it." Harry said.
"I'm not sure we did much. That bit at the end with Unspeakable Blackbriar… neither me nor Hermione had anything to do with that…" Ron said, thinking out loud, and that's when the pieces fell in place. Had Sherlock, the muggle detective, orchestrated that part of the trial? But if so, why would Harry be so angry? Why did it sound like the first thing Harry would do with his hard-earned freedom is find the muggle and curse him into pieces?
"I'm glad you didn't have anything to do with it, Ron." Harry answered.
Ron was just about to open his mouth and ask what was going on between Harry and Sherlock, when the door to the holding cell swung open again.
Andrei Mirum strode in, followed by a young man who was furiously scratching something on a floating piece of parchment before him. Ron figured the young wizard must have been Mirum's secretary or something.
"Harry!" Andrei said, as he entered the tight confines of the room. With five people, they were all basically right in each other's faces. "What a great outcome. I say, this is exactly what I was hoping for, all along. A full acquittal, based on incontrovertible evidence. How wonderful."
Ron wished there was a way he could silently let Andrei Mirum know that this wasn't the time to try to get chummy with Harry.
"Right," was all Harry had to say.
"Now, you might, or I suppose you might not, remember: I was the head Wizengamot judge when we had you on trial in '99." Mirum kept going.
"I remember." Harry said. Curt, and cold.
"I'm here now because I feel I owe you an apology. A personal apology." Mirum said.
"Oh. Right. Well, it's fine. You were doing your job." Harry answered.
"So, no hard feelings?" Mirum asked, raising one eyebrow.
"No hard feelings." Harry repeated.
"For the record, no hard feelings?" Mirum asked again, his head jerking towards the young man that accompanied him. It dawned on Ron: that was no secretary. That was a journalist.
Harry looked from Mirum to the reporter, and let out one bitter laugh.
"You know what?" Harry started, and Ron braced himself, "Yeah, for the record, no hard feelings." Ron felt himself deflate.
"Wonderful!" Mirum cried, and extended a hand to Harry. Harry shook it, but his face looked like he would really rather not. "That's all, Hollis." Mirum said, dismissing the journalist at his side. The young journalist looked crestfallen, like he was hoping there would be a bit more to his story than just that.
"Now, there's an avalanche of reporters right out those doors. I recommend you take the shortcut." Mirum said, and tapped his wand against the opposite wall. He had to awkwardly reach between Harry and Hermione to do so.
A door opened there. One that Ron was more than familiar with.
"That should take you through to the Auror's Headquarters. I believe Weasley knows the way. I'm sure Toadle will be more than gracious enough to let you use his fireplace. Don't forget to stop by the Registrar's office and get yourself squared away with the animagus thing. That's all for now!" And with that, Mirum left.
There was a heavy silence in the wake of the exit.
"As you can see, nothing has properly changed while you've been gone." Ron commented.
Harry barked out a laugh, a genuine one. "Yeah. Not at all. Let's go?"
And with Ron leading the way, they left the Ministry of Magic, all three of them.
…
The bleak countryside rolled by behind the car window. Sherlock had his head propped against the cool glass, watching and not watching.
"I don't think you're going to be proper company for father in this state." Mycroft said, with a note of distaste.
Sherlock barely lifted his head to look at his brother. "In what state?"
"This sad sack of oozing malaise that has replaced my little brother." Mycroft answered. "Dad's dealing with enough as it is. He doesn't need to see this."
"You can't bar me from going to see my own father, Mycroft." Sherlock said.
Mycroft showed a carefully composed expression of mild surprise. It seemed to say: oh, can't I?
Sherlock groaned. "Oh, alright, look. I can put on a happy face, see?"
Sherlock did just that and stretched his lips into a grin.
"No, certainly don't do that." Mycroft said, perturbed by Sherlock's smile.
"I'm just going for a little while. I… I don't think I should be around London for some time." Sherlock said. He really ought not to be letting his brother into this matter, he knew. But the words that came out of his mouth were completely disconnected with his brain. It had been like this since he found the Deathly Hallows inside the skull on his mantlepiece. He would say and do things, and realize he had no intention of actually having wanted to say or do those things.
Sherlock mused now that it was very fitting to hide the Deathly Hallows inside a skull. Had Harry thought that when he enchanted his secrets to return to 221B?
And it wasn't exactly when Sherlock had found the stashed Hallows that this strangeness started. It was when he had given the Resurrection Stone to Unspeakable Blackbriar, in exchange for her statement and for Tonks's wand. It was when he had betrayed Harry.
How bitter it was to have found out that Harry must have trusted him more than anyone else on Earth, just to have to break that trust the very next day. Just to see his wizard looking at him like Sherlock was the worst thing that ever happened to him as Blackbriar pulled out the wand, and Harry understood what had happened.
"If it eases your mind, I don't think Potter would get violent with you. I'm sure he's not happy, but… if you don't feel safe in London, maybe I could make some arrangements?" Mycroft offered.
That was surprisingly solicitous of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock turned again to look at him.
"I don't think he'd get violent with me either, Mycroft." Sherlock answered.
"Then why run?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. He didn't know why he was running. All he knew was that he couldn't face Harry. He knew, much better than Mycroft, that Harry would never hurt him, not really. But Sherlock still could not face him. He could not see Harry looking at him that way again…
So Sherlock was going to live in the country, for a bit. Keep his father company, for a time. He didn't have a plan, not really. All he knew was that he could not bear to be in London. Not now.
Sherlock turned his attention away from Mycroft, and his brother was gracious enough not to pester him any longer. He returned his gaze to the passing fields and trees outside, and thought more. He couldn't stop himself from gnawing and scratching at the same painful question.
Harry probably enchanted the Hallows to appear in his flat before they'd had their fight. Yes, that would be right. No doubt, all the events that happened after Harry had stormed out of 221B had prevented him from re-enchanting the Hallows to appear somewhere else. He had not had the time, nor the means, to think of a better hiding place. Surely, if Harry had time, and another safer place, he would not have trusted Sherlock with the Hallows. He would not have left that note.
But that wasn't quite right, either. Because, after talking to Ted Lupin, Sherlock knew that Harry, when faced with danger, had enchanted two portkeys to take him where? To 221B. To Sherlock. Even then, even after their fight, Harry had counted on Sherlock.
So, this was the question, essentially, that was driving Sherlock deeper and deeper into despair: before Unspeakable Blackbriar took the stage, and Harry had known that Sherlock betrayed him, had Harry still cared for Sherlock? Had there still been a chance? Had Sherlock taken that chance and broken it into little pieces?
But Sherlock had had no choice, regardless. He could not have seen Harry given the Kiss. Still, the question plagued him. How close had they been to reconciliation?
Sherlock's hand reached to his chest, and he almost pulled out the little note that he kept in a pocket, on the inside of his coat. He felt for the paper there. It reassured him.
Sherlock, I trust you.
Sherlock closed his eyes. This note would have to be enough for him. Just a memory, the ghost of a thing that had happened, and had passed. The note would keep him company.
Sherlock was tired, and the motion of the car was lulling. He was drifting in a place that was halfway between dream and reality. He remembered pulling the black stone out of the skull. He had only had it for one night before he had given it up to the Unspeakable woman, but he had put it to use: he remembered twirling it in his fingers, and seeing Pierce, who was more than a decade dead. He could not help himself. After unearthing the buried memories in his labyrinth, he had to say a proper good-bye to Pierce. And he did. But then…
The Resurrection stone, in Sherlock's fingers, wanted to be spun again. It wanted to bring back another ghost. It almost vibrated with the need. But Sherlock could not call the ghost. He could not remember the ghost's name. Why was it so important? And if it was so important, why had he forgotten it? He must have been falling asleep because the walls of his labyrinth were coming closer, squeezing around him.
The black stone walls rose around him, and Sherlock was now wandering the desolate stretches of his labyrinth. It closed in on him. Harry was there, right next to his heart, just like the note.
'We have to go deeper. Please, it's not over yet.' Harry was trying to say, as the stone walls rumbled.
How could they go any deeper? Sherlock asked. How could he resurrect that other terrible ghost? Didn't Harry know what it would do to Sherlock? How could he face it?
The walls were endless, and the maze was impenetrable. All was dark, but Harry was there, at least, in the dream.
…
AN: So, quick note: originally the previous three chapters, imaginatively called The Case of the Man Who Was Wanted I,II, and III, were all one long chapter. Obviously, it was much too long for that and I had to split it up, but that allowed me to release them quickly. Hopefully, the update schedule was a welcome change from my normal pace. Unfortunately, the next two chapters (and we only have two chapters left!) might take a little longer. And that is, if I don't have to keep splitting stuff up. Anyway, I hope you keep reading and enjoying. I'm so excited to be so near the end of this long, long, LONG fanfic that I started writing forever ago. I really loved writing it, and I hoped you liked reading it. As always, leave me a comment. I can't take any payment for using characters that are licensed property, but comments are pretty much as good as money, for me. Maybe better. They make me feel very nice!
