Harry Potter, Sherlock The Vendor of Miracles

**Chapter One. ****Call me HJ**

"Would you like to see anything special, sir?"

A man in his thirties appeared almost out of nowhere, much to Mycroft's surprise. Not that he would have show his true emotions – that man definitely was brilliant in the art of hidden persona.

"Precisely," he looked at the owner of this _strange_ shop. Lots of jewels, old books, and peculiarly, armour standing on each side of numerous shelves as if some sort of guards. "I'm looking for a present, something unique, in fact."

Whoever the salesperson was, he knew how to satisfy the exquisite tastes of this particular guest.

"A woman?" he tilted his head, looking pointedly at Mycroft.

"Mother," it was quite easy to guess, in Holmes's opinion, even if he was wearing a ring, which was merely a symbol, nothing more. To his disappointment, most people were dull and unobservant to notice anything at all. Although the lack of attention was quite to his benefit due to the fact that Mycroft was an extremely influential official ("The British Government," as Sherlock once noted), still it incited the feeling of boredom and a sort of loneliness.

"An anniversary then," the salesperson gave himself a nod, staring at Mycroft for a while, and then smoothly moved to one of the shelves. His actions were frugal, precise and somehow self-assured, as if the man has been accustomed to taking decisions quickly, without any doubt or second thought.

"Military service?"

"A SIS division, to be exact."

"How long?" there was no doubt that the man knew about Mycroft and his occupation, which was understandable, considering the person's background. Yet Holmes had his own observations, it has never been useless to check up. "Fifteen?"

"Seventeen years in hotspots, as you might have already noticed, sir."

"On the front line, I suppose?" this man appealed to Mycroft in a certain way, perhaps it was his decisiveness and the inner bravery married with the odd veracity in every word of his that could suppress his boredom.

"Most of my life," the man nodded, finally taking a small old chest from the upper shelf, "here we are, at last. As far as it is an anniversary and you request something special and even unique, sir, look at this." He opened the chest, and a small medallion was taken out, much to Mycroft's interest. The medallion was antique, not just a piece of old-style fashioned jewellery. No, this beauty (and Mycroft admitted that with an internal sigh) was at least two-centuries old, yet in a perfect condition. It was made of white gold and enchased with little emeralds forming a quaint pattern covering the jewel.

Well, the word "special" was accurate in this case.

"Emerald is for artistic people; it calms them and simultaneously adds more self-confidence and inspiration to them. Good for women, as they used to adore the stone during all the time of humankind's existence – emeralds are considered to preserve the female's beauty, after all. Finally, it is just prestigious or posh, as they say, to wear such an old and expensive piece of jewellery for public." The salesperson seemed to be angry about his last statement as if it did hurt his feelings. No matter how strange it was for a former SIS-officer to manage an antiques shop, the man really seemed to like his job, being that vulnerable to others' lack of the general understanding of the matter. It reminded Mycroft of his personal attitude to his "colleagues".

"What an interesting engraving," Mycroft mumbled whilst observing the medallion. "_Toujours Juste_."

"It is from France," the man grinned at him.

"Obviously," Mycroft nearly rolled his eyes. In this small game between them, his opponent is likely to succeed in driving him out of his wits. "But why this?" Not that he was against such a formula.

"It suits you most, I suppose," the sales keeper said thoughtfully. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, apparently."

"An emerald violet engraved, how original. Is that on purpose too, mister –?"

"Call me HJ, sir, everyone calls me like that, or James at least, although I am not really fond of it," he snorted.

"Well, HJ," wasn't the man a bit imprudent to give his initials to a person like him, Mycroft wondered. However, this emerald violet, could HJ know his mother's name and how? There was no evidence of it, no way.

"Just a lucky guess, sir," HJ nodded calmly noticing disbelief and puzzlement on the client's face. "I'm fond of my inner voice; it proves to be right most of the time."

"Good for you, then. How much for the medallion?" the salesperson wrote it down on a sheet of paper. Well, no matter how high the price was, Mycroft already made his decision. The medallion was exquisite and charming, and gave some feeling of calm and warmth to him. Undoubtedly, if it could cause an effect on him, it will be priceless for Mummy given her recent state. However, the price appeared to be reasonable.

Mycroft was on his way out of the shop when he heard HJ's voice behind, "I was glad to get acquainted with you, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. It will be a pleasure to see you again."

The door closed, and when Mycroft turned to look at the shop, he saw nothing except for the wall of a neighbouring house.

"Well, that will be an enlightening encounter," Mycroft slightly smiled and walked to his "Bentley". It was about nine o'clock in the morning, and there were still the IAEA watchdogs and Iran with its nuclear problem rejecting any of them, and many other tasks to deal with.

{0_0}

"I'm not pleased to see you hear, Ronald, not today," Harry was sitting in his favourite rocking chair and sipping hot sugar-free tea when the door suddenly opened and a redheaded man rushed into the shop. "What are you here for?"

"Sorry, mate, but we really require your assistance for this. Otherwise, we will not be given any permission to investigate into these cases. There are too many mundanes involved and affected," Ron flopped down the stool and immediately stared at the armour by his side. "Are the - ?"

"An exact copy of the ones in Hogwarts, they can even sing Christmas hymns," Harry hemmed. "As far as you can see, I generally use them as a first defending line, since they are big and heavy enough to secure me and give me some time in case of an abrupt intrusion".

"Mad Eye would be proud of you, chap. You're still more an Auror than an Unspeakable."

"Which I don't mind at all, you know."

Ron sighed, "I still think that Kingsley was out of his mind when he appointed you the Head of the Department of Mysteries. Not that you're lacking skills or I doubt your credibility, but it was a tough deal to run the DMLE after your resignation."

"You are just unwilling to change anything, you should admit it. After all, isn't it good that now the two divisions can deal normally and cooperate efficiently? The Minister's idea did work well."

"Okay then, but anytime you feel that you miss your former occupation..." he said joyfully.

Harry smiled at that, "Surely, Ron, thanks for your support. So, as you rushed in place wearing the uniform and not notifying me in any other way beforehand, I'd probably say that the situation is urgent."

"Yes, and your precious Croaker completely ignores me."

"Really? Last time I thought he had a crash on you..."

"Potter!"

"Yep, mate, I know you're married, I just wonder if it really stops him."

Finished with his tea, Harry stood up and looked at the big painting behind his chair. "Morning, grandma, how do you do?"

It was common for Ron and any other person in the Wizarding world to talk to paintings, especially the ones of their relatives. However, rare people could derive benefit from it.

"Good morning, my darling. Mr. Weasley, what a pleasure to meet you again. I hope that everything is alright with your relatives?"

"Good morning, Lady Potter, they are fine, thank you."

Lady Dorea Potter nee Black gave him a nod and then turned to Harry. Both of them had black hair and aristocratic constitution, and refined manners, of course, and both of them definitely had famous Black's decisiveness and irascibility, as well as pride as self-esteem (as soon as Harry could cope with the consequences of being abused as a child).

"Well, my darling, where would you like to go this time?" Lady Potter was extremely curious (as well as her grandson), she did not bear gossiping – it was too despicable, even execrable in her opinion. What she loved was solving riddles, matching all the pieces of a puzzle, finding a key to a mystery. Yes, she shared more character traits with Harry than one could find at first sight.

"The Department of Mysteries, milady, I supposedly have some more paperwork to do."

"Haven't you charged your deputy-head with that?"

"Then he'd go on strike, I presume. May I come in now?"

"Of course, my dear", Lady Potter smiled, "And don't forget to give all details of the case you have. Enjoy yourselves, boys!"

"Did she go to Walburga?" asked Ron as soon as Dorea left her painting opening them a straight dark corridor instead of a common nicely painted landscape. A passageway to the Department, a magical door, which was created by the Potters for their personal use centuries ago and existed only in two exemplars. One was for Prime Minister and the Minister of Magic, the other… Well, it was Harry's personal with his grandmother willingly turned into the keeper of the painting.

"I'm afraid, yes. Poor Kreacher, I just hope they won't drive him mad with their bickering."

"Do you know how much I envy you?" Ron nudged his friend and literally stepped into the painting.

Harry just rolled his eyes and followed the man, "Aren't you in a hurry, mate?"

With this chattering they crossed the small passage and came out from a black square painting on the other side.

"Home, sweet home," Harry muttered as he saw his deputy-head walking into the office carrying numerous documents. "See, that's why I prefer to manage my shop, being hidden from all the mundane and magical radars."

"There's no profit in it, you know?"

"Wouldn't say so" Harry shrugged thinking of the customer he had few weeks ago.

"Eh, Harry, take off your disguises, I do not want to be the first DMLE Head shot in the DoM for the breach of privacy", as Harry noticed, Croaker was standing in front of them with the wand in his right hand and a gun pointed at Ron – in the left one.

"Constant vigilance, mate, nothing personal", Harry switched off the ring artefact and looked pointedly at Croaker. "Well done, John, and now I'm waiting for your explanations."

"M-m-morning, Mr. Potter sir, how can I help you?" as the tension between them all disappeared, Croaker felt quite relieved, yet worried about something.

"Why do I have to waste my time and come here in person to sign some damned papers for the DMLE instead of finishing some research for the Department, with other specialists in their expeditions to some sort of Neverlands?"

"Sir, I –"

"Sir, the Minister is asking for you and Mr. Weasley. Immediately," one of the Blacks appeared in the painting and then immediately went somewhere else.

"Bless Merlin, Morgana and all the gods you know, Croaker, for this, because the next time you don't cope with your responsibilities you'll be dismissed, don't dare to doubt it," Harry hissed activating the artefact and rushed out of the door.

"Here you are, Harry, Ron" Kingsley welcomed them two a in sort of Dumbledore's manner. At least, without "my boys" this time, thanks a lot for that. "Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to your future colleague within the Muggle's world, Mycroft Holmes. He is highly appreciated by the Queen and Prime Minister, so I hope you will cooperate and act co-ordinately in the most efficient way."

And there he was, a tall man with sharp-looking grey eyes, wearing a dark three-piece suit and carrying an umbrella in his hand. Harry swallowed, staring at him in recognition. It was he, Mycroft Holmes, the know-it-all man, the British Government himself.

Harry felt as if his fate fucked him over one more time, and there was no escaping it.

"Ronald Weasley, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and its official representative in British Ministry of Justice, how do you do," Ron smiled politely to the stranger.

Well, here they are…

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Holmes," everyone stared at the young man as he deactivated the artefact showing his usual self, "Harry Potter, the Head of the Department of Mysteries," he grinned and then continued, "but you'd better call me HJ as well as everyone does."

"An enlightening encounter, isn't it?" Harry thought.


End file.

Harry Potter, Sherlock, Adventure, Romance