Chapter Text
“God damn it Mycroft! Would you stop doing that!”
“I was an Auror, Mycroft,” John called out from the kitchen. “I know how to put up anti-Apparition wards.”
“Of course you do, John,” said Mycroft pleasantly. He had, in fact, just Apparated directly into the sitting room of 221B. Directly between John and Sherlock’s chairs, in fact. And as Sherlock’s chair was occupied by a so-not-a-morning person, tea-drinking, dressing-gown wearing Sherlock, Mycroft settled instead into John’s chair, crossed his legs, and waited patiently until John appeared, already showered and dressed, and pressed a mug of tea into his hands. “It’s far more convenient popping in on you now that you’re at least hovering on the fringes of the magical world.” He took a sip of his tea and frowned at it, then gave Sherlock a disapproving look, focusing on Sherlock’s hand in the pocket of his dressing gown.
“You’re such a child, Sherlock. You know I’ll just warm it back up again.”
“He must have been a menace when he was younger.” John settled on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and looked over at Mycroft. “I might have served your tea cold, you know.”
Mycroft dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “He’s still a menace,” he said, though his voice was a touch fond. He shook his head and tsked. “Such a waste. All that innate magical ability and he uses it to play practical jokes.”
“And to summon things,” said John. “He’s really talented with an Accio.”
Sherlock had brightened a bit when John’s warmth had settled next to him, and brightened even more at the praise. “It wasn’t a practical joke,” he said. “I was trying to get you to leave.”
Mycroft scowled at him.
“And it’s not a waste,” Sherlock continued, rather imperiously. “Magic has improved our sex life, if you must know, though honestly, there was nothing wrong with it before I learned to conjure lube and perform a body-part specific Petrificus.”
“Thank you for that delightful mental image.” With the air of one who had, in the past, been subjected to one too many cooling charm, he flicked his wand at his tea. Steam immediately rose from it, and he took a sip and nodded at John. “Excellent, as usual. Thank you, John.”
His praise of John’s tea-making ability did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who took a sip from his own cup and said, deceptively casually, “John does make the best tea. Who makes your morning tea, Mycroft, hmm?”
“Behave,” said John, but his heart wasn’t in it. John liked Mycroft more than he’d admit, but he also enjoyed Sherlock flaunting their relationship at Mycroft. It meant something to him to see Sherlock so comfortable in it, so at ease. “You’re not here just for my tea, Mycroft,” he said. He raised an eyebrow and Mycroft sighed.
“No, I’m not. We have a bit of a problem at the Ministry – and I have come to request your services.” He chose his words with care. He would have preferred to say “demand your services” or, truth be told, “I’ve already signed you up to fix the bloody thing.” But as it was a magical mission, he decided to tread more carefully.
“I’m retired,” Sherlock said. He faked a yawn.
Mycroft rubbed his forehead. He looked like he was beginning to run out of patience. “Fine, Sherlock. You’re retired. John, you can help me then.”
“I don’t work alone, Mycroft,” answered John. He elbowed Sherlock in the shoulder. “And since when are you retired?”
“Just hear me out – please.” Mycroft paused, and John nodded while Sherlock tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “The Minister of State for Schools has an eleven-year old daughter…”
John erupted in laughter. “Oh, I think I know where this is going,” he said.
Sherlock frowned. “Dull,” he said. Ignoring John, and still staring at the ceiling, he continued. “Bullying at school? No? Kidnapping threat, then? Ah – the child has already been kidnapped?”
He couldn’t see John’s grin. Mycroft sipped his tea, waiting patiently for Sherlock to finish.
“Someone got a letter, I take it?” John asked.
“A letter? Ransom demand?” Sherlock scooted his hips back a few inches in the chair and tilted his chin down just enough to see Mycroft.
Mycroft tucked two fingers in the breast pocket of his suit and extracted a letter that was much too big to have fit there. He held it out to John, but Sherlock’s hand darted out to grab it. John and Mycroft exchanged an amused look as Sherlock read.
“I was right," John said, eying the distinctive parchment and the green handwriting. “It’s a Hogwarts letter. The Minister’s daughter is a witch.”
“The Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts has already visited the family,” Mycroft explained. “On one hand, they are almost relieved – apparently, it was becoming difficult to rationalize some of the girl’s accidental magic. On the other – well, you can imagine, I’m sure.” He gave John a significant look.
Sherlock was holding the letter up, studying it in the sunlight. He shook it, frowned, turned it over, and shook it again, perhaps expecting magical multi-coloured sparks to shoot out of it.
“This is it? This is all they receive?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Mycroft, with a sigh that conveyed his opinion of the matter. “Most children have been anticipating receiving their Hogwarts letter for years. Muggle-born children, however, do get a follow-up visit from a Hogwarts staff member. “
“But you’re the Muggle-Magical liaison,” John said. He’d made out the name on the letter. Eloise Benton. “Didn’t you know the Minister’s daughter was going to get a letter?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Mycroft said, frowning. He was, apparently, displeased with this particular facet of the Hogwarts policy as well. “No one knows. Well, no one save the Headmaster or Headmistress, who is the keeper of the Book of Magical Births, and his or her appointed Deputy. When this particular letter arrived….”
“The Book of Magical Births?” Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, obviously curious.
“The births of all magical children born in Great Britain are recorded in a book – magically,” explained Mycroft. “It is old magic, created by the founders of Hogwarts themselves.”
“How was it sent?” asked Sherlock. He was smoothing out the letter on his knee now. “Did you keep the envelope?”
Mycroft produced the envelope from the same pocket. Sherlock took it and smelled the glue.
“Mine came in the post,” John said, watching Sherlock examine the wax seal. “It was in a thick parchment envelope just like that, with green handwriting, and regular Muggle stamps.”
“All letters to Muggle-born first-years are sent by Muggle post,” Mycroft answered. “Children with magical families receive their letter by owl post, but the letters themselves are exactly the same.”
“Well how did you get it, then?” continued Sherlock. He was obviously a bit out of his element when it came to Hogwarts business. “How did this particular letter make its way up to you?”
“My name was given to the Minister by the Hogwarts Deputy Headmaster when he visited,” Mycroft answered. He sighed and pinched his forehead again with thumb and forefinger. “I always wondered when something like this would happen.” He somehow managed to look both put-out and pleased. “Thank God it’s not a royal.”
“Mycroft, what do you want from me?” asked Sherlock. “It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. I wouldn’t even be out of bed yet if John hadn’t woken me with the most magnificent blow job.”
John elbowed Sherlock in the side of the head. “Behave!”
“Tea making isn’t his only skill,” Sherlock added, looking properly smug.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “John’s most valuable skill is handling you, brother mine.” He reached across and picked up the Hogwarts letter from Sherlock’s leg and pocketed it. “I’ve already told you that I’m in need of your services. The Minister in question has enlisted my aid. He’s demanding a report on the Hogwarts curriculum, an on-site assessment of safety and security, and interviews and background checks of faculty and staff. Naturally, we can’t send our regular agents….”
“Naturally,” said Sherlock. He cocked his head, staring at Mycroft who was, in turn, staring at John. Oddly, the brothers had identical expressions.
“Yes, John? What, pray tell, is so amusing?”
“They want a safety assessment at Hogwarts? A safety assessment?” Sherlock gave his brother a disapproving look, as if he was right on board with John and not just as much in the cold as Mycroft was.
“Yes. As I said. Safety and security. Plus a curriculum assessment and background checks on the professors… What? What now?”
“You do realize that the History of Magic professor is a ghost?”
“John – really. This isn’t a joke, as much as it seems to amuse you. I’ve already arranged everything with the Board of Governors. You’ll be leaving from Platform 9 ¾ on Monday morning.”
“Plat…” John sputtered to a stop. He glanced at Sherlock, who was obviously intrigued and no longer bothering to hide it. “You’ve arranged to take us to Hogwarts on the Hogwarts Express?”
“Naturally. You’ll need to assess the security at King’s Cross, on the train itself, and at Hogsmeade Station.” He smiled, and John wondered if Mycroft himself had ever been to Hogwarts. “The Minister wants every assurance that his daughter will be completely safe from the moment she enters the Wizarding world on Platform 9 ¾.”
John looked down at Sherlock again. Sherlock was staring at Mycroft, hands steepled in front of his face.
“What’s in it for me?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.
“Knowledge,” answered Mycroft immediately. “The freedom to explore Hogwarts nearly unencumbered. Access to one of the most magical places in Britain, including its extensive library.”
“Mycroft – do you really think it’s wise to introduce Sherlock to Hogwarts?” interrupted John. “Sherlock? Your brother?”
“Excuse me, but I am here, you realize.” Sherlock stood and John slid down into the chair he’d vacated, just managing to keep his tea from slopping over the sides of the cup.
“Oh, I realize,” replied Mycroft. He promptly turned to John. “And I also understand your reluctance to reengage with the Wizarding world. But this is a single case, and Hogwarts is really quite isolated. You’ll be on-site for less than a week, and the students won’t arrive until September 1st. It will be you and the faculty and staff – no Ministry officials, no –”
“No Aurors?” asked John.
Mycroft made a face.
“The Hogwarts Board of Governors has requested that one Auror be present in the castle while you are on site,” he admitted. “One.”
“They can send Potter.” Sherlock spoke with authority, from his position by the window. He was holding the curtain back, looking out at the street, appearing to pay no attention to Mycroft and John.
“I hardly think they’ll send the head of the MLE,” laughed Mycroft.
“Why not?” Sherlock countered. He turned and faced Mycroft again. “We’re sending our best.”
John’s mouth twisted as he fought back a grin.
“Sherlock – do you want to do this?” he asked. “Because now is the time to say no if you’ve any reservations at all.”
“I’ve had more than a year already, John,” Sherlock replied. He gave John the smallest of smiles, but it told John that Sherlock, for his part, believed there was nothing to fear. Sherlock was not the same man he’d been at twenty, unable to reconcile Magic and science, so torn up inside that he’d considered taking his own life rather than being driven mad by the irreconcilable worlds, and ultimately deciding to delete all knowledge of magic and the magical world. “But do you want to?”
John Watson had left the Wizarding World for far different reasons than Sherlock had and, unlike Sherlock, had retained all the memories of his magical past. He’d buried them, put his wand in safe-keeping, and had walked away as soon as he was convinced that Voldemort was truly dead. John’s Muggle parents had been tortured and killed by Death Eaters. There was simply no joy left in magic, no joy in his life at all when the young Auror had enrolled in Uni then, fresh from med school, enlisted in the Army.
“I’ve had more than a year already, Sherlock,” John echoed. “And if you’re in, I’m in. There’s absolutely no chance I’d stay here and miss your first time at Hogwarts.”
“I’ll e-mail the documentation tonight,” Mycroft said, all businesslike now that he’d secured his goal. “Be sure to print it and take it with you – your electronic devices….”
“Yes, we know. Won’t work well around magic.” Sherlock walked back to his chair and stared down at John expectantly. John refused to move. He turned back to Mycroft. “And what is this documentation?”
“Your travel itinerary, checklists, screening questions for the faculty, security parameters, curriculum evaluation forms, a grading system….”
“Excellent.” He cut off his brother and walked to the door and opened it. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”
“I’ll meet you at King’s Cross myself on Monday,” Mycroft said.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, looking from his brother to the door.
Mycroft sighed and stood. “Still thinking like a Muggle, Sherlock,” he said as he Disapparated.
Sherlock pushed the door closed. “I knew he’d do that,” he said. He waited five seconds to make sure Mycroft wasn’t coming back, then spun on the spot and clapped his hands.
“Had a hard time keeping that in, did you?” asked John, smiling.
“We’ll have carte blanche,” Sherlock said. “Run of the castle.”
“You did hear him mention the Auror, didn’t you?” asked John.
Sherlock brushed him off. “I can take on all of Scotland Yard, John. Surely I can handle one Auror.”
“The detectives here don’t have wands,” John pointed out.
Sherlock ignored him. “There’s a lake. We should bring swimwear.”
“Swimwear? Are you mad? You can’t swim in the lake – there are merpeople, and grindylows – and a giant squid.”
“Exactly.” Sherlock had his back to John now. He was standing in front of the bookshelves, quickly sorting through John’s old Hogwarts textbooks. He pulled out his O.W.L. level “Care of Magical Creatures” text and whirled around. “And we’ll need a tent. Do you own one?”
“A tent? Do I own a tent? Have you seen a tent in the flat, Sherlock?”
Sherlock was working the shelves again. He pulled out another book and stacked it atop the first.
“We’ll have an entire castle at our disposal,” John said, clearly frustrated. “ A castle with hundreds of very comfortable four-poster beds. We won’t need a tent.”
“I recall reading about a Forbidden Forest.” Sherlock strode past John into the kitchen. “Anything with the word ‘Forbidden’ in its title will naturally attract children.”
“Wait – you want to camp in the Forbidden Forest?” John got to his feet and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. “Sherlock – we need to talk. I don’t think you understand about Hogwarts. About what Mycroft is asking.” He hurried after Sherlock, who was now heading to their bedroom. “And I don’t have a tent!” he shouted after him. “Why would I have a tent? Have you actually ever seen me camping? Heard me talk about it? Like – ‘Sherlock, do you mind if Greg and I take off this weekend for a bit of camping?’”
Sherlock was sorting through clothes in the cupboard. He turned and stared at John.
“Greg?”
“Lestrade.” John sighed and dropped onto the bed. “You really should learn your friends’ first names, Sherlock.”
“You’d go camping with Lestrade? Does he like to camp? Does he have a tent?
“I have no idea. No. No, he doesn’t. I’d know if he likes to camp, wouldn’t I? Because he’s my friend.” He watched Sherlock, who had lost all interest in Lestrade after discovering that he would not be providing them a tent, return to sorting through clothes. “Sherlock, sit down. Please. We really need to talk. You can pack tomorrow.”
Sherlock closed the cupboard door. From his attitude, one would have thought John has asked him to donate a kidney to Moriarty. He flopped down on the bed dramatically.
“I’m listening – talk.”
“Alright.” John pulled his feet onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “I don’t know what Mycroft’s game is, Sherlock, because he should know this too. Number one – Hogwarts is not a safe place. At all.”
“But Hogwarts is a school,” protested Sherlock. John knew what he meant. Schools were full of children. A great deal of effort was made in the Muggle world to make schools as safe as humanly possible.
“Right – but it’s different in the Wizarding world. First, you need to understand that a child’s magic will protect them – not from everything, of course, but especially from accidents and attacks. There’s a well-documented case of a boy bouncing when he fell out of a window. But it’s other things, too. Like suddenly finding yourself safe inside your house when you’re being chased by the neighborhood bully.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. “You?” He didn’t approve of John being pursued by bullies.
“No, you berk. I’m not talking about me.” John took Sherlock’s hand and laced their fingers together. “I might have been smaller than the other kids, but I learned to hold my own. And there’s another thing – magical families don’t usually have a lot of children. One or two, mostly, and they’re very protective. They just trust magic – and maybe fate – more than Muggles would.”
“Alright. I accept that magical children are different – not as likely to crush their skulls when they fall headfirst out a window.”
John nudged Sherlock. “You survived your childhood. You were probably blowing things up all the time.”
“I did wonder about that,” admitted Sherlock. “Mycroft said I was extremely lucky – that I had nine lives.”
“You’d need them at Hogwarts,” John continued. “It has one hundred and forty-two staircases, and some of them move. Not like escalators. They actually move from one landing to another. Sometimes with students on them. The lake is chock full of dangerous creatures. The Forbidden Forest – well, there’s a reason it’s Forbidden. Students use poisons in Potions – even first-years. There are dueling clubs. Painful jinxes and curses. The school sport is Quidditch – kids are on brooms a hundred feet off the ground with Bludgers chasing after them trying to knock them off their brooms. Even the plants can seriously harm you. And those things are just the tip of the iceberg, Sherlock. Hogwarts will never – ever – pass a safety inspection.”
As John expected, Sherlock looked more intrigued than ever – almost fascinated, in fact.
“Well then – what about security? You mentioned wards to Mycroft. Surely the castle is well-protected from outside attack?”
John frowned. “It’s complicated. But yes, from a security perspective, the outlook is a little better. There are wards that keep Muggles away. But a wizard who wants to get in – or out – will always find a way. That’s the thing – they have magic at their disposal. During the war, even before the Dark Lord took control of the Ministry, Death Eaters got in. They had help from inside – from some of the older students whose parents were on the Dark Lord’s side – but they’d have found a way no matter what.”
“You’ve been away for quite a while, John,” Sherlock said after some consideration. “It’s quite possible things have changed at Hogwarts.”
John smiled, almost nostalgically. “I suppose they may have, but I doubt it. Hogwarts has been around for more than a thousand years. Change is slow there. And good luck with the curriculum. Maths aren’t taught, you know. No literature, world history, physical education, writing, foreign languages. Well – you’ve seen my textbooks, Sherlock. They study Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, Astronomy, Herbology, Charms and Transfiguration and Potions.”
“The children must love it.”
“They do,” John admitted. He had an odd look on his face, as if he could see through the wall in front of him right into his old school. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “They do.”