Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

by purple_mangosteen

Summary:

During an undercover task as a Muggle Prime Minister's secretarial team staff member, Harry Potter meets Mycroft Holmes, and they somehow slip into a brief, unspoken entanglement. Not quite a romance, not entirely nothing. Just something... The undercover job ends, and months pass. Then the man shows up at Grimmauld Place, looking exactly as Harry remembers: composed to the point of arrogance, with that ever-watchful gaze that misses absolutely nothing.

“I’m living in a world of goldfish,” Mycroft says dryly. Then, as if on second thought, he looks at Harry and something flickers in his eyes. “But,” he adds, “you’re quite an interesting goldfish.”
“Charming,” Harry says flatly. “So I’m more interesting than the average fish. That’s reassuring.”
A faint smirk tugs at Mycroft’s lips. “Don’t be offended. Most of humanity barely qualifies as plankton.”

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter I

Harry looked up from the half-finished report on his desk to see Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office, standing just beyond the aisle. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, and his expression bore that familiar mix of restraint and urgency that never meant anything good.

“The Minister wants a word,” Robards said. “Now.”

Harry blinked, startled, and quickly set aside his quill. He stood at once, parchment forgotten, and smoothed his robes as a reflex. From the adjacent cubicle, Ron Weasley leaned out, eyebrows raised in concern.

“What’s that about?” Ron asked.

Harry gave a shrug, brow furrowed. “No idea,” he murmured.

He mentally ran through the last few days. Nothing unusual. Nothing, as far as he could tell, worthy of an urgent summons from the Minister for Magic himself.

Robards didn’t elaborate. He simply turned on his heel and strode back the way he came, expecting Harry to follow without question.

Without another word, Harry fell into step beside Robards as they walked out of the Auror Office on Level Two. They passed rows of desks and magical filing cabinets that shifted their contents with soft rustles, heading toward the nearest lift.

“Is this about that thing in Glasgow?” Harry asked as the lift doors closed behind them. “The missing Portkey ring?”

“No,” Robards said shortly, watching the golden floor indicator tick upward. “This is above fieldwork. This comes from the very top.”

That didn’t help Harry’s nerves. Anything that came from the very top generally meant more paperwork — or, worse, politics.

They arrived at Level One. The Minister for Magic’s floor was quiet, polished, and full of the kind of wards that made your skin prickle. Martha Marriotts, Kingsley Shacklebolt’s long-serving secretary, looked up as they approached.

“The Minister is expecting you,” she said crisply. “Go straight in.”

“Thank you, Martha,” Robards said, rapping once on the heavy oak door before pushing it open.

Harry followed him inside. The office was just as he remembered — spacious but not ostentatious, with enchanted windows showing a peaceful late-afternoon sky and several floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with magical law tomes and diplomatic binders.

Kingsley sat behind his desk, calm and imposing as ever. He wasn’t alone.

Seated to his left was a stern-looking witch in navy-blue robes—Lora Forger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She was sharp, efficient, and not one for pleasantries.

“Minister,” Robards greeted with a respectful nod. “Ma’am.”

“Minister. Ma’am,” Harry echoed, slipping into the formal tone expected in rooms like this.

“Have a seat,” Kingsley said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk.

Harry sat, spine straight despite the comforting softness of the chair. The atmosphere was heavy with expectation.

He glanced from Kingsley to Forger, then back. “May I ask what this is about?”

Kingsley didn't answer right away. Instead, he nodded to Forger, who produced two sleek black folders from her bag and slid them across the desk to Harry and Robards.

“This will explain the basics,” she said. “Start with the summary on page one.”

Harry opened the folder. Robards did the same beside him.

The heading was printed in bold magical ink that shimmered faintly:

CLASSIFIED: ALADÁR EMBER — Threat Level: Crimson

 He began to read, frowning as he took in the contents. Ember was a dark wizard from Hungary, born into a respected pure-blood family. His father had held a senior post in the Hungarian Ministry of Magic.

But Aladár Ember didn't follow his father's path. Instead, he chose to become a dark wizard. He hadn't followed the expected path of ideology and blood politics either. Instead, he and his followers were driven by profit.

“They’re not like the Death Eaters,” Forger said, seeing his expression. “They don’t care about blood purity or domination. Ember’s a businessman. A very, very violent one.”

Harry kept reading. The group had started in Hungary but quickly expanded their operations across the continent — blackmail, magical smuggling, and even assassinations. They were suspected of kidnapping Muggle billionaires and officials for ransom, and there were strong indications they'd been hired by non-magical terrorist groups to eliminate political figures in exchange for vast sums of gold.

“They’ve blurred the line between magical and Muggle crime in a way we haven’t seen before,” Forger continued. “Wizards acting as mercenaries, using magic to do the dirty work of Muggle extremists. It’s dangerous. Unpredictable.”

Harry flipped through a few pages — surveillance photos, magical profiles, names of suspected collaborators.

“We’ve been working with several European ministries,” Kingsley said, folding his hands on the desk. “They’re pressuring us to increase security around key Muggle institutions. Especially here in Britain.”

Harry looked up. “You think they’re coming here?”

“They already have contacts in London,” Forger said. “We’ve traced at least one transaction to Gringotts’ international vault system. They’re planning something — something big.”

“And that,” Kingsley said gravely, “is where you come in.”

Harry blinked. “Me?”

Kingsley nodded. “We need someone embedded close to the Muggle Prime Minister. A magical presence. Quiet, invisible, ready to intervene if necessary.”

“You want me to be... what? A bodyguard?” Harry asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

“Not just a bodyguard,” said Forger. “An undercover agent. Eyes and ears inside No. 10. You’d be operating under a false identity, with a full Muggle background. The Prime Minister won’t know who you are — unless there's an emergency.”

Harry let out a slow breath. “And why me?”

“Because,” Forger said without hesitation, “of all the Aurors currently in service, you're the only one with enough practical experience in the Muggle world to pull this off.”

He thought of the others back in the Auror Office — most of them from magical families, half of them still baffled by mobile phones.

Harry sighed. “Right. So I’m to become a Muggle for a few months.”

“We don’t know the duration yet,” Kingsley replied.

“You don’t know?” Robards asked, raising an eyebrow as he gave the Minister a look.

Kingsley fixed them both with his trademark calm-but-imposing stare. “As long as the threat remains, your assistance is required.”

“Another dark wizard…” Robards muttered, crossing his arms. “Why can’t we ever just finish them off for good?”

“I’ve had enough of dark wizards,” Harry murmured under his breath.

“We all have,” Kingsley said quietly, and for a moment, a shadow passed across his features.

Harry let out a slow sigh. “Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll do it.”

Kingsley nodded once. “Good. During the operation, you’ll be embedded in the Prime Minister’s secretary team. You’ll have a fabricated background and all the necessary documents to pass any Muggle vetting.”

Harry frowned slightly. “Are we going to inform him?”

“No,” Kingsley replied at once. “This is a precautionary measure. There’s no immediate need to raise alarm. If all goes to plan and Ember is caught, you’ll walk away, and the Prime Minister will never know you were there.”

Harry nodded slowly. That, at least, he could live with.

“However,” Kingsley continued, his tone shifting to something more serious, “there’s something else you need to be aware of. Aside from the Prime Minister and the current ruling monarch — the Queen — there is one other Muggle who is officially informed about the wizarding world.”

Harry tilted his head, curious. “I thought only the monarch and the Prime Minister were ever told.”

“That’s the tradition, yes,” Kingsley said. “But this is… an exception.”

“His name is Mycroft Holmes,” Forger added, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“Officially, Holmes holds a minor civil service role. Unofficially, he’s something else entirely.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“He’s the government’s clearinghouse,” Kingsley said simply. “The control centre. The hub. Every major department passes information to him — Defence, Foreign Affairs, Intelligence, the Home Office. He sees it all, and more importantly, he understands how it all fits together.”

“He’s the one who makes the actual decisions,” Forger added. “The Prime Minister is the face, but Holmes is the mind behind the curtain.”

Robards frowned. “You mean he’s… in charge of everything?”

“In a way,” Kingsley said. “Every conclusion from every department passes through him. He weighs how each factor influences the others, and he makes recommendations that — more often than not — become national policy. The Prime Minister might receive advice from various departments, but only Holmes can connect the threads. He sees the bigger picture.”

Harry blinked. “That sounds like something out of fiction.”

“It does,” Kingsley agreed. “But it’s the truth.”

“And he knows about us?” Robards asked, his tone laced with scepticism.

“He does,” Forger confirmed. “Holmes was instrumental in setting up the Muggle-world façade for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Ah, yes. Harry knew about this. In his opinion, this should have been done ages ago.

“After the Second Wizarding War,” Forger explained, “the chaos in the Muggle world — unexplained attacks, mysterious disappearances, magical interference — became too visible to ignore. The Muggle authorities were overwhelmed. They couldn't explain what was happening, and we couldn’t show up openly as Aurors. So we established a cover.”

Kingsley took over. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was given a false Muggle front — a secret government agency within Whitehall. Forger was named Director General of this so-called ‘Secret Security Service’ or 'SSS'. The Auror Office became the ‘National Security Branch’, with Robards listed as Deputy Director.”

“That way, when our people need to operate in the Muggle world, they do so with fully plausible identities,” said Forger evenly. “No need for memory charms every time someone flashes a badge.”

“That's definitely a step in the right direction,” Harry remarked, nodding in approval.

One unexpected benefit of the cooperation was the introduction of functioning electronic equipment within the Ministry of Magic. A specially warded room on Level Two now housed row upon row of working computers, along with a printer, scanner, and even internet access — a remarkable novelty in the magical world. Unsurprisingly, most of the staff frequenting the room were Muggle-born. Mr Weasley, of course, was absolutely thrilled. He could be found there almost every lunchtime, utterly absorbed.

A few Ministry employees, Harry included, had managed to acquire modified mobile phones that actually worked within wizarding boundaries. It was a relief — in the past, he’d had to step into the Muggle world every time he needed to check something online.

“Holmes brokered the arrangement,” Kingsley said, his tone measured. “He insisted on being kept informed. No illusions of secrecy — he’s aware of everything. Some say omniscience is his particular talent.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are we quite sure we’re talking about a human being?”

Kingsley allowed himself a thin smile. “You wouldn’t be the first to wonder. But yes — human, by all available evidence. Just exceptionally intelligent.”

“Some say he’s the cleverest man alive," Forger added, not sounding particularly impressed by the claim.

Harry exchanged a glance with Robards.

“If he’s truly that sharp,” Robards said slowly, “won’t he see straight through what we’re doing?”

“If it ever gets that far,” Forger replied, “then yes — he’ll probably piece it together. But as long as you’re discreet, he won’t have cause to intervene.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” Harry muttered, though inwardly, he couldn’t deny a flicker of curiosity.

“Holmes won’t interfere unless you give him a reason,” Kingsley said. “Just do your job quietly. If he does take notice, don’t try to deceive him. He’ll know.”

Aladár Ember. An international dark wizard. An undercover assignment beside the Muggle Prime Minister. And now, the added complication of one Mycroft Holmes — a man who, apparently, knew nearly as much as the Minister himself.

“Well,” he said at last, casting another look at the folder. “This just became rather more interesting.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Undercover mission?” Hermione repeated, her brows knitting together.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“Blimey,” Ron muttered, leaning back on the worn sofa with a low whistle. “Proper espionage stuff, then.”

Harry shot him a look. “You’ve been watching too many Bond films again.” Hermione had introduced Ron to Muggle films and he fell in love with the spy genre.

Ron shrugged, unbothered. “Well, it is a bit spy-ish, isn’t it? Secret identity, working inside Muggle government... You’ll probably get a tiny earpiece and everything.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “This isn’t MI6, Ron. It’s an intelligence assignment, not a blockbuster.”

Harry gave a small smile but said nothing. Truthfully, part of him had thought the same thing — only without the glamour, the car chases, or the tuxedos. Just long days, blurred lines, and constant vigilance.

They were gathered in the sitting room of 12 Grimmauld Place. The house was quieter than usual, shadows stretching across the floor as evening settled in. After finishing at the Ministry, Harry had asked Ron and Hermione to come over — he couldn’t leave without telling them, not when he might be gone for Merlin knew how long.

“And as a member of the Prime Minister’s secretary team?” Hermione asked again, her voice tinged with both curiosity and concern.

Harry gave a small shrug. “Yeah. Part of the private office, technically. I’ll be stationed right outside his door.”

Hermione folded her arms and studied him closely, her expression thoughtful. “Have you sorted out your disguise yet? Kingsley posed as a secretary too, back when he was protecting the Muggle Prime Minister. But he used his real name and face.”

“That was different,” Ron interjected. “Kingsley wasn’t exactly a household name in either world back then. But Harry—well, even the Queen knows your name, mate. You’ve met her.”

“More than once,” Hermione said with a sigh. “Unless someone’s been living under a rock, there isn’t a witch or wizard in Britain who doesn’t know who you are. Even witches and wizards abroad know your name. You’re one of the most recognisable figures in the magical world,” she added, stating it plainly. “And if you end up in the same room as the Queen, she’ll recognise you immediately — probably before you’ve said a word.”

“Exactly,” Ron said. “If you go in as yourself, you're like a giant red flag. Not just to Muggles, but to Ember. He’s clever — he'd smell a trap the moment your name popped up anywhere near the Prime Minister’s schedule.”

 “Which would ruin everything,” Hermione added. “He’d vanish, go underground, maybe even retaliate."

“It’s already been decided,” Harry said calmly, cutting through the tension. “I’ll be going in as Alex Graham — temporary staff in the Prime Minister’s private office, filling in for someone on maternity leave.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Maternity leave? That's... smart. Less suspicious.”

“It gives me a reason to be there, and a reason to eventually leave without anyone asking questions,” Harry said.

“The Department’s thought of everything, then?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. “DMLE’s put it all together. New identity, background history, employment records, even references from a fake recruitment agency. Everything’s ready.”

“Let me show you,” Harry said, standing up. He drew his wand, gave it a precise flick, and a ripple of magic passed over him.

In an instant, Harry Potter was gone.

In his place stood a man with forgettable features — light brown hair, neatly parted, black-rimmed glasses over muted green eyes. His face was symmetrical, blandly handsome in a way that wouldn't turn heads. He wore a charcoal-grey suit, polished shoes, and a navy tie. If you passed him on the street, you’d barely remember him five steps later.

Ron stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Well,” he said at last, “that’s... disturbing.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I honestly wouldn’t recognise you. Not even if you were standing right next to me in a lift.”

Harry smirked. “That’s sort of the point.”

“And the scar’s gone,” Ron noted, pointing to Harry’s now-unmarked forehead.

“I had my eyesight corrected before I joined the Aurors,” Harry said. “But for this mission, the glasses help with the look. Make me blend in more.”

“You look like one of those overworked office blokes we see rushing around Westminster,” Hermione murmured, eyes narrowing. “It’s unsettling.”

“But what about the actual work?” Ron asked. “You don’t know the first thing about being a secretary.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah... I’ve realised that.”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “What, you thought it was just answering phones and making tea?”

“Well, I’ve seen a few telly dramas,” Harry admitted sheepishly. “Though I doubt that counts.”

“Not quite,” Hermione said dryly, giving him a look. “So what’s the plan, then?”

“Martha — Kingsley’s secretary — she’s going to mentor me,” Harry replied. “I’ll shadow her for a week, get a feel for how the office runs. There’s also a short course the Muggle liaison office set up. Some crash training on admin protocols, security procedures, interdepartmental etiquette — that sort of thing. Enough to make me look like I belong.”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “Blimey. Sounds like Auror training, but with more paperwork.”

Harry gave a wry smile. “Feels like it already.”

Ron let out a theatrical sigh. “Well... if you do get stuck, just pretend to take notes, nod wisely, and start saying things like, ‘Excellent point, Prime Minister.’ Pretty sure that’s all Percy does in Ministry meetings.”

Harry chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “I might actually try that.”

“You’ll be brilliant,” Hermione said, reaching out to squeeze his arm. Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Just… be careful, Harry. You’re not walking into a duel — this is politics. It’s quieter, but sometimes far more dangerous.”

Harry nodded, his expression turning serious. "I know. But we can’t let Ember get any closer to Muggle leadership. If he’s targeting the Prime Minister, or influencing him through backchannels… someone has to be close enough to spot it. Someone who understands both worlds.”

“And unfortunately,” Ron said with a grimace, “that someone is you.”

“I’ll be all right,” Harry said quietly, his voice steady. “It’s not my first undercover job.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “But it might be your most delicate one.”

There was a short silence between them — not heavy, but thoughtful. The kind of silence that spoke of old battles, unspoken trust, and the weight of knowing what was at stake.

 

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to leave a review.

This story has been rewritten from Chapter One, so I encourage you to start again from the beginning. When I reread this story, there were a few things I disliked, so I rewrote that part. This fanfic will be longer as the storyline will be more fleshed out than the original.

I plan to revise all of my fanfictions in turn, correcting the grammar and refining the storytelling.

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter II

It had taken Harry and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement nearly a month to prepare the operation — a flurry of logistics, deception, and subtle magic. They’d rented a modest flat in Muggle London, complete with utilities and a dodgy kettle. They’d built a full set of fake credentials for "Alex Graham," complete with an employment history, financial records, and an eerily convincing LinkedIn profile.

Most challenging of all had been the crash course in Muggle administrative work. He spent days memorising secretarial procedures, learning how to navigate scheduling software, and differentiate between types of briefings and official correspondence.

 But the most important task by far was learning how to be Alex Graham — his habits, his preferences, even the way he took his tea.

Before leaving, Harry had made the difficult rounds to inform those closest to him that he’d be away for an undisclosed period on Auror duty. He told Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin first. Teddy had been quietly upset, his young face struggling to stay brave. Harry knelt and promised him it wouldn’t be forever.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d said with a smile. “And when I do, we’ll go flying again.”

Inwardly, Harry had hoped the Hungarian Aurors would catch Aladár Ember before the mission dragged on too long. Otherwise, he might be tempted to take matters into his own hands — again.

Finally, the day arrived.

Dressed in his best disguise — brown hair neatly parted, black-rimmed glasses, muted green eyes, and a thoroughly forgettable face — Harry arrived at 10 Downing Street as Alex Graham, temporary secretary filling in for Amanda Abner, who was on maternity leave.

He had practised his mannerisms down to the letter: the modest smile, the habit of checking his watch twice when nervous, the way he always ordered mint tea instead of coffee. Graham was meant to be the sort of man who blended seamlessly into the background.

There were six staff in the Prime Minister’s private office, led by Ivan Rogers, the Principal Private Secretary — a no-nonsense man with a razor-sharp mind and very little patience for inefficiency. The rest of the team varied. Some were warm and welcoming, happy to help the ‘new temp’ find his footing. Others, predictably, seemed to enjoy reminding Harry — or rather, Alex Graham — that he was temporary, junior, and entirely replaceable.

 The most welcoming by far was Sylvia Sherwin, the eldest of the secretaries. Sharp-eyed and endlessly efficient, she moved through the chaos of government with the unflappable calm of someone who had seen it all before — twice. Impeccably organised, dry-witted, and fiercely protective of her filing system, Sylvia took Harry under her wing without hesitation.

“You’ll get used to the rhythm,” she’d told him on his first day, handing him a stack of ministerial briefs. “It’s all just juggling priorities and smiling politely while people talk at you.”

Harry quickly realised she was more than just a secretary — she was the quiet engine keeping the office from collapsing under the weight of its own self-importance. And she was more observant than she let on. A perfect ally in a place like this.

By the second week, Harry had begun to settle into the role.

And then, one morning, it happened — Mycroft Holmes arrived.

“Tony,” Holmes said in greeting, his deep voice smooth and controlled.

“Mycroft,” replied the Prime Minister with familiarity.

Harry watched the exchange from his desk near the door. If the rumours were true — and Kingsley’s private warnings had all but confirmed it — Mycroft Holmes wielded more power behind the scenes than any elected official in Britain.

He was a striking man — tall, composed,  immaculately dressed in a tailored three-piece suit and a blue tie. A silver pocket watch dangled from his waistcoat, glinting when he moved. He carried himself with the kind of stillness that made other people feel the need to fidget. His gaze, when it flickered across the room, seemed to take in far more than he ever let on.

“This is Graham,” the Prime Minister said with a brief gesture. “Temporary secretary staff — Abner’s on maternity leave.”

Holmes gave Harry a curt nod, said nothing, and followed the Prime Minister into the inner office. An hour later, he left as swiftly as he’d come, with the Prime Minister thanking him profusely for his input.

At lunch, Sylvia leaned across the break table and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That man is Mycroft Holmes. Senior adviser — unofficially, the real power in Whitehall. He’s in and out all the time.” She took a bite of her sandwich, then brightened. “And get this — his brother is Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective.”

“Consulting detective?” Harry echoed, intrigued.

“Yes!” she gushed. “They’ve got a blog and everything. His cases are wild — murders, spies, assassins. It reads like something out of a thriller novel.” She pulled out her phone and tapped quickly. “Here — it’s all written by his friend, Dr John Watson. Look.”

Harry peered at the screen, seeing the header: The Science of Deduction – by John H. Watson.

He did — later that night in his tiny flat — and found himself absorbed. The blog read like fiction: bodies in locked rooms, cryptic ciphers, international crimes. And yet it was real. These were cases that had happened.

As for Mycroft Holmes, he returned to Downing Street several more times. Each visit was brief, efficient, and offered little opportunity for conversation.

Harry’s role never brought him directly into Holmes’s orbit. At best, he offered him tea or passed along a document. And yet, each time, he couldn’t help but watch the man with growing curiosity. Kingsley hadn’t exaggerated — Holmes’s brilliance was undeniable. The way he dissected a policy paper in moments or identified the flaw in a proposed security measure without a single note — it was unnerving.

Still, their interactions were passing. Distant. Professional.

Until one day — something changed.

It had been exactly one month since Harry had gone undercover.

The workload had intensified with the upcoming gala dinner — an exclusive event that would host the royal family, high-ranking government officials, and foreign dignitaries. Preparations were relentless. Everyone in the Prime Minister’s private office was stretched thin, and Alex Graham, the newest addition to the team, had gained a reputation as hardworking and always ready to help. That reputation kept Harry busier than ever.

He was grateful, in some ways, for the fake face. It had been disorienting at first — seeing a stranger in the mirror each morning — but he’d grown used to it. The idea of attending a state event with his real face, where the Queen herself might greet him by name, was almost laughable now. The disguise offered a shield, and he needed it.

The evening before the gala, after a relentless day of running between departments, cross-checking name cards, and untangling seating charts, Harry finally stole a moment for himself. He slipped away to the farthest restroom on the floor — the one rarely used — and closed the door behind him.

Cool silence greeted him. He walked to the sink and took off his glasses. The mirror showed Alex Graham: a forgettable man with brown hair, an unremarkable nose, and a slightly tired expression. No lightning bolt scar. No fame. No history.

But the eyes gave him away — vivid, bottle-green, too sharp, too intense for the bland features around them. On Harry Potter’s face, they had made sense. On this one, they looked borrowed — like a detail someone had forgotten to change.

He stared for a long moment, unsettled. Then he turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face. It stung, pleasantly. Grounding. When he looked up again, he froze. Someone had entered silently.

“Mr Holmes,” Harry said, surprised, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

Mycroft Holmes stood just inside the door, one eyebrow slightly raised, his posture relaxed yet deliberate — as though he'd been watching for some time.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said calmly, reaching for a handkerchief. He wiped his face, dried his hands, and put the glasses back on.

Holmes didn’t respond. He was merely watching — taking in details, silent and calculating.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Holmes,” Harry said, stepping towards the door.

Holmes said nothing. His expression gave away nothing. But Harry could feel it — the weight of that gaze, the certainty that the man had seen far more than he let on.

Forger’s warning echoed in his mind. “…he’ll probably piece it together.”

Harry didn’t see Holmes again until the gala dinner the next day. He hadn’t expected to. Holmes never struck him as the type who enjoyed grand functions. If anything, Harry imagined him as the sort who preferred quiet power behind closed doors — not champagne receptions and political small talk.

Every time Harry had seen him with the Prime Minister, there was a kind of performative civility about him — sharp and rehearsed. Like watching Aunt Petunia smiling stiffly at neighbours she couldn’t stand, playing her part with teeth gritted behind the smile.

And yet, here he was. Standing right in front of Harry.

Unmistakable in his signature three-piece suit and crimson tie, Mycroft Holmes looked completely at ease, as though he had orchestrated the entire evening rather than simply attended it.

“You seem busy,” Holmes said.

“I’m checking to make sure everything runs smoothly,” Harry replied. It was true — while the guests enjoyed the night, the secretariat team worked behind the scenes to make sure it didn’t fall apart.

“Yes. You’re very hardworking,” Holmes said, with just the faintest edge of something unreadable in his tone.

Then he turned and walked away.

Harry didn’t have time to dwell on it. He was immediately called over to sort out a last-minute mix-up with the French ambassador’s seating. The rest of the night passed in a blur of quick steps and polite apologies.

Later that evening, long after the final toast and the departure of the last dignitary, Harry finally left the building, coat slung over his arm, exhaustion tugging at his limbs. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when a familiar voice spoke behind him.

“Graham.”

Harry turned. “Mr Holmes,” he said politely.

Holmes inclined his head slightly. “Heading home?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied. “I was just about to catch the Tube.”

“No need,” Holmes said. “We’re heading in the same direction. I’ll give you a lift.”

Harry almost laughed. He didn’t believe that for a moment. There was no possible way Mycroft Holmes lived anywhere near the poky rented flat assigned to Alex Graham. And the fact that he knew where Harry lived meant only one thing: He’d checked.

Still, in character as Graham, Harry kept his tone polite. “Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I wouldn’t want to be a bother—”

“I insist,” Holmes interrupted, his tone cool and final.

There was no arguing with it.

So Harry followed him silently to the sleek black car waiting at the kerb. A driver opened the door. Neither man spoke during the ride.

The car pulled up in front of Harry’s flat — a modest brick building nestled between a laundrette and a shuttered bakery. Harry reached for the door handle. “Thank you for the ride, Mr Holmes.”

Holmes gave the faintest of nods. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment.

Harry stepped out into the quiet street. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the car pulled away, its lights disappearing into the night. He stood there for a moment, watching it go, then turned and headed into the building, keeping his pace steady.

Once inside the flat, he fought the urge to sweep the place for hidden cameras or listening devices. That would be too obvious — and worse, it would mean he was rattled. So he acted as though nothing had happened.

The flat was exactly as he’d left it: small, sparsely furnished, and intentionally dull. No trace of anything magical. He'd made sure of that from the start. His wand was locked away back at Grimmauld Place, along with anything that could give him away. Thankfully, Harry had long since mastered wandless magic.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few days after that strange ride home, Holmes visited Downing Street again. He arrived in the afternoon and remained in meetings until just before dinner. When Harry finally left the office for the day, coat over one arm and briefcase in hand, he was startled to find Holmes waiting by the security gate.

“Shall we go to dinner then?” Holmes said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Harry blinked. For a split second, he wanted to refuse — instinctively, warily. But the character he was playing, Alex Graham, wouldn’t. Graham was polite. Cooperative. Slightly shy, perhaps, but obliging. Refusing would have been out of character.

So Harry smiled, just a little, and said, “Of course, sir.”

To Harry’s relief, the dinner was uneventful. They spoke mostly about work — daily briefings, cabinet reshuffles, and diplomatic chatter that didn’t concern the magical world. Holmes asked the questions; Harry, as Graham, gave short, courteous answers. If there was a game being played, Harry made sure he didn’t blink first.

The food was good, the conversation harmless. And Harry was quietly grateful he’d built Graham as someone diligent, helpful… and not particularly talkative. It gave him room to deflect. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Holmes was testing him, word by word, looking for cracks in the story.

Then it happened again.

A few days later, Holmes turned up after work. No prior warning. No explanation.

“Dinner?” he said.

And again, Harry went.

It became a pattern. Every few days, the two of them would dine together — sometimes somewhere quiet and upscale, other times in a private room in one of Whitehall’s clubby little restaurants.

Harry half dreaded the invitations, and half waited for them. He dreaded slipping up, dreaded saying something that would give him away. But, in spite of himself, he was curious — fascinated even — by the way Holmes’s mind worked. His observations were razor-sharp, his commentary often cutting but never careless.

Harry kept Graham’s responses minimal. Polite nods. Measured agreement. Sometimes he itched to argue back — to be himself. But Graham was not the sort to challenge a man like Mycroft Holmes. If Holmes noticed, he didn’t say. And that, perhaps, unnerved Harry most of all.

XXXXXXXXXX

Then one evening, after a dinner, Holmes dropped Harry off outside his flat as usual. The car pulled up outside the modest block of flats, its engine humming softly in the quiet street. Harry reached for the door handle—ready to step out and breathe again—when something unexpected happened.

Holmes reached across the seat, gently removed Harry’s glasses, and leaned in. The kiss was brief. Deliberate. Measured—just like everything Holmes did.

Harry’s eyes widened in shock. In the dim light of the car, his green eyes flared like glass lit from within—startlingly bright, almost glowing in the shadows.

Holmes studied him for a moment longer, unreadable as ever, then placed the glasses back into Harry’s hand with clinical precision.

Harry sat frozen. Mind reeling. Skin buzzing with too many unanswered questions. Logically—rationally—if it had been anyone else, Harry would have assumed it was interest. Attraction. A move toward something personal.

But this was Mycroft Holmes.

Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Holmes knew. That beneath the quiet dinners and the restrained conversations, he had been testing him. Prodding, watching, waiting. Because the man who had just kissed him… might not have kissed Alex Graham at all.

He might have kissed Harry Potter.

XXXXXXXXXX

Days later, the message arrived from the DMLE. Aladár Ember had been captured. Hungarian Aurors had managed to corner him near the border, with no assistance needed from Harry’s end. The threat, it seemed, was over. The mission, technically, was complete. The threat neutralised. Except Harry couldn’t leave yet. His cover was still active — he was filling in for a woman on maternity leave, and she wasn’t due back until next month. Disappearing now would raise questions.

So Harry stayed. He kept up the routine. He kept going to dinner, as if nothing had changed. And he said nothing about the kiss.

One evening, just as their meals arrived and neither had spoken for several minutes, the restaurant door burst open. A tall man with dark, curling hair swept in, his coat flaring behind him like a cloak.

Harry recognised him instantly. Sherlock Holmes — younger brother of Mycroft Holmes.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called, striding straight towards their table. His voice was sharp, unmistakable. Then his eyes landed on Harry.

He stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "The Prime Minister's secretarial staff? Really, Mycroft?" His tone dripped with disdain.

Harry had read about this — that Sherlock Holmes could size up a person with nothing more than a glance, deconstructing them down to their deepest truths. He hadn't quite believed it until now.

Without another word, Sherlock spun on his heel and stormed out, his coat swirling dramatically behind him.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. What on earth was that about?

Mycroft Holmes turned to him, completely unfazed. “You’re an only child,” he said quietly.

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

It was a detail he’d built deliberately into Graham’s backstory — a safe, tidy fiction. Safer not to have siblings. Easier to explain inconsistencies that way.

There was a pause. The gentle clink of cutlery from a nearby table filled the silence.

Then Holmes said, almost as if to himself, “You have to be a bit of a parent when you’re the elder sibling.”

Harry looked at him. Really looked. Of all the things Holmes had said to him over the past months — the precise questions, the veiled remarks, the observations disguised as idle musings — this felt, somehow, the most genuine. There was no calculation in it. No edge. Just a quiet truth, spoken aloud without defence.

“I apologise,” Holmes said, setting down his napkin with careful precision. The moment of vulnerability vanished, tucked neatly away like an unused file. In an instant, he was once again the composed, inscrutable Holmes that Harry knew — all clipped formality and unreadable eyes. “But I’m afraid I must end this dinner.”

Harry simply nodded. Whatever had just happened with Sherlock, it clearly mattered.

They never had dinner together again.

XXXXXXXXXX

Time passed. Harry’s assignment came to a close. The woman on maternity leave returned, and Graham’s temporary contract quietly expired. The team in the Prime Minister’s private office threw him a small farewell party. There were polite speeches, a bottle of wine signed by the team, and a surprisingly heartfelt card from Sylvia Sherwin. Harry shook hands. Thanked them. Smiled when appropriate.

He also said goodbye to Holmes, who happened to be at Downing Street that day.

Holmes looked at him with that same unreadable calm and said only, “All the best in your new post.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” Harry replied.

He lingered for a second—half-expecting Holmes to say something else. Anything else. But nothing came. Holmes only gave him a faint nod, already turning away. Harry wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved… or quietly disappointed.

XXXXXXXXXX

He returned to the wizarding world after three months away. Teddy was over the moon to have his godfather back. Ron and Hermione welcomed him home with a quiet dinner and far too much wine. Kingsley and Robards were both relieved that the mission had ended without incident.

Everything went back to normal. For about two weeks.

Then the news broke. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. It was chaos in the Muggle press—conspiracies, outrage, speculation. The name Sherlock Holmes was suddenly everywhere.

Harry sat frozen, staring at the report. He didn’t believe it. Not for a second. He’d read John Watson’s blog. No, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have jumped. Not like that. Not unless— He reached for his phone before realising: he didn’t have Mycroft Holmes’s number. In all that time, Holmes had never given it to him. And Alex Graham had never asked.

He sat back, breath shallow. The silence of Grimmauld Place wrapped around him, thick and unmoving. The bedroom was dark, save for the soft golden light of a desk lamp. The shadows stretched long across the floor.

Harry glanced around the room, then exhaled slowly. He probably shouldn’t. Definitely shouldn't. But the thought refused to leave him alone. After a long moment — one filled with hesitation and quiet struggle — he rolled up his left sleeve.

Around his wrist was a simple silver bracelet. To most, it was unremarkable. But embedded in its centre was a single dark stone — smooth, ancient, and endlessly deep. Cold to the touch. He’d dropped it in the Forbidden Forest. But the morning after, he’d woken in bed to find the stone lying in the palm of his hand. It had stayed with him ever since.

Harry closed his eyes. Nothing dramatic happened — no flash, no spark. Just a faint, almost imperceptible hum. A pulse. He opened his eyes. And he knew. Sherlock Holmes was still alive.

XXXXXXXX

The next day, a new case dropped into the Auror Office. A formal request for cooperation from the Muggle government—something rare, and usually politically delicate. They wanted help dismantling a vast crime syndicate operating across the UK and mainland Europe. There were suspicions of magical involvement. Some of the syndicate’s key players were thought to have used Ember’s services before his capture. The case was massive. Sprawling. Every available Auror was pulled in.

The case lasted for months. Sleepless nights, cross-border operations, back-and-forths with the Muggle government. The kind of work that swallows you whole.

After the case finally wrapped, the Auror Office was blindsided by the sudden announcement of Gawain Robards’ retirement. Before anyone could fully process it, Harry was promoted—unanimously—to Head of the Auror Office.

In the weeks that followed, life gradually settled into a new rhythm: long hours, endless reports, strategic meetings with Kingsley, and the constant pressure of leadership.

Then one evening, as he looked up from his desk, Harry realised that months had passed. Time had slipped by quietly, without fanfare.

So much time that Alex Graham — his fabricated identity during the undercover mission — felt like little more than a fading dream. So much time that Mycroft Holmes felt like someone from a past life — distant, untouchable, almost unreal.

 

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to leave a review.

 

 

 

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter III

"Harry! Harry! I got it! I caught the Snitch!" shouted six-year-old Teddy Lupin from high above the Quidditch pitch, his voice carrying on the breeze. He wobbled slightly on his child-sized broom as he held the golden Snitch aloft in his small hand, its wings fluttering madly between his fingers.

"Well done, Teddy!" Harry called back, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up. He smiled broadly, pride warming his chest. "That was some impressive flying."

Teddy beamed, beginning his descent, the broom wobbling a bit in the wind but still steady enough. “Did you see the dive I did? Just like the Wimbourne Wasps chaser in that match you showed me!”

Harry laughed as he touched down beside him. "You mean the one who nearly crashed into the stands?"

Teddy giggled, jumping off his broom. "Yeah! But I didn’t crash!"

"Not even close," Harry said, ruffling the boy’s hair, which was jet-black now, and paired with vivid green eyes — Harry’s eyes. Teddy’s default look lately had been a miniature version of Harry, and the resemblance was uncanny.

The public Quidditch pitch was nestled near the edge of the village, surrounded by wild hedgerows and watched over by a few enchanted benches that clapped politely when someone scored. Godric’s Hollow had changed over the past few years—transformed from a quiet mixed village into a thriving wizarding community. The Muggle families had been respectfully relocated with the help of memory charms and generous incentives, and the village was now a haven for magical folk.

Harry looked around with a quiet sense of satisfaction. It had been his and Hermione’s idea, after all—to provide a safe place for witches and wizards to raise families without fear of discovery or discrimination. Kingsley Shacklebolt, as Minister for Magic, had championed the plan through every step.

"Come on," Harry said, slinging his broom over his shoulder. "Let’s get back to your gran’s. She’ll have lunch ready by now, and if we’re late, she’ll give me that look."

Teddy wrinkled his nose. "The eyebrow?"

Harry nodded gravely. "The eyebrow."

They laughed together as they walked down the winding path back into the village. The streets of Godric’s Hollow now bustled with magical life. Children chased enchanted bubbles in the park; owls swooped overhead delivering post; the scent of freshly baked bread drifted from the corner bakery, whose windows displayed floating pastries.

As they approached Andromeda Tonks’ modest but welcoming cottage, Teddy bounded ahead and threw the door open.

“Grandma! I caught the Snitch! I really did!”

Andromeda appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her face softened instantly. “Did you, now? Well, that’s something to be proud of.”

"I even did a proper dive! Like the pros!" Teddy said, running into the kitchen. "Harry said I flew really well."

"Did he, now?" she said, raising an eyebrow at Harry as he stepped inside. “High praise, coming from a Seeker who’s caught the Snitch under dragon fire.”

“I did say ‘really well,’ not ‘under imminent death,’” Harry said, grinning as he took off his coat. “Hello, Andromeda.”

"Harry," she greeted warmly. "Lunch is on the table — help yourselves.".

They sat around the kitchen table, a cheerful, slightly mismatched affair with enchanted teacups that warmed themselves. The walls were lined with family photos—some still, some moving—of Ted and Nymphadora Tonks at different ages, and now, Teddy at various stages of his ever-changing appearance.

As they ate, Teddy gave an enthusiastic, moment-by-moment retelling of his Quidditch catch, complete with arm gestures and sound effects.

"And I saw the glint of gold—right near the goalpost—and I leaned into my broom and just zoomed! Like, zoom!" he said, throwing his arms out so wide he nearly knocked over his pumpkin juice.

"Careful, dear," Andromeda said, steadying the glass with a quick flick of her wand. "It’s a wonder you didn’t fall off that broom."

"I’m not scared of falling," Teddy said proudly. "Harry was watching."

Harry shared a quiet look with Andromeda over the table. She gave him a small nod of gratitude, one they’d exchanged many times over the years.

“And I finished my homework too!” Teddy added, through a mouthful of pie. “We had to write about magical creatures and I wrote about Hippogriffs. I even drew Buckbeak!”

Harry smiled. “Good choice. He’d be flattered. Maybe we can send him a copy.”

"You think he'd like it?"

"I know he would."

After lunch, Harry lingered a little longer, sitting quietly in the bedroom while Teddy rested beneath his quilt. The afternoon light spilled softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the floorboards.

“Go on, get some rest. We've got a big day tomorrow,” Harry said gently. He’d planned a trip to the London Zoo.

 Teddy, of course, had insisted he wasn’t tired. He’d protested with all the stubbornness of a child determined to stay awake — and then promptly dozed off within minutes, the golden Snitch still clutched in his small hand, its delicate wings now perfectly still.

Harry watched him for a moment longer, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before quietly rising to his feet and slipping out of the room.

In the kitchen, Andromeda was pouring herself a cup of tea when he returned. “Is he asleep?” she asked without looking up, but her voice was softer now, as though she already knew the answer.

Harry nodded. “Out like a light.”

Andromeda smiled faintly. “He’s been looking forward to today all week.”

Harry leaned against the doorframe. “So have I.”

She turned to him. “Going already?”

“I’ve got an appointment with Ron and Hermione,” he added quickly. “We’re meeting at Grimmauld Place.”

“Of course,” she said with a nod. “Tell them I said hello.”

“I will. And thanks for lunch, by the way.”

Harry stepped outside into the warm afternoon sunlight, the familiar lanes of Godric’s Hollow stretching quietly around him. His own house wasn’t far — just a short walk from Andromeda’s cottage. He’d chosen it deliberately, wanting to be close to Teddy, to make his role as godfather not just a title, but a presence.

The house was a modest, one-storey home with a sloped slate roof, ivy creeping along one side, and a well-kept garden that Harry sometimes pretended he had time to maintain. It wasn’t grand, but it was his — filled with books, photographs, mismatched furniture, and the kind of silence he didn’t mind anymore.

Inside, Harry changed out of his sporty clothes and into something more presentable: a maroon jumper — one of his favourites — paired with dark jeans and black trainers. He ran a hand through his windblown hair, trying in vain to flatten it, then glanced at the old clock on the kitchen wall. Nearly time.

With a steadying breath, he turned on the spot and Disapparated, vanishing in complete silence.

The wards around Grimmauld Place Number Twelve were carefully constructed — only Harry could Apparate directly into the house. It was one of the many protective enchantments he had reinforced after the war, ensuring the once-shadowy Black family home was now both secure and welcoming.

The change in scenery was instantaneous.

Once the ancestral home of the Black family, Number 12, Grimmauld Place had undergone significant renovations over the years. Gone were the gloomy, oppressive walls, the thick velvet drapes, and the ever-present sense of decay. Now, the entrance hall gleamed with polished marble floors, soft green walls, white-painted woodwork, and tall windows that allowed sunlight to pour in and brighten the once-shadowed space. Potted magical plants occupied the corners, their leaves gently rustling as though offering a quiet welcome as Harry stepped inside.

Unlike Harry’s house in Godric’s Hollow, which felt warm and homey, Grimmauld Place carried a very different atmosphere. It was grand, luxurious, and stately — a lingering echo of old wizarding nobility — but no longer cold or oppressive as it once had been.

He walked through the corridor, his footsteps echoing faintly against the marble floor. The walls were lined with gold-framed paintings — classical works by old masters, brought out from the Black family’s vault. It had taken Harry some time to sort through the treasures in that vault, but he had chosen a few of the less sinister pieces to give the house a touch of sophistication. The result was a far cry from the grim, dust-choked mansion it had once been.

He reached the drawing room just as the fireplace flared emerald green. With a familiar whoosh of green flames and a swirl of ash, Ron Weasley stepped out, coughing slightly and waving smoke away from his face.

“Ugh. Still hate Floo powder,” he muttered, brushing soot off his clothes. “Gets everywhere.”

Hermione followed seconds later, far more composed.

“Hey, Ron. Hermione,” Harry greeted them, smiling.

“Hey, Harry,” Ron said, barely missing a beat before asking, “So, where is it? Your new car?”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed, shooting him a glare. “We didn’t even say hello properly!”

“What?” Ron asked, wide-eyed. “Aren’t we here to see Harry’s car?”

He turned eagerly back to Harry. “Dad’s over the moon, by the way. When I told him you bought a Muggle car, he couldn’t stop talking about it. He’s dying to come and have a look.”

 “That doesn’t surprise me." Harry laughed. “You know,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe I should ask your dad to put a few enchantments on it — invisibility, flight, maybe even an Undetectable Extension Charm.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant idea! Like Dad’s old Ford Anglia!”

Hermione groaned, though a fond smile tugged at her lips. “You two do realise that’s wildly illegal?”

“It’d be fun, Hermione,” Ron said, nudging her.

Harry didn’t actually need a car. He used the Floo Network to get to work, and Apparition handled most travel within the wizarding world. But when it came to the Muggle side of things — navigating traffic, visiting non-magical areas, airports, and the sort of everyday travel that didn’t involve vanishing into thin air — having a car simply made life easier.

And besides, Ron had been dropping hints lately — not so subtly — that he was considering getting one himself. Harry suspected it was less about practicality and more about the idea of roaring down a motorway with the top down, just because he could.

“Come on then,” Harry said, chuckling as he led them through the house and out the front door. They stepped down the front steps of Grimmauld Place and onto the quiet London street.

“Here it is,” Harry said proudly, gesturing toward the gleaming vehicle parked neatly along the kerb.

A sleek white Bentley Continental GT convertible stood waiting, its polished body catching the afternoon sunlight, the curves smooth and elegant. The chrome detailing glinted subtly, and the rich leather interior was just visible through the glass.

Ron let out a low whistle, eyes wide with awe. “Nice,” he muttered, slowly circling the car like it might disappear if he blinked.

Harry grinned. “Hop in.”

He climbed into the driver’s seat, with Ron eagerly sliding in beside him and Hermione settling into the back.

“It’s got a retractable roof,” Harry said, glancing at Ron.

“No way!” Ron said, his voice full of childlike excitement. “Can you show us?”

“Watch this.”

Harry pressed a small button on the dashboard. First, the windows hummed softly as they lowered, then the roof folded back smoothly into its compartment. A cool breeze swept over them — still crisp, even in early March — as the London skyline opened above their heads.

“This is brilliant!” Ron shouted over the wind. “Let’s go!”

Harry drove them through the winding streets of London, the wind brushing against his face as the convertible glided past familiar landmarks — the towering silhouette of the London Eye, the gothic arches of Westminster Bridge, and the glimmering stretch of the Thames catching the afternoon light.

Ron provided a steady stream of commentary from the passenger seat, pointing excitedly at buildings, making wild guesses about Muggle architecture, and cracking jokes that made Harry laugh more than he cared to admit. Hermione, ever the voice of reason, occasionally leaned forward from the back seat to correct him — or, when she couldn’t help herself, launched into short historical asides about whatever they happened to be passing.

At the next set of traffic lights, Harry slowed to a stop. The Bentley hummed quietly as it waited at the front of the queue. Just then, another car pulled up alongside them — a sleek black Bentley, polished to a mirror shine. Its windows were heavily tinted, its engine almost unnaturally quiet.

Harry glanced at it, then looked away — but something made him glance back. The number plate was unremarkable, but there was a subtle tension in the air — something oddly deliberate about the car’s presence. He couldn’t quite explain it, but it gave him the same faint, prickling feeling he used to get when he knew someone was watching him under an Invisibility Cloak.

Hermione leaned forward slightly, catching Harry’s change in expression. “Something wrong?”

Harry shook his head, though he didn’t take his eyes off the car for another moment. “No. Just... thought I recognised it. Probably nothing.”

The light turned green, and the black Bentley pulled off smoothly, taking the next turn and disappearing into the flow of traffic.

“Tinted windows,” Ron muttered, turning to watch the black car vanish into the traffic. “The kind you’d see in a spy film.”

Hermione had introduced Ron to Muggle cinema back then, and one of the first films they'd watched together had featured none other than the iconic British spy — 007. Ron had been completely captivated, though he'd insisted that exploding pens and invisibility cars were “probably stolen wizard tech.”

Hermione frowned slightly, her brows drawing together in thought. “Could it be someone from the Ministry?”

"Or someone who doesn’t want to be seen,” Harry murmured. The thought passed, but it stayed with him — a strange flicker of familiarity in the curve of the car, or perhaps something more instinctual. He shook it off and continued driving.

Soon after, they parked just off a side street in Covent Garden, outside a cosy, dimly lit restaurant Hermione had suggested. Before getting out, Harry tapped the control to bring the roof back up. The car sealed itself shut with a soft hum, blocking out the chill now creeping into the early evening air.

The restaurant had a warm, inviting atmosphere — soft lighting, wooden panelling, and the gentle hum of quiet conversation drifting between tables. The scent of roasting herbs and fresh bread lingered in the air.

A smiling waitress greeted them at the entrance. “Good evening. Table for three?”

“Yes, please,” Hermione replied, then added, “Could we have a table in the corner, if possible?”

“Of course,” the waitress said warmly. “Right this way.”

She led them to a table tucked away near the back, offering just enough privacy. As they sat down, she handed them leather-bound menus.

“For starters, we’ll have the watercress salad,” Hermione said decisively, scanning the menu.

“And the Carmarthen ham,” Ron added quickly, as though the idea of starting with only greens might be a personal affront.

Harry hid a smile behind his hand. Some things never changed.

“For my main,” Hermione continued, “I’ll have the chicken and mushroom pie.”

“Steamed fillet of wild halibut for me,” Harry said, setting his menu down.

“Roast rib of beef,” Ron declared without hesitation. “Medium rare.”

When it came time for dessert, they all agreed on lemon sorbet — light, refreshing, and, more importantly, something Ron wouldn’t argue with. Before the waitress returned, Hermione discreetly cast a Muffliato charm around their table, ensuring no Muggle ears would overhear anything they shouldn’t.

As their drinks arrived, the conversation turned easily from topic to topic — starting, of course, with Teddy.

“He’s completely obsessed with Quidditch now,” Harry said, smiling fondly. “Caught the Snitch today, actually.”

Ron grinned. “Knew the new broomstick you got him would come in handy."

Harry gave a mock sigh. “I think I might be spoiling him.”

“You’re not,” Hermione said gently. “He’s a bright, kind boy. And he adores you.”

The food arrived, and the table quieted for a few moments as they started in on their meal. Conversation soon shifted to work — specifically, Harry’s recent promotion to Head Auror following Gawain Robards’ retirement.

“I heard he and his wife are travelling the world now,” Hermione said, cutting her pie delicately. “They’ve always wanted to visit Japan’s Magical Gardens.”

“Sightseeing’s not a bad way to spend your retirement,” Ron added. “As long as they’re not stopping crime in every country along the way.”

Harry chuckled. “Honestly, I hope he is relaxing. He deserves it.”

A short lull followed as the plates were cleared and dessert brought out, the sorbet bright and tangy on their tongues. Then Harry leaned back in his chair, eyeing his friends with a grin.

"Speaking of travel — you two still haven’t told me where you’re going on your honeymoon.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up instantly. “Italy and Greece,” she said, practically glowing. “There’s so much magical history there. Ancient relics, forgotten ruins, preserved enchantments... I can’t wait.”

Ron nodded beside her. “Two weeks. One in Italy, one in Greece. She’s already made an itinerary. Several, actually.”

Hermione swatted his arm lightly. “There’s just so much to see! Magical temples, early wand-making sites — even pre-Roman magical artefacts buried in Delphi.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So, not exactly a relaxing beach trip, then?”

Hermione grinned. “Oh, we’ll find time for that too.”

Ron added, “I’ve been promised at least two days without anything remotely educational.”

The three of them laughed, the comfort of years of friendship settling around them like a worn but beloved cloak.

After dinner, they stepped out into the cool evening air, the scent of damp stone and late summer blooms lingering in the quiet street. The last of the sunset painted the sky in amber streaks, and the sounds of laughter from a nearby pub, the distant hum of traffic — drifted on the breeze.

With a quick hug and murmured goodbyes, they parted ways — Ron and Hermione still had a few errands to run nearby in preparation for their upcoming wedding.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Harry asked, glancing at them both.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Ron said, waving him off. “We’ll head back on our own.”

“Alright,” Harry replied, giving a small nod.

The journey home was uneventful, peaceful even. After parking his car near Grimmauld Place, he ascended the familiar steps and let himself into the house.

He’d barely taken a few steps inside when the sharp sound of the brass door knocker echoed through the hallway. Harry paused mid-stride, frowning. Who on earth would come to Grimmauld Place at this hour?

Curious and cautious in equal measure, he turned back and opened the door — and froze.

Standing before him was the unmistakable figure of Mycroft Holmes.

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts on anything about the story, so please feel free to leave a review.

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter IV

Mycroft Holmes looked exactly as Harry remembered—composed to the point of arrogance, with that ever-watchful gaze that missed absolutely nothing. It had been nine months since they’d last crossed paths, during Harry’s covert assignment in the Muggle world. Somehow, between false identities and shadowed meetings, they had slipped into a brief, unspoken entanglement. Not quite a romance, not entirely nothing. Just... something. Fleeting, complicated, and impossible to name.

When the assignment ended, they had parted on politely detached terms.

Now, the man stood before him once again, immaculate as ever in a dark three-piece suit — black this time — with a matching overcoat that looked as if it had been tailored directly onto him. A dash of colour came from a crimson tie and a perfectly folded pocket square in the same shade, tucked precisely into his breast pocket. In one hand, he carried his ever-present umbrella — naturally. Harry doubted Mycroft Holmes went so much as ten paces without it. It was less an accessory and more an extension of his persona.

Holmes offered a smile — practised and precise, the kind that never reached his eyes.

“Good evening, Mr Potter,” he said, his voice clipped and as cool as the night air.

For the briefest of moments, Harry actually considered pretending not to recognise him — and, for a far more irrational second, considered casting a memory charm. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Mycroft Holmes didn’t show up anywhere without a reason — and certainly not at Grimmauld Place without knowing exactly what he was walking into.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes,” Harry replied evenly, his voice steady. His eyes flicked past him to the sleek black Bentley idling at the end of the street — unmistakably his.

The fact that Holmes was using his real name meant he knew everything — or, at least, everything he wanted Harry to think he knew. He had come here well-prepared.

“Are you not going to invite me in, Mr Potter?” Holmes asked at last, one brow arched with polite condescension. His tone made it sound less like a request and more like a foregone conclusion.

Harry sighed inwardly.

“Do come in, Mr Holmes,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing him into the house.

Harry watched as the man stepped into the entrance hall of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, his polished shoes silent against the marble floor. As the heavy front door swung shut behind them, it closed with a soft thud that echoed faintly beneath the lofty ceiling.

"My apologies for the short notice," Holmes said, his tone as mild and inscrutable as ever.

"You gave no notice at all," Harry retorted, voice sharp. Alex Graham might have stayed silent  — but Harry was no longer operating under a false identity, and he had no intention of playing the deferential game now.

Holmes merely raised an eyebrow, as though mildly entertained.

"An oversight, I’m sure," he replied smoothly, removing his gloves one finger at a time with methodical precision. "Though you’ve never struck me as someone who truly needed a warning."

"I don't recall inviting you, either," Harry muttered, turning away and walking down the corridor.

"And yet, here I am," Holmes said, following with quiet footsteps, utterly unfazed.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"This way, please," Harry said, his voice a shade too polite to be sincere. He led Holmes from the entrance hall into the long, bright corridor that cut through the heart of Grimmauld Place.

Holmes glanced around, taking in the details without a word — not in awe, but analysis.

They reached the drawing room — a grand space that had once been cold and foreboding, now quietly elegant. A fireplace tall enough to dwarf an adult dominated one wall, its dark stone hearth glowing with magical flames. Opposite stood a row of tall sash windows, their heavy curtains drawn back to reveal the enchanted garden beyond — blooming even at night under softly glowing lanterns.

One wall bore a curated selection of Muggle paintings from famous British painters. The floors were polished marble, cool underfoot, and the soft green walls lightened the atmosphere. A white ceiling arched above, its plasterwork painstakingly restored. Mahogany furniture filled the room — tasteful, functional — and a matching sofa set was arranged around a low coffee table, which already held a neatly prepared tea set. Magical potted plants in brass containers occupied the corners, their leaves gently swaying in an unseen breeze.

“Interesting house,” Holmes commented, his eyes sweeping across the room. “Not quite what one might expect from the ancestral home of an old wizarding family.”

Of course he’d know about that.

“I had it renovated,” Harry said simply, his voice neutral.

“A modernist approach,” Holmes noted, removing his overcoat with a smooth, practiced motion. “Intentional, I presume.”

Harry didn’t respond to that. He merely gestured. “Please, have a seat.”

They settled opposite one another, separated by the polished surface of the mahogany coffee table. Between them sat a tea set already laid out, steam curling gently from the spout of the enchanted teapot. The faint scent of bergamot hung in the air — subtle, but unmistakable.

“Would you like some tea?” Harry asked, aiming for courtesy without warmth.

“Yes, thank you.”

At his nod, the teapot rose delicately into the air and began to pour — first into Holmes’s cup, then Harry’s — the stream of amber liquid silent and precise. Once finished, it returned to its place with a soft clink, as if it too were used to following protocol.

“Sugar? Milk?” Harry offered.

“No, thank you.”

Holmes didn’t yet reach for his cup. Neither did Harry.

A moment of silence stretched between them — not awkward, but weighted. It lingered in the air like the final move in a chess game, waiting to be played. It was a silence thick with unspoken thoughts, with unsaid names and the weight of recent history.

At last, Harry spoke. “So, Mr Holmes... what brings you here?”

There. He’d asked it — plainly, without artifice, no attempt to tiptoe around the inevitable.

Holmes gave a faint smile — polite, composed, and entirely unreadable. “I believe it’s due time we had this conversation.” He paused for a breath — deliberate, calculated — then added, “But first, perhaps you can tell me why we weren’t informed about your undercover operation?”

Harry leaned back slightly in his chair, meeting the question head-on. “It was a precaution. There was no immediate need to raise alarm. Had the threat escalated, you would have been informed.”

“A collaboration,” Holmes said smoothly, “should be mutual.” His tone remained perfectly civil, but there was an unmistakable edge to it — the glint of steel beneath silk.

“We’ll make note of that,” Harry replied, not quite apologetic.

There was another pause — brief but heavy. Holmes studied him again, that hawk-like gaze as unsettling as it was clinical. He wasn’t looking at Harry so much as through him, dissecting thought and motive with surgical precision.

Then, abruptly, Holmes broke the silence. “Nevertheless, I must thank you,” he said. “The Auror Office’s involvement was… unexpectedly efficient. Even I must admit — some matters are expedited with magical assistance.”

Harry blinked, momentarily thrown.

It was rare — extremely rare — for Mycroft Holmes to offer praise. He didn’t compliment people. He assessed them, classified them, occasionally tolerated them. Gratitude, let alone admiration, was not part of his natural lexicon.

He tilted his head slightly. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it — even if part of him was still scanning for the catch.

A beat passed, and then Harry added, with measured neutrality, “Is your brother all right?”

It was a carefully neutral question — but the weight behind it was anything but casual. Harry was referring, obliquely, to the formal request that had landed on Kingsley’s desk months ago: a classified cooperation from the Muggle government. Highly unusual. Politically delicate.

They hadn’t known the full picture at the start. Just vague intelligence about a sprawling crime syndicate operating across the UK and continental Europe. But as the investigation progressed, things began to shift.

Names surfaced. Familiar patterns. A distinctive trail of chaos woven together by precision and violence. And in the middle of it — not directly, but unmistakably — the shadow of Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective who had recently, and rather dramatically, faked his own death. A death that, it turned out, was part of a much larger operation. And the detective just so happened to be Mycroft Holmes’ younger brother.

Holmes's expression didn’t change — not quite. But Harry caught it: a flicker in his eyes, brief and cautious, like a man adjusting the weight on a scale before deciding how much to reveal.

“Sherlock is… recovering,” Holmes said finally.

Harry nodded, slowly. “So his death was part of the plan. A necessary misdirection for the safety of those involved.”

"Yes,” Holmes confirmed. "Moriarty’s network has been dismantled, thanks in large part to the intelligence your people provided. Without your department’s intervention, the process would have taken at least two more years — perhaps longer, considering the international reach.”

“Is it all right to tell me that?” Harry asked, voice quiet but pointed.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you one of the people involved in the investigation?” A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “Or do you not read the reports you sign off on?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I read all the reports.”

Another flicker of amusement — that faint twitch at the corner of Holmes's mouth that might, in other men, have been a grin.

Harry gave him a flat look.

Holmes held his gaze, then said lightly, “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That expression. You used to look at me like that quite often — especially over dinner. As though you were just barely restraining yourself from arguing with me.”

Harry snorted. “You’re incredibly full of yourself.”

“And yet,” Holmes said, adjusting the cuff of his suit with maddening composure, “you never once declined my invitations.”

Harry shrugged. “Admittedly, I was curious.”

“About me?”

"About whether you were as clever as people said," Harry said, watching him carefully. "Some say you're the most brilliant man alive."

"And what was your conclusion?" Holmes asked, his expression unreadable.

"That you really are... incredibly intelligent. Far beyond what I expected," Harry admitted. "But I’ve always wondered how that kind of brilliance actually works in practice." He gave Holmes a pointed look. "You seem... rather impatient. Especially with the Prime Minister."

Holmes didn’t move, but Harry caught it — the faintest flicker of tension behind his eyes. He masked it well, as always, but Harry had seen it before: the tightening of the jaw, the precise stillness, the microsecond of disapproval when forced to explain something twice. It wasn’t just the Prime Minister, either. It was everyone.

Then, softly — almost wryly — Holmes said, “I don’t remember you being this insightful before.”

“I was undercover,” Harry replied. “Keeping my head down. Not exactly encouraged to engage in philosophical debates.”

“And yet you still made an impression,” Holmes murmured.

That earned him a wary glance from Harry, but Holmes said nothing more. Instead, he leaned back slightly and spoke with the cool detachment of someone commenting on a deeply inconvenient fact of life.

“Can you imagine what conversations are like?” he said, voice low. “Living in a world where everyone around you takes days, weeks, months — to reach a conclusion that occurred to you in under a second?” He took a sip of tea, finally — graceful and deliberate. The cup returned to the saucer with a soft clink. 

“I’m living in a world of goldfish,” he said dryly. Then, as if on second thought, he looked at Harry and something flickered in his eyes. Not mockery. Not quite affection either. Amusement, maybe. Or intrigue. “But,” he added, “you’re quite an interesting goldfish.”

Harry stared at him. For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Mycroft Holmes had just likened his intelligence to that of a goldfish — albeit a more entertaining one.

“Charming,” Harry said flatly. “So I’m more interesting than the average fish. That’s reassuring.”

A faint smirk tugged at Holmes's lips. “Don’t be offended. Most of humanity barely qualifies as plankton.”

Harry let out a short laugh — caught off guard by how sincere it sounded. “You really know how to win people over.”

“I’ve never seen the point,” Holmes replied airily. “Winning people over usually requires some form of lying. Or at the very least—flattery.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. He’d seen Holmes operate in political circles before, weaving through diplomatic meetings and inter-agency briefings like a shark in still water — composed, calculating, unshakeable. “And neither is your strong suit?”

“I find honesty far more efficient. At least... in personal matters.”

There was a pause. Not awkward — just quiet. A change in rhythm, like a slight shift in key. The silence settled between them, not heavy, but expectant.

Then Harry leaned back slightly and said, “Anyway, I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced.” He held out his hand, half-formal, half-dryly amused. “Harry Potter.”

Holmes's expression softened — not much, but enough to notice. The taut line of his mouth eased, just slightly, and a glimmer of something warmer flickered in his eyes. 

He took the offered hand in a firm, measured shake. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “Likewise, Mr Potter.”

“Just Harry,” Harry said, releasing the handshake.

“Then just Mycroft.” Mycroft inclined his head in that poised, diplomatic way of his — though this time, there was a faint warmth behind it.

Whatever Mycroft might have said next was cut short by the soft chime of his phone. He reached into his suit pocket, retrieved the device, and glanced briefly at the screen. For the briefest moment, his expression shifted — something close to concern, quickly masked beneath his usual composure.

“I apologise,” he said, rising with the fluid efficiency of a man who was always half a step ahead of his own schedule. “I have to leave. My brother… requires urgent attention.”

Harry stood as well. “Of course.”

Mycroft slipped the phone back into his inner pocket and adjusted his cuffs with a practised motion, the picture of controlled urgency. As Harry walked him to the door, Mycroft paused on the threshold, glancing out at the quiet, lamplit street.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically sincere, referring to Harry’s recent appointment as Head of the Auror Office.

“Thank you,” Harry replied, more genuinely this time.

“When your schedule allows, perhaps we could arrange dinner?” Mycroft added, with the ease of someone who already knew the answer.

They exchanged times, settling on Thursday without hesitation.

“I’ll text you the place,” Mycroft added, turning slightly towards the door. Then, almost as an afterthought — though nothing Mycroft Holmes ever said was accidental — he added, “And yes, I already have your number.”

Of course he did. Harry didn’t bother to ask how. With Mycroft Holmes, some things simply were.

Just as he reached the door, Mycroft paused. For a moment, he stood still, then glanced back over his shoulder — and, unusually, his voice lacked its usual calculated precision.

“You really do have unforgettable eyes,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed not just on Harry’s face, but specifically, unwaveringly, on his eyes.

It wasn’t flirtation. Not exactly. It was too bare, too honest for that — a rare slip in Mycroft Holmes’ otherwise impenetrable armour. And then he was gone, coat swirling slightly in the evening breeze as he stepped out into the London night.

Harry remained where he was, momentarily stunned — not by the words, but by the quiet weight behind them. Neither of them said what was plainly understood — that whatever had existed between them before, tangled in false names and cautious glances, had changed. This was something else. No aliases. No masks. Just Harry. Just Mycroft.

 

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to leave a review.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter V

“Harry! Harry!” A sharp knock rattled the bedroom door, followed by the unmistakable voice of Teddy Lupin, high-pitched and full of excitement.

Harry groaned and rolled over, burying his face into the pillow for a moment before dragging one eye open. He squinted at the clock on the wall. 8:30 a.m. Too early for a Sunday. Far too early. The London Zoo didn’t even open until ten.

“Come in, Teddy,” he called out, his voice muffled by sleep.

The door swung open almost instantly.

“Good morning, Harry!” Teddy beamed as he stepped inside, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Harry sat up slowly, blinking away the remnants of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. "Morning, Teddy.”

The boy was dressed and ready to go — a blue and white hoodie zipped up to his chin, a pair of dark jeans, and white trainers. His hair, which had clearly been black moments ago, was already shifting to an eager shade of turquoise.

“You’re looking very sharp,” Harry said with a smile, ruffling the boy’s hair, which turned purple for a moment before settling back into its black hue.

Teddy grinned. “Gran let me pick my outfit!”

“And a fine choice you made,” Harry said, swinging his legs out of bed with a groan. “Where is your gran, anyway?”

“She’s in the sunroom, reading a magazine,” Teddy said matter-of-factly.

Harry chuckled. “That sounds about right. Have you two eaten already?”

“We had toast and eggs before coming up. Gran said you’d sleep until noon if we let you.”

“She’s not wrong,” Harry muttered under his breath, standing and stretching. “Alright, give me fifteen minutes to shower and get dressed. Go wait with your gran, yeah?”

Teddy gave an enthusiastic nod, his eyes lighting up. “Can we see the tigers first?”

Harry smiled. “We’ll see whatever you want,” he promised. “Tigers, penguins, Komodos… even the gift shop if you behave.”

“Yes!” Teddy whooped, already racing towards the door.

As the door closed behind Teddy, Harry stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle back into the room. He padded to the bathroom, taking his time under the hot water. Ten minutes later, freshly showered and towelling his hair dry, he stepped into the walk-in wardrobe. After a brief rummage, he pulled on a dark green jumper, a comfortable pair of jeans, and black trainers.

Harry grabbed his phone and left the bedroom, making his way downstairs towards the sunroom at the back of the house. The sunroom was predominantly white. A glass ceiling arched overhead, from which hung an elegant brass lamp. The surrounding walls were made almost entirely of windows, offering a clear view of the rear garden—still slightly overgrown, but lush and green.

Potted tropical plants lined the edges of the room, their broad leaves basking in the morning sunlight. On one side stood a cluster of white sofas, arranged around a low glass coffee table. Opposite them sat a dining set—light wood, modestly elegant in design.

Against the far wall stood a white-painted wooden console table, neatly stacked with magazines. At its centre stood a ceramic pot, brimming with blooming purple orchids—their bright colour a delicate contrast to the surrounding green foliage.

Andromeda sat comfortably on one of the sofas, a magazine open in her lap. She looked calm and composed, the image of early-morning grace. Teddy, meanwhile, was perched at the dining table, nibbling on a slice of treacle tart with evident glee. Judging by the spread, Kreacher had outdone himself—no doubt taking note that it was Harry’s favourite.

“Morning, Andromeda,” Harry said as he stepped into the room.

“Harry!” Teddy looked up at once, face brightening at the sight of him.

“We’re a bit early today,” Andromeda said with a small, apologetic smile.

“No worries,” Harry replied, taking a seat across from Teddy. “I needed to be up anyway.”

“We’ve already eaten,” she added. “But you should have something before you two go gallivanting off.”

Out of habit, Harry pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. A new message had come through — from an unknown number.

Thank you for your hospitality last night.

There was no need to guess the sender. It could only be Mycroft. With a quiet huff of amusement, Harry tapped out a brief reply and slid the phone back into his pocket.

His gaze dropped to the table. A plate had been set out for him with quiet care: two fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and a few thick slices of sausage. A generous piece of treacle tart rested on a side plate beside it. A pitcher of water stood nearby, along with two glasses — one half-full (Teddy’s, clearly) and the other still empty, waiting for him.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry murmured under his breath, knowing the old elf was no doubt listening from somewhere.

Teddy swung his legs beneath the table, his eyes fixed on Harry with quiet fascination as he tucked into his breakfast.

The glass pitcher on the table lifted gently into the air and tipped, pouring water into Harry’s empty glass without anyone touching it.

Teddy's gaze followed it, wide-eyed. “Harry... I want to be able to do wandless magic too.”

Harry glanced up from his plate, amused. “You’ll learn about it at Hogwarts later on. It’s not something they teach in the first year — not until you've got proper control over basic spells.”

Teddy sighed, clearly disappointed, but nodded all the same.

“Gran said we can see the tigers first,” he said, brightening again.

“Then tigers it is,” Harry said with a smile, taking a sip from his now-full glass.

After breakfast, they stood and began gathering their things. Teddy had already slung his small rucksack over one shoulder — a somewhat lumpy-looking thing stuffed with snacks, a sketchpad, and — though he clearly thought Harry hadn’t noticed — a small toy Hungarian Horntail peeking out from the side pocket.

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing, hiding a smile. He turned to Andromeda, who was finishing her tea and had just set aside the magazine she’d been reading.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” he asked.

“No, no,” she replied gently, rising from the sofa. “You two go and enjoy yourselves. I’ll be heading back to Godric’s Hollow — I’ve got a few errands to take care of and a very unruly garden that’s begging for a good charm or two.”

Harry nodded. “Alright.”

They walked her to the drawing room. The fireplace was already alight, flames flickering with a soft crackle. Andromeda stepped onto the hearth, reaching for the small dish of Floo Powder on the mantel.

“Godric’s Hollow,” she said clearly, tossing the powder into the flames. In an instant, they turned emerald green, and with a gentle whoosh, she was gone.

For a moment, the room fell quiet again, save for the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle.

Teddy turned to Harry, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Right, tigers first?”

Harry grinned. “Tigers first.”

Instead of Apparating, Harry had decided to drive — he wanted the day to feel more normal, more Muggle, something Teddy rarely got the chance to experience.

“My new car,” Harry said with a grin, unlocking it with a quiet click. “Hop in, Teddy.”

Teddy clambered into the passenger seat with wide eyes, taking in the unfamiliar dashboard and polished interior.

Once they were both buckled in, Harry pressed a discreet button. The windows hummed as they rolled down, and with a low mechanical whirr, the roof folded back into its compartment. A brisk early March breeze swept through the car, ruffling their hair as the blue morning sky opened above them.

“This is so cool!” Teddy shouted over the wind, his face lit up with joy.

Harry laughed. “Just don’t stick your head out.”

The drive into central London was smoother than expected for a Sunday. The streets were alive with early shoppers, joggers, street performers juggling fire near Piccadilly, and tourists spilling out of cafés with takeaway cups in hand.

Teddy looked around from his seat, wide-eyed, drinking in the sights — red double-decker buses trundling past, the blur of colourful shopfronts whizzing by, and the occasional open-top tour bus filled with tourists snapping photos of everything in sight, as if London might vanish at any moment.

Eventually, they reached Regent’s Park. The London Zoo’s car park, nestled just off Outer Circle, was tucked behind a line of tall, leafless trees and a low hedge that curved along the edge of the park. Harry pulled into a space near the back, turned off the engine, and stretched slightly before climbing out.

“Ready?” he asked.

Teddy was already out of the car, practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes! Let’s go!”

They made their way along the gravelled path towards the entrance. The towering iron gates stood open, and above them, colourful banners flapped in the breeze — bright illustrations of lions, penguins, Komodo dragons, snakes, and butterflies danced across the fabric.

Teddy could hardly contain himself, skipping ahead a few paces and turning to walk backwards so he could talk to Harry while still moving. “Can we see the tigers first? Gran said I could pick!”

Harry smiled. “Tigers it is."

“And the Komodos!”

Their first stop was Tiger Territory, one of the zoo’s newest and most popular enclosures. The habitat was lush and vibrant, designed to replicate the dense, humid landscape of the Sumatran jungle. Two sleek adult Sumatran tigers lay stretched out in the shade, their striped coats blending effortlessly with the undergrowth. A little further along the water’s edge, a pair of cubs tumbled over one another in an energetic game, pouncing and batting with oversized paws.

“They’re so cute!” Teddy whispered, his nose practically pressed against the viewing glass. His breath left small foggy patches as he stared, completely entranced.

Harry smiled beside him. “They are — just don’t forget they’re still predators. Even the cubs have teeth.”

Teddy gave him a slightly guilty look, as if he'd just imagined sneaking one home.

From there, they made their way to the Attenborough Komodo Dragon House.  Two enormous Komodo dragons lounged in the centre of their enclosure, their rough, scaly skin a mottled grey-brown. One had its thick limbs sprawled lazily, its tongue flickering out every so often. The other lay still, its beady, unblinking eyes giving the impression it was either asleep — or watching.

Teddy squinted through the glass. “I thought Komodos would look more like real dragons,” he said, frowning slightly. “You know… wings, fire, fangs."

Harry chuckled. “These ones don’t breathe fire, no — but Komodo dragons are the largest and heaviest lizards in the world. They’ve got venom, too, so I’d still keep my distance if I were you.”

“Venom?” Teddy’s eyes widened.

Harry nodded. “One bite from those jaws, and their prey doesn’t get far.”

Teddy leaned back from the glass, just slightly. “Alright. No pet Komodos either.”

Harry smirked. “Smart choice.”

They had lunch at the Terrace Restaurant inside the zoo. Harry ordered classic fish and chips, while Teddy went for the buttermilk chicken strips, which came with a mountain of chips and a little pot of tangy dipping sauce.

“Best chicken ever,” Teddy declared between mouthfuls, eyes sparkling.

After lunch, they continued exploring. Their next stop was the Reptile House — cool and dim inside, with the faint scent of damp stone and heat lamps humming quietly overhead. As they walked past the tanks, Harry slowed, his expression thoughtful.

“Did I ever tell you I spoke to a snake once here?” he said, half to himself.

Teddy turned to him, wide-eyed. “You what?”

Harry just smiled, keeping his gaze on a large python coiled behind the glass. “Long story. Remind me to tell you when you're older.”

They moved slowly through the exhibits — pythons, boas, vipers — and though most visitors heard only the occasional hiss, Harry still understood the whispers. Some of the snakes slithered sleepily, others lifted their heads as he passed. A quiet sibilant greeting brushed his mind.

Yes, he could still speak and understand Parseltongue. The gift hadn’t left him completely — not even now.

He said nothing to Teddy.

Afterwards, they headed to Penguin Beach, where a bustling colony of Humboldt penguins waddled around comically on the rocks before diving into the water with effortless grace. Teddy stood at the glass barrier, utterly transfixed, watching them dart and spin beneath the surface.

“They swim faster than I can run,” he said in awe, nose pressed to the glass.

Harry folded his arms, smiling as he watched the boy’s reflection in the glass. “They’d probably beat you in a race.”

“No way,” Teddy said automatically — though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

They spent the next couple of hours visiting more of the zoo’s attractions — monkeys swinging lazily in the treetops, giraffes craning their long necks to munch from feeders, and the silent, majestic gorillas in their jungle habitat. With every step, Teddy’s enthusiasm remained boundless, asking questions, pointing things out, and scribbling little sketches in the pad he carried in his rucksack.

As the afternoon light began to fade and the crowds thinned, they made their way back to the gift shop near the exit.

Teddy was quick to decide. He chose a tiger poster from the London Zoo display — “For my wall at home,” he said proudly — and a Junior Zookeeper hat, which he insisted on wearing straight away. He also picked out a mug with a tiger on it, carefully turning it over in his hands.

“This one’s for Gran,” he declared with a firm nod, as though it were a diplomatic gift of great importance.

Harry smiled and paid for the items, watching with quiet amusement as Teddy adjusted his new cap in front of the mirrored display, his little face set with exaggerated seriousness.

“I think you’ve found your calling,” Harry teased as they stepped back outside into the crisp spring air.

Teddy stood a little taller, saluting. “Zookeeper Teddy Lupin, reporting for duty!”

Harry laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair before they started walking back towards the car park. The sun was sinking low behind the treetops, casting long golden rays across Regent’s Park.

They were both tired, but in the best kind of way. It had been a good day — simple, ordinary… and for Harry, all the more precious because of it.

XXXXXXXXXX

The next morning, Harry woke to soft sunlight slanting through the curtains in pale golden stripes. The light warmed the room gently, but did nothing to improve his mood — it was Monday. And like every office worker in the world, Harry felt that unique kind of Monday-morning reluctance — the kind that made the bed feel ten times more comfortable and the idea of paperwork infinitely more dreadful.

He groaned, dragging the blanket over his face for a moment longer, as if hiding from the world might delay the inevitable. But the clock on the wall ticked on unbothered, and after a few more sluggish minutes, he finally forced himself upright with a sigh.

A hot shower helped — a little — and by the time he stepped out of the bathroom, towelling his hair dry, he felt marginally more human.

The smell of breakfast greeted him before he even reached the kitchen.

Kreacher, ever punctual, had already laid everything out: perfectly scrambled eggs, crisp toast, a bowl of sliced fruit, and a steaming cup of tea waiting by his seat. The Daily Prophet was neatly folded beside it.

Harry gave a grunt of appreciation and sat down, reaching first for the tea.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” he said, still a little bleary.

The old house-elf gave a low, satisfied grumble from the corner, muttering something about “lazy wizards and their Mondays,” though Harry chose not to respond. He couldn’t even argue.

He reached for the Prophet, flicking it open to the front page — some sensational article about cauldron import taxes and a minor scandal involving a junior Ministry official and an enchanted swan. Typical.

With half his mind still adrift in the remnants of sleep, Harry set the Daily Prophet aside and reached for his mobile, idly scrolling through the morning headlines. It had become a quiet habit of his in recent years—keeping one eye on the Muggle world as vigilantly as the wizarding one. You could never quite predict where trouble might begin these days, or how the two worlds might bleed into one another.

And that was when he saw it.

Headline after headline flashed across the screen, each more incredulous than the last:

SHERLOCK HOLMES RETURNS

"It Was All a Ruse," Sources Claim – Consulting Detective Faked Death to Dismantle Criminal Empire

How Did He Pull It Off? Public and Police Left Reeling

The Detective is Back: Sherlock Holmes Alive After Nine Months Presumed Dead

The internet was ablaze. Hashtags like #SherlockHolmesAlive, #SherlockLives, and the inevitable #SherlockIsNotDead trended with relentless energy, fresh posts streaming in by the second.

Harry stared at the screen, blinking slowly. So it was true, then—Sherlock Holmes had finally returned. And now, the truth was laid bare for all to see. The elaborate deception, the silent months of subterfuge, the war waged in the shadows—everything had come into the light.

And with Moriarty’s criminal network reportedly dismantled, it seemed—for the moment, at least—the game was over.

Harry took out his phone and sent a brief text: I read the news. You must be relieved.

The reply came almost instantly: You have no idea.

Harry allowed himself a small smile. Mycroft didn’t wear emotions openly — not in public, not even in private — but even he couldn’t deny the quiet relief of a crisis averted… and a brother returned.

It was strange, in a way. Sherlock Holmes had vanished from the world for nine months, faked his own death with surgical precision, and brought down one of the most dangerous criminal networks in the Muggle world — only to step back into the spotlight as if he’d merely popped out for a walk.

 

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts about the story, so please feel free to leave a review.

I know Harry lost his Parseltongue ability, but he still has it in this story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter VI

When Harry arrived at the Ministry that morning, it was impossible to avoid the chatter — even in a place usually preoccupied with cursed artefacts, unstable potions, and the occasional escaped magical creature. Today, all anyone could talk about was Sherlock Holmes.

It made sense, really. The Ministry was filled with half-bloods and Muggle-borns, many of whom still kept up with the Muggle news. And ever since the ministry had introduced the Muggle Technology Room — a heavily warded, enchantment-stabilised space with limited, Ministry-approved internet access — staying up to date had become easier than ever.

BBC, The Guardian, The Times, and even The Daily Mail had plastered the same image across their front pages: Sherlock Holmes, very much alive, coat flaring like some theatrical cloak as he strode past 221B Baker Street, the crowd behind him a blur of flashing cameras and disbelief.

Social media was ablaze with theories. Some believed he’d been in hiding under MI6 protection. Others claimed it was a body double. A few suggested cloning. One particularly unhinged corner of the internet insisted Sherlock Holmes was an alien. Harry had to admit, the alien theory was at least creative.

Even in the Ministry cafeteria during lunch, the buzz hadn’t died down.

He found Ron and Hermione in their usual spot in the corner.

“Faking his own death,” Ron muttered, shaking his head as he shovelled shepherd’s pie into his mouth. “Brilliant, really. Mad, but brilliant. How d’you reckon he pulled it off?”

“There are a lot of theories out there,” Hermione said, pushing her mashed potatoes aside. “Some of them involve body swaps, hallucinogens, even a secret twin.”

Ron looked intrigued. “Does he have a twin?”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “No.”

Ron shrugged. “Still. Would’ve been clever.”

Then his eyes lit up. “Maybe he used magic?”

Hermione groaned. “Honestly, Ron. Just because something’s clever doesn’t mean it’s magical.”

“Why not?” he argued. “What if he got help from someone who’s magical? We’ve seen it happen before — Muggles getting involved in things they shouldn't.”

“That would violate at least six Statutes of Secrecy,” Hermione said crisply.

Ron grinned. “Which hasn’t stopped anyone before.”

Harry chuckled under his breath but said nothing. He leaned back in his chair, letting their usual rhythm wash over him. But his mind wasn’t on their banter.

Sherlock hadn’t done it alone. Harry knew that much without question. Mycroft had been involved — you didn’t fake your death, dismantle a criminal empire, and survive the fallout without high-level coordination.

“But it’s good he’s back,” Harry said eventually, cutting through their conversation. “And taking down the rest of Moriarty’s network."

“Yeah,” Ron nodded in agreement.

“It means all our hard work won’t go down the drain,” Harry continued.

Ron frowned slightly. “What d’you mean by that?”

Harry glanced at him. “You know what I mean.”

Ron blinked, clearly not following. “Er... not really?”

Harry gave him a look — the kind that said how do you not remember this?

“The case from nine months ago,” he said. “The one where we were pulled in to help with the investigation.”

Ron stared at him for a beat, then his eyes lit up in delayed recognition.

“Oh. That one. Where I had to pretend to be homeless in France,” he said with a grimace. “Still haven’t recovered from that smell. And I nearly got pickpocketed by a Muggle.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, that one. It’s all connected to Sherlock Holmes’ case. We helped gather evidence and identify members of the syndicate.”

“Veritaserum and Legilimency made our job a lot easier,” Ron muttered. “And the Floo Network made travel across Europe a doddle.”

“Which is probably why they brought us in to begin with,” Harry said. “They needed speed. And results.”

The longer the case dragged on, the longer Sherlock had to stay underground. Working in the shadows. Mycroft didn’t want that — not if he could help it.

“I just never thought they’d actually ask us for help,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “It must’ve been the first proper collaboration between our world and theirs.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Harry said with a shrug. “Though technically, we were operating under a different name.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “What, you mean the whole ‘special task force’ nonsense?”

Harry gave a small smile. “In official Muggle government records, the Auror Office has been quietly rebranded as the National Security Office. Sounds very professional, doesn’t it?”

Ron blinked. “Wait — that’s what they’re calling us now?”

Harry nodded. “It’s part of an agreement Kingsley signed with the Muggle government — helps smooth over jurisdiction issues when we’re working alongside Muggle agencies. MI5, MI6, the Met — that lot.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “And they actually go along with that?”

“They do,” Harry said. “In their files, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is listed as the Secret Security Service, or SSS. The Auror Office sits under that, renamed as the National Security Office.”

“Makes it easier to collaborate without drawing attention." Hermione concluded.

"They think we’re a shadowy black-ops division. Which, I suppose… isn’t entirely inaccurate.” Harry muttered.

Ron groaned. “Merlin’s beard. No wonder I keep getting called Agent Weasley. I thought it was just a joke.”

"To be fair, it does sound rather cool.” Hermione looked amused. “Still… it doesn’t quite make sense. There are plenty of Muggle crime syndicates and terror cells. They’ve never involved us before.” Of course she noticed the gap — Hermione always saw the holes first.  She paused, brow furrowed. “So what made this one different?”

Harry hesitated for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Sherlock Holmes’ brother is Mycroft Holmes. He’s the one who asked us to get involved. For his brother.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Mycroft Holmes?”

Ron looked between them, eyebrows raised. “Do you know him or something?”

Hermione leaned in, her voice low but certain. “Aside from the Prime Minister and the reigning monarch — the Queen — there’s one other Muggle officially informed about the wizarding world: Mycroft Holmes. He’s... well, not exactly your average civil servant.” She hesitated, then added, “Let’s just say there are rumours he practically is the British government.”

Harry nodded. “It’s true.”

Ron looked utterly appalled. “Where on earth are you two hearing all this?”

“Kingsley,” Hermione replied promptly.

“And Forger,” Harry added.

“Oh,” Ron said, looking faintly overwhelmed.

Hermione leaned forward, her brow furrowed in curiosity. “Still... I’m intrigued. Is he really as brilliant as they say?” she asked thoughtfully. “I imagine it would be fascinating to have a proper conversation with him.”

Harry thought that Mycroft possessed a mind of formidable intelligence—his analytical and deductive abilities were nothing short of extraordinary. Far more brilliant than anyone might have anticipated; not merely clever, but unsettlingly so. So brilliant, so incisive... so utterly detached from the everyday world.

Ron gave Harry a sidelong glance, then looked back at Hermione with a wary grimace. “Careful,” he muttered. “That’s exactly how Lockhart happened.”

Harry chuckled under his breath but didn’t say more. He didn’t tell Ron or Hermione about meeting Mycroft during his undercover assignment — or the strange, unfinished feeling that lingered between them. It was too soon. Too soon to explain. Too soon to define. He wasn’t even sure what it was yet — only that he wanted to find out.

XXXXXXXXXX

A few days slipped by, and Thursday arrived with an unsettling sort of precision — the day of his supposed dinner with Mycroft.

With that in mind, Harry made a rare effort to drive himself from Grimmauld Place to the nondescript Whitehall building that, to the Muggle world, housed the Secret Security Service. In reality, it also served as one of the discreet fronts for the DMLE’s operations in Muggle Britain.

This particular branch was staffed almost entirely by Muggle-borns and half-bloods, all carefully vetted and trained to operate within the blurred lines of both worlds. As Harry stepped through the main entrance — rather than Apparating straight into the Ministry as he usually did — several heads turned.

“Deputy Director, morning!” someone called, clearly surprised.

“Morning,” Harry replied with a nod, keeping his tone neutral.

He made his way down the sleek, modern corridor to his office on the administrative floor. The space was distinctly contemporary — light wooden furnishings, grey marble flooring, and large frosted glass panels — a world apart from the enchanted stone corridors and aged brass fittings of the Ministry proper. But he didn’t linger.

Behind his desk, a concealed lift carried him swiftly down to Level Two of the Ministry of Magic, where his real work awaited.

Time passed. Harry had lunch with Ron and Hermione as usual, then returned to work. The hours slipped by in a blur of reports and meetings.

Before long, evening settled over London — cool, still at the cusp of spring. Harry wrapped up the last of his reports, sealed a file, and warded his office with a few practiced gestures. The protective charms shimmered faintly, then vanished from sight. With that, he shrugged on his coat and took his leave.

Mycroft had texted Harry the location the day before — a message as brief and perfectly punctuated as one might expect:

"7pm. The Pem."

The Pem was a modern British restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of Westminster — discreet, polished, and clearly designed for those who preferred their power lunches behind linen tablecloths and closed conversations. The sort of place where no one asked questions, and everyone assumed you were someone important.

The maître d’ greeted Harry the moment he stepped through the door, his posture straightening slightly as he offered a professional smile. “Mr Potter — welcome. This way, sir.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t given a name. Of course he hadn’t needed to.

He followed the maître d’ through the sleek dining room. Dark panelled walls, soft lighting, and just the right level of background noise to make eavesdropping difficult. It was all... very Mycroft.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was already seated at a corner table, half-shielded by a brass partition. He looked utterly composed, one leg crossed neatly over the other, reading a folded copy of The Times with a glass of still water placed precisely at his right hand. He glanced up as Harry approached, folding the newspaper in a single, crisp motion.

“You’re very early,” Harry remarked as he sat down opposite him.

"And you’re precisely on time,” Mycroft replied with a mild smile.

A waiter appeared — silent and efficient — and handed them each a menu.

“I’ll start with the crumbed lamb sweetbreads,” Harry said after a brief glance, “then the pan-roasted monkfish. And for dessert... the crème brûlée.”

The waiter turned to Mycroft, who didn’t so much as glance at the menu.

“Wye valley asparagus tartlet to begin,” he said, handing it back, “followed by the roast sirloin beef. No dessert.”

The waiter gave a small nod and vanished without a sound.

Harry leaned back in his chair, glancing around the room. “Quiet place.”

“That’s the idea,” Mycroft said smoothly.

Harry gave a small smile. “And an audience of your personal assistant in the corner. Former MI6, isn't she?”

He tilted his head slightly towards a table by the window, where a woman sat alone with a glass of white wine, tapping idly at her phone. On the surface, she looked disinterested — detached even — but Harry knew better.

Mycroft didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

“You noticed Anthea,” he said calmly, as if discussing the weather.

“I saw her a few times before,” Harry said, referring to his time undercover. “She was always just... there. Never said a word."

“She’s very good at that,” Mycroft murmured.

“I assume that’s not her real name.”

“It’s the name she prefers,” Mycroft replied smoothly

“I take it she’s here in case I get rowdy?” Harry asked, voice light.

Mycroft gave a faint smile — one of those small, knowing expressions that suggested the answer was layered far beyond the surface. “She’s here in case I do.”

That earned a proper laugh from Harry —  genuine and unexpected. “Now that’s a terrifying thought.” Then, almost idly, he said, “The news is still full of Sherlock.”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft sighed, reaching for his water glass. “He’s been at the centre of the media frenzy since Monday. They’ll move on soon enough — once something louder or more scandalous catches the public’s short attention span.”

“Until then, he’s front-page drama."

“As always.”

“And now he’s ‘gallivanting’, is he?” Harry asked, brow raised in amused disbelief.

“Investigating an underground terrorist network,” Mycroft replied, his tone dry and detached, as if reciting a briefing.

Harry shot him a sideways glance. “Right. First a crime syndicate, now a terrorist cell. Have you ever considered just giving him a proper holiday?”

“I do try,” Mycroft said evenly. “But he gets bored. And when Sherlock gets bored... things tend to explode. Occasionally metaphorically. Often literally.”

At that moment, the waiter returned, placing their starters down with the same quiet precision he’d shown earlier. Mycroft gave a slight nod of thanks, picked up his fork, and continued with the same calm tone as before.

“It keeps him occupied. The country’s safer for it. And frankly — so is the wallpaper.”

Harry regarded him across the table. “No wonder you said you have to be a bit of a parent when you’re the elder sibling."

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh and set down his fork. “I even went undercover to Serbia to extract Sherlock.”

Harry blinked. “Serbia?”

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle,” Mycroft said, as though that explained everything.

Harry frowned. “Undercover fieldwork? You went yourself?” He was genuinely surprised. “I assumed you’d just... I don’t know. Send half of MI6.”

Mycroft gave him a faintly amused look over the rim of his glass. “You say that as if I’m incapable of leaving a desk.”

“I say that as someone who’s met you,” Harry replied, tone dry. “I’m fairly certain you’ve spent the last decade in tailored suits and meeting rooms.”

“And yet,” Mycroft said smoothly, “I smuggled myself into Serbia in the back of a diplomatic van and walked Sherlock out of a warlord’s compound under the cover of a sandstorm.” He took another sip of water, then added almost as an afterthought, “But yes. I do loathe fieldwork.”

Harry sat back, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. “Well,” he said eventually, “you’re full of surprises.”

“Only when required,” Mycroft said evenly.

Or only when his younger brother was involved.

The conversation carried on — sharp, dry, and laced with the kind of mutual curiosity neither of them quite wanted to name. Somewhere between the last bite of monkfish and the end of Mycroft’s story, Harry realised the restaurant had begun to empty around them. The soft clink of cutlery and murmured conversations had faded into quiet.

He glanced at his watch. Three hours had gone by. And oddly enough — he didn’t mind.

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to leave a review.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.

Let Those Who Are In Favour With Their Stars

Chapter VII

Usually, Harry spent his weekends with Teddy, or with Ron and Hermione—or sometimes both. This particular weekend looked to be much the same. The only deviation from the norm was a scheduled appointment with Mycroft Holmes, which Harry had been carefully avoiding telling Ron and Hermione about.

He and Mycroft had been exchanging texts recently. Short, clipped messages, precise to the point of being almost sterile. Neither man was particularly fond of chatting, and both preferred to conserve words for when they truly mattered. There was something strangely refreshing about speaking to someone who didn’t expect warmth or pleasantries. Mycroft simply got to the point. So did Harry.

It was Friday evening, and Harry was gathering the last of his paperwork, ready to finally head home, when there came a sharp knock on his office door.

He glanced up from the disorganised pile of files and called, “Come in.”

The door creaked open to reveal Ron and Hermione standing in the doorway. Ron looked mildly panicked; Hermione had that unsettlingly purposeful expression she wore when she was about to ask for something she already assumed you’d say yes to.

“You want me to what?” Harry asked, utterly flabbergasted, as soon as they told him. The question had come entirely out of the blue.

"Come with us to look at wedding dresses," Hermione said, as though it were the most natural request in the world.

Harry blinked. "Sorry, I think I misheard you. Did you say wedding dresses?"

Ron winced. “She did.”

“You do realise I’m not qualified for that sort of thing?” Harry said, glancing between the two of them.

“It’s a Muggle bridal shop,” Hermione replied, folding her arms.

Ron added, “And I can’t go through this alone, mate. Please. I’ll owe you big.”

Harry looked at the pair of them. Hermione, calm and determined. Ron, clearly panicking at the thought of wandering through endless racks of lace and satin without backup. He sighed.

“Why do I feel like this is some sort of trap?” he muttered.

“Because it is,” Hermione said, grinning.

That made him chuckle despite himself.

Still, he hadn’t quite appreciated how extensive the world of Muggle bridal fashion was until Hermione had begun rattling off the names of designers and boutiques she wanted to visit. Apparently, there were hundreds—if not thousands—of options. From independent designers tucked away in Notting Hill to global fashion houses with waiting lists longer than the Hogwarts library index.

He’d always assumed choosing a wedding dress was a simple affair—walk in, pick something white, done.

What surprised him more was the realisation that she wanted him there. He looked at the two of them again. They’d been a trio since they were eleven. Hogwarts, the war, the Ministry—through it all, they were still together. Still each other’s chosen family.

“You’re both mad,” Harry said at last, though his voice held no real protest. He gave a resigned shrug. “Fine. I’ll come.”

Ron let out a breath, slumping back on the sofa with visible relief. “You’re a lifesaver, mate.”

“I knew you’d say yes.” Hermione’s smile was more smug than grateful as she reached for the leather-bound notebook beside her. “You might even enjoy yourself.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I very much doubt that.”

They all laughed, the kind of easy, familiar laughter that had become rarer over the years but never lost its warmth.

Hermione flipped open her notebook — of course she had one — revealing a flurry of neatly organised sketches, fabric swatches, and an intimidating number of appointments.

“Tomorrow then?” she asked, looking up.

Harry nodded. “Tomorrow.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Much to Harry’s surprise, it was Luna Lovegood who arrived at Grimmauld Place that Saturday morning.

The grand fireplace in the drawing room flared bright green, and a moment later, a young woman with long, flowing blonde hair and silvery eyes emerged, dressed in a pale blue dress adorned with silver stars that shimmered and shifted gently across the fabric. A well-worn brown leather satchel hung from her shoulder.

“Luna!” Harry said warmly, stepping forward. “This is a surprise.”

“Harry!” Luna beamed and embraced him without hesitation, her arms light but firm.

Harry chuckled and guided her to the sofa near the fireplace. “How was your trip?” he asked, pleased. It had been quite some time since he’d last seen her.

Since leaving Hogwarts, Luna had thrown herself into a life of adventure. Now a magizoologist, she travelled the world discovering and cataloguing magical creatures—some real, some long rumoured to be imaginary. Her work had taken her to jungles, mountains, islands, and deserts. Along the way, she’d met Rolf Scamander, a fellow magizoologist and grandson of the legendary Newt Scamander. The two had become something of a team.

“It was lovely, Harry,” Luna said dreamily. “We discovered a colony of shimmering Hornback Toads in Brazil. Unfortunately, I still haven’t found the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.” She let out a soft sigh.

Harry smiled gently. He had his doubts the Snorkack even existed—likely a product of Xenophilius Lovegood’s imagination—but he didn’t say so. Luna’s belief in it was genuine, and that was enough.

“How long are you staying this time?” he asked curiously.

“A few days,” she replied. “Then Rolf and I are off to Borneo. We’ve heard rumours of a species that sings during thunderstorms.”

Just then, the fireplace flared green once more, and with a gust of warm ash and flickering emerald flame, Ron and Hermione stepped out into the drawing room.

Both of them stopped mid-step.

Ron blinked. “Luna?”

Hermione’s eyes lit up in surprise. “Luna!”

Luna, who had been chatting quietly with Harry on the sofa, turned with a wide smile. “Hello, Ronald. Hermione. You’re just in time.”

Ron broke into a grin. “Blimey, it is you. Thought I was seeing things for a second.”

“You’re not,” Luna said serenely, rising to greet them. “Unless the Nargles are playing tricks again.”

Ron chuckled and stepped forward to hug her. “Still as mad as ever.”

“And you’re still ginger,” Luna replied cheerfully.

Hermione laughed and pulled Luna into a hug of her own. “It’s so good to see you. When did you get back?”

“This morning,” Luna replied. “I wanted to surprise Harry.”

“You certainly managed that,” Harry said, smiling from where he still sat. “She’s staying a few days before heading off again. This time to Borneo.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Ron said, moving to sit beside Hermione. “Any new creatures?”

“Quite a few,” Luna said, settling back down and beginning to recount her latest discoveries. “Rolf and I found a tiny, iridescent fox that sings just before rain. We think it might be distantly related to the Mooncalf. And there was a moss-covered lizard that only appears in moonlight…”

But then Hermione glanced at the clock and suddenly stood. “Oh no—we’re going to be late!”

Ron groaned. “Don’t say it.”

Hermione turned to Luna. “We have appointments today—bridal shops. Muggle ones. I’m looking for a dress.”

Luna clapped her hands together, delighted. “How exciting.”

“Would you like to come with us?” Hermione asked, grabbing her coat. “I’d love a second opinion. A female one.”

Luna looked genuinely touched. “I’d love to come.”

Before they could leave, she began rummaging through her satchel. “These are for you,” she said, producing three small gemstone decorations — the kind one might keep on a desk or windowsill. She handed them out one by one — green for Harry, blue for Ron, and a warm, earthy brown for Hermione. Each stone shimmered faintly in the light, their colours uncannily matching their recipients' eyes.

Harry felt an unexpected surge of fondness for her. Luna, as always, was full of strange surprises — but her gifts were never thoughtless.

“They’re from Brazil,” she explained dreamily. “The stones are said to encourage clarity and kindness. And, of course, they should help keep the Nargles away.”

“Always good to be Nargle-free,” Harry said with a smile. “Thanks, Luna.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Hermione added, her voice soft with affection.

Ron turned his over in his hand, examining the way the blue caught the light. “Nice colour. Cheers, Luna.”

She nodded, seemingly pleased, and tucked her satchel away.

“Right, we should get going,” Hermione said, rising to her feet and brushing a bit of imaginary lint from her coat.

“I’ll drive,” Harry offered. “But, Luna—your dress.”

“Oh!” Luna glanced down at the swirling stars. With a casual flick of her wand, the animated patterns froze into place. “There.”

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered. “Let’s get this over with."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

And so, they arrived at the first bridal boutique, the little bell above the door tinkling as they stepped inside. The shop was quaint and elegant, with rows of ivory, cream, and blush gowns hanging like enchanted clouds. Hermione tried on several dresses, each one more intricate than the last.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, stepping out in a sleek A-line gown with delicate lace along the sleeves.

"It's good," Ron said, nodding.

Hermione disappeared back into the changing room and emerged a few minutes later in another dress — this one fuller, with a tulle skirt and tiny embroidered flowers.

"And this?" she prompted again.

"It's... also good," Ron replied, his tone unchanged.

She tried on two more. Ron's reaction remained consistent — a polite nod, a vague smile, a noncommittal "Looks nice."

Hermione stared at him.

"What?" Ron asked eventually, sensing her frustration. "They all look good on you!"

Hermione sighed, though her eyes softened as she glanced at him fondly. "But which one looks best?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don’t know... You just look beautiful in everything, honestly."

"Then you haven’t found the right one yet," Luna interjected gently, her voice dreamlike as always.

Ron and Harry turned to look at her. She was perched on a velvety settee near the window,  but her eyes were unusually focused.

"When you find it," she continued serenely, "you’ll know straight away. There’ll be this moment — like Nargles suddenly vanishing. Everything just clicks."

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Odd as it sounded, Luna might have a point.

“Let’s take a break,” Hermione said, exhaling and smoothing the front of the dress she was trying on.

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Ron added quickly.

They decided to take a break and had lunch at a cosy café down the lane before heading to the second boutique.

Hermione tried on more gowns. Beaded, minimalist, vintage, even one with feathers. Ron’s responses remained unchanged, and Hermione began to look more weary than enchanted.

Harry, meanwhile, was starting to realise that choosing a wedding dress was far more complex than he’d imagined. In his eyes, every dress looked beautiful. Hermione looked beautiful in all of them. But Luna, it seemed, had a point — none of them had that moment. There was no gasp, no sparkle in Hermione’s eyes, no sense of certainty.

Then they arrived at the third shop. Perhaps the third time truly was the charm.

Hermione stepped out from behind the curtain in a gown unlike any of the others. It was white, yes, but instead of stark simplicity or overwrought embellishment, it was adorned with hand-painted flowers cascading down the bodice and flowing into the skirt like a blooming meadow. The sheer sleeves were embroidered with the same delicate blossoms, giving her an ethereal look — as if she’d walked straight out of a storybook.

Ron sat up, his eyes widening as he stared at her. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Hermione returned his gaze, her lips curving into a smile. That small, knowing smile.

And in that instant, they both knew.

This was the one.

It might not have been a traditional wedding dress, but it was the one that suited Hermione — clever, warm, and just a little bit wild — perfectly.

“So this is it,” Luna said, breaking the silence with quiet certainty.

Ron turned to her, then to Harry, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah. It is.”

Harry smiled at the two of them — his oldest friends, standing on the edge of something new. “Finally,” he muttered, the word more fond than exasperated.

The dress still needed a few alterations, of course, so they arranged to return with Mrs Granger and Mrs Weasley for the final fitting. Both mothers, naturally, would insist on seeing the dress.

Afterwards, they returned to Grimmauld Place for dinner. The kitchen fire crackled softly, casting a golden glow over the room and illuminating familiar faces around the old wooden table. Over plates of roast chicken and treacle tart, they talked about the present, laughed over memories of the past, and made quiet, hopeful plans for the future.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

On Sunday, as was his custom, Harry made his way to the village of Godric’s Hollow. He stopped by his house first, as he always did, checking that everything was in order. Kreacher usually came by to clean, so the place was neat, the air free of dust, and everything just as it should be.

After a quick check, Harry picked up his broom from where it leaned beside the front door and stepped out onto the quiet lane. The village was still sleepy, bathed in soft sunlight, with the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant sound of a kettle whistling from someone’s kitchen window.

He made his way through the familiar streets toward Andromeda’s house.

Teddy was already waiting in the front garden, bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. The moment he saw Harry approaching, his hair shifted into messy black and his eyes turned a vivid green to match.

“Harry!” he called, grinning broadly.

“Hey, Teddy. Ready for some Quidditch?” Harry asked with a smile.

“Uh-huh!” Teddy nodded eagerly, his trainers skidding slightly as he turned and dashed back into the house.

Harry followed him in through the open front door. “Good morning, Andromeda,” he said as he stepped into the kitchen, where she was sipping a cup of tea by the window.

“Morning, Harry,” she said with a nod. “He's been looking forward to this all week.”

“Grandma, I’m off to the pitch!” Teddy announced, reappearing with his child-sized broom clutched in both hands.

“Just be careful,” Andromeda said, giving him a quick once-over. “And don’t try anything too daring.”

Teddy gave a solemn nod that lasted all of two seconds before he shot Harry a mischievous grin. Together, the two of them headed off towards the Quidditch field on the edge of the village. The morning was clear and breezy, the sky stretching wide above them. Birds flitted between hedgerows, and the golden light gave the grass a bright, almost enchanted sheen.

As they reached the pitch, Teddy immediately kicked off the ground, soaring into the sky with youthful enthusiasm. They played a lively game of pick-up Quidditch, with Harry occasionally letting the Snitch hover just long enough for Teddy to catch it—though the boy was getting quicker every week.

A few villagers wandered by and lingered at the edge of the field, smiling as they watched. Harry recognised them all—Mrs Alderton from the bakery, old Mr Wintringham leaning on his cane, and Ellie Bones walking her scruffy dog.

After about an hour or so of flying, Harry glanced at his watch.

“Alright, champ,” he said, lowering his broom. “Time to head back. Your gran’ll have lunch nearly ready, I expect.”

“Did you see that dive I did?” Teddy asked as they walked, nearly skipping with leftover adrenaline. “I nearly had the Snitch!”

“I saw it,” Harry said, grinning. “Reckon if you were half a second faster, I’d have been toast.”

Back at the house, Teddy burst inside to tell Andromeda all about his near-capture of the Snitch, pantomiming the dive with great enthusiasm.

Harry stayed for a short cup of tea, chatting with Andromeda in the quiet of the kitchen while Teddy clattered around upstairs.

“I’ll let you two get on,” Harry said eventually, standing to go.

“Same time next week?” Andromeda asked, already knowing the answer.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Harry replied.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

That afternoon, Harry had arranged to meet Mycroft Holmes for lunch.

Back during his undercover assignment, their meetings had always been over dinner—inevitably organised by Mycroft, always in discreet, excessively posh restaurants with crystal glassware, starched linen, and waiters who moved like ghosts. Mycroft had an unerring talent for finding places that were both lavish and forgettable, perfect for private discussions that required elegance and anonymity.

Even last Thursday’s dinner had been held at a Michelin-starred place in Westminster with a wine list longer than the Prophet’s classified section.

But today, for once, Harry had chosen the venue.

It was a modest little café tucked away in Bloomsbury, about a half an hour walk from Grimmauld Place. The sign out front was hand-painted, the tables inside a mismatched collection of wood and charm. The kind of place where students and pensioners shared space and nobody gave you a second glance.

When Harry arrived, Mycroft was already seated at a corner table by the window, precisely on time—if not slightly early. He was, of course, impeccably dressed in a grey three-piece suit, a pale blue tie knotted with impossible precision, and a black umbrella resting by his side like a loyal hound. He looked comically out of place among the casual diners and chipped teacups.

“You’re early,” Harry said, sliding into the seat opposite him.

“I find it easier to maintain control of the environment when one arrives first,” Mycroft replied smoothly, his expression unreadable. His eyes, however, flicked briefly over Harry’s attire—a simple dark jumper and jeans—and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying this.”

Harry tried to stifle a smile. “I was too lazy to drive... and to bother changing into a formal outfit today. Besides, a change of scenery every once in a while won’t kill you.”

“Yes, clearly,” Mycroft said dryly. “Especially after a full day spent trailing through bridal boutiques with your best friends. That must have been... illuminating.”

Before Harry could fire back, a waitress approached their table with a notepad in hand. She looked between the two men. “What can I get you both today?”

“Grilled salmon, please,” Harry said.

“I’ll have the halibut,” said Mycroft, handing over his closed menu without a second glance.

Once she’d gone, Harry leaned in slightly and said under his breath, “It must be rather handy... having access to all the CCTV in London.”

Mycroft didn’t bother denying it. “It’s very useful,” he admitted smoothly. “Though the paperwork is dreadful.”

Their food arrived promptly, and they ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, occasionally broken by idle conversation about Ministry affairs and unremarkable current events—until, quite suddenly, a tall, unmistakable figure strode into the café, coat swirling dramatically as if someone had set up a wind machine just outside the door. Sherlock Holmes. Close behind him, looking more harassed than surprised, came Dr John Watson.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock called, marching over. “About this so-called solid intelligence you sent—”

He stopped short mid-rant when he noticed Harry sitting opposite his brother.

Harry had met Sherlock once before, though at the time, he’d been Alex Graham. Sherlock's piercing eyes scanned him rapidly, calculating. Harry could practically feel himself being analysed.

Harry offered a small nod. “You must be Sherlock Holmes. And you, Dr Watson.”

“Er—hello,” Watson said, giving a small wave and glancing sideways at Sherlock, who had gone utterly still.

“I read your blog,” Harry continued, looking at Watson. “The Hound of the Baskervilles. Fascinating stuff.”

“Oh, thank you,” Watson said, a bit taken aback. “That one... yes, that one was rather wild.”

Sherlock, meanwhile, had turned his glare back on Mycroft. “Another one?” he said incredulously, gesturing at Harry. “First it was the secretarial staff, then an administrative assistant—what is this, a recruitment scheme or a dating service?”

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft said flatly. 

Watson was glancing between all three of them now, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. His eyes went from Harry to Mycroft, back to Harry... and then understanding dawned.

“Mycroft?” he said slowly, gesturing vaguely between them. “Wait, is this...?”

Harry could practically see the gears turning in Watson’s head as the pieces clicked into place.

“It is rather comforting,” Mycroft said coolly, “to know that my personal life is such a source of fascination to you both.”

“What? No—” Watson began, flustered. “We weren’t— I mean, not like that—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “He doesn’t have a personal life.”

Mycroft gave him a long-suffering look. “I do have a personal life, Sherlock. Contrary to your belief.”

Harry watched them all silently, raising his tea cup to hide his smirk. It was like witnessing a particularly posh family squabble on a Sunday drama.

Sherlock’s gaze returned sharply to Harry. “And you—you have a son?”

“What?” Watson spluttered.

“A godson,” Harry supplied calmly.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock muttered, exasperated.

Mycroft cleared his throat deliberately. “Unless you've come here simply to critique my life choices, Sherlock, I assume there’s a case?”

“I am on the case,” Sherlock replied indignantly. “We’re both on the case, in fact—though I question whether you are.”

Mycroft didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ve already given the Prime Minister my personal assurance that you’re handling it.”

“Then I’ll handle it,” Sherlock said briskly, already turning on his heel with the dramatic grace of a theatre actor. “Come on, John.”

As he stormed out, his coat flared behind him like a cloak. Watson paused just long enough to offer Harry and Mycroft a slightly apologetic smile.

The café door jingled shut behind them.

Harry turned back to Mycroft, casually picking up his fork. “Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “that was... enlightening.”

Mycroft sighed. “That was the quiet version.”

Harry’s phone vibrated softly in his pocket. He gave Mycroft an apologetic glance. “Sorry,” he murmured, pulling it out.

Mycroft gave a slight nod.

He read the incoming message and frowned. It was from Lora Forger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The subject line referenced the Aladár Ember case—one that Harry had thought had gone cold. Apparently, the Hungarian Ministry had suddenly reached out. According to their latest intelligence, one of Ember’s known followers—previously presumed dead or in hiding—was still at large. And worse: there had been a confirmed sighting. 

Harry stared at the image attached to the message. It was grainy, taken from what looked like a surveillance feed. But the man standing next to the rogue wizard was unmistakable. Lord Moran. A sitting Member of Parliament. A Peer of the Realm. The current Minister for Overseas Development.

“Tell me something,” Harry said suddenly, his tone shifting. “This underground terrorist network you’re tracking... does it have anything to do with Sebastian Moran?”

 

Author’s Note:

Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts about the story, so please feel free to leave a review.

If you have read the story before, this version takes a different approach. It's less humorous than the original, and this fanfic will be longer as the storyline is more fleshed out, but the core idea remains the same. 

This story has been rewritten from Chapter One, so please read again from the beginning. When I reread it, there were a lot things I disliked, so I rewrote that part.

The next chapter should be from John’s point of view, in an alternate universe of "The Empty Hearse." I've only watched the first two episodes of series 3 of Sherlock, and skipped the rest.

I plan to revise all of my fanfictions in turn, correcting the grammar and refining the storytelling.