Sherlock Holmes and the Ravenclaw Codex

Chapter Two: Phineas Nigellus Black

For all his ruthless practicality in daily life, Sherlock Holmes had a remarkable capacity to absorb himself in the music of the great composers. He could abandon himself completely to music, swimming in it with the ease of a seal in water as it washed away all the cares and scars of his work. This evening, however, something was clearly weighing heavily on his mind, and despite the brilliance of the soloists and the magic of Mozart's interweaving melodies, I heard him sigh and shift in his chair at moments where normally he would have been as a man entranced.

When we came out of the concert hall, night had already fallen across London. The rain and wind lashed and howled around us, the streets were deserted and we were most fortunate to secure ourselves a cab. Usually on night time cab-rides it was Holmes's habit to point out scenes of historical criminal enormities, of his own past triumphs, or even malefactors lurking reading to pounce on their next unfortunate victim, but this time he remained silent as we sped through the darkened streets, our vehicle throwing up great sheets of water in its wake.

We arrived at last at Baker Street and let ourselves in. As we divested ourselves of our dripping hats and coats, I saw my friend cast a sidelong glance at the umbrella stand in the hall.

"It is as I thought," he said to himself with a curious mixture of pique and relief, "the fellow has not been here in our absence. Nor will he come, I daresay - I cannot imagine that such a fine gentleman would sully himself by presenting himself in an establishment such as this - no, not even if a crime could be averted as a result!"

Muttering, he ascended the stairs in the direction of our chambers and the whisky decanter. We proceeded into the sitting room, and Holmes was about to throw himself into his accustomed chair when we realised that the reading lamp was lit and we were not alone.

A man was standing in the room. He wore a night-black cassock unrelieved by any ornament, not even the usual white of the clergyman's dog-collar at his throat, and a sumptuous velvet evening cloak, dry as Professor Weaselby's had been, was flung carelessly over the back of a chair. His dark hair, worn rather long for a man of the cloth, was still thick, but heavily streaked with grey around the ears, and with a pronounced widow's peak. A neatly clipped dark beard covered his lips and chin. He was pacing the length of our sitting room, tapping a short ivory stick against his thigh with impatience, and, judging by his sour expression and jerky movements, had been doing so for some little time. At the sound of our footsteps, he turned and came towards us.

"Mr Holmes," he said in a clipped, cultured voice utterly without warmth. "Here you are at last. I am not accustomed to be kept waiting."

"Indeed," said Holmes, in glacial tones that quite matched those of his visitor. "Nor am I accustomed to being waylaid in my own chambers by persons without an invitation. State your business here, if you would be so good. I am a busy man."

The dark man inclined his head. "Then dismiss your companion. I am Phineas Nigellus Black, headmaster of Hogwarts School, I have business to discuss with you - business that is for your ears alone."

Holmes bridled at that. "Out of the question," he snapped. "Doctor Watson here is my friend and confidant. His help has been invaluable to me in many trifling little problems such as yours. If Watson leaves this room then so do you - and incidentally, by dismissing him, you will have put yourself beyond my aid forever."

"Trifling little problems?" exclaimed our visitor. "I would not be here on any mission that was not of the first urgency! Trifling, you say? I say that we are dealing with the theft of a priceless heirloom from our school - possibly at the hands of a Muggle-born pupil - for if not he is not the thief, he is most assuredly the victim of kidnap (or possibly murder), for he has not been seen since the Ravenclaw Codex was taken. What do you say to that, Mr Holmes? Do you consider my problem to be trifling now?"

"No indeed," said Holmes, seating himself in his accustomed chair. "The case, I daresay, is commonplace enough - oh, do be seated, Watson, stop hovering, man, you are giving me a headache! - but in a situation such as this, where the miscarriage of justice is an ever present threat, it would be very wrong of me not to intervene. The good Doctor and I will accompany you to Hogwarts, and I shall do whatever lies in my power to find your pupil - and return your property to you as well, if the thing can be achieved. There is just one question, however, that I must have answered before I agree to depart."

"Name it," was the response.

"Your powers are great. With a mere word or gesture you can change the very fabric of the world, turning fable into fact and memories into the merest nothings. How is it, then, that you require the assistance of such a one as myself, a mortal man utterly without resources save for those which his own poor brain can provide?"

This question seemed to displease our visitor profoundly. "You know why we require your help, I think," he replied curtly.

"I must have it from your own lips, Headmaster, or else I must decline to accompany you. I repeat: Why do you require my assistance?"

"Oh very well, if you must have it," snapped the Headmaster. "Because we have tried to locate the culprit - and we have failed! We have been driven to ask your assistance as a last resort, in the hope that your skills with the criminals of your own world, will be able to unmask the villain where ours have failed. There, Mr Holmes, does that satisfy you?"

"Admirably," replied Holmes with an air of imperturbable calm.

"Then there remains only your transport to consider. I shall book two first-class tickets on tomorrow's Hogwarts Express. Please to be at King's Cross station tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp. Weaselby will see you to your seats. And now, gentlemen, I shall detain you no longer. Good night!"

With that, our visitor flung the heavy folds of his velvet cloak around his shoulders and swept off down the stairs without a backward glance. We heard the outer door slam, followed by a faint crack of thunder.

"Well!" said Holmes, rising once more to his feet, his assumed air of indolence falling from him in an instant once there was no one left to goad. "That's settled. Tomorrow we leave for Scotland! It only remains for us to get our things together. Be sure to pack your service revolver and your medical supplies - that is, of course," this in more hesitant tones, "if you wish to accompany me? It is likely to be an unsettling experience, and may be dangerous."

"My dear fellow," I said sincerely, "while I freely admit that I did not understand one word in three of your conversation with Mr Black, you have never led me wrong before. I would not miss it for the world!"