The beach at Whitstable. Fine, soft sand breathed warmth in the afternoon sun.
A little boy cheeks flushed, laughing was chasing a colourful beach ball when his mother caught him by the arm and dabbed at the sweat rolling down his temple with a handkerchief printed with tiny sailboats. Sand clung to his sea-wet knees, scattering loose with each wriggle of protest.
It was at that moment that Sherlock and Gemma happened to pass by him.
The sea breeze lifted Gemma's chestnut hair. Sunlight danced across her pale, smooth skin.
The little boy's dark eyes went wide. He thrust out a chubby finger in her direction and announced, in a voice both childlike and startlingly loud. "Mummy, Mummy! That lady is so pretty!"
Children say the most unguarded things.
The declaration drew suppressed laughter from the handful of adults scattered across the beach who couldn't help themselves. A few chuckled softly, faces warm with fond indulgence. Then they caught a proper look at Gemma, and their expressions shifted to something closer to agreement.
'Can't argue with that.'
Had Sherlock not been at her side, someone would almost certainly have already found an excuse to wander over and strike up a conversation.
But Sherlock was there. And unlike the heroes of novels and films—those men who spot a beautiful woman and, heedless of whatever companion stands beside her, barrel forward to perform their ridiculous scripts—no one here did anything of the sort.
The world, as it turns out, is mostly populated by reasonable people.
On this real and ordinary beach, there was only sea wind, sunlight, and a respectful admiration.
Gemma, for her part, had retreated entirely into her own world. The glances, the whispered remarks—none of it reached her. Her pace wandered, quick one moment, unhurried the next. Now and then she bent to pluck a stone from the wet sand.
She held up a milky-white pebble laced with delicate spiral markings and tilted it toward Sherlock, her sea-blue eyes bright. "Does this look like the stones along the Black Lake at Hogwarts? Same sort of thing, only lighter—not quite as dark."
Sherlock took it from her palm and ran his thumb slowly along its surface—the smoothness worn into it by countless thousands of waves. If anything, the texture was considerably more polished than those lakeshore stones at Hogwarts, which still retained some of their edges.
He was about to nod in agreement when voices drifted over from not far away. "God, that bloke's lucky—his girlfriend is gorgeous and completely natural about it, not putting on any kind of show—"
The tone was drenched in envy, with a faint trace of sourness beneath it.
Sherlock glanced sideways. Two young men in garish board shorts were huddled together, murmuring, their eyes tracking him and Gemma. He felt nothing in particular—if anything, a faint urge to smile.
He placed the milky pebble back into Gemma's slender palm and said, in the measured tone of someone giving a lecture. "The stones here are smoother. Their edges have been nearly entirely worn away. That's the result of prolonged exposure on the shoreline—years upon years of being washed, ground, and abraded by the surf."
Gemma took the stone back. She'd caught just enough of the murmured conversation nearby to connect it with his perfectly deadpan little lesson, and a laugh escaped her.
The smile bloomed across her face like sunlight breaking through thin cloud, luminous enough to make you blink. She raised the back of her hand to her lips, shoulders shaking with it.
That laugh so purely, unselfconsciously joyful made it even harder for the people nearby to look away.
Gemma seemed to sense it. A faint flush rose in her cheeks. She grabbed Sherlock's wrist and half-pulled, half-dragged him down toward the water's edge.
Small waves rolled in one after another, gentle and relentless, lapping quietly at the shore. Then a larger wave surged up with a rush of white foam.
Icy water swept over her bare feet and up her calves, and she gasped.
"Oh!"
She startled like a cat—toes curling instinctively, the tip of her nose scrunching then the cold registered as something clean and delightful, and she burst into a bright, bell-clear string of laughter that carried through the damp sea air.
Sherlock stood just behind her, quietly. The same wave washed over his dark canvas shoes, leaving uneven dark watermarks across the fabric.
He watched her and thought she seemed like a child encountering the ocean for the very first time—all curiosity and wonder.
Gemma crouched carefully and stretched out one slender finger, touching the very edge of the white foam as it rushed in and just as quickly retreated.
Her pale blue swimsuit caught the full force of the afternoon sun and gleamed with a soft, pearl-like sheen.
The beach was busy. And more than a few women around them were wearing considerably less. But none of them drew the eye quite the way Gemma did—her figure traced so naturally and vividly against the light.
A few wayward strands of hair, caught by a flying splash, lay damp against her flushed cheek. She tucked them behind her ear without thinking and went on concentrating on the cold sensation at her fingertip.
Not far away, a middle-aged man in a faded bucket hat was framing a shot of the horizon through a heavy old film camera, taking his time, doing it properly.
His lens drifted slowly—then, without quite meaning to, caught the figures of the young couple at the water's edge. His hand stilled. He adjusted the focus ring, bringing both of them into the centre of the frame. one tall, one slight; one standing, one crouching.
"Hmm," he murmured, half to himself, with the instinct of someone who knows a good image when he sees one. "Now that's a pair…"
Gemma straightened up and shook out her hand—fingers glistening with seawater, sparkling in the sun sending a few bright droplets flying.
She turned to look at Sherlock, who stood quietly behind her. Her blue eyes, softened by sea mist and happiness were vivid as though they held the whole sunlit ocean in them.
"Oh! I almost forgot!"
She clapped a hand to her forehead, looking briefly annoyed with herself.
Then, to Sherlock's visible surprise, she produced a neatly packaged tube of sunscreen from somewhere.
She unscrewed the white cap with practiced efficiency, squeezed out a generous splotch of cream faintly scented with coconut and the clean chemical note of UV filters—and, before Sherlock could react, began spreading it carefully along the forearm that emerged from his grey T-shirt sleeve.
Her fingers were cool from the seawater and soft, working the lotion carefully into his sun-warmed skin.
"It's sunscreen," she said, spreading it with focused thoroughness, her fingertips tracing a faint, ticklish path along his arm. "It's important."
Sherlock didn't pull away. He let her work. But watching her expression—entirely serious, entirely absorbed, he couldn't help questioning the premise. "The UV index at this hour," he observed, glancing at the sun, which was bright but not particularly fierce, "—is this really necessary?"
"Yes, Sherlock, it is." She looked up briefly, patient and earnest. "UV at the seaside is deceptive. By the time you notice any damage, it's already too late."
She pressed a little harder to make sure the last patches were covered.
When she was satisfied, she pressed the still-warm tube firmly into his open palm with a decisive thwack.
Then, under his puzzled gaze, she drew a small breath—her voice carrying a barely perceptible shyness beneath its studied composure. "Your turn. My back."
She nodded toward the sun umbrella and chairs a short distance away. "I can't reach it myself."
And with that, she tilted her chin slightly down. A few strands of hair fell forward, baring the pale, smooth scruff of her neck.
The expanse of her shoulders and upper back framed by the swimsuit suddenly seemed to assert itself very pointedly.
The sea breeze moved through, as if urging things along.
Sherlock did not keep her waiting. He considered for approximately three seconds.
Then he nodded. "Alright."
"No. Way."
In the small but tidy bedroom at number four, Harry jerked his head up from where he'd been sitting on the edge of the bed, green eyes wide with shock.
He stared at Sirius, who was lounging with easy indolence against the old desk chair, and shook his head as though he'd misheard.
The afternoon sun slanted through the not-quite-clean window and fell across Sirius's profile, lending his already striking face an almost rakish quality.
"Lockhart? Gilderoy Lockhart? You're telling me he actually woke up?"
Per Dumbledore's instructions, in order to sustain the ancient blood protection magic, Harry was required to spend at least one month each year at Privet Drive. So even though he'd happily accepted Cho Chang's invitation before term ended—he felt his ears warm slightly at the thought—he'd had no choice but to tamp down his excitement and wait out the month.
At least things had improved since he and the Dursleys had come to something approaching a truce. These days the time passed without quite the old misery. Right now he was sitting on his bed, having one of his weekly catch-up chats with Sirius.
Sirius, in black leather jacket and jeans, looked as carelessly handsome as ever—only the faint tiredness around his eyes betraying the weight of recent months.
His approach was nothing if not direct. if Harry was stuck at Privet Drive for a month, Sirius would simply come to him.
Since Voldemort's return last year, Dumbledore had moved swiftly to rebuild the Order of the Phoenix—and had launched a series of tense, covert operations from various secret locations around London.
As a core member, Sirius carried his share of the dangerous work and was frequently unaccounted for. But whenever he completed a mission, he came to Privet Drive, always bringing news from outside—which was exactly what Harry wanted.
As Harry's godfather, Sirius had been invited to Hogwarts at the end of last term to watch the Triwizard Tournament, along with the Dursleys.
The experience had left Vernon and Petunia with a clear impression of that handsome face. Compared to an overly enthusiastic Arthur Weasley on one hand and a bat-like Severus Snape on the other, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia found they much preferred dealing with Sirius Black—whatever their lingering unease about the wizarding world in general.
It could only be said. in any world, being good-looking and carrying oneself well confers certain invisible advantages in social situations.
The world, at the end of the day, does judge by appearances.
"It's true." Sirius shifted into a more comfortable position; long legs stretched out easily. "Moony happened to visit St Mungo's yesterday and found out—apparently Lockhart's been awake for a while now. Honestly, even I was surprised." He mimed his jaw dropping dramatically. "The man was under for nearly three full years. Everyone had written him off."
"That is genuinely astonishing."
Harry wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. His feelings toward Gilderoy Lockhart had always been complicated.
From what Sherlock had pieced together, Lockhart's academic record at Hogwarts had actually been respectable—a genuinely talented, capable student.
The tragedy was what came after graduation. He'd gone comprehensively off the rails, consumed entirely by the desire for fame and shortcuts, and had left behind every shred of the real ability and wisdom he'd once had. Every shred, that is, except for Memory Charms.
In that one specific area, Lockhart's skill was extraordinary. Unmistakably so. It was no exaggeration to say it rivalled Dumbledore himself—the ceiling of the wizarding world and the Charms professor Flitwick.
It had come up in conversation once. if it had been Lockhart rather than old Bartemius Crouch who had cast the Memory Charm on poor Bertha Jorkins, the result would have been far cleaner. It would have achieved the desired effect without leaving the wretched witch half-addled and raving—a mess that had ultimately proved catastrophic.
Beyond that, Lockhart had taught Harry something genuinely useful: how to manage the sort of intense, overwhelming fan attention that left you completely at a loss—specifically in the early days of Colin Creevey. That, Harry acknowledged, had been real and practical knowledge. Give credit where it's due.
Technically speaking, his own Disarming Charm had been taught by Lockhart too.
Which explained something Harry had never quite been able to shake. whenever he cast Expelliarmus, there was an involuntary preliminary flourish—theatrical, slightly performative—that seemed to have crept in from Lockhart's style of teaching. He'd tried to remove it. Without it, his Disarming Charm simply didn't work as well.
And if he was honest, his Expelliarmus also tended to produce a rather more showy, eye-catching effect than the standard version.
It was completely absurd.
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