The weak November sun had barely managed to penetrate London's perpetual grey when the distinctive purr of a government-issued Jaguar echoed from the street below. Sherlock, who had spent the night alternating between watching Harry sleep and scribbling increasingly frantic notes about magical theory (complete with seventeen different hypotheses about the physics of rebounding curses), immediately shot to the window like a hunting cat spotting movement.
"Punctual as always, Mycroft," he murmured, observing his brother's stately progress toward the building. Even at precisely nine in the morning—because Mycroft Holmes did nothing imprecisely—the elder Holmes brother was immaculately dressed in what was undoubtedly a Savile Row suit that cost more than most people's annual salary. He carried himself with the careful dignity of a man who held the weight of the British Empire in his hands and found it only mildly inconvenient, like carrying an umbrella on a cloudy day.
Mrs. Hudson's voice drifted up from below, greeting Mycroft with the kind of flustered warmth she reserved for people who remembered to compliment her baking and actually meant it. Sherlock could hear his brother's measured responses, polite but efficiently brief—vintage Mycroft, treating social interaction like a necessary bureaucratic procedure that must be completed with proper form but minimum expenditure of energy.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. You're looking remarkably well. Yes, the November weather is particularly unpleasant this year. I do hope Sherlock hasn't been too much trouble lately. Ah, excellent—I can smell your ginger nuts from here. You really are too kind."
Harry had awakened an hour earlier with the kind of solemn patience that seemed far too mature for a fifteen-month-old, accepting a bottle and some hastily prepared infant food with the resigned dignity of someone who understood that life was unpredictable but generally provided necessities if one waited quietly. He now sat propped against the sofa cushions like a small, green-eyed emperor holding court, his unnaturally bright gaze tracking every movement in the room with obvious intelligence.
"That's your Uncle Mycroft approaching," Sherlock told him conversationally, pacing the room with the restless energy of a caged predator. "He's brilliant, insufferably smug about it, and possesses more actual power than the Prime Minister, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Queen's corgis combined, though he'd never admit it in quite those terms. He's also absolutely ruthless when protecting family, which you now are. You'll find him... educational. And probably exhausting."
Harry made a soft gurgling sound that might have been commentary, or possibly gas. At this point, Sherlock was willing to interpret any response as evidence of exceptional intelligence.
The stairs creaked under Mycroft's considerable weight—not fat, precisely, but substantial in the way of men who wielded power from behind mahogany desks rather than chasing criminals through London's seedier districts. Each step was measured, deliberate, accompanied by the soft tap of his umbrella against the banister. When he finally appeared in the doorway, he paused for a theatrical moment, taking in the scene with those pale eyes so similar to Sherlock's but somehow colder, more calculating—like looking at winter through glass.
"Brother mine," Mycroft said, his voice carrying its usual note of amused condescension wrapped in silk-smooth courtesy. "Your letter was remarkably cryptic, even by your standards. 'Emergency consultation,' 'new family member,' 'extraordinary circumstances'... I confess myself intrigued. Though I do hope this isn't another of your attempts to make life more interesting by adopting stray animals. The last time you tried that, Mrs. Hudson threatened to move out."
"That was one skull, Mycroft. Hardly an infestation."
"It was a human skull, Sherlock. In the biscuit tin."
"Where else was I supposed to put it? The refrigerator was full of eyeballs."
"Yes, well..." Mycroft's gaze shifted to Harry, and his expression underwent a subtle transformation—still reserved, but with a hint of genuine curiosity replacing the usual bureaucratic boredom. "And this, I presume, is our new family member? He's rather... small. And breathing. Both of which are improvements over your usual acquisitions."
"Harry Potter," Sherlock announced, as if presenting a particularly complex theorem. "Lily's son. Our cousin once removed. Currently the most famous child in the wizarding world, prophesied to either save or destroy it entirely, and marked for death by the most dangerous dark wizard in recent history. Also fifteen months old, needs his nappy changed, and has already demonstrated the ability to see through magical disguises. Oh, and he survived a killing curse that should have been absolutely lethal, which suggests either unprecedented magical power or cosmic intervention. Possibly both."
Mycroft's eyebrows rose slightly—which, for him, constituted a dramatic display of surprise equivalent to someone else fainting dead away. He moved closer with the careful deliberation of a man approaching a particularly interesting specimen, studying Harry with the same methodical attention he usually reserved for matters of national security or exceptionally well-prepared reports.
"Lily's son," he repeated slowly, as if testing the words for hidden meanings. "I see. And his parents?"
"Murdered two nights ago. By the aforementioned dark wizard—Lord Voldemort, real name Tom Marvolo Riddle, which is an anagram for 'I am Lord Voldemort' because apparently dark wizards have the same naming conventions as comic book villains—who subsequently attempted to kill Harry and somehow managed to rebound the killing curse back onto himself. Harry survived with nothing but a scar. Voldemort's body was destroyed, though his consciousness apparently persists in some form that everyone assures me is 'unpleasant to contemplate,' which naturally makes me want to contemplate it immediately."
"Naturally." Mycroft was now close enough to observe Harry properly, noting the lightning-shaped scar, the unusually alert green eyes, the way the child seemed to be listening to their conversation with genuine attention. "Remarkable. He has Lily's eyes. And that scar..."
"Lightning-shaped. Permanent reminder of surviving the unsurvivable. Also possibly magically significant in ways we don't yet understand, which is frustrating in the extreme. I've already filled three notebooks with theories about curse rebounds, protective magic, and the metaphysical implications of maternal sacrifice. None of which explains why Harry is now pointing at you with what appears to be expectation."
Indeed, Harry had decided he'd been discussed enough without being properly introduced to the conversation. He pointed at Mycroft with obvious intent, making soft cooing sounds that somehow managed to convey polite but insistent demand for attention.
"Ah," Mycroft said, understanding the unspoken social protocol. After a moment's consideration—because Mycroft Holmes considered everything—he extended one perfectly manicured finger toward Harry, who promptly grasped it with both small hands and held on with surprising determination.
"Strong grip," Mycroft observed with genuine approval. "Excellent. He'll need it. Though I do hope he's not planning to redecorate my sleeve. This suit cost more than most people's cars."
"Your suit will survive," Sherlock said impatiently. "Now, shall we discuss the practical implications of this arrangement? Because I suspect they're rather more complex than standard custody situations, and I've already identified at least seventeen potential complications that will require immediate attention."
"Only seventeen? You're slipping, Sherlock." Mycroft somehow managed to settle into the chair Dumbledore had occupied the night before while maintaining Harry's grip on his finger, making the movement look effortless despite the logistical complexity. Through perfect posture alone, he transformed the simple armchair into something resembling a throne, as if authority were a physical force that shaped furniture to his will.
"First," he continued in the tone of a man beginning a particularly complex briefing, "the matter of legal guardianship. Officially, according to British law and common sense, the child should go to his closest living relatives—which would be his maternal aunt Petunia and her husband Vernon Dursley, residents of Little Whinging, Surrey. Perfectly ordinary people living perfectly ordinary lives in a perfectly ordinary suburban wasteland."
"Absolutely not." Sherlock's voice carried the kind of finality usually reserved for fundamental laws of physics.
"I gathered as much from your tone, and frankly, I agree. However, circumventing normal custody procedures requires certain... creative interpretations of legal documentation. Fortunately, I've taken the liberty of having appropriate paperwork prepared, filed, and processed through the relevant governmental departments." Mycroft's smile was small and satisfied, like a cat who had not only caught the canary but had also convinced it to write a full confession. "As of approximately eight forty-seven this morning, you are officially Harry Potter's legal guardian, with all rights and responsibilities that entails."
Sherlock stared at him. "That was remarkably fast, even for you. The child's parents were only murdered two days ago."
"The boy's parents were murdered, Sherlock. He needs protection, and we're the only family capable of providing it. I simply ensured that legal reality matched practical necessity with appropriate bureaucratic efficiency." Mycroft's expression grew more serious, losing some of its usual sardonic amusement. "However, there will be complications. The magical authorities—and yes, that's a phrase I never thought I'd use in an official capacity—believe the boy is with the Dursleys. They may object strenuously to discovering he's elsewhere."
"Let them object. Harry stays here."
"Agreed. Though I suspect we'll need to address their concerns eventually, preferably before they decide to take more direct action. Which brings us to the rather pressing matter of security." Mycroft released Harry's grip with practiced diplomacy and opened his briefcase, withdrawing a thick folder bound with official-looking red tape. "I've had a preliminary threat assessment conducted by some of our more... specialized analysts. The results are deeply concerning."
"Elaborate with specific details and precise numbers wherever possible."
"According to my sources—and I should note that gathering intelligence on the magical world required calling in several significant favors from people who owe their continued employment to my discretion—Lord Voldemort commanded a substantial following. They call themselves 'Death Eaters,' which is almost aggressively unsubtle as terrorist organization names go. Many have been captured or killed in the aftermath of his apparent demise, but others remain at large."
"Numbers?"
"Difficult to determine with complete accuracy, as magical law enforcement appears to operate on different principles than their mundane counterparts. Current estimates range from a dozen confirmed fugitives to several hundred potential sympathizers still unaccounted for. And that's not counting individuals who might be recruited later, either for ideological reasons or simple opportunism."
Sherlock absorbed this information with the kind of grim satisfaction most people reserved for excellent wine or particularly challenging puzzles. "Excellent. A clearly defined enemy with unknown numbers, locations, capabilities, and motivations. Just the sort of challenge that makes life worth living."
"Your enthusiasm is noted and, frankly, somewhat alarming. However, we must also consider non-magical threats. Harry's story, if it becomes public knowledge, would attract considerable attention from various governmental, academic, and media sources. Some of that attention would be legitimate scientific curiosity. Some..." Mycroft's pause was eloquent with unspoken implications.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning there are individuals and organizations who would be very interested in a child capable of surviving impossible magical attacks. They would want to study him, experiment on him, weaponize him, or simply use him for their own purposes. The American CIA alone would probably fund seventeen different research programs, and that's assuming they approached the situation with their usual restraint and subtlety."
Harry, apparently sensing the gravity of the conversation despite his age, had grown uncommonly quiet and was watching both men with those unsettling green eyes that seemed to see far too much.
"So we keep him hidden," Sherlock said with the kind of simple directness that made complex problems seem manageable. "The world believes he's with the Dursleys in suburban mediocrity. We maintain that fiction while providing him with an education that will actually prepare him for the realities he'll face."
"Precisely. Though 'hidden' may be too strong a term. Rather, we keep him selectively visible—normal childhood, normal activities, carefully managed social interactions, but with exceptional security and meticulously controlled access to information about his true circumstances."
"And when he starts displaying magic? Because according to Professor McGonagall, all magical children exhibit 'accidental magic' when they're young and emotional. Spontaneous levitation, color changes, that sort of thing."
"Ah." Mycroft's smile returned, thin and satisfied. "That's where things become particularly interesting from a bureaucratic perspective. According to my research—and I should note that magical law is fascinatingly complex once you understand the underlying principles—magical children are monitored by something called the Trace, a spell that detects underage magic within a specific radius of the child in question."
"How specific?"
"Approximately fifty meters, with some variation based on local magical interference. However, the spell cannot distinguish between magic cast by the child and magic cast around them. If Harry lives in a household with significant magical activity, his own magical outbursts would be effectively undetectable among the background magical noise."
"Clever. But we're not a magical household, Mycroft. In case you haven't noticed."
"No. However, I've arranged for certain... modifications to be made to Baker Street. Professor McGonagall—who is apparently quite competent despite the unfortunate name—will be installing protective wards around the building. Those wards will register as constant low-level magical activity, effectively masking any accidental magic Harry might display."
Sherlock's expression shifted from skeptical to genuinely impressed. "That's... actually brilliant. Though I suspect there are other complications you haven't mentioned yet, because there always are."
"Several, actually. First, the matter of education. Harry will need to understand both the magical and non-magical worlds with equal facility. That requires teachers with very specific qualifications and security clearances."
"Professor McGonagall has agreed to handle his magical education. I'll handle everything else—logic, deduction, observation, critical thinking, practical applications of scientific method, basic criminology, advanced mathematics, classical literature, and whatever else proves necessary."
"Yes, well, about that. Your idea of 'everything else' and conventional child-rearing methodologies may not be entirely compatible. Most children don't begin learning advanced forensic techniques until they're at least... well, ever."
"Conventional child-rearing produces conventional children, Mycroft. Harry can't afford to be conventional. Conventional children get murdered by dark wizards."
"Granted. However, he also can't afford to be completely isolated from normal childhood experiences. He'll need friends, social interaction, some semblance of ordinary life. Children who grow up exclusively around adults develop... peculiarities."
"You mean they become like us?"
"Precisely my point."
Sherlock looked skeptical. "Friends his age won't understand him. They won't share his experiences, his challenges, or his intellectual capacity. What possible benefit could there be in forcing him to interact with ordinary children?"
"Perhaps not initially. But isolation breeds its own problems. A child who can't relate to anyone except adults becomes conspicuous, and conspicuous children attract exactly the sort of attention we're trying to avoid. Besides, learning to interact with people of varying intelligence levels is a useful skill for anyone planning to operate in society."
"Point taken, though I reserve the right to veto any friendships that seem intellectually stultifying or potentially dangerous."
"Naturally. Now, the matter of finances. Raising a child is expensive under normal circumstances. Raising a child who requires specialized security, education, and magical supplies is considerably more expensive."
"And?"
"And it appears young Harry is quite wealthy. His parents left him a substantial inheritance, held in trust at something called Gringotts Wizarding Bank, which is apparently run by goblins and operates according to principles that make Swiss banking look casual and trusting."
"Goblins. Of course. Because why wouldn't magical banking be handled by mythological creatures? What's next, vampire stockbrokers?"
"I wouldn't rule it out. However, accessing those funds while maintaining our cover story presents certain logistical challenges. We can hardly walk into a bank run by goblins and request a withdrawal."
"Which you've no doubt already solved through some brilliantly convoluted scheme."
"Indeed. I've established a separate trust fund, ostensibly from a distant relative's estate—the late Reginald Holmes-Whitmore, whose fictional death in a climbing accident in Switzerland has been properly documented and filed—that will cover all of Harry's expenses. The magical authorities need never know their precious Boy-Who-Lived is being funded by his own inheritance channeled through carefully obscured legal structures and three different offshore banking arrangements."
Harry chose that moment to let out a small yawn, the sound somehow managing to be both adorable and pointed, reminding both men that their 'precious Boy-Who-Lived' was still very much a toddler who had missed his usual morning nap.
"Speaking of practical matters," Sherlock said, looking down at Harry with the expression of someone who had just realized they were responsible for keeping something small and complicated alive, "I should probably learn something about actual childcare. My experience with infants is somewhat limited."
"Somewhat limited?"
"Nonexistent. I once successfully kept Mrs. Hudson's cat alive for three days, but that hardly qualifies me for human infant care."
"I've taken the liberty of arranging for Mrs. Hudson to receive comprehensive training from a qualified nanny—former Mary Poppins understudy, excellent references, security clearance, and absolutely no curiosity about unusual circumstances. She's agreed to take on additional responsibilities in exchange for appropriate compensation and a promise that you'll stop leaving body parts in the refrigerator."
"That seems fair. Though I make no promises about the occasional severed finger for experimental purposes."
"I'm sure accommodations can be made. Mrs. Hudson is remarkably adaptable."
At that moment, as if summoned by the mention of her name, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway carrying a tea tray laden with her best china and what appeared to be enough biscuits to feed a small army. She took in the scene—Mycroft in his expensive suit looking perfectly at home, Sherlock hovering over a baby with barely contained intellectual excitement, and Harry himself watching everything with those impossibly alert green eyes—and smiled with the kind of warm satisfaction that suggested she'd been expecting something exactly like this.
"Well," she said, setting the tray down with practiced efficiency, "isn't this lovely? A proper family gathering. Though I do hope that baby's properly fed. He looks far too thin."
"Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft said, rising with old-fashioned courtesy, "you're an absolute treasure. And yes, Harry is properly fed, though I suspect his appetite will improve once he settles in properly."
"Of course it will. Children always eat better when they feel safe." She bustled around the room, straightening cushions and checking that Harry was comfortable, then fixed both Holmes brothers with a look that brooked no argument. "Now then, I don't know exactly what's going on here, and I'm not sure I want to know, but that child needs proper care. Regular meals, regular baths, regular bedtimes, and absolutely no exposure to whatever peculiar experiments you two conduct in your spare time."
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began.
"Don't 'Mrs. Hudson' me, Sherlock Holmes. I've seen what you consider appropriate reading material, and none of it is suitable for children. The same goes for your violin practice, your chemical experiments, and whatever it is you do with those skulls."
"The skulls are purely educational."
"I'm sure they are. But education can wait until he's old enough to appreciate it properly. For now, he needs love, attention, and someone who knows how to change a nappy without requiring a detailed instruction manual."
Mycroft cleared his throat diplomatically. "Mrs. Hudson, I believe we're all in agreement about Harry's welfare being the primary concern. And I've arranged for you to receive professional training to supplement your already considerable skills."
"Professional training?" Mrs. Hudson's expression brightened considerably. "Well, that's very thoughtful of you, Mr. Mycroft. Though I raised four children of my own, so I'm not entirely hopeless."
"Four children?" Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. "You never mentioned children."
"You never asked. But yes, four lovely children, all grown up now with families of their own. So I do know a thing or two about keeping small people alive and happy." She smiled down at Harry, who had been following the conversation with obvious interest. "Don't you worry, sweetheart. We'll take very good care of you."
As if he understood perfectly, Harry reached toward her with both arms, making soft demanding sounds that clearly indicated he wanted to be picked up immediately.
"Oh, you charmer," Mrs. Hudson said, scooping him up with practiced ease. "You're going to fit right in here, aren't you? Though I do hope you'll be better behaved than your cousin Sherlock. He's been nothing but trouble since the day I met him."
"I resent that characterization."
"You blew up the kitchen twice last month."
"Those were controlled experiments with entirely predictable results."
"You predicted the kitchen would explode?"
"Well... not specifically the kitchen."
"You see what I have to deal with?" Mrs. Hudson asked Harry, who gurgled what might have been sympathy. "But don't worry. We'll teach you to be much more sensible."
Mycroft watched this exchange with obvious amusement. "Mrs. Hudson, I can see why Sherlock values your services so highly. Harry couldn't ask for better care."
"Flattery will get you extra biscuits, Mr. Mycroft, but it won't get you out of explaining exactly what sort of trouble this child might attract. Because I may not know much about magic and dark wizards, but I know when people are worried about something dangerous."
The brothers exchanged a look. Finally, Sherlock spoke carefully. "Mrs. Hudson, there are people who might want to hurt Harry because of who his parents were and what he represents. We're going to make sure that doesn't happen, but it means taking certain... precautions."
"What sort of precautions?"
"Security measures. Background checks on anyone who comes near him. Possibly some unusual visitors who may not look entirely normal."
"You mean like that professor last night? The one with the beard and the robes?"
"Exactly like that. There may be others. Some of them might be cats."
Mrs. Hudson blinked. "Cats?"
"Magical cats. Who are actually people. It's complicated."
"I see." Mrs. Hudson considered this information with the kind of practical acceptance that came from years of dealing with Sherlock's eccentricities. "Well, as long as they wipe their feet and don't leave hair on the furniture, I suppose I can manage. Will they want tea?"
"Probably. Professor McGonagall seems the tea-drinking type."
"Right then. I'll make sure to keep extra biscuits on hand." She looked down at Harry, who had settled comfortably in her arms and was beginning to look drowsy. "Now, this little one needs a proper nap. And you two need to sort out whatever it is you're planning while he sleeps."
She headed toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Sherlock? Whatever you're thinking of doing about this situation, try to remember that violence should be a last resort, not a first option."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"See that you do. And Mycroft? Make sure he actually listens to that advice."
After Mrs. Hudson left with Harry, the room fell into the kind of comfortable silence that came from two brilliant minds processing the same complex information simultaneously.
"You've thought of everything," Sherlock said finally.
"I've thought of everything I can anticipate. I suspect Harry will present us with challenges we haven't yet imagined."
As if to prove Mycroft's point, there was a soft tapping at the window. Both brothers turned to look, but saw nothing unusual—just the typical London street scene, grey and foggy and utterly ordinary.
"What was that?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock moved to the window and peered out carefully, his sharp eyes scanning the street below. After a moment, he smiled grimly. "Professor McGonagall. Still in cat form, sitting on the lamppost across the street. Apparently, she's maintaining surveillance."
"How do you know it's her and not just a cat?"
"Because Harry pointed at that exact spot earlier and made interested noises. Either he has remarkable eyesight for recognizing individuals at a distance, or he can see through magical disguises. Either possibility is deeply intriguing."
Mycroft studied the empty window with renewed attention. "Yes, I can see this is going to be a most educational experience for all of us."
"Indeed. Now, shall we review those files you brought? I'm particularly interested in the information about Azkaban prison and this Peter Pettigrew situation."
"Ah yes, the matter of the wrongfully imprisoned godfather. That presents its own set of unprecedented legal and logistical complications."
"Sirius Black is innocent. The real traitor—Peter Pettigrew—is still at large and potentially dangerous. That makes this situation both an immediate threat to Harry's safety and an opportunity to gain a valuable ally if we can secure Black's freedom."
"Freeing him will require irrefutable proof of his innocence. Proof that may be extremely difficult to obtain, given that the supposed victim faked his own death and is now presumably in hiding with whatever remains of Voldemort's organization."
"Difficult, perhaps. But not impossible. I am, after all, a consulting detective. Proving innocence through careful analysis of evidence is rather my specialty."
"True. Though I should point out that magical law enforcement may not be particularly receptive to evidence gathered through conventional investigative methods."
"Then we'll have to be creative. Fortunately, creativity is also my specialty."
Mycroft smiled—a genuine expression of warmth and anticipation rather than his usual bureaucratic courtesy. "Brother dear, I do believe this is going to be the most interesting case of your career."
"Our career, Mycroft. Harry is family now. That makes his safety and future a matter of national security, doesn't it?"
"Of course it does. A prophesied child capable of defeating dark wizards who threaten British citizens? The government has a clear and compelling interest in ensuring he grows up healthy, happy, properly educated, and appropriately motivated to protect British interests."
"Excellent. Then we're in complete agreement. Harry stays here, receives the best possible education and protection we can provide, and grows up knowing the truth about his heritage, his abilities, and his responsibilities."
"Agreed. Though I suspect the truth may prove considerably more complex than even we currently anticipate."
From upstairs came the soft sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice, singing what sounded like a lullaby. Both brothers paused to listen, struck by the simple domesticity of the moment.
"He's safe here," Sherlock said quietly.
"For now," Mycroft agreed. "But eventually, the world will come looking for him. When it does, we need to make sure he's ready."
"He will be. Because we're going to teach him everything he needs to know to survive and thrive in a world that wants to either worship him or kill him. Logic, deduction, magical theory, practical applications of violence, political maneuvering, and anything else that proves necessary."
"Don't forget normal childhood experiences. Friends, games, birthday parties, that sort of thing."
"I suppose those have their place too. Though I reserve the right to improve upon conventional childhood activities through the application of scientific method."
"Heaven help us all," Mycroft murmured, but there was affection in his voice. "This is either going to be our greatest success or our most spectacular failure."
"With Harry involved, it's likely to be both simultaneously."
Outside, Professor McGonagall the tabby cat continued her vigilant watch, and London continued its ancient business of hiding secrets in plain sight. Inside 221B Baker Street, the three most important people in Harry Potter's new life began planning for a future none of them could fully predict but all of them were determined to protect.
The game, indeed, was afoot.
—
Professor McGonagall had been perched on the lamppost for precisely forty-seven minutes when she caught the familiar scent that made her feline instincts prick with recognition—part human, part something wilder, with undertones of forest and moonlight that no amount of washing could entirely eliminate. She turned her tabby head with careful precision, amber eyes tracking the tall, shabby figure making his way down Baker Street with the cautious gait of someone accustomed to moving through potentially hostile territory.
Remus Lupin looked every one of his twenty-one years and several more besides, his face bearing the kind of premature lines that came from too much stress and too little sleep. His robes—if they could dignify the patched, faded garments with that term—had clearly seen better decades, and his brown hair needed cutting. But his amber eyes were sharp with intelligence and something that might have been desperate hope.
McGonagall waited until he was directly beneath her lamppost before dropping gracefully to the pavement and transforming in one fluid motion, her tabby form dissolving into the severe figure of a woman who had spent thirty years perfecting the art of looking disapproving.
"Mr. Lupin," she said crisply. "You're precisely on time. I trust your journey from the werewolf encampments wasn't too arduous?"
Remus startled slightly—even expecting her presence, the sudden appearance of a human where a cat had been sitting required mental adjustment. "Professor McGonagall. No, the journey was... manageable. Though I confess I'm still processing everything Dumbledore told me. Sirius is innocent? Peter is alive? Harry is living with Sherlock Holmes instead of the Dursleys?"
"All accurate, though I suspect Mr. Holmes would object to the phrase 'living with' and prefer something more along the lines of 'being systematically educated by.'" McGonagall's lips twitched with what might have been amusement. "The man appears to view child-rearing as an advanced form of intellectual puzzle-solving."
"That sounds... actually rather appropriate for Harry, given his circumstances." Remus glanced toward the building across the street, noting the subtle signs of recently-installed security measures that most people would miss—reinforced window frames, discrete cameras, the particular way the curtains hung that suggested additional layers behind them. "And he's safe here?"
"As safe as anywhere in either world, I believe. Mr. Holmes may be unconventional, but his protective instincts appear quite sound. His brother, meanwhile, commands resources that make the Ministry's security arrangements look quaint by comparison."
"Mycroft Holmes." Remus nodded slowly. "Lily mentioned him once—said he was the most dangerous man in Britain that no one had ever heard of. She meant it as a compliment."
"Indeed. And now that considerable intellect and those substantial resources are focused on protecting Harry. Which brings us to why you're here." McGonagall fixed him with the kind of penetrating stare that had reduced countless students to stammering confession. "Professor Dumbledore was rather vague about what specific information you possess that would be useful to Mr. Holmes's investigation."
Remus was quiet for a moment, amber eyes distant with memory. "There are things about James and Sirius and Peter that only I know. Things that were secret for good reason, but... if Sirius is innocent, if Peter really did betray them, then those secrets might be the key to proving it."
"What sort of secrets?"
"The kind that could get people arrested if the Ministry found out. The kind that James and Sirius thought were brilliant fun, but that Peter always seemed a bit too eager to participate in." Remus's expression grew troubled. "We were young and reckless and thought we were invincible. It never occurred to us that one of us might be..."
"Might be what, Mr. Lupin?"
"Might be pretending. All those years, all those late nights planning pranks and studying for exams and worrying about my... condition... I never suspected that Peter might be watching, listening, reporting everything back to people who wanted to hurt us."
McGonagall studied his face carefully. "You blame yourself."
"Shouldn't I? I knew them all better than anyone. If I couldn't see what Peter really was, what does that say about my judgment? What else did I miss? What other signs did I ignore because I was so grateful to have friends who accepted me despite being a werewolf?"
"It says you're human, Mr. Lupin. And that Peter Pettigrew was more skilled at deception than any of you realized." McGonagall's voice softened slightly, carrying a note of genuine compassion beneath its usual briskness. "Self-recrimination serves no purpose now. What matters is ensuring Sirius receives justice and Harry remains safe."
"You're right, of course." Remus straightened, visibly pulling himself together. "The information I have... it's about illegal Animagus transformations. Sirius, James, and Peter all became unregistered Animagi during our fifth year at Hogwarts. They did it to help me during my transformations—animals can be around werewolves safely, while humans cannot."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose sharply. "Illegal Animagus transformations? At fifteen? Do you have any idea how dangerous and complex that magic is?"
"Extremely dangerous. It took them nearly three years to master it completely. But they were brilliant—James especially had a gift for Transfiguration that rivaled yours, Professor. And Sirius... Sirius would have attempted anything if it meant helping a friend."
"And Peter?"
"Peter was always the weakest of us magically, but he was determined not to be left out. It took him longest to achieve the transformation, and even then, his form was... appropriate."
"Meaning?"
"He became a rat." Remus's voice carried a bitter note. "Rather fitting, in retrospect. But at the time, we just thought it was unfortunate luck. Sirius became a large black dog—perfect for keeping a werewolf company without seeming threatening. James was a magnificent stag. And Peter was a small brown rat who could hide in our pockets or dormitory walls and keep watch for teachers or other students who might discover our secret."
"A rat," McGonagall repeated thoughtfully. "Small, unnoticeable, capable of hiding almost anywhere..."
"Exactly. If Peter faked his death, his rat form would be the perfect way to escape and remain hidden. He could live anywhere, eat anything, travel undetected..." Remus's expression grew grim. "He could have been watching Sirius for months before the confrontation, learning his habits, planning the perfect frame."
"And you believe Mr. Holmes can use this information to prove Sirius's innocence?"
"If anyone can, it would be him. Lily always said her cousin could solve any puzzle if he had the right pieces. Well, this is one of the missing pieces—proof that Peter had both the means and opportunity to fake his death and frame Sirius for betrayal."
McGonagall nodded slowly. "Then we'd best not keep him waiting. Mr. Holmes strikes me as the sort of man who values efficiency almost as much as he values the truth."
They began walking toward 221B Baker Street, Remus's step lighter than it had been in months. "Professor? What's he like? Holmes, I mean. Lily's letters made him sound... intimidating."
"Brilliant, certainly. Arrogant, definitely. Emotionally distant but not without feeling. He sees patterns and connections that others miss, and he has absolutely no patience for stupidity or deception." McGonagall paused thoughtfully. "He reminds me rather strongly of a young Tom Riddle, actually, except with a functioning moral compass and considerably better taste in literature."
"That's... not entirely reassuring."
"It's not meant to be. Mr. Holmes is not a comfortable man to be around. But he is extraordinarily good at what he does, and what he does is find the truth regardless of how well it's been hidden. If Sirius is innocent, Mr. Holmes will prove it. If Peter is alive and in hiding, Mr. Holmes will find him."
They had reached the front door of 221B Baker Street. McGonagall lifted her hand to knock, then paused.
"Mr. Lupin? One word of advice. Mr. Holmes values directness and precision above all else. Don't try to soften unpleasant truths or spare his feelings. Tell him exactly what he needs to know, no matter how difficult it might be to hear."
"I understand."
"Good. Then let's see if we can help him solve the puzzle of how to free an innocent man from the worst prison in the magical world."
McGonagall rapped firmly on the door, her knuckles making the kind of authoritative sound that suggested important business was about to be conducted. From somewhere inside came the sound of rapid footsteps and a voice that might have been Mrs. Hudson muttering about unexpected visitors and the need for more tea.
The game, indeed, was afoot.
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