Chapter Text
John did a double take. Then he checked again.
No, it couldn’t possibly be Ottoway Gormal, because Ottoway Gormal was still, so far as he knew, in a coma at St. Mungo’s. Unless he’d made a speedy recovery the likes of which John had never encountered in his entire medical career, something was definitely wrong. Gormal hadn’t hurt himself, surely?
Sherlock was eyeing the new arrival with a disturbingly pleased expression. “Why, Mr Gormal, you’re home early.”
“Discharged,” said Gormal, blinking several times in quick succession. “They discharged me. Said I was free to go.” He looked down at the handcuffs, and back at Sherlock and John, holding up his hands pleadingly. “And then these...people attacked me on my way into my own home!”
“Terribly sorry about that, Mr Gormal,” Lestrade said, removing the cuffs with a quick flick of his wand. “but this is a crime scene and my Aurors were told to be careful of any intruders.”
“It’s my home,” repeated Gormal, rubbing his wrists. He was still blinking--or possibly squinting. John remembered the glasses he’d seen on the floor and wondered what, if anything, Gormal could see without them. “Thank you, Auror. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a rough day.”
“Actually, Mr Gormal, we need to ask you a few questions,” Lestrade said. “You’re our best lead at the moment and it would be particularly helpful…”
“Yes, well, I’ll be happy to answer any questions...tomorrow,” Gormal said, making an aborted movement towards his door, only to be stopped by John’s sidestep. “Surely I can be allowed a night’s peace after all I’ve been through?”
“Mr Gormal,” John added, following Sherlock’s lead, “consider that you’ve just barely come out of a coma. In my medical opinion, it would be unwise for you to be alone.” He was rewarded with an approving look from Sherlock.
“Mr Gormal,” added Sherlock, “we couldn’t possibly leave you on your own after what you’ve been through. What if your assailant comes back?”
Gormal looked around at the three aurors, then at Sherlock and John. “Very well, very well, come inside, why don’t you, let’s get this over with.” As they followed him through the door, leaving one of Lestrade’s Aurors outside to guard the entrance, Gormal kept up an audible mutter about nasty government bureaucrats and their insistence on troubling perfectly decent citizens.
Sherlock, with uncharacteristic solicitousness, immediately insisted on helping to seat Gormal in the only chair in the flat not covered in what might charitably called artefacts and which John’s mum would have called dust catchers. “Tea, I think? Yes, of course, tea. John, would you be so kind? No, no, Mr Gormal, you should be resting.”
Lestrade kept glancing at Sherlock, clearly aware that he was up to something. John shrugged a ‘can’t help you mate,’ and went to make the tea.
“Well then, Mr Gormal… What can you tell me about your attacker?”
“Well I...” Gormal said, suddenly rather subdued. “It all happened rather quickly, you understand. And they...they attacked me from behind! Couldn’t see a thing!”
“Of course you must have been,” said Sherlock, picking up the glasses from the table and handing them over. “I assume these are yours?”
“Oh thank goodness…” Gormal said, “I’d no idea where they’d got to. Lose my head if it wasn’t...well.” He peered around as his eyes focused on them each in turn. “You aren’t...you two aren’t Aurors.”
“Sherlock Holmes, at your service, and this is my associate John Watson.”
“Cheers,” John said, handing Gormal a cup of tea.
Gormal blanched. “Sherlock...Holmes.”
Sherlock grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin. “I see my reputation precedes me. In that case, I’m sure you’ll indulge me if I deduce you came by way of the Knight Bus?”
Gormal became even paler. “Quite so, Mr Holmes.”
“It’s the dirt, you see. On the hem of your robes. Very distinctive. As well as the spot of candle wax on your sleeve,” Sherlock said.
“Impressive,” said Gormal with a swallow. He hadn’t touched his tea, though he kept glancing at the cup on the table. “Apparition didn’t seem like the best idea.”
“As I’m sure your doctors warned you,” John remarked, half an eye on Sherlock, who seemed both excited and utterly unconcerned. “Tea not to your liking?”
Gormal blinked at the cup, then took a noisy sip. “Very good, thanks. But, as I was saying, they got me from behind and I didn’t see a thing.” He looked at the table again.
“Why do you think someone might have been after you?” asked Lestrade, clearly doing his best not to glare at Sherlock. “Anything you could tell us would be helpful, Mr Gormal.”
“I can’t imagine why. I’ve never harmed anyone. Not even during all that nastiness with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
“Oh, nobody thinks it’s a vendetta killing,” said Sherlock airily. “You’ve certainly got a large number of artefacts sitting about. Do you think it might have been a thief?”
Gormal twitched. “Might have been. I told you, he came at me from behind--”
“He?”
“I don’t know! Might have been a she. How could I know if I didn’t see them?”
“Mr Gormal, please don’t upset yourself,” Lestrade cut in, this time actually glaring at Sherlock. “Do you think you might have some sort of...object...that might interest a thief?”
“Oh, you mean all this junk?” Gormal waved one hand vaguely. “I can’t imagine.”
“You say that,” Sherlock observed slowly, “and yet you keep glancing at that box on the table as though it’s about to sprout legs and walk away.”
There was indeed a box on the table--a battered wooden box with an unfastened brass latch. There might once have been writing on it, but it had long since faded.
“That old thing? Just an astrolabe, inherited it from an aunt. Now I’ve told you everything I know, surely I might be permitted to…”
“You also keep glancing at the clock, Mr Gormal. We’re not keeping you from anything? No...pressing appointments, surely?”
“Now see here, Mr Holmes, I think you’ve overstayed your welcome. I’ve told you everything I know, Inspector, and I’d very much appreciate it if you’d leave me to myself...”
“I’d think you’d be more concerned that you might have been burgled.”
“I told you, nothing’s been moved.”
“You haven’t even looked around to check.”
“I know my own flat. Merlin’s beard, can’t you leave a wizard in peace?”
“This box, for instance, how could you even know that it hasn’t been opened and the contents stolen?” Sherlock said, reaching towards the box.
“Don’t touch that; it’s mine!”
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he managed to brush his fingers against the box before Gormal sprang into action, lunging across the table and knocking Sherlock onto the floor. Before he knew what he was doing, John’s wand was in his hand and he’d silently Stunned Gormal, leaving him facedown on the floor.
“Excellent reflexes, John.”
“Sherlock!” shouted Lestrade, kneeling beside the motionless Gormal. “What the hell are you on about?”
“Mr Gormal is more than welcome to order us to leave his flat,” said Sherlock, “but this is not Mr Ottoway Gormal.”
It was John’s turn to look baffled. “It’s twins, isn’t it?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s never twins, John.”
“Then what? And if you don’t tell me, it’ll be you in the cuffs,” Lestrade snapped. As he turned Gormal over, however, he nearly dropped him. “Merlin’s balls, really?”
“Yes, Lestrade, Polyjuice Potion,” said Sherlock proudly, pulling an empty glass tube with a poorly printed label out of his pocket. “Off-market, likely purchased from the Pret-a-Magie in Knockturn Alley. They cut costs by using poor-quality ingredients and it never lasts as long as a properly brewed version. Picked his pocket when we came in. Since it needed to last as long as possible but obviously couldn’t have been used on the Knight Bus, he had to have taken it immediately prior to summoning it. Based on the size, shape, and location of the candle drips on his robe, I knew he’d been on the bus for twenty-three minutes. Another two before we came inside, and John always takes three minutes, forty-two seconds to make tea. I knew your inane questioning was likely to take at least another five. Which meant that, given the average length of time that particular brand of Polyjuice lasts, I knew it was going to expire just about…now.”
Once he’d finished the unpleasant looking contortions that marked the wearing-off of a batch of Polyjuice, the man lying beside the table was...completely average. Straw-coloured hair, a nondescript face, but even then, there was something strangely familiar about him.
“Recognize him, John?” Sherlock asked. “He was in your Pensieve memory.”
It was the man he’d seen with Ottoway Gormal in the loo at Kelley & Dee. John shoved his wand back into his sleeve and tried to think of something clever to say.
“This is your man, Lestrade. And this,” Sherlock added, jumping to his feet and peering down at the box, “must be what he’s after. Don’t open it.”
Lestrade gestured to his officer, who put the handcuffs back on and hauled the man to his feet. “Rennervate.”
“I think I know him, boss,” the officer said. “Ain’t you one of Dung Fletcher’s mates? Busted you once for petty theft. Dodger or something, isn’t it?”
The thief glanced around, confused and unfocused. John sighed, reaching over to snatch Gormal’s now useless glasses off of his face.
“So what the hell’s a two knut thief doing murdering people?” Lestrade asked.
Dodger started struggling. “I’m just a thief, I’m not a murderer, I didn’t touch them!” After a moment, he muttered under his breath, “And the name’s Artie, dammit. Everyone remembers bloody Dung’s name.”
“No, Mr Dodger, you didn’t so much as point a wand at any of them, did you? You didn’t have to.” Sherlock said. “Your murderer, Lestrade, is not someone. It is something.”
Lestrade crossed his arms and stared at Sherlock. “I hope you’re going to explain yourself, Sherlock.”
“I’ll do you one better. Stand back and, whatever you do, do not look at the item in the box.” With that, he flung open the lid. “The Mirror of Narcissus.”
“The what?”
“Really, Lestrade. I know Professor Binns is a running joke at Hogwarts, but did you learn nothing in History of Magic? Narcissus was famous--or infamous--for being so vain that he stared at a reflection of himself until he wasted away.”
John seemed to remember there was a curse involved, but he already knew better than to interrupt Sherlock when he was on a roll.
“The Mirror of Narcissus, on the other hand, was crafted in the thirteenth century alongside its counterpart, the legendary Mirror of Erised. But unlike Erised, which shows the viewer what they most desire and thus enchants them, this little beauty simply drains the life from them directly. A literal memento mori. Now,” he went on, “since you didn’t know that particular legend, let me tell you a slightly more contemporary story. Imagine a man. He is a petty thief, no one of any particular importance--”
“Hey!” Dodger cried.
Sherlock ignored him. “There is a war on, and everything is in chaos. And in the aftermath of this war, a great many artefacts, Dark and otherwise, are suddenly floating around on the black market. And somehow this thief comes across one that is simultaneously very valuable and quite, quite deadly. I’ll assume you didn’t mean to kill, the first time. You’re a coward, not a murderer.”
Dodger didn’t argue that point. Instead, he said, rather sulkily, “Was just gonna steal it back, figured she couldn’t report buying something she weren’t supposed to have.”
“But instead she was dead, and your item was the culprit. You could have got rid of the mirror--turned it in to the authorities anonymously, destroyed it, hid it away somewhere safe--any number of things. But you didn’t. You decided to profit from it.”
“The auction catalogues,” John remembered.
“Each victim possessed at least one catalogue from Kelley & Dee, usually related to medieval magical ephemera. But, as I learned from observing their living arrangements and speaking to the neighbours, none of them had the means to actually participate in any of their auctions; they just aspired to own valuable artefacts despite the fact that they couldn’t afford them. So our friend Dodger here would corner them somewhere in the auction house and offer them a priceless item on the sly. No doubt that was what you interrupted when you saw him in the loo with the unfortunate Ottoway Gormal.” Sherlock began to pace back and forth. “A tidy little scheme--find some pathetic, covetous soul not likely to be missed, swear them to secrecy, then sell them the mirror for whatever Galleons they managed to scrape together. Wait for them to look at their purchase, then sneak into their homes before anyone realises they’re dead and steal back your mirror. Repeat as needed. And you needed more and more frequently, as time went on. By the end multiple witches and wizards must have been negotiating their own murders with you simultaneously. It’s a wonder you were able to keep all of your correspondence straight.”
“Why you little...” John said, fingers involuntarily clenching into fists.
Dodger tried to make himself look even smaller. “I’m in debt to some Goblins, okay? If I didn’t pay them the Galleons I owe they’d’ve cut off my thumbs or my nose or summat.”
“So you killed people instead?” demanded Lestrade.
“I wasn’t the one who killed them!”
“Technicalities,” Sherlock said, waving one hand dismissively. “You sold death to the unsuspecting and the greedy. I’m sure there’s a charge in the book that Magical Law Enforcement can throw at you.” As though that decided the point, he flipped the lid on the box shut with what John had to admit was a satisfying crack. “There, Lestrade. Satisfied?”
Lestrade nodded grudgingly. “Thank you, Sherlock. We’ll take it from here.”
“I hope you will. The exciting bit’s over.”
John narrowed his eyes at the box. “What are you going to do with the mirror?” There was, he was forced to admit, a small part of him that wanted to open it just to have a quick look. But that would be a very stupid idea. “The Mirror of Erised is still somewhere in Hogwarts, isn’t it?”
“Presumably,” said Sherlock. “Nobody’s seen it since the war.”
“As for this,” Lestrade told them, picking up the box gingerly, “we’ll be handing it over to Mysteries, who will hopefully keep it far away from the streets.”
“You may want to remind them not to look at it.” At Lestrade’s expression, Sherlock sighed. “I know people in Mysteries. Brains aren’t necessarily a qualification for the job.”
“Fine, Sherlock. I’ll remind them.”
“You’ll want to send an owl to St. Mungo’s too,” John added. “Now that we know what caused his coma maybe they can actually cure Gormal.”
As John watched them lead their culprit away from the flat, he found himself frowning. “How did you know it was the Mirror of Narcissus? You didn’t even look at it. Which, of course, ta, would kill you and all that, you absolutely should not under any circumstances look at it.”
“Professor von Eschenbach’s death confirmed that the victims were alone when they died. That meant the cause of death wasn’t a person but a thing. But not poison or any of the usual spells that would have been revealed by Priori Incantantem. The ivy on Hildegard Brown’s flat showed that it had been broken into, and the dust dispersion revealed that something had been removed after her death, most likely whatever had caused her death. The victims were another clue. Most murders occur because of love or money. Given the descriptions of the victims, clearly it was the latter here and not the former. They were all interested in rare artefacts, thus it must be an artefact of considerable age and historical significance.”
“That’s all well and good,” John said, trying not to sound as impressed as he was, “but there must be more than one Dark artefact that kills people who look at it, right?”
“The dust showed it was or fit into a rectangular object, roughly point six metres by point three. Victims were a mix of men and women, different ages, different sizes, thus likely not jewelry or something worn on the body. That narrowed it down considerably. All of the bodies were unmarked, and of course their grinning corpses were quite distinctive. That left a mere handful of possibilities. Gormal’s early discovery meant the killer hadn’t had time to get their murder weapon back, so I knew it was still here somewhere, and if Dodger was willing to enter the flat with us it couldn’t be immediately lethal. Once he was in here, he couldn’t take his eyes off the box. And once I saw that, I knew it had to be the mirror. There are faded markings on the box, but they aren’t so faded that I couldn’t read them. Lines about Narcissus from the Roman de la Rose, if you're curious. And of course the style itself was a dead giveaway. Clearly thirteenth-century construction.”
“Clearly,” echoed John. He supposed it was a consequence of being around Sherlock that he always felt as though he were sprinting to catch up. “What did they expect the mirror to do for them, do you think?”
“Fools have died of starvation in front of Erised simply because they can’t bear to stop looking at their deepest desires.”
“But all they’d have seen in the Mirror of Narcissus was themselves.”
“Themselves as they most wanted to be.”
“Hm. So what do you think you’d see then, Sherlock?”
“Well, I did always want to be a pirate.”
John laughed. “There’s an image I won’t forget. Eyepatch and all?”
“Wouldn’t be a proper pirate without one, right?” Sherlock shoved his hands in his robes and watched as the Aurors Disapparated with Dodger. “I always imagined I’d have an owl instead of a parrot. Irritating creatures, parrots.”
“This just keeps getting better,” said John. “Now I’m almost sorry we don’t have the mirror.”
“Don’t be. It would consume even the best of wizards.”
John almost started to explain that he was joking but shrugged instead. “But that’s just desire in general, isn’t it? Whether you’re talking about what you want most or who you want to be.”
“Or who you want,” added Sherlock. When John glanced in his direction, he was looking at the ground. “Although I suppose Erised might show you that. I’ve never seen it in person, and everyone’s always been cagey about the details.”
“That’s Hogwarts for you. Dangerous enchanted objects all over the place, but the only time you need to ask permission is to use the Restricted Section of the library or to visit Hogsmeade.” John grinned. “I did always wonder about that.”
“Maybe we should take a case there next,” suggested Sherlock. “You seem nostalgic.”
“I don’t think I’d recognise it now,” John said, half to himself. Even Hogwarts hadn’t survived the war, not properly. “But I wouldn’t mind a trip back if you’ve got something in mind.”
“Headmistress McGonagall mentioned something about a missing student and a Vanishing Cabinet,” Sherlock said as they started down the path toward the road. “Seems his parents have been making enquiries and are threatening to involve the authorities.”
“Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?”
“Certainly not,” Sherlock grinned. “As you’ve seen, the authorities aren’t equipped to handle much of anything.”
John smiled back. “Good thing they’ve got you, then.”
“Us, John.”
“Quite right.” And, with that, they Apparated back to Baker Street.
***
Junior Auror Ravenwood was the lucky one tasked with delivering the now carefully sealed box to the Department of Mysteries. “It’s always me, isn’t it?” she muttered to the two or three floating memos in the lift with her. She could have sworn one of them tilted slightly in her direction, but none of them had the courtesy to reply.
By the time the lift reached Level Nine, the memos had all flown to their destinations, leaving her on her own. And, just her luck, the Unspeakable on duty outside Mysteries was her least favourite, although if anyone asked her--which nobody ever did--they were all equally smarmy gits.
Unspeakable Belloq grinned at her. “Well, Miss Ravenwood, what sort of nonsense has Lestrade sent us this time? He must think we’re made of spare time to handle his petty trinkets.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance to handle this, Belloq,” she replied through gritted teeth. “And it’s Auror Ravenwood, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Give it here.”
Ravenwood sidestepped him easily. “Orders from Lestrade. I’m to hand it to Unspeakable Croaker directly.”
Belloq’s smile had vanished. “Unspeakable Croaker has far better things to do than--”
“Oh, he’ll want this. Now find him or send me to him or whatever seems best, but stop wasting my time and his, or I’ll have Chief Auror Lestrade report you to the Minister himself.”
She rarely pulled rank but it was so immensely satisfying when she did. Belloq sneered at her but pulled out his wand and muttered a spell all the same. A small silver weasel emerged from his wand and skittered off down the stairs to Level Ten. Ravenwood hid a smile; her own Patronus was a fox and far more dignified.
By the time she left Mysteries, the box had been handed off to Unspeakable Croaker and, on Lestrade’s strict orders, she’d reminded him not to open it under any circumstances. The Unspeakable had looked at her with eyes that made her shudder inwardly and nodded. “It would be a great fool indeed who looked into the Mirror of Narcissus,” he intoned in a voice that fitted his name. “Don’t worry, Auror. We’ll keep it safe.”
As she made her way toward the lift, she saw Belloq deep in conversation with a tall, ginger-haired wizard in impeccably tailored robes. They both glanced up as she passed, Belloq glaring daggers at her, and waited until she’d moved out of earshot before speaking again.
She couldn’t help but wonder what Operation Siegfried could be, and resolved to ask Lestrade the next time she saw him.
For now, however, this case was closed.