Case of the Cintimani Stone: A Hammer Mystery

Chapter 1

"-because of that, the West Yorkshire Police Service were widely criticised for their handling of the reports in the ripper case." The television was playing a recorded news report off a Betamax player. It was an old, grisly murder case and was the perfect case study for cultural impact.

"See, Harry? This is why you've always got to have your evidence in order and ready to analyze. I was just getting into my patrol work at the Met back then, but you couldn't help but hear of it." Grant Mason placed a hand on his son's head and ruffled his already messy hair.

Harry struggled to continue taking notes under his adoptive father's hand, underlining his script to emphasize the necessity of organisation.

"Grant, Harry, dinner's ready!" Petunia Mason (née Evans) called from downstairs.

"Your mother called, aren't you going to answer?" Harry pouted a response down at his notes as he continued to scribble.

"'Tunia, sweetheart, I think he wants you to call him by his nickname!" Grant called back down, standing up from the carpeted floor next to his son.

"Hammer! Come down to dinner before it gets cold!"

Harry perked up instantly, bottle green eyes flitting up to see that his father was still in the room with him. The man had a broad smile on his face, five o'clock shadow broken up by the glow of its half moon.

"It's not funny, dad! I like that nickname." They left the home office together.

Petunia welcomed her husband back downstairs with a peck on the cheek before placing both hands on Harry's shoulders and urging him to go wash up before sitting down to eat.

Dinner was a lovely little affair, lively talk about what Harry was looking forward to now that he was done with primary school. Aside from wanting to learn more about how to get into the Met like his dad, Harry didn't care which schools he went to. What he did care about, however, was that his 11th birthday was fast approaching.

"Dad, since I was going to be 11 soon..." Harry trailed off.

"Yes, Harry, what is it?"

"I was wondering if you could take me to the Crime Museum at the Yard." Harry let go of his silverware and immediately followed his statement with wild gesticulations, knowing there would be resistance, "I know it's normally only open to police officers and detectives," He said the last word with an emphasis of reverence for his father's work, "but I was wondering if you could bring me there as a special guest! You could tell them all about how I want to be a police detective when I grow up! Or even how we go over old public case files and you've been teaching me all about the method!"

Grant burst out laughing, not malicious laughter but the kind of fatherly amusement that comes from having your child spill out something completely unexpected.

"I'm glad you already know the rules. I'm not sure that I'll be able to get you in, but I'll ask... if your mother says it'll be alright."

Petunia sighed, brushing a lock of perfectly coiffed blonde hair behind her ear, "I just worry, Harry. You're too young to be chasing monsters. Why can't you be a little more..."

"Normal, mum? But this is normal. I want to be a Detective when I grow up!" As far as she could tell, this wasn't just a phase. He had caught a Bogart film on TV once and hadn't let up since. The neighbor, Mrs. Figg had even paid him when he went out of his way to track down her missing cat.

She acquiesced, "Fine, I suppose boys will be boys. But finish your vegetables or else your father won't even entertain the thought."

Harry made a face before beginning to make progress into the peas.

After dinner, Harry went back up to his room - a comfortable space where the walls were lined with the greats: a few movie posters for The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, and Tokyo Joe - he was a fan of Bogart, so sue him - and dominating one of the walls was his case analysis of his own history. Before his aunt Petunia and her husband Grant had taken him in he had been just Harry James Potter, but now he was Harry James Potter-Mason and had more than one big mystery to solve in his life.

Harry took a child sized fedora off the rack next to his door and put it on, pinching the rim and adjusting it after sitting down in his chair, swivelling to look at the wall. In the center was a photo of his birth parents Petunia had given him - James and Lily Potter, a happy young couple captured in a moment that seemed like it wanted to come to life. Out from there it was traced by lines of red yarn held up by push pins, colour coded between his father and mother, the only major pieces being their separate obituaries documenting a mysterious house fire. For all of his ten and nine-tenths years on Earth, Harry didn't believe it. He had spent more time than he cared to recall in various libraries trying to find out more, but in the end the mundanity of bad luck still bothered him.

The sound of hard knocking on the glass like gunfire startled him out of his chair, knocking him to the floor. There was something pecking at his window. He lifted the fedora up and saw from his position on the ground that an owl had landed on the sill and was pecking at the glass to call his attention.

"What the -?" Harry stood up and walked over to the window, waving his hands in a shooing motion. The owl stayed and knocked on his window again twice, rather politely. At a loss for what to do, Harry unlocked it and slid the window open a crack. The owl hooted something he took as frustration before sliding a letter through the opening. It was an envelope made of old fashioned parchment, addressed to "Harry James Potter-Mason" and the correct address of his home in London. With shaking hands, he picked up the envelope and turned it over to reveal a wax seal for somewhere he had never heard of.

"Mum! Dad!"