HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

The surface of the Black Lake lay still, shimmering with ripples of silver-blue light, though every now and then a ring of delicate wavelets would spread across the water whether from the giant squid idly playing beneath the surface, no one could say.

Along the bank, the grass was carpeted with soft moss, and the air carried the clean, mingled scent of damp earth and water reeds. A breeze drifted off the lake, cool with the chill of the water, stirring the hems of everyone’s robes.

Ginny caught Ron out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing an almost dopey grin, and she couldn’t help but feel a wave of exasperation wash over her.

She cleared her throat pointedly, and with some force. Ron startled back to reality, his face flushing instantly to match the colour of his hair.

Ginny covered her face with her hand.

’This brother of hers was really something else.’

If she hadn’t said anything, how long did he intend to keep staring?

She didn’t begrudge him his feelings—she understood them well enough. An appreciation for beauty was only human, after all. And Fleur was undeniably beautiful, with the allure of her Veela blood besides. But did he have to make it quite so obvious? His eyes had practically been glued to her.

Sherlock and Harry, at least, hadn’t been carrying on like that.

What was more, Mrs. Holmes had clearly set her sights on a match between Fleur and Mycroft. These past two days she’d been spending a good deal of time with Fleur’s mother, Madame Delacour, who seemed equally pleased with the prospect. Any person with eyes could see what was afoot. And yet here was Ron, blundering in with all the subtlety of a flobberworm—wasn’t he just asking to be made a fool of?

Fleur, for her part, had taken no notice at all of Ron’s embarrassment. She turned her head toward Gemma, tilting her chin with curious interest.

”And what about you, Farley? After you graduate—are you going back to Romania to work with the dragons? I remember you saying once that you wanted to earn the highest international qualification in dragon-taming.”

Over the past weeks, Fleur and Gemma had struck up something of a friendship—they were close in age, and neither was exactly a current student in the traditional sense, which gave them common ground. They had often spent stolen moments in the castle’s corridors or the courtyard, chatting about their plans for the future, and each knew the other’s ambitions well.

At Fleur’s question, Gemma shook her head slowly. When she spoke, her voice was calm and even.

”I’m not going back.”

The words landed on the sunlit grass like a stone dropped into still water.

Save for Sherlock, who remained entirely expressionless as though he had long since anticipated this—everyone else on the bank was visibly taken aback.

Hermione most of all.

She jerked her head up, staring at Gemma in astonishment. She knew Gemma’s plans better than almost anyone. Just this time last year, on the eve of Gemma’s graduation, Gemma had pulled her aside specifically, leading her into the Room of Requirement.

The candles inside had wavered in the dark, casting a warm, unsteady glow across Gemma’s face and she had looked so utterly earnest.

Just as Fleur had described a moment ago: Gemma had said, with complete confidence, that she needed no more than three years to earn the highest dragon-taming qualification in the world, after which she would return to Britain.

The reason she had come to Hermione, she’d explained, was to ask her to look after Sherlock during those three years.

And to leave a lasting impression, Gemma had pressed a soft kiss to Hermione’s cheek.

Hermione had wrestled privately with that moment for quite some time afterward, the warmth in her face slow to fade.

Then, a few months later, Gemma had come back to England for the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione had assumed it was only a brief return—and hadn’t thought much more of it.

But now Gemma was saying she wasn’t going back at all?

The turn of events was so sudden it left Hermione thoroughly at a loss.

”Oh? Why is that?” Fleur leaned forward, genuinely curious.

Something significant must have compelled such a capable girl—one so tenaciously devoted to her dream to abandon a goal she had pursued for years. As the thought crossed her mind, Fleur found her gaze drifting, almost involuntarily, toward Sherlock.

’Could it be because of him?’

If so, she could understand it well enough. The Holmes brothers were both, in their own ways, so exceptional, if it had been herself, she might very well have made the same choice.

But the thought had barely taken shape before Fleur regretted giving it voice. She shouldn’t have asked so directly. The question was too blunt, too presumptuous.

Yet the words were already out, and there was no calling them back.

Then, at precisely that moment, a voice floated through the air—dreamy, airy, with a strangely hollow quality, like wind passing through an empty valley and drew every pair of eyes toward its source:

”Is it because of Sherlock?”

It was, without question, Luna Lovegood.

Though she had been sitting on the grass with the rest of them, she had seemed apart—a ghost hovering at the edge of the group, taking no part in the conversation from start to finish. Her eyes, always a little distant, had drifted slowly from one person to the next, studying them with the mild, unhurried curiosity one might direct at an interesting magical creature.

Until now.

When she finally did speak, she spoke in a straight line, clean and unadorned, without preamble of any kind.

Even Gemma, who was ordinarily so composed, had not been prepared for that kind of directness. A faint flush rose in her cheeks and she looked deliberately away from the others, her gaze floating off toward the distant surface of the Black Lake in a way that wasn’t quite natural.

A girl’s blush is the plainest answer there is.

In that moment, everyone present—everyone except Sherlock and Luna understood perfectly.

It was at once exactly what one might expect, and exactly what one might have predicted.

Luna opened her mouth to press further but Chang Cho, her fellow Ravenclaw, reached over and tugged gently at her sleeve.

Cho gave a small shake of her head with a smile, faintly resigned.

Their senior had her dignity to consider!

As a junior, you couldn’t push quite so hard.

As for Sherlock, he had already known that Gemma intended to stay. After the confrontation with Voldemort, Dumbledore had moved swiftly to rebuild the Order of the Phoenix, and Gemma had put herself forward to join.

Decades ago, as Voldemort’s power had begun to rise, Dumbledore had shown remarkable foresight: he understood that the Ministry of Magic alone could not stand against him, and so he had founded this secret organization. Its members ranged across every walk of wizarding life Aurors and barkeepers, wizards and Squibs, even thieves.

This motley assembly reflected Dumbledore’s philosophy perfectly, forming a vivid contrast to Voldemort’s Death Eaters, with their contempt for Muggle-born witches and wizards. Where the Ministry waged its formal campaign on the open front, the Order carved out a second front behind enemy lines.

Even so, the war had been more devastating than anyone could have imagined.

Many members of the Order had fallen in the struggle against Voldemort.

Edgar Bones—brother of Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was taken along with most of his family in a Death Eater raid. Only Amelia survived.

Dorcas Meadowes killed by Voldemort himself, whose hand she had warranted personally, by virtue of her exceptional power.

Molly’s brothers, Gideon and Fabian Prewett—their sister Molly had married Arthur Weasley and was occupied raising her children, which had kept her from formal membership. The brothers were ambushed by five Death Eaters, and despite fighting with tremendous courage, they fell.

And then there were Harry’s parents—James and Lily, betrayed by Peter Pettigrew. James died shielding his wife and son; Lily died shielding her child. Both killed by Voldemort.

Some had not died, but their fates were little better.

Neville’s parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, had been tortured by the Cruciatus Curse—Death Eaters demanding to know what had become of Voldemort after his fall. They had been driven to madness, and had never recovered.

And there was Peter Pettigrew himself—once a member of the Order, before the betrayal.

Only when Voldemort was stripped of his body by the rebounding Killing Curse—defeated, at last, by the infant Harry Potter did the war end, and the Order disbanded.

Thirteen years on, Voldemort had returned.

In the wake of that battle, Dumbledore had moved with extraordinary speed, reconstituting the Order within the hour. Alongside the original members — Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sirius, Lupin, Hagrid came new recruits: Professors Flitwick and Sprout, who had fought at the Battle of Little Hangleton; Arthur and Molly Weasley.

Their elder sons, Bill and Charlie, were already being considered. And then there was Gemma Farley who had put herself forward of her own accord.

With that commitment made, there was no longer any question of returning to Romania.

The dragons could wait. The fight against Voldemort could not.

Sherlock knew all of this. He knew with equal certainty that Gemma had not stayed for him. Her manner just now that deliberate look away, the refusal to explain herself—was simply characteristic of who she was. She did not deign to clarify what she felt no need to justify.

Nor would Sherlock offer any explanation on her behalf.

And so the matter passed, in that way that only silence can settle things, and everyone moved quietly on.

The breeze still moved over the grass. The light still danced on the Black Lake’s surface. The small interlude might never have happened at all.

After the Tournament’s conclusion, the families of the Champions were welcome to remain at the school until the holidays, leaving together with their students or they could depart ahead of them.

Harry’s Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had already left. Dudley’s term was ending soon, and they needed to go home for their beloved son.

This visit had been, for Petunia, the fulfilment of a long-held wish. She had dreamed of Hogwarts in her girlhood, and now, through the Tournament, she had not only seen it at last, but had glimpsed something of the wizarding world beyond Britain’s borders.

With her heart’s desire finally satisfied and knowing well that neither she nor her son had any gift for magic she had resolved, quietly, to put all of it behind her. To go home. To be a good wife and a good mother.

Before they left, the Dursleys stood at the great front doors of the castle to say goodbye to Harry.

The dying sun cast a warm light across Petunia’s shoulders, softening the rigid lines of her face with a gentle halo. She hesitated for a moment then opened her arms, and for the first time in Harry’s memory, she embraced him.

Harry was stunned. His body went rigid; he even forgot, for an instant, to breathe. He had never felt so nervous in Cho’s arms, or Ginny’s. But then the warmth seeped through real and unguarded, a little awkward, the warmth of family and the stiffness in him slowly gave way.

After a long pause, Harry raised his arms and held her back.

When Petunia finally let him go, she reached up and smoothed the fringe from his forehead, her eyes resting on those green eyes so identical to her sister Lily’s and on the lightning-bolt scar. When she spoke, her voice was low and rough.

”Harry… it hasn’t been easy for you, these years. We were wrong. We failed you.”

Harry looked at his aunt at the unfamiliar warmth in her expression and shook his head, with za trace of a smile.

”It doesn’t matter.”

”Come back when the holidays begin,” Petunia said, her voice softer still. ”Privet Drive will always be your home.”

He managed to hold himself together until their carriage had gone.

Then the tears came slow, quiet, one by one, falling onto the front of his robes and spreading in small, dark circles.

If only this tenderness had come sooner.

If it had, his childhood need not have been so lonely.

But…perhaps it was not too late.

Of all the Champions’ family members, the only other one to take his leave was Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s elder brother.

He departed in the same impeccably tailored suit he had arrived in, its sharp lines looking faintly incongruous against the magical atmosphere of Hogwarts. A man with an entire country’s worth of affairs demanding his attention had still managed to clear a full day not only out of concern for his family, but because this place had direct bearing on his work. For a Muggle of his standing, the chance to observe Hogwarts firsthand was a rare and valuable opportunity.

Brief as his stay had been, someone of Mycroft’s capabilities does not need long. He had learned a great deal more than most people might gather in a week.

It was, in part, this that explained why he had resolved Fleur’s family’s trouble without complaint, even after she had failed to complete the task of keeping an eye on Sherlock. He had already obtained what he needed without her help.

There was another reason, too: he had noticed in Fleur that same goodwill toward Sherlock that he had once seen in Harry. Harry had refused his request, but out of care for Sherlock and that he could respect. Fleur had done the same. He had no grievance to hold.

So long as you mean well by my brother, helping you is nothing at all.

As for his mother’s evident designs on pairing him with Fleur Mycroft only smiled, and let the thought pass.

A man like him would choose his own moment for such things. When the time came, he would act.

Love? He was content to leave that particular territory to Sherlock.

That foolish younger brother of his had not the faintest idea that more than one young woman had taken a keen interest in his orbit. All the more reason, then, for a dutiful elder brother to offer some discreet assistance.

The duty of continuing the Holmes family line could safely be entrusted to Sherlock and Mycroft would support him wholeheartedly in the endeavor.

Naturally, he would tell no one of this intention. His parents least of all. Otherwise, he had a very good idea of the kind of scene it would set off.

Time moved on, as it always does at Hogwarts, in the rhythm of morning bells and evening bells, in the shifting of light across the castle’s towers from sunrise to sunset.

The lake’s surface turned over its reflections again and again. The days rocked gently past.

And at last, the day of the leaving feast arrived.

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