The fog had descended upon London like a living thing, thick and predatory, swallowing streetlights whole and muffling the city's usual cacophony into something resembling actual peace. 221B Baker Street sat shrouded in this unnatural quiet, its windows glowing amber against the grey-white wall of mist that pressed against the glass like curious spirits.
Inside, Sherlock Holmes had arranged himself in his leather armchair with the kind of calculated carelessness that suggested deep thought. His long legs were draped over one arm, his torso twisted at an angle that would have sent any reasonable person to a chiropractor, and his violin lay across his lap like a sleeping cat. His pale eyes, sharp as winter frost, were fixed on the ceiling with laser intensity, tracking patterns invisible to anyone else.
"The Whitmore case," he murmured to himself, fingers drumming silently against the violin's neck. "Three locked rooms, two impossible alibis, and one very clever murderer who thinks geometry is merely theoretical. The angle of the blood spatter suggests..." His voice trailed off as his mind spiraled deeper into the maze of deduction.
Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, tea tray in hand, her expression hovering somewhere between maternal concern and barely contained exasperation. "Mr. Holmes, you haven't moved in four hours. At this rate, we'll need to call a doctor to unstick you from that chair."
"Movement is for people whose brains require physical stimulation to function properly," Sherlock replied without shifting his gaze from the ceiling. "Mine operates quite efficiently in complete stillness, thank you."
"Yes, well, your efficiently operating brain has visitors."
*That* got his attention. Sherlock's head snapped toward her with the quick precision of a hawk spotting prey. "Visitors? Plural? At this hour? In this fog? How delightfully ominous."
Mrs. Hudson set the tea tray down with more force than strictly necessary. "There's a gentleman at the door. Rather... unusual. Tall, silver beard down to his chest, wearing robes that look like they were tailored by someone who'd never seen actual clothes before."
Sherlock sat up slowly, his eyes beginning to glitter with interest. "Robes. Real ones, not theatrical?"
"Real as the nose on your face. And he's got this way of looking at you, like he knows things. Important things. Unsettling things."
"Even better." Sherlock swung his legs down and stood in one fluid motion. "And you said visitors, plural. Who else?"
"Well, there's been a tabby cat sitting on the front step all day. Unusually well-behaved for a stray. Keeps watching the windows like it's expecting something."
Sherlock's lips curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile. "Ah. Not a cat, then. How wonderfully theatrical. Send the gentleman up, Mrs. Hudson. And perhaps put the kettle on again. Something tells me we'll need significantly more tea."
Mrs. Hudson hesitated at the doorway. "Mr. Holmes? He gave me his name. Said you'd know him."
"Which was?"
"Professor Albus Dumbledore."
Sherlock's eyebrows shot upward. "Well, well. The plot doesn't just thicken—it practically congeal. Yes, definitely send him up. This should be illuminating."
As Mrs. Hudson's footsteps faded down the hallway, Sherlock moved to the window, peering out at the fog-shrouded street below. The tabby cat was indeed there, sitting with perfect posture beside the lamppost, its yellow eyes fixed unblinkingly on the building. Even through the mist, there was something distinctly... intelligent about its gaze.
"Professor McGonagall, I presume," he murmured. "Transfiguration. Animagus. Scottish. Stern. Probably has opinions about everything and isn't shy about sharing them. This night grows more interesting by the moment."
The soft sound of footsteps on the stairs drew his attention away from the window. They were measured, deliberate—the steps of someone who had walked many corridors of power and wasn't impressed by any of them.
The door opened, and Albus Dumbledore stepped into the room.
He was exactly as Mrs. Hudson had described and yet somehow more. Tall and lean with silver hair and beard that seemed to flow like water, dressed in robes of deep midnight blue that managed to look both ancient and timeless. But it was his eyes that truly captured attention—blue as summer sky, twinkling with what might have been humor or might have been something far more calculating.
"Mr. Holmes," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying the warm resonance of aged whiskey and old wisdom. "Thank you for agreeing to see me at such an unconventional hour."
Sherlock turned from the window, his pale eyes immediately cataloging every detail of his visitor with machine-like precision. "Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Age approximately one hundred and fifteen, though you carry it remarkably well. Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Order of Merlin, First Class. Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. You have a weakness for muggle sweets, particularly lemon drops, and a habit of meddling in affairs that others might consider none of your business. You've recently suffered a significant loss—someone close to you has died violently. And you're here because you need something from me that you can't get anywhere else."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose appreciatively. "Remarkable. Though I fear your sources may be slightly outdated regarding my sweet preferences. I've recently developed quite a fondness for sherbet lemons."
"Your robes carry the faint scent of lemon oil and sugar crystals, but the specific combination suggests the sherbet variety rather than simple drops. I was being deliberately vague to test your reaction." Sherlock gestured to the chairs by the fire. "Please, sit. And do explain how you know about my... family connections."
Dumbledore settled into the chair opposite Sherlock's, his robes pooling around him like liquid starlight. "Ah, straight to the heart of the matter. I've always admired directness. You're wondering how I know about Lily Evans."
"Lily Potter, now. Or rather, Lily Potter until very recently. Past tense. She's dead." Sherlock's voice was flat, clinical. "Murdered, along with her husband James. Within the last twenty-four hours, judging by the specific weight of grief you're carrying. You knew them personally, probably taught them. And since you're here rather than comforting other grieving friends, their deaths are part of something larger. Something that requires my particular talents."
Dumbledore's expression grew solemn. "You always were perceptive, even as a child. Lily spoke of you often—her brilliant cousin who could solve any puzzle, see through any deception."
"She was the only member of my extended family worth knowing," Sherlock replied, a note of genuine emotion creeping into his voice. "Brilliant mind, fierce loyalty, absolutely ruthless when protecting the people she loved. The fact that someone managed to kill her suggests either incredible cunning or overwhelming force. Possibly both."
"Both, I'm afraid. The man who murdered them calls himself Lord Voldemort, though his birth name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Dark wizard of extraordinary power and absolutely no conscience. He's been terrorizing our world for years, gathering followers, murdering anyone who opposes him."
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Our world. The magical one. Yes, I'm aware of its existence, though Lily was frustratingly vague about the details. Something about secrecy laws and the danger of exposing muggles—non-magical people—to magical realities. Though I suspect the real reason she kept quiet was knowing I'd immediately want to study everything, catalog every spell, analyze every magical law until I could predict magical behavior with the same accuracy I predict criminal behavior."
"She knew you well," Dumbledore agreed with a soft chuckle. "And she was probably correct. Your mind would find magic... irresistible."
"All minds find the inexplicable irresistible, Professor. The difference is that most people are content to accept mystery. I am not." Sherlock's eyes sharpened. "But you're not here to discuss my intellectual curiosity. You're here about the child."
Dumbledore blinked, genuinely surprised for perhaps the first time in decades. "How did you—?"
"Lily and James were murdered, but you said 'them,' not 'the family.' Grammatically imprecise unless there's a surviving family member who wasn't present during the attack. A child would be the most likely candidate—probably very young, since older children would either have been killed as witnesses or would have escaped and already contacted you. The fact that you're here instead of arranging a funeral suggests this child is now your responsibility, and something about the situation requires outside assistance. Since you came to me specifically, that assistance is either investigative or protective. Possibly both."
"Extraordinary," Dumbledore murmured. "Yes, there is a child. Harry Potter, Lily and James's son. Fifteen months old. He survived the attack that killed his parents."
Sherlock's expression grew sharp with interest. "Survived an encounter with a wizard powerful enough to murder two adults? That's not luck, Professor. That's something else entirely."
"Indeed. When Voldemort attempted to kill Harry, something went wrong. The killing curse rebounded, destroying Voldemort's body and leaving Harry with nothing but a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead."
"Fascinating. Magic has consistent rules, yes? Like physics, but operating on different principles?"
"Generally speaking, yes."
"Then the curse rebounding wasn't random. Something caused it. Something specific about the child or the circumstances." Sherlock's eyes lit up with the thrill of a new puzzle. "But again, you're not here for my analysis of magical theory. You're here because the child needs a guardian, and for some reason, you think I'm qualified for the position."
Dumbledore smiled. "Qualified is an interesting choice of words. I think you're necessary."
"I'm a consulting detective who solves crimes by observing details others miss and making deductions others can't follow. My idea of childcare is making sure Mrs. Hudson remembers to eat regularly. What possible qualification do I have for raising an infant?"
"You're Harry's family."
Sherlock went very still. "Explain."
"Lily Evans was your cousin. That makes Harry your cousin once removed. More importantly, it makes you and your brother Mycroft the only living blood relatives Harry has left."
"Blood relatives." Sherlock's voice was carefully neutral. "That's significant in magical terms, isn't it?"
"Very. Lily's sacrifice created powerful protective magic around Harry. It will continue to protect him as long as he lives with family—blood family. Without that protection..."
"He becomes a target for anyone wanting to finish what this Voldemort started," Sherlock concluded. "So my choice is to take responsibility for a child I've never met, or leave him vulnerable to assassination by dark wizards. How wonderfully manipulative of you, Professor."
Dumbledore's eyes lost some of their twinkle. "I won't pretend this isn't a calculated request, Mr. Holmes. Harry's survival is important for reasons that extend far beyond one child's welfare. But I'm not asking you to do this solely out of duty. I'm asking because I believe you and Mycroft can give Harry something no one else can."
"Which is?"
"The truth. The skills he'll need to survive. And the kind of analytical thinking that might, one day, help him understand and defeat the forces that killed his parents."
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "You mentioned other options. The boy must have other relatives."
"Lily's sister Petunia and her husband Vernon Dursley. They live in Little Whinging, Surrey, with their infant son Dudley."
"And?"
Dumbledore's expression grew carefully diplomatic. "They are... not fond of magic. Or anything connected to it. Including Harry."
"How not fond?"
"They would prefer to pretend magic doesn't exist. They view it as a shameful abnormality to be hidden or, if possible, suppressed entirely."
Sherlock's eyes went cold. "They would abuse him."
"Not physically, I believe. But they would certainly not nurture his magical abilities or prepare him for the world he'll inevitably be part of. They would try to make him normal, ordinary, forgettable."
"Which would leave him defenseless when the magical world inevitably reclaimed him." Sherlock stood abruptly, beginning to pace. "Brilliant plan, Professor. Leave a magically powerful child with people who would systematically undermine his confidence and abilities, then thrust him back into a world of dark wizards and deadly politics when he comes of age. I'm sure that will end well."
"My thoughts exactly. Which is why I'm here."
Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face Dumbledore directly. "You said Harry's survival is important for reasons beyond his personal welfare. Elaborate."
Dumbledore hesitated. "There was a prophecy. About a child born to parents who had thrice defied Voldemort, a child with the power to defeat him. Harry is that child."
"A prophecy." Sherlock's voice was flat with skepticism. "You're basing life-and-death decisions on magical fortune-telling?"
"I'm basing them on the fact that Voldemort believed the prophecy enough to murder an entire family trying to prevent it from coming true. Prophecies in our world have a way of fulfilling themselves, particularly when people make dramatic efforts to prevent them."
Sherlock resumed pacing, his mind clearly racing. "So you want me to raise a child who's marked for death by dark wizards, magically powerful in ways I don't understand, and prophesied to either save or destroy your entire world. And you want me to do this while maintaining some semblance of my normal life and work."
"I want you to raise him to be strong, intelligent, and capable of making his own choices when the time comes. I want you to teach him to see clearly, think critically, and protect himself. Those are skills you possess in abundance."
"And my brother?"
"Mycroft's resources and connections would be invaluable. His ability to see the broader political implications, to anticipate threats and neutralize them before they become dangerous... Harry will need those skills as much as he'll need your deductive abilities."
Sherlock stopped pacing and fixed Dumbledore with a penetrating stare. "What aren't you telling me?"
Dumbledore's expression grew troubled. "Voldemort isn't truly dead. His body was destroyed, but dark magic can preserve consciousness in ways that are... unpleasant to contemplate. He will return, eventually. When he does, Harry will be his primary target."
"How long do we have?"
"Years, possibly decades. But eventually, there will be a reckoning."
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, processing the implications. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a sharp, dangerous expression that would have made criminals across London suddenly check their locks.
"Professor Dumbledore, you've just offered me the most fascinating long-term case of my career. A child to protect and train, dark wizards to outwit, magical politics to navigate, and a prophecy to either fulfill or subvert entirely. How could I possibly refuse?"
Before Dumbledore could respond, there was a soft tapping at the window. Both men turned to see the tabby cat from the street now sitting on the narrow window ledge outside, somehow having climbed three stories without apparent effort.
"Ah," Dumbledore said with renewed warmth. "I believe Professor McGonagall has grown tired of waiting."
Sherlock crossed to the window and opened it. The tabby cat stepped inside with dignified grace, then suddenly wasn't a cat at all but a stern-faced woman in emerald robes, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, her lips pressed in a thin line of disapproval.
"Really, Albus," Professor McGonagall said crisply, her Scottish accent lending authority to every syllable. "Leaving me on the street for hours while you have cozy chats by the fire. I'm getting too old for this sort of dramatics."
"My apologies, Minerva. But Mr. Holmes needed to understand the full situation before we proceeded."
McGonagall's sharp eyes fixed on Sherlock, evaluating him with the kind of thorough assessment usually reserved for difficult students. "So you're Harry's cousin. Lily mentioned you in her letters—said you were brilliant but completely mad."
"She wasn't wrong," Sherlock replied with amusement. "Though I prefer 'highly functional sociopath' to 'completely mad.' It sounds more professional."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "Sociopath?"
"Oh, he's exaggerating," Dumbledore said mildly. "Sherlock has a perfectly functional moral compass. He simply doesn't bother with conventional social niceties when they interfere with efficiency."
"How reassuring," McGonagall said dryly. "And you truly believe this man should raise a child?"
"I believe this man and his brother are the only people capable of preparing Harry for what's coming," Dumbledore replied seriously. "Harry will need to be extraordinary, Minerva. Conventional upbringing won't be sufficient."
"Conventional upbringing," Sherlock interjected, "produces conventional people. And conventional people get murdered by dark wizards. I may not know anything about childcare, but I know quite a lot about survival."
McGonagall studied him for another long moment, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps that's what Harry needs. Very well. But I want to be involved in his education. The boy will need to understand magic, not just muggle detective work."
"Agreed," Sherlock said. "Though I reserve the right to ask extremely detailed questions about every magical concept you introduce. Lily's vague explanations were frustrating in the extreme."
"I'm sure they were," McGonagall replied with the ghost of a smile. "Very well. Where is the child now?"
"Safe," Dumbledore said. "But before we proceed, there's something else. Something Mr. Holmes needs to know."
Sherlock's attention sharpened. "More revelations? How delightful."
"The Potters were betrayed. They were in hiding, protected by an ancient charm called the Fidelius Charm. Only their Secret Keeper could reveal their location to others."
"And the Secret Keeper was?"
"We believed it was Sirius Black, James's best friend. But if Black betrayed them to Voldemort..."
"He didn't." Sherlock's voice was utterly certain.
Both professors stared at him. "How can you be so sure?" McGonagall asked.
"Because Lily sent me a letter three days ago. Just a brief note, but she mentioned that they'd switched Secret Keepers at the last minute. Said if anything happened to her and James, I should tell you that Peter Pettigrew was the real Secret Keeper, not Sirius Black. She thought it was a clever bit of misdirection—everyone would assume it was Sirius, so he'd make the perfect decoy."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Peter Pettigrew," Dumbledore repeated slowly. "Sweet Merlin. We've arrested the wrong man."
"Arrested?" Sherlock's voice sharpened dangerously.
"Sirius Black was found at the scene of what appeared to be Peter's murder. Witnesses saw him kill Peter and twelve muggles with a single curse. He was laughing when the Aurors—our magical law enforcement—arrived."
"He was laughing because he realized he'd been outmaneuvered," Sherlock said grimly. "Pettigrew faked his own death and framed his friend for betrayal and murder. Quite clever, really. Where is Black now?"
"Azkaban," McGonagall said quietly. "Our magical prison. It's... not a pleasant place."
"And Pettigrew?"
"If he's alive, he could be anywhere. Probably with Voldemort's remaining followers."
Sherlock's expression grew cold and calculating. "Professor Dumbledore, it seems you have more than one problem. Not only do you have a child who needs protection, you have an innocent man in prison and a traitor running free. I assume you'll want me to address both situations?"
"If you're willing."
"Oh, I'm willing. In fact, I'm eager. But first, I want to meet Harry. And I want my brother involved from the beginning. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly."
Dumbledore smiled, and for the first time that evening, it reached his eyes. "Excellent. I believe Hagrid should be arriving with Harry shortly."
As if summoned by his words, there was a tremendous thudding on the stairs—footsteps too heavy for any normal-sized person. Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard from below, raised in what sounded like concerned protest.
"Right on schedule," Dumbledore murmured.
The door burst open, and the largest man Sherlock had ever seen had to duck significantly to enter the room. He was easily eight feet tall and nearly as broad, with wild black hair and beard, wearing a massive coat that looked like it had been sewn from several smaller coats. In his arms, he carried a bundle wrapped in soft blankets.
"Professor Dumbledore," the giant said, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his intimidating appearance. "Got little Harry here, safe and sound. Madam Pomfrey looked him over, said he's perfectly healthy except for that scar on his forehead."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Dumbledore said warmly. "Rubeus Hagrid, allow me to introduce Sherlock Holmes, Harry's cousin."
Hagrid's beetle-black eyes fixed on Sherlock with surprising shrewdness. "So you're the one who's going to look after him, then? Lily mentioned you in her letters to Professor Dumbledore. Said you were the smartest person she knew, but also the most stubborn."
"She knew me well," Sherlock replied, his attention fixed on the bundle in Hagrid's arms. "May I?"
Hagrid carefully transferred the baby to Sherlock's arms. Harry Potter was small, even for a fifteen-month-old, with a shock of unruly black hair and his mother's bright green eyes. The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was clearly visible, still red and slightly raised. He looked up at Sherlock with the kind of serious attention that seemed unusual in such a young child.
"Hello, Harry," Sherlock said softly. "I'm your cousin Sherlock. I knew your mother when she was young—she was brilliant and brave and fiercely protective of the people she loved. She would have done anything to keep you safe. Now that job falls to me."
Harry reached up with one small hand and grasped Sherlock's finger with surprising strength. His green eyes—so like Lily's—never left Sherlock's face.
"I think he likes you," Hagrid said with a warm smile. "That's good. He's been through a terrible time, poor little fellow."
"He's stronger than he looks," Sherlock observed, gently extricating his finger from Harry's grip. "Lily's genes, no doubt. She was tougher than anyone gave her credit for."
"Indeed she was," Dumbledore agreed. "Now, there are certain practical matters we need to discuss. Wards to be established, protections to be put in place, arrangements for Harry's magical education when he's older..."
"Wait," Sherlock interrupted. "Before we discuss anything else, I want to know exactly what we're protecting him from. You mentioned Voldemort's remaining followers. How many? How organized? What kind of resources do they have?"
McGonagall exchanged a look with Dumbledore. "That's... difficult to determine. Many claimed they were under the Imperius Curse—magical mind control—and were freed when Voldemort fell. Others went into hiding. A few were captured and imprisoned."
"In other words, you have no idea who your enemies are or where they might be," Sherlock said dryly. "Excellent. I do love a challenge."
"It's not quite that bad," Dumbledore protested. "We have ways of monitoring magical activity, tracking spells, identifying threats..."
"None of which prevented two of your most capable fighters from being murdered in their own home," Sherlock pointed out. "Forgive me if I'm not entirely confident in your security measures."
Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. "Now see here, Mr. Holmes—"
"No, he's right," McGonagall interrupted. "Our security measures failed catastrophically. If we're entrusting Harry's safety to Mr. Holmes, he has every right to question our methods."
"What I need," Sherlock continued, "is complete information. Every detail about Voldemort, his followers, his methods, his weaknesses. Everything about the prophecy and its implications. Full disclosure about magical law, magical society, and the political landscape Harry will eventually have to navigate. No secrets, no omissions, no 'protecting' me from information you think I can't handle."
"That's a great deal of information," Dumbledore said carefully.
"Then you'd better start compiling it. Because if I'm going to keep Harry alive and prepare him for whatever's coming, I need to understand every aspect of the world that wants him dead."
Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Complete transparency. It may take some time to organize everything..."
"I have time. Harry's fifteen months old. I assume we have at least a few years before he becomes a primary target again."
"Probably," Dumbledore agreed. "Though in our world, it's wise to prepare for the unexpected."
Sherlock looked down at Harry, who had fallen asleep in his arms, one small fist curled against Sherlock's chest. "Don't worry, Professor. I excel at preparing for the unexpected. It's preparation for the expected that I find tedious."
"Right then," Hagrid said, looking around the room with satisfaction. "Looks like little Harry's found himself a proper home. I should be getting back—got an early morning feeding the unicorns."
"Unicorns?" Sherlock's head snapped up with interest.
"Oh yes, beautiful creatures. Bit temperamental, but—"
"Hagrid," Dumbledore interrupted gently, "perhaps we should save the discussion of magical creatures for another time."
"Right, of course." Hagrid moved toward the door, then paused. "Mr. Holmes? Harry's parents were good people. The best. They loved him more than life itself. Don't let anyone tell you different."
"I won't," Sherlock promised. "And Hagrid? Thank you. For keeping him safe."
Hagrid's eyes grew suspiciously bright. "Wasn't nothing. Little fellow's got his mother's eyes and his father's hair. He's going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up."
After Hagrid left, the room fell quiet except for the crackling of the fire and Harry's soft breathing. McGonagall was the first to speak.
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose congratulations are in order. You're now the guardian of the most famous child in the wizarding world."
"Famous for surviving an assassination attempt at fifteen months old," Sherlock mused. "That's the sort of fame that attracts exactly the wrong kind of attention."
"Indeed. Which is why we'll need to be very careful about how we proceed. The wizarding world believes Harry is being raised by his muggle relatives. It might be wise to maintain that fiction, at least publicly."
"Agreed. The fewer people who know Harry's actual location, the better." Sherlock looked up at Dumbledore. "I assume you have ways of monitoring magical activity around him? Early warning systems if someone comes looking?"
"Of course. And Professor McGonagall will be checking on him regularly, ostensibly as part of her duties overseeing students from magical families raised in the muggle world."
McGonagall nodded. "I'll also begin preparing a curriculum for his magical education. He'll need to understand his heritage, even if he's being raised primarily in the muggle world."
"Excellent. And I'll need to contact Mycroft. If we're doing this, we're doing it with the full resources of the British government behind us."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "You think that's wise? The more people who know..."
"Mycroft isn't 'people,' Professor. He's my brother, and he's also the most powerful man in Britain that most people have never heard of. If dark wizards come after Harry, I want them facing not just me, but the entire British intelligence apparatus. Mycroft will ensure that happens."
"I see. And you trust him completely?"
Sherlock's smile was sharp and affectionate. "I trust him to be exactly what he is—brilliantly intelligent, utterly ruthless when protecting British interests, and absolutely devoted to family. Harry is family now. Mycroft will move heaven and earth to keep him safe."
"Very well. I defer to your judgment on involving your brother."
"Good. Now, practical matters. I assume Harry will need special supplies as he grows up? Magical books, equipment, that sort of thing?"
"When he's older, yes. For now, he's just a normal toddler who happens to occasionally exhibit accidental magic."
"Accidental magic?"
McGonagall smiled slightly. "All magical children display some uncontrolled magic when they're young and emotional. Usually harmless—making toys float, changing their hair color, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about."
"Noted. And his scar?"
"A permanent reminder of what happened, I'm afraid. It may be sensitive to dark magic as he grows older, but for now, it's simply a scar."
Sherlock filed that information away for future consideration. "What about medical care? Will normal doctors be sufficient, or will he need specialized magical healing?"
"For ordinary childhood illnesses and injuries, muggle medicine is perfectly adequate. For anything magical in nature, I can arrange for discrete visits from a magical healer."
"Excellent. I think that covers the immediate concerns." Sherlock looked down at Harry, who was still sleeping peacefully. "Professor Dumbledore, I want you to understand something. I'm taking responsibility for Harry not just because he's family, but because I find the puzzle irresistible. A child marked by prophecy, hunted by dark wizards, capable of magic I don't yet understand—it's the most fascinating case I've ever encountered."
"I understand."
"But," Sherlock continued, his voice growing steely, "if anyone—anyone—tries to use Harry as a pawn in some larger game, if anyone tries to manipulate him or put him in danger for the 'greater good,' they'll answer to me. And I'm significantly less forgiving than most people."
Dumbledore met his gaze steadily. "I would expect nothing less from someone Lily trusted to protect her son."
"Good. Then we understand each other."
McGonagall rose from her chair. "I should return to Hogwarts. There will be much to arrange, and the other professors will be wondering where I've been."
"Of course. Thank you for coming, Minerva. Your insight has been valuable."
"I'll return next week to check on Harry and begin planning his magical education. Mr. Holmes, I hope you realize what you've taken on."
"I realize I've committed to raising a child who will either save or destroy the wizarding world, while keeping him safe from assassins and preparing him for a war that may not happen for another decade. It's quite possibly the most complex long-term case I've ever accepted."
McGonagall's lips twitched. "And that appeals to you?"
"Professor McGonagall, I'm a man who solves impossible crimes for the intellectual challenge. Raising a prophesied child while outwitting dark wizards is simply the logical next step in my career development."
"Heaven help us all," she muttered, but there was fondness in her voice.
After McGonagall left, Dumbledore remained for a few more minutes, going over the practical details of establishing wards around the building and setting up communication protocols. Finally, he too rose to leave.
"Sherlock," he said as he reached the door, "I want you to know how grateful I am. Harry couldn't ask for a better guardian."
"Professor, I haven't done anything yet except agree to take responsibility for a child I barely know. Ask me again in eighteen years, and we'll see if your gratitude is still justified."
Dumbledore smiled. "I have a feeling it will be. Good night, Mr. Holmes. And good luck."
After the door closed behind him, Sherlock was alone with Harry for the first time. He looked down at the sleeping child, noting the way Harry's small hand had curled around the edge of Sherlock's shirt, anchoring himself even in sleep.
"Well, Harry," he said softly, "it appears we're in this together. I'm not sure I'm qualified to be anyone's guardian, but I promise you this—I'll keep you safe, I'll teach you everything I can, and I'll never lie to you about what you're facing. Your parents died protecting you. I won't let their sacrifice be meaningless."
Harry stirred slightly but didn't wake. Sherlock carefully carried him to the sofa, arranging pillows around him to create a safe sleeping space. Then he moved to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began writing.
*Mycroft,*
*Emergency consultation required. Collect all available information on the following: Lord Voldemort (also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle), Death Eaters, wizarding society political structure, Azkaban prison security protocols, and anything related to magical law enforcement in Britain. Also begin discrete investigation into the murders of James and Lily Potter on October 31st, 1981, and the subsequent arrest of Sirius Black for the betrayal and murder of Peter Pettigrew.*
*Bring this information to Baker Street tomorrow morning at 9 AM sharp. We have a new family member, and he comes with rather extraordinary circumstances that will require your immediate attention and considerable resources.*
*Also, arrange for a discrete security assessment of 221B Baker Street and implement whatever measures you deem necessary. We may be dealing with threats that operate outside conventional parameters.*
*Most urgently: use whatever influence you have to ensure Sirius Black receives a fair review of his case. I have reason to believe he was framed for crimes he didn't commit. The real traitor may still be at large.*
*Time is of the essence. The game, as they say, is afoot.*
*- SH*
*P.S. You might want to bring those biscuits Mrs. Hudson likes. We'll need her in an exceptionally good mood for what's coming.*
Sherlock sealed the letter and set it aside for morning delivery. Then he returned to the sofa, settling into the chair across from where Harry slept. The child looked impossibly small surrounded by the oversized pillows, but there was something remarkably peaceful about his expression—as if, for the first time since his parents' death, he felt truly safe.
"Sleep well, Harry," Sherlock murmured, reaching for his violin. "Tomorrow, we begin your education. And I suspect it's going to be unlike anything the world has ever seen."
He drew the bow across the strings, playing a soft, melancholy melody that seemed to echo with both loss and hope. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the first pale hints of dawn creeping across London's skyline.
The night everything changed was finally coming to an end. But for Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter, their extraordinary journey was just beginning.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!