Standard Fanfic Disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: I am neither Inigo Montoya nor J. K. Rowling. You did not kill my father. I do not own Harry Potter. Nor, for that matter, am I the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Auntie Beeb. This is an amateur work of fiction, written merely to amuse the author and her friends, because my editor requested a Sherlock story. Based on characters and situations from the inimitable J. K. Rowling's fantasy septology and the BBC adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's mystery stories. Originally published in the fanzine Diamonds and Dynamite #2, from Agent with Style Press.

DI Potter

by Susan M. M.

Sherlock/Harry Potter

London, 2011

"Thanks, lads. I'll take it from here," DI Potter said. The plainclothes detective was a handsome man of medium height, with windswept black hair, green eyes, and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. He walked away from the other police officers back toward his car.

"Inspector Potter, a moment, please," Sherlock Holmes called out.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes, a tall, slender man with curly dark hair waited until Potter had walked closer to him and Watson. "What's your real title, Potter?"

"Excuse me?" Potter stared up at the consulting detective. He turned to Dr. John H. Watson, a fair-haired man about his height, but stockier and slightly older. He gave Watson a look that clearly said Is he off his meds? "Detective Inspector, Metropolitan Police. I'm not a member of the House of Lords."

"Holmes, what are you - " Watson began.

Holmes interrupted his friend. "You only show up when a case is ... unusual. Uncanny. You take over the investigation, take charge of any prisoners, and then disappear. Nothing is ever heard of the matter or the suspect again. Nothing ever turns up in court. And the other officers are conveniently vague as to what you said and did. And then the next time there's an ... odd case, you turn up again, the proverbial bad penny. You don't work for Scotland Yard. You don't work for MI 5. For whom do you work?"

"Holmes, I thought you were 'a high functioning sociopath,' not a paranoid schizophrenic," Watson scolded.

"Who are you, really?" Holmes demanded. "Or should the question be, what are you?"

"My title is Auror. I work for the DMLE - the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Potter snapped his arm, and his wand - holly, eleven inches, with a phoenix tailfeather core - leapt out of its holster into his waiting hand. "Obliviate!"

As Potter got into his car a moment later, he muttered, "Same question he asked last time."