PotterLock Down (A Crossover Fanfiction)

Chapter 9: A Word With Peeves

Holmes sat in the large dining hall and tried not to stare at the floating candles or the roving ghosts that pervaded the dining hall. Instead, he fixated on the one thing that mattered most to his investigation:

Moriarty was here. There was no doubt that Moriarty had poisoned the Inquisitor and kidnapped Emory, but he had done those things so as to cast ultimate suspicion on Harry. These people didn't know Moriarty; hell, they didn't even know the first thing about conducting a thorough investigation. Sherlock placed his hands together, lost in thought. The emphasis on magic these people had would definitely pose an interesting variable; Moriarty had struck so keenly and with such force that there was little Sherlock could see that would reasonably point to an outside job and exonerate Harry.

"Didja miss me?"

Sherlock flinched as the cackling, high-pitched voice sounded in his ear, reminding him of that infernal day when Moriarty-or at the time they had assumed it to be a reasonable facsimile-had taken over all the video screens in London.

"Didja miss me? Didja miss me?"

Peeves the poltergeist was back, toturing Sherlock as if comissioned by the Dark Lord. He dive-bombed Serlock's head, and everywhere he looked, there was that pale, awkward face again. "Didja miss me? Didja miss me?"

"Enough!" Sherlock roared, attracting the attention of nearby teachers.

"Peeves," he said in a softer tone, "why don't you go bother someone else? Like someone in Slytherin for example. There," he designated the pale-blond boy known as Draco Malfoy. "Why don't you sneak over there, find out what they're talking about?"

"Why should I?" the irrepressible poltergeist retorted. "What makes you think I'd want to spy on people for you?"

Holmes dropped his voice even lower. "Because I am Harry Potter's last chance."

"POTTY-WEE POTTER?" Peeves shrieked in his face, then disappeared with a loud pop before anyone could confirm what he'd just said or why.

When Peeves did not return, everyone shrugged and returned to eating, but Sherlock happened to glance over to the wall behind Draco's head, and see the curtains waver ever so slightly, as if a small, round body tried to conceal itself in them.

Later that evening, as Holmes was headed to the small apartment the staff had provided for him, he happened upon an old man with lanky gray hair and a mongrel of a cat. He leered at Sherlock in the dim light of his lantern.
"Curfew," he muttered. "No one should be wandrin' these 'alls."

Sherlock stiffened. "I am Inspector Sherlock Holmes, of—"

"I know who y'say y'are," The man rasped, "but there's many folk who say they are one thing but they ain't." He stepped closer and leered at Holmes, "And old Filch can smell a fraud a mile away."

The name sparked a memory in Sherlock's mind... Harry talking to him on the train... "There's the old caretaker, Filch; he's a Squib, so he can't do magic..."

"You think I'm lying?" Sherlock challenged, a smile playing about his mouth. "Try me! The Veritas spell should do the trick. Go ahead."

Filch scowled, "That's not a real spell!"

"And how would you know?" Sherlock shot back, hardly allowing himself to think before he reacted with all the bluster of a Ministry official. "You're only a Squib... A Squib who has no purpose here but to spy and blackmail."

The glare vanished and surprise took its place at the glaring accusation.
"You've got no right-"

"Oh haven't I?" Sherlock forged ahead, noting the way Filch's eyes shifted to his feet and to the corners, while the cat paced around Sherlock's ankles. "That's a very singular animal," Sherlock prodded the tabby with his toe. "What's her name?"