Sherlock Holmes and the Thief Of Souls
May. 22nd, 2022 11:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bungakertasSherlock and John returned to Hogsmeade to find that the next train back to London wasn't due to run for another two-and-a-half hours at which point John flat demanded that Sherlock, who hadn't eaten anything since the Chinese take-away John had practically force-fed him the other day, accompany him to the Three Broomsticks and eat something. Sherlock was on the point of digging his heels in when John gave a list of all his observable symptoms that indicated he was shortly to collapse from low blood sugar. Being as that as the second time that day John had outmatched Sherlock's abilities in the observational arena, Sherlock gave in with bad grace. Obviously, he did need to eat.
Boring.
He did, at least, get to try butterbeer (which he thought was nice and John pulled very unhappy faces at) before they left to catch the return run to London.
The return trip was uneventful. John slept most of the way home, of course. When they returned to their flat, Sherlock added the new information to the criminology mirror and then struck the case from his mind, still turning over John's words from the Hogwarts entrance hall.
He couldn't manage to see himself in the same light as John did, but it did explain why John didn't seem remotely concerned that someone might be cleverer than he was. John didn't think intelligence was Sherlock's only good feature. Somehow, for reasons that Sherlock had yet to adequately pin down, John had found value in him as a member of the human race beyond his mental faculties.
Sherlock racked his brains and only came up with one other individual who thought the same, that being Molly Hooper. Lestrade only kept him around for the cases, and Mycroft only came to him when he had a problem that needed legwork. Sebastian thought of him as a complex, clockwork man. And so did Victor, though he at least tried not to. With both his parents dead, John was the only person left to consider. And somehow, unbelievably, he had managed to find things about Sherlock's company and personality to approve of.
That was unexpected. Sherlock added it to his mental list of Unpredicted/Incorrectly Predicted Things John Watson Has Done before going to sleep.
He was awakened by a text the next morning.
Message Received, 8:15 AM
We just located the Lestranges and are going to pick them up.
32 Oxleay Rd.
Lestrade
Sherlock bolted out of bed and hammered on the loo door for John to finish his shower. John was slightly grumpy about it, but came anyway. The two of them clambered into a cab and were off. Nearly a half-hour later the two of them were stepping out of a taxi onto a street in Harrow, Sherlock making a disgusted face at the Tesco sign at the end of the road. Yet another cookie-cutter street with bland houses stacked together and looking identical.
Lestrade pulled up in an unmarked car a moment later.
"Will this be enough to convince them to come, do you think?" John asked curiously.
"By this point, they'll know they're targets," Sherlock said. "If they aren't the murders themselves, then I imagine they'll be glad of protective custody."
Lestrade strode up the walk and rang the bell. It was answered by a man with dark hair and olive complexion who looked near Lestrade in age and appeared to have lived an exhausting and unpleasant life. He had a curious and somewhat wary expression. "Hello?"
"Hello," Lestrade said, holding up his police ID. "I am Detective Inspector Lestrade, with the Metropolitan Police Service. Are you Mr. Lestrange?"
"Rabastan Lestrange," the man said.
"I'd like to speak to you and your brother Rodolphus for a moment," Lestrade replied. "May we come in?"
The inside of this house was the same interior decorator's dream as all the others had been. Rabastan conducted them into a small sitting room before fetching his brother. Sherlock examined the books on these shelves. They were mostly boring, consisting of atlases and encyclopedias and various other "public room" books. But scattered among them were books with titles like Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles or A Brief Guide to Muggle Governments. They weren't very remarkable looking, and blended in with the other books on the shelves, but it was reassuring to see tangible proof that they had found some of the people they were looking for.
Of course, the interior of the house still looked like it had been mugged by over-zealous decorating students, but now that Sherlock knew why it did it was easier to filter out.
Rodolphus Lestrange entered. The two brothers looked very similar in terms of colouring, although Rodolphus had more gray in his hair and more lines on his face. Both had a very tired, unhappy sort of expression, as though they had endured a great deal of misery for many years. Sherlock couldn't say he was all that sympathetic for either of them, given some of the things he'd read in Andromeda Tonks' book.
"There's no easy way to say this," Lestrade began. "We believe that you may be potential targets of a murderer currently operating in the United Kingdom."
"Why would you think that?" Rodolphus asked, and Sherlock had to give him credit. He didn't come across at all fake.
"Because of the tattoos on your arms," Sherlock said. "The mark of Death Eaters."
At that, they did exhange a look. Finally, Rabastan said, "So you know, then. What we are. Why they're targeting us."
"Yes," Lestrade replied.
"And you've come to see if we're the ones carrying out the killings," he went on.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. For men who had spent years hiding out from their legal system amongst people they deeply despised, these two seemed awfully self-possessed.
"In part," Lestrade agreed.
"Ask your questions, Detective Inspector," Rodolphus said.
Lestrade opened his mouth to do just that when a footstep creaked on a board in the hallway.
That was all the warning they had and somehow that was all John needed. He tackled Sherlock to the ground as a voice shouted something unintelligible and a jet of green light passed over where his head had just been.
Lestrade pulled his gun as a figure in black robes and an oddly faceless mask entered the doorway, causing both the Lestrange brothers to gasp. Even Sherlock had to admit, as costumes went, this one was fairly intimidating. The mask had an unnatural way of seeming simultaneously sinister and expressionless.
"Accio gun!" cried the figure, just in time to prevent Lestrade from getting a shot off.
The weapon flew from Lestrade's hands and the figure stepped fully into the room, dodging two bolts of light from the Lestranges.
"Stupefy!" the intruder cried, and a red bolt of light slammed into Rabastan, who fell unconscious to the floor.
John sprang up and stepped right into the intruder's personal space, deflecting his wand with his right forearm before slamming his left fist into the centre of that expressionless mask, causing a spiderweb of cracks to appear on its surface.
The killer stumbled backwards, swearing and turning on the spot. Rodolphus stepped up and shouted, "Stupefy!" but the killer was already vanishing, leaving only a pop behind him.
Sherlock realised he was still on the floor and scrambled to his feet. "Can we track where he's gone?" he demanded of Rodolphus.
"No," Rodolphus sighed. "I wish I'd gotten him with that stunning spell. Azkaban was not kind to my reflexes, I'm afraid."
He strode over to his brother and pointed his wand at him. "Rennervate."
Rabastan opened his eyes. He blinked and then said, "I thought he had us for sure."
Rodolphus held out his hand and pulled Rabastan to his feet. "He saved us," the man said, indicating John. "That's quite a left you have…"
"John Watson," John said quietly. He paused for a moment and finally said, "For two men who were part of a secret society dedicated to torturing normal people, you certainly don't seem to as…awkward around us as I expected you to. I don't think even Arthur Weasley manages to see muggles as normal people."
They exchanged a brief look. Finally Rastaban said, "We've had a few years to learn about muggles now."
John's eyes narrowed but he forbore further comments and turned to Sherlock. "Are you all right?"
"Fine."
Sherlock eyed his friend. He did occasionally find himself required to brangle with someone physically and so he had made a point of learning how to effectively neutralise an opponent as quickly as possible. And he could say with some confidence that he was stronger than most men his size. John had both these traits along with one more: he had an instinctive awareness of danger. All the warning they'd had was a tiny footfall and John had known instantly that there was an intruder, that they were dangerous, and who their first target would be. And had immediately acted on that knowledge.
That wasn't something Sherlock could teach himself, though he had tried on multiple occasions. Certainly it would have saved him a few trips to the A&E.
Yes, John Watson was indeed the most irritating man alive.
The two Lestranges did not resist their trip to the Met and actually helped Lestrade in contacting Potter and Weasley who arrived at the Yard in very short order. Lestrade, mostly out of curiosity, had decided to let Sherlock and John actually conduct the interview (Donovan's strident protests were overridden), while he and the two aurors watched from behind the glass.
"You realise you'll go to prison?" Sherlock pointed out as the two were installed in an interview room. Their meek acceptance of captivity was confusing. "Possibly for the rest of your life?"
Rabastan smiled ruefully. "You weren't there for the war, so you don't know what the Death Eaters were like. I would've killed you. I would've killed anyone. I did kill several people. More than the man hunting us…so far. And I did things besides killing. I suppose I was still hoping not to have to go to prison, but I was done running long ago."
Rodolphus gave him an odd look. "Is this really what you want to discuss?"
"No," Sherlock said. Pointless, really, to waste his mind on two men who weren't interested in freedom and didn't deserve it in any case. "Not really. Tell me, how could someone compile a complete list of Death Eaters without speaking to anyone who knew the full list?"
The two exchanged an incredulous look. "You can't," Rodolphus said. "No one but the Dark Lord had the full count."
"Snape did," John observed. "And someone else. We don't know who."
"Lucius Malfoy?" Rabastan said, then shook his head instantly. "No, by the end of the war he was lucky the Dark Lord didn't kill him on sight."
"Possibly Bella," Rodolphus said. "But she was gone long before these killings started."
"Not Greyback, surely," Rabastan said.
"Certainly not," Rodolphus agreed.
The two fell silent for a moment and Sherlock was about to ask his next question when Rabastan suddenly said, "Thorfinn Rowle, may have known."
"One of the victims," John sighed.
Rabastan nodded. "He and the Dark Lord attended school together. As much as he had friends—which was not much at all—Thorfinn was his friend."
"Rowle was that trusted?" Sherlock asked in surprise.
"No." Rodolphus was shaking his head. "I don't believe he knew. If anyone aside from Snape did, he may have, but I don't believe so."
"He's dead, in any case. No help there," Sherlock shook his head.
They went around a few more times on Death Eaters the Lestranges knew. But when the interview ended it was with no new information. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade all compared frustrated notes with the aurors in Lestrade's office.
"The Lestranges were the best candidates we had," Potter snapped when Sherlock pressed him. "If they don't know, then I have no idea who would."
"Well, you have to think," Sherlock said. "Someone knew, and without a complete list, the killer is always going to be at least a step ahead."
"We know that!" Weasley returned irritably.
They were facing one another, nearly shouting at this point and Sherlock didn't really want to waste energy on a full-blown argument so he turned away. A long silence ensued.
Lestrade finally looked at Potter curiously. "This may be a stupid question, but it's been bothering me for a few hours now. Do dementors speak?"
Potter gave him an odd glance. "No. They can't. They're about as smart as an average wizard, but they can't speak. Why do you ask?"
"Because if the killer is working with a dementor, but it can't speak…" Lestrade said.
"Then how are they communicating?" Weasley finished with a friendly smile.
The DI nodded.
"No clue," Weasley shrugged. "Add it to the list of things about this case that don't make sense."
Sherlock, on the other hand, was wearing an expression like all the stars of the universe had just rearranged themselves into a pattern that revealed every secret to him. "Oh! Clever! No wonder he took so long to move!" He turned and put his hands on Lestrade's shoulders. "And you have the consolation of knowing that even with magic, most police are even stupider than you are."
Potter, Weasley, and John all turned a glare on him.
"Isn't it obvious? You say these dementors used to guard a prison, and then they worked for Voldemort. You say they're sentient. Or, at least, only as stupid as you are. But if they couldn't speak, then Voldemort wouldn't have worried about whether they knew the whole roster of Death Eaters, would he?"
"So if the killer could work out how to talk to one," John said, "then he could get the whole list from it."
"But dementors can't speak!" Potter protested.
"Can they write?" Sherlock sneered. "Sign language? Smoke signals? The medium is irrelevant as long as the thing can communicate."
"Would Voldemort have overlooked something that obvious?" Potter blinked in surprise.
"You did," Sherlock pointed out irritably.
"There's also the small matter of his accidentally disembodying himself that one Halloween because of ancient protective magic he didn't think was all that important," Weasley added.
"I suppose he did have a habit of missing important things," Potter agreed.
"So," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the two aurors, "all we need to do is find out who would've had access to Voldemort's dementors. And stayed after them for a long enough time to work out how to talk to one."
"I only wish it were that simple," Weasley sighed. "The dementors were even harder to catch after the war than the Death Eaters. We only recovered a few and they were…" He frowned and looked at Potter, who appeared to be trying to recall something.
"Four were detained in Azkaban and then destroyed. I believe Bill, Charlie, Ginny, and Neville did the actual curse-casting," Potter said. "By then, politics intervened and we weren't able to destroy any more. All the other dementors recovered after the war, whether they worked for Voldemort or not, were removed to the Isle of Drear."
Sherlock raised a brow at him.
"It's near," Weasley began before frowning and saying, "well, less far, anyway, from the Isle of Lewis."
It was beginning to sound like another field trip was in order. He hadn't needed to travel this much for a case in a long time.
Lestrade caught Sherlock's expression and was already shaking his head. "You've got to be joking! It's freezing up there!"
"Yes, the Yard is a formidable force for stopping crime—unless it's cold," Sherlock returned irritably.
"You can't be thinking of going there?" Potter said quietly.
"It's miles away from London. I couldn't even get away to visit that…school thing," Lestrade said to Sherlock, ignoring the alarmed looks of Potter and Weasley. But Sherlock had caught them and the two aurors looked actually frightened. Which, if the record of their school days in that photo book was even close to accurate, did not bode well at all.
"That doesn't matter, because you couldn't get there anyway," Weasley said, stepping between the two. "It's unplottable."
"Un-what?" John asked.
"Unplottable," Potter replied. "It can't be plotted on a map. You either know where it is, or you don't."
"There's whole rafts of anti-muggle spells, too," Weasley added, "and even assuming you got past all that, dementors aren't the only things there. The place is crawling with MacBoons!"
Lestrade, Sherlock, and John all turned puzzled looks on him.
Potter looked at Sherlock, "Did you buy a copy of Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them?"
Lestrade plucked the book off of his shelf. "He lent it to me," he told Potter by way of explanation.
Potter did not reply. He flipped to a page near the back of the book and held it out to Sherlock. "Read," he instructed. His expression was deadly serious and his tone brooked no argument at all.
Sherlock read, not liking the story his eyes skimmed over. The history of attacks, injuries, and deaths associated with the "Hairy MacBoons" (more properly named "quintapeds") was much more solid than the fairy story of feuding families and transfigurations, but he couldn't disagree with the overall message. Under normal circumstances, he would do everything in his power to avoid a place like this. Unfortunately, circumstances were not normal and they had no other choice. If they were going to move the case forward, this was where they had to go.
"So," Sherlock said, "we'll be needing some specialists, then?"
Boring.
He did, at least, get to try butterbeer (which he thought was nice and John pulled very unhappy faces at) before they left to catch the return run to London.
The return trip was uneventful. John slept most of the way home, of course. When they returned to their flat, Sherlock added the new information to the criminology mirror and then struck the case from his mind, still turning over John's words from the Hogwarts entrance hall.
He couldn't manage to see himself in the same light as John did, but it did explain why John didn't seem remotely concerned that someone might be cleverer than he was. John didn't think intelligence was Sherlock's only good feature. Somehow, for reasons that Sherlock had yet to adequately pin down, John had found value in him as a member of the human race beyond his mental faculties.
Sherlock racked his brains and only came up with one other individual who thought the same, that being Molly Hooper. Lestrade only kept him around for the cases, and Mycroft only came to him when he had a problem that needed legwork. Sebastian thought of him as a complex, clockwork man. And so did Victor, though he at least tried not to. With both his parents dead, John was the only person left to consider. And somehow, unbelievably, he had managed to find things about Sherlock's company and personality to approve of.
That was unexpected. Sherlock added it to his mental list of Unpredicted/Incorrectly Predicted Things John Watson Has Done before going to sleep.
He was awakened by a text the next morning.
Message Received, 8:15 AM
We just located the Lestranges and are going to pick them up.
32 Oxleay Rd.
Lestrade
Sherlock bolted out of bed and hammered on the loo door for John to finish his shower. John was slightly grumpy about it, but came anyway. The two of them clambered into a cab and were off. Nearly a half-hour later the two of them were stepping out of a taxi onto a street in Harrow, Sherlock making a disgusted face at the Tesco sign at the end of the road. Yet another cookie-cutter street with bland houses stacked together and looking identical.
Lestrade pulled up in an unmarked car a moment later.
"Will this be enough to convince them to come, do you think?" John asked curiously.
"By this point, they'll know they're targets," Sherlock said. "If they aren't the murders themselves, then I imagine they'll be glad of protective custody."
Lestrade strode up the walk and rang the bell. It was answered by a man with dark hair and olive complexion who looked near Lestrade in age and appeared to have lived an exhausting and unpleasant life. He had a curious and somewhat wary expression. "Hello?"
"Hello," Lestrade said, holding up his police ID. "I am Detective Inspector Lestrade, with the Metropolitan Police Service. Are you Mr. Lestrange?"
"Rabastan Lestrange," the man said.
"I'd like to speak to you and your brother Rodolphus for a moment," Lestrade replied. "May we come in?"
The inside of this house was the same interior decorator's dream as all the others had been. Rabastan conducted them into a small sitting room before fetching his brother. Sherlock examined the books on these shelves. They were mostly boring, consisting of atlases and encyclopedias and various other "public room" books. But scattered among them were books with titles like Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles or A Brief Guide to Muggle Governments. They weren't very remarkable looking, and blended in with the other books on the shelves, but it was reassuring to see tangible proof that they had found some of the people they were looking for.
Of course, the interior of the house still looked like it had been mugged by over-zealous decorating students, but now that Sherlock knew why it did it was easier to filter out.
Rodolphus Lestrange entered. The two brothers looked very similar in terms of colouring, although Rodolphus had more gray in his hair and more lines on his face. Both had a very tired, unhappy sort of expression, as though they had endured a great deal of misery for many years. Sherlock couldn't say he was all that sympathetic for either of them, given some of the things he'd read in Andromeda Tonks' book.
"There's no easy way to say this," Lestrade began. "We believe that you may be potential targets of a murderer currently operating in the United Kingdom."
"Why would you think that?" Rodolphus asked, and Sherlock had to give him credit. He didn't come across at all fake.
"Because of the tattoos on your arms," Sherlock said. "The mark of Death Eaters."
At that, they did exhange a look. Finally, Rabastan said, "So you know, then. What we are. Why they're targeting us."
"Yes," Lestrade replied.
"And you've come to see if we're the ones carrying out the killings," he went on.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. For men who had spent years hiding out from their legal system amongst people they deeply despised, these two seemed awfully self-possessed.
"In part," Lestrade agreed.
"Ask your questions, Detective Inspector," Rodolphus said.
Lestrade opened his mouth to do just that when a footstep creaked on a board in the hallway.
That was all the warning they had and somehow that was all John needed. He tackled Sherlock to the ground as a voice shouted something unintelligible and a jet of green light passed over where his head had just been.
Lestrade pulled his gun as a figure in black robes and an oddly faceless mask entered the doorway, causing both the Lestrange brothers to gasp. Even Sherlock had to admit, as costumes went, this one was fairly intimidating. The mask had an unnatural way of seeming simultaneously sinister and expressionless.
"Accio gun!" cried the figure, just in time to prevent Lestrade from getting a shot off.
The weapon flew from Lestrade's hands and the figure stepped fully into the room, dodging two bolts of light from the Lestranges.
"Stupefy!" the intruder cried, and a red bolt of light slammed into Rabastan, who fell unconscious to the floor.
John sprang up and stepped right into the intruder's personal space, deflecting his wand with his right forearm before slamming his left fist into the centre of that expressionless mask, causing a spiderweb of cracks to appear on its surface.
The killer stumbled backwards, swearing and turning on the spot. Rodolphus stepped up and shouted, "Stupefy!" but the killer was already vanishing, leaving only a pop behind him.
Sherlock realised he was still on the floor and scrambled to his feet. "Can we track where he's gone?" he demanded of Rodolphus.
"No," Rodolphus sighed. "I wish I'd gotten him with that stunning spell. Azkaban was not kind to my reflexes, I'm afraid."
He strode over to his brother and pointed his wand at him. "Rennervate."
Rabastan opened his eyes. He blinked and then said, "I thought he had us for sure."
Rodolphus held out his hand and pulled Rabastan to his feet. "He saved us," the man said, indicating John. "That's quite a left you have…"
"John Watson," John said quietly. He paused for a moment and finally said, "For two men who were part of a secret society dedicated to torturing normal people, you certainly don't seem to as…awkward around us as I expected you to. I don't think even Arthur Weasley manages to see muggles as normal people."
They exchanged a brief look. Finally Rastaban said, "We've had a few years to learn about muggles now."
John's eyes narrowed but he forbore further comments and turned to Sherlock. "Are you all right?"
"Fine."
Sherlock eyed his friend. He did occasionally find himself required to brangle with someone physically and so he had made a point of learning how to effectively neutralise an opponent as quickly as possible. And he could say with some confidence that he was stronger than most men his size. John had both these traits along with one more: he had an instinctive awareness of danger. All the warning they'd had was a tiny footfall and John had known instantly that there was an intruder, that they were dangerous, and who their first target would be. And had immediately acted on that knowledge.
That wasn't something Sherlock could teach himself, though he had tried on multiple occasions. Certainly it would have saved him a few trips to the A&E.
Yes, John Watson was indeed the most irritating man alive.
The two Lestranges did not resist their trip to the Met and actually helped Lestrade in contacting Potter and Weasley who arrived at the Yard in very short order. Lestrade, mostly out of curiosity, had decided to let Sherlock and John actually conduct the interview (Donovan's strident protests were overridden), while he and the two aurors watched from behind the glass.
"You realise you'll go to prison?" Sherlock pointed out as the two were installed in an interview room. Their meek acceptance of captivity was confusing. "Possibly for the rest of your life?"
Rabastan smiled ruefully. "You weren't there for the war, so you don't know what the Death Eaters were like. I would've killed you. I would've killed anyone. I did kill several people. More than the man hunting us…so far. And I did things besides killing. I suppose I was still hoping not to have to go to prison, but I was done running long ago."
Rodolphus gave him an odd look. "Is this really what you want to discuss?"
"No," Sherlock said. Pointless, really, to waste his mind on two men who weren't interested in freedom and didn't deserve it in any case. "Not really. Tell me, how could someone compile a complete list of Death Eaters without speaking to anyone who knew the full list?"
The two exchanged an incredulous look. "You can't," Rodolphus said. "No one but the Dark Lord had the full count."
"Snape did," John observed. "And someone else. We don't know who."
"Lucius Malfoy?" Rabastan said, then shook his head instantly. "No, by the end of the war he was lucky the Dark Lord didn't kill him on sight."
"Possibly Bella," Rodolphus said. "But she was gone long before these killings started."
"Not Greyback, surely," Rabastan said.
"Certainly not," Rodolphus agreed.
The two fell silent for a moment and Sherlock was about to ask his next question when Rabastan suddenly said, "Thorfinn Rowle, may have known."
"One of the victims," John sighed.
Rabastan nodded. "He and the Dark Lord attended school together. As much as he had friends—which was not much at all—Thorfinn was his friend."
"Rowle was that trusted?" Sherlock asked in surprise.
"No." Rodolphus was shaking his head. "I don't believe he knew. If anyone aside from Snape did, he may have, but I don't believe so."
"He's dead, in any case. No help there," Sherlock shook his head.
They went around a few more times on Death Eaters the Lestranges knew. But when the interview ended it was with no new information. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade all compared frustrated notes with the aurors in Lestrade's office.
"The Lestranges were the best candidates we had," Potter snapped when Sherlock pressed him. "If they don't know, then I have no idea who would."
"Well, you have to think," Sherlock said. "Someone knew, and without a complete list, the killer is always going to be at least a step ahead."
"We know that!" Weasley returned irritably.
They were facing one another, nearly shouting at this point and Sherlock didn't really want to waste energy on a full-blown argument so he turned away. A long silence ensued.
Lestrade finally looked at Potter curiously. "This may be a stupid question, but it's been bothering me for a few hours now. Do dementors speak?"
Potter gave him an odd glance. "No. They can't. They're about as smart as an average wizard, but they can't speak. Why do you ask?"
"Because if the killer is working with a dementor, but it can't speak…" Lestrade said.
"Then how are they communicating?" Weasley finished with a friendly smile.
The DI nodded.
"No clue," Weasley shrugged. "Add it to the list of things about this case that don't make sense."
Sherlock, on the other hand, was wearing an expression like all the stars of the universe had just rearranged themselves into a pattern that revealed every secret to him. "Oh! Clever! No wonder he took so long to move!" He turned and put his hands on Lestrade's shoulders. "And you have the consolation of knowing that even with magic, most police are even stupider than you are."
Potter, Weasley, and John all turned a glare on him.
"Isn't it obvious? You say these dementors used to guard a prison, and then they worked for Voldemort. You say they're sentient. Or, at least, only as stupid as you are. But if they couldn't speak, then Voldemort wouldn't have worried about whether they knew the whole roster of Death Eaters, would he?"
"So if the killer could work out how to talk to one," John said, "then he could get the whole list from it."
"But dementors can't speak!" Potter protested.
"Can they write?" Sherlock sneered. "Sign language? Smoke signals? The medium is irrelevant as long as the thing can communicate."
"Would Voldemort have overlooked something that obvious?" Potter blinked in surprise.
"You did," Sherlock pointed out irritably.
"There's also the small matter of his accidentally disembodying himself that one Halloween because of ancient protective magic he didn't think was all that important," Weasley added.
"I suppose he did have a habit of missing important things," Potter agreed.
"So," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the two aurors, "all we need to do is find out who would've had access to Voldemort's dementors. And stayed after them for a long enough time to work out how to talk to one."
"I only wish it were that simple," Weasley sighed. "The dementors were even harder to catch after the war than the Death Eaters. We only recovered a few and they were…" He frowned and looked at Potter, who appeared to be trying to recall something.
"Four were detained in Azkaban and then destroyed. I believe Bill, Charlie, Ginny, and Neville did the actual curse-casting," Potter said. "By then, politics intervened and we weren't able to destroy any more. All the other dementors recovered after the war, whether they worked for Voldemort or not, were removed to the Isle of Drear."
Sherlock raised a brow at him.
"It's near," Weasley began before frowning and saying, "well, less far, anyway, from the Isle of Lewis."
It was beginning to sound like another field trip was in order. He hadn't needed to travel this much for a case in a long time.
Lestrade caught Sherlock's expression and was already shaking his head. "You've got to be joking! It's freezing up there!"
"Yes, the Yard is a formidable force for stopping crime—unless it's cold," Sherlock returned irritably.
"You can't be thinking of going there?" Potter said quietly.
"It's miles away from London. I couldn't even get away to visit that…school thing," Lestrade said to Sherlock, ignoring the alarmed looks of Potter and Weasley. But Sherlock had caught them and the two aurors looked actually frightened. Which, if the record of their school days in that photo book was even close to accurate, did not bode well at all.
"That doesn't matter, because you couldn't get there anyway," Weasley said, stepping between the two. "It's unplottable."
"Un-what?" John asked.
"Unplottable," Potter replied. "It can't be plotted on a map. You either know where it is, or you don't."
"There's whole rafts of anti-muggle spells, too," Weasley added, "and even assuming you got past all that, dementors aren't the only things there. The place is crawling with MacBoons!"
Lestrade, Sherlock, and John all turned puzzled looks on him.
Potter looked at Sherlock, "Did you buy a copy of Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them?"
Lestrade plucked the book off of his shelf. "He lent it to me," he told Potter by way of explanation.
Potter did not reply. He flipped to a page near the back of the book and held it out to Sherlock. "Read," he instructed. His expression was deadly serious and his tone brooked no argument at all.
Sherlock read, not liking the story his eyes skimmed over. The history of attacks, injuries, and deaths associated with the "Hairy MacBoons" (more properly named "quintapeds") was much more solid than the fairy story of feuding families and transfigurations, but he couldn't disagree with the overall message. Under normal circumstances, he would do everything in his power to avoid a place like this. Unfortunately, circumstances were not normal and they had no other choice. If they were going to move the case forward, this was where they had to go.
"So," Sherlock said, "we'll be needing some specialists, then?"
no subject
Date: 2023-10-03 09:03 am (UTC)