"Sir, I don't understand what you're saying."
The crippled old man looked at Mycroft and spoke in a strange, rasping voice.
"My foolish brother, if you had used the wizarding world's methods to change your appearance, you might have had some slim chance of fooling me. But now—"
A look of contempt crossed Mycroft's face. "The performance is clumsy. Making a tall man shorten himself by a foot for hours on end—it isn't fun at all."
Hearing this, the crippled old man straightened up, bit by bit.
He clawed at his head a couple of times, then set a heap of white hair and a few battered old books down on the table.
When he turned to face Mycroft again, a face as sharp as a hawk's looked back at him.
There was no doubt about it. The man standing before Mycroft was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
The man who was supposed to be dead.
"You've been busy lately, my industrious little bee."
Mycroft sat down across from Sherlock as he spoke, his gaze traveling over the shabby knee-length coat Sherlock wore, which really did make him look like a down-at-heel bookseller.
"Your way of life these past months has been anything but healthy."
"It took me the better part of a year to map Moriarty's criminal organization completely."
Mycroft had just picked up a copy of Ulysses from the table. Hearing this, he couldn't help asking: "Are you certain you've mapped all of it?"
"Albania was the final piece of the puzzle."
"In any case, you're safe now, and it's time you came back."
"Why?"
"Because I've stepped in. And let me remind you, I am not a wizard."
"Wonderful. Thank goodness for that—otherwise Britain's wizarding world would have one more Dark Lord on its hands."
"Enough. I need you to devote yourself fully to this matter, Sherlock. Understood?"
"So, Moriarty really has put you under quite a lot of pressure," Sherlock said with a smile. "Understandable. A genius working with a madman is hard to stomach."
"Sherlock!"
"I will find Moriarty, Mycroft, and I will stop the situation in the wizarding world from deteriorating any further," Sherlock said, still entirely unhurried. "But I need to return to that place first and ease myself back in."
"I'm afraid there's no time for you to ease into anything."
Seeing Mycroft like this, Sherlock remained just as unhurried: "How is Harry Potter?"
"Harry?"
"Yes, Harry. Have you seen him?"
"Ha. Of course," Mycroft said mockingly. "We have candlelit dinner together every weekend."
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and said nothing.
Seeing his brother's expression, Mycroft grew serious.
"Naturally, I've been keeping an eye on him the whole time."
He snapped his fingers, and the tall woman outside the door came in at once and handed a folder to Mycroft.
Mycroft skimmed it and passed it along to Sherlock.
"It's been half a year since the two of you last met. Of course, his position is a special one now. He has become a saviour in the truest sense of the word.
"So tracking his movements is no easy matter."
"And yet you have managed it."
Sherlock took the papers from Mycroft's hand and began to leaf through them quickly.
"Ha. Poor Harry. He still has no idea he's being played like a puppet in your hands."
"And who, exactly, is playing whom like a puppet?" Mycroft said with a cold laugh.
Sherlock simply ignored this and carried on talking to himself. "I could give Harry a surprise. He'd be delighted."
"You really think so?"
Mycroft folded his arms, the strange look in his eyes deepening, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Once I'm back, what if I jump out of a cake?"
Sherlock went on in his own world. It was clear that after so long apart from his best friend, he was beginning to feel a little excited himself. "Go on, then. Where is he tonight?"
Mycroft answered with a question. "How would I know?"
Sherlock looked at him. "You always know."
"He has plans with someone tonight."
"Then I could just drop by."
"Then you might not be welcome."
"Impossible."
Sherlock said it with total confidence.
Mycroft only smiled and said nothing.
"Well then—welcome back, Mr. Holmes."
"Thank you," Sherlock said, giving Mycroft a long look. "Big brother."
Harry was happy today. Because Cho Chang had finally come back from Asia.
Ever since she had gone off with her parents at the start of last summer, Harry hadn't seen her once.
For safety's sake, the two of them hadn't even been in touch.
Hermione, Ron, and all his other friends had kept him company through those months, but Cho was different, after all.
Now that they could finally meet again, Harry's heart was racing, and he had so much he wanted to say to her.
Evening came quickly.
Harry was watching television at Cho's house. He had wanted to help in the kitchen, too, but Cho had pushed him out with a playful scolding.
"Mum and I can manage in here. Don't get in the way."
In the end, all Harry could do was wait alone in the living room.
Bored, he switched on the television.
Things were different from last year. Voldemort now had the wizarding world firmly in his grip, so he was no longer sending the Death Eaters out to stir up trouble.
But on the flip side, Moriarty's criminal gang, or rather, the criminals using Moriarty's network, had grown more active. The news was constantly full of such reports, and Harry couldn't help sighing:
"Sherlock, if you were still around, you'd be thrilled, wouldn't you?"
"Obviously, my friend." A familiar voice sounded at his ear.
Harry froze for a moment, then gave a bitter laugh.
"Hallucinating again. Looks like I should Occlude my mind, or I'll keep imagining things like this."
"There's no need."
"Right, no need for—"
When the familiar voice spoke a second time, Harry went completely still.
He turned his head, inch by inch.
It was the same face that left an impression at first glance: the sharp, angular features, the grey eyes, the long hooked nose, the thin lips now curling up, the square, prominent jaw… Sherlock Holmes!
"You're dressed rather interestingly today. Evening wear."
Harry shot to his feet. He moved so abruptly that he nearly knocked the cup off the coffee table. But he had no attention to spare for it now.
He simply stood there, staring at Sherlock with a look so tangled it couldn't be put into words.
"Harry, who are you talking to…"
Just then, Cho, hearing the commotion, came out of the kitchen.
When she saw the tall man standing beside Harry, she froze.
"Oh my God!" she cried out. "Sherlock!"
Cho's mother hurried out of the kitchen after her, and when he saw Sherlock, he stopped dead as well.
"Holmes? It can't be. Is it Polyjuice Potion…"
"No, it isn't."
Hearing Cho and her mother speak, Sherlock turned and looked the mother and daughter up and down, then said, "You only got back from Asia today, and Mr. Sung, whom we met before, travelled with you. Miss Chang is in an especially good mood today. This morning, you ate—"
Sherlock rattled off, at lightning speed, everything Cho and Dali Chang had done that day.
That convinced both of them at once that the Sherlock in front of them wasn't someone else who had drunk Polyjuice Potion.
Nobody else could imitate that way of speaking.
"But you were dead!" Cho couldn't help blurting out.
"No, I wasn't."
"You fell from the tower!"
"Yes, but I did not die!"
"You were hit by Snape's Killing Curse!"
"Yes, but I did not die!"
"This… this is impossible!"
"There's nothing impossible about it. The last person to be struck by the Killing Curse and survive is standing right here in this room with you."
As he spoke, Sherlock suddenly turned toward Harry.
"Of course, Harry, I know it's rather unkind of me to appear in front of you like this, all of a sudden.
"I realize I owe you an apology. Although, to be honest, I thought it might be rather fun, and I—"
Bang!
Right as Sherlock was speaking, Harry slammed his fist down hard on the table. The noise made Sherlock stop at once.
"Harry, calm down."
Startled, Cho hurriedly spoke up.
"Nearly a year."
Harry's voice seemed to come straight out of his nose. He gripped the table hard, bracing himself on it, and stared at Sherlock.
"I thought… I thought you were dead! Didn't I?"
Sherlock stayed silent.
"You left me to grieve all by myself. How could you do that?"
Sherlock kept silent. "Funny, isn't it?"
"Harry, I…"
"How dare you!"
Before the words had even left his mouth, Harry had already launched himself at Sherlock.
"Don't, Harry—!"
Not even Sherlock had expected his friend to be this worked up.
At such close range, the Gryffindor boxing champion outdid even himself. One punch was enough to put Sherlock flat on the floor.
"Calm down, Harry!"
Cho and Mrs. Chang rushed forward to pull him back.
"You bastard!"
Harry furiously unleashed everything he had as Gryffindor's reigning fist-fighter, but by then Sherlock had recovered and begun to fend him off. With Cho and Mrs. Chang helping, Harry was finally pulled away.
Once they had all sat back down, Sherlock began to explain, in his unhurried way: "When I invited Moriarty up to the rooftop, I calculated seven possible outcomes. Naturally, none of them ended in death."
"I've been meaning to say this for a long time. For a genius, you can be really dense sometimes, Sherlock."
Harry glared at Sherlock and said it word by word.
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