October 1986

Hermione Granger grew up questioning everything except the rules.

It was what her parents instilled in her, to be able to understand the concept between what is right and what is wrong. What is morally acceptable and what is not. What the world would be like if people lived according to their whims. Darling, her mother would always say, the rules are made to limit us the way we need to be limited.

I don't understand, Hermione would reply, looking at her mother with those wide intelligent eyes. Mrs. Granger smiled patiently. Soon enough, you will. She knew her daughter better than anyone, had looked into those very same eyes the moment it first saw the world, and knew with an absolute certainty that her daughter was special. Indeed, when Hermione finally learned to speak sooner than expected, what she first uttered was a question. One night, when Hermione wouldn't stop asking questions, her father scolded her that it was already time for bed, she can ask more questions tomorrow — it was then that Hermione had her first tantrum.

She screamed and yelled and cried. Little chubby hands turning into fists and when she saw her mother running up the stairs frantically to see what the commotion was all about, Hermione looked at her with a fervent gaze not meant to be held by a child. "Someday, when I'm big enough, I'll make the world sunny all day! I'll take the stars out of the sky, so that I'll never have to sleep again!"

If other adults heard this aside from her parents, they would've laughed, thinking it was just another ridiculous nonsense any child could come up with. Yet the moment Mrs. Granger embraced her child to calm her down, she felt the tingling warmth of her child's tiny body, of the way she was shivering with the conviction of her words, and then Mrs. Granger remembered that gaze: as if Hermione would burn the world to ashes if it did not listen to her.

The next morning, Mrs. Granger started implementing rules. She crouched down in front of Hermione, and spoke to her like an adult. "Darling, first rule that you must always remember: the night is made so people could rest. Absolutely no one has the right to deprive people of rest. Let me ask you, if I don't let you sleep, what would happen?"

"I would get very tired" Hermione said softly, eyes wide. "Like the time I snuck downstairs to watch those animals on the telly, my eyes were very heavy and the next morning I felt very weak."

Mrs. Granger did not comment on the confession and said simply. "Good. This is what you have to reflect on for the week."

Hermione nodded her head, and because she would believe anything her mother would say, she listened. Every since then, Hermione questioned everything except the rules.

When it was finally that time to go to school, and she has met other kids her age, she had quickly discovered that no one was quite like her. They noticed it too, for the bullying started shortly afterwards. They called her all sorts of things. Odd. Misfit. Freak. At first, Hermione felt so hurt by their words and had often times found herself crying alone in a corner. She couldn't understand why someone could be so mean. Then the anger came and she wanted to do mean things too, just to make them feel what she felt. But her mother's words came into her mind:

The second rule Hermione, is one that you must always abide by: never hurt others just because you can.

But what if they hurt me first?, she had asked.

You are better than them. You are brilliant, and kind, and it is your responsibility to remain that way.

Even as a child, Hermione had instinctual pride in doing what others can't, and so she did everything she could to take her mother's words into her heart until finally, it felt right. The bullying never ceased, but she dealt with it and eventually accepted it as normal. Instead, she spent all of her energy in being the best in school, because even if they called her odd, or misfit, or freak, it didn't change the fact that she was better than all of them combined.

Even if it was lonely, even if she felt like she was the only one in the world, it was alright. She was better. She was kind. That's all that matters.

Sherlock came unexpectedly into her life afterwards anyway, and she realized she was not alone after all.

It made all the difference, and she's been happy ever since. This time though, something was different.

Hermione sat there on the floor, in one of the most deserted aisles of the library, form slumped and hugging her knees, burying her face in them. She wasn't reading that much was obvious, instead her shoulders were shaking and faint sobs echoed throughout the hall.

There was something about the sight that made Sherlock Holmes take a step back. He felt as if his chest was suddenly tight, and it was only days later when he realized he was angry. Angry that someone made her cry. At that moment though, he acted on instinct and hurriedly went over, kneeling besides her.

"What's wrong?" he inquired, pale blue eyes filled with worry.

She immediately stopped sobbing when she realized he was there, and quickly wiped her tears away. "Nothing."

"No," he scowled. "You were crying"

"I just got into an argument with mum that's all" she smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Thanks but I'm fine Sherlock"

"Was it the bullies?" He insisted.

"No, you know I don't care about them"

"Who was it?"

"I told you it's nothing"

Sherlock sighed. "Hermione, I'd believe you but..." he paused to give her a look. "even you don't look convinced it's nothing."

As she saw no point in denying it this time, he was so observant like that, she let the tears out again and continued to cry out her hurt. "I-I know" she stuttered while sobbing. "But I won't tell you. You might retaliate, and it's not a good thing to do."

"Why do you keep on prattling about 'good things to do'," he glared at her. "Anyway, who was it and what did they say this time?"

"N-not going to tell you" she glared back. Although she felt way better than before. She was not alone, she reminded herself. She could handle bullies, she could, because Sherlock was here.

Yet the encounter flashed before her eyes without meaning to, and she saw that boy again, who towered over her, with eyes so similar to Sherlock but at the same not at all. Sherlock's gaze was never that cold, that cruel.

Even his words were filled with malice. "So you're the one Sherlock keeps prattling on about" he eyed her, from head to toe, and scowled in disgust. "I don't understand why he'd befriend something so. . . insignificant"

Hermione lifter her chin defiantly, eyes wild. "So you're the brother he always mentions. I also don't understand why he looks up to you so much."

"Does he now?" Mycroft stepped forward calmly, and Hermione was forced to take a step back. "That's good. I only want what's best for him after all."

"No you don't"

"Oh? and who are you to tell me that? You are nothing and insignificant. You bring no value to our life whatsoever," Hermione's lips trembled at this and Mycroft smiled sweetly at her obviously discomfort. "Stay away from my brother."

"Why should I?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, before turning away to leave her behind. He paused after a few steps, and added as if an afterthought. "If you don't, I'll eventually convince Sherlock that you're not worth his attention."

His words resonated loudly into her mind, and she was gripped with an overwhelming fear of being not good enough, not worthy, until she couldn't take it anymore and burst out crying.

Sherlock snapped her out of her thoughts. "Tell me."

She ignored him, and instead gripped his arms tight. "Promise me Sherlock, promise me you'll always be my friend."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just promise me please?"

At that moment, he would do anything to stop her tears. A promise was nothing. "Fine."

"Say it"

"I promise." he muttered, and meant it sincerely.

Presently

"Connie Prince. 48. Had one of those make-over shows on the telly." Greg Lestrade informed the group currently on St. Bart's morgue, looking at the half-covered corpse of a burly woman. Sally Donovan followed closely behind, carrying a plain brown folder, which she handed over to Lestrade.

Lestrade looks at the file and is amazed by the figures, not noticing the woman who was also looking at the file besides him. "Very popular. She was going places."

"I'm impressed you're still tagging along with this freak" Donovan couldn't help but comments snidely at John, pointing at Sherlock, who was already focused on examining the body. It was her normal behaviour whenever Sherlock was involved and so no one paid her any mind but Hermione Granger, however, was not impressed at all.

Grabbing the file from a stunned Lestrade who just noticed her presence, she raised her brow while skimming through the pages. "Were you the one who made this profile report?"

Donovan answers hesitantly, seemingly noticing her for the first time as well. "Yes?"

"Well, it's not very good, is it?" Hermione replied bluntly and the others visibly choke in surprise. Even Sherlock looked up briefly. "Where's Connie Prince's background? Family history? Other important data?" she gave the other woman a pitying look, "Are you sure you work at the police?"

Donovan's face turned into an unpleasant shade of red. "W-who the hell are you?"

"I'm Hermione Granger" Hermione answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, stretching out a hand, before frowning in confusion. "and you. . .are?"

For some reasons, this only made the other woman even angrier, and Hermione inwardly smirked. If there was any word that she was not fond of, it was the word freak. With one addressed to Sherlock, Donovan was lucky she had good restraint. Hermione would've silenced her on the spot otherwise.

The insult was also said in a wrong time, as her heart have been thumping wildly, about to burst from what Sherlock had said earlier at breakfast. For a split second, he remembered something about her that only Sherlock would comment on, of all people. He remembered! Hermione was ecstatic. In that moment she felt as if she could do anything. No matter that he didn't even recall remembering it afterwards. It was enough. It gave her hope, and after fifteen years of helplessness, it was the hope that she needed. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance after all. . .

"Who's the addition to the freak team?" Donovan practically spat angrily towards Lestrade. "Why are you allowing one more unqualified person to mess with our business? Are the two of them not enough?"

"Look, I didn't even notice she was here!" Lestrade put his hands up defensively. "Sherlock, just who is this?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and answered the question herself. "I'm Sherlock's outside eye. An indispensable ally. If you kick me out, then Sherlock won't work on your cases anymore."

She said this with absolute confidence and certainty that everyone was silent for a while. The two officers, despite their own individual concerns, knew that they needed Sherlock to the extreme, and was suddenly wary.

Sherlock chuckled, breaking the silence. "So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden" he proceeded to state the facts the usual way, but with a smirk he looked at Hermione. "Although something's wrong with this picture . . .if my so called 'outside eye' would be so kind as to tell me her opinions?"

Hermione grinned, elated. "Murdered. Definitely murdered."

Someone muttered, bloody hell. It was probably John.

"Murdered?" If anything, Sherlock's grin was more frightening than Hermione's. "How can you say so? This is a nasty wound," he points at the deep cut on the hand, in the middle of the thumb and index finger, "Made the tetanus bacteria enter the bloodstream, then good night Vienna."

"Suppose." This time it was John who spoke. "Hermione has a point though. I mean, when was it not a murder?"

Everyone can at least agree to that, one way or another. Sherlock exclaimed dramatically. "Exactly! Today must be my lucky day. I don't feel like I'm surrounded by idiots as usual"

"So...what's wrong with this picture exactly?" Lestrade asked, ignoring his sarcasm.

"All of this can't be as simple as it seems or the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it." Sherlock gets out a magnifying lens and quickly examines scratches found in the woman's arms. Then suddenly he moves up to Connie's face and passes the lens over her forehead. "John. That cut on her hand. Would have bled a lot, wouldn't it?"

"Yes."

"But the wound is clean. Very clean. And fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Um - eight...ten days." John mused, before widening his eyes in revelation. "The cut was made later?"

Lestrade asked, "After she was dead?"

"Has to have been," Sherlock looked at the body again. "So, question is, how did the tetanus get into the dead woman's system?" At this point he turned to John. "You want to help, right?"

"Of course."

"Connie Prince's background. Everything. Give me data."

Hermione sighed loudly at this, looking pointedly at Donovan. "If only someone did her job right." Before the other woman could retort angrily again, Hermione grabbed John's arm and left the room in a merry step. "Let's go, doctor. Adventure awaits!"

Left behind, Lestrade gave Sherlock a look, genuinely curious. "Honestly, where did you even find her?"

Sherlock shook his head, a complicated expression on his face. "It's the other way around."

When John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes, he thought he had already met the most interesting person in the planet, and that was it.

Looking at Hermione Granger now - running besides him as they were chased out of the large mansion looming behind them by a very angry brother of Connie Prince - laughing loudly as if this was the most entertaining thing she's ever experienced, John was starting to think that it was not the case. The man who was as burly as his sister finally gave up on his chase, and both of them immediately went to sit down on the nearest bench, catching their breaths. "That was fun," Hermione commented.

"Why'd you have to flash the camera so close to his face though," John panted, and chuckled at the memory of the said encounter. "You even asked him straight in the face if he murdered his sister. Who wouldn't get mad at that!"

Hermione laughed. "I know. I know. I was just trying to get a reaction and I got what I needed," she paused, wiping the sweat on her brows. "He didn't murder his sister that's for sure."

"Unbelievable." John muttered. "What do we do now?"

"We wait for Sherlock"

And so the two of them waited on that bench in comfortable silence, until Hermione spoke. "John, you don't mind do you?"

"Mind what?"

"Me tagging along." she smiled wistfully. "I know that you and Sherlock are a team, and I just came out of nowhere and now I'm here butting into your lives—"

John cut her off, thinking she was being ridiculous. "Why would I mind? Things are going to be more fun with you here. Definitely more bearable, not to deal with Sherlock's nonsense alone. My only concern is that, don't you have work?"

"This. . .is kind of part of my work." Hermione admitted vaguely, but she looked very much relieved to hear John's words. She smiled softly and added. "You're a very good person John. I'm glad Sherlock has you."

"Uh, thanks?" He answered hesitantly. John found this strange, found her strange, and so he took this opportunity and observed her again, upon closer look. She always had this penetrating gaze which sheds light on her sharp intellect and strong character. However, what intrigued John was the way she was sometimes so similar to Sherlock, but at the same time not. He couldn't exactly explain why, and he's always been the type not to overthink things and judge people's characters too much - as long as that person was good, or mostly good in Sherlock's case, he was good with it too.

Then at the far distance, Sherlock's form came into view, and when he got near them he immediately asked. "Did you get everything?"

"Yes."

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

Sherlock finished typing on his computer and leaned back, steepling his fingers. Lestrade, John and Hermione were waiting behind him. A moment later the pink iPhone rings, and Sherlock immediately grabs it. "Hello?"

"...help me..." the old lady on the other side of the phone sobbed harder now, having been under extreme terror for hours.

"Tell us where you are - address!"

"...he was so...his voice...he sounded so..."

"No! Tell me nothing about him! Nothing!"

"...he sounded so soft..."

And the phone goes dead in Sherlock's ear. He freezes. "Hello? Hello?"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked worriedly, followed by John's nervous, "What's happened?"

Hermione on the other hand looked grim.

.

.

.

Back on 221B Baker Street, three pairs of eyes were focused intently on the telly, a news report showing a stock footage of a devastated building while disaster teams was working on it. On the strap line, 12 dead in gas explosion, was written in black and bold letters. Sherlock had an annoyed look, John was grimly watching, while Hermione was contemplative.

Sherlock, a little angrily, grabs the remote and turns down the telly. "Well I suppose I lost that round. Though technically I did solve the case so. . ."

"What the hell does that matter?" John stood up from his chair in disbelief. "People are dying!"

Sherlock ignored him and instead muttered. "He killed the old woman because she was starting to describe him. Not 'them', John. Him. Just for once, he's put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, usually he must stay above it all. He arranges these things but no-one ever has direct contact..."

John replied sarcastically. "What? Like Connie Prince's murder? He arranged that? People come to him to get their crimes fixed up? Like booking a holiday?"

"It's novel." Sherlock half whispered in respect, his fingers drumming on the pink Iphone on the table next to him. "Taking his time, this time."

The cold-bloodedness of Sherlock's attitude gets to John, but he inhaled sharply, trying to get past it. "Anything from the Carl Powers lead?"

"Nothing. All his living class mates check out. Spotless. No connection."

"Maybe he was older than Carl."

"The thought had occurred."

"So why is he doing this? Playing this game with you? You think he wants to be caught?"

"I think he wants to be distracted." Sherlock cradles the phone now, eyes are shining.

But this sets off John, finally having enough of his attitude. He stood up angrily, restless, and all of a sudden he wanted to be as far away from Sherlock as possible. He spat. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

Sherlock finally looks up to him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake. Actual, human lives. I just want to know, do you care about that at all?"

"Would caring help save them?"

"No." John gritted his teeth, on the verge of punching Sherlock straight to the face.

"Then I'll continue to avoid the mistake."

"Find that easy, do you?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Very. Is that news to you?"

"No. No." John didn't want to look at him. And so he'd gone to the window, staring out, until he saw the pot of Forget Me Not flowers that Sherlock never failed to tend to every morning. This somewhat calms him down.

Sherlock spoke softly behind him. "You're disappointed in me."

John gave a sardonic laugh. "Oh, good. Good deduction."

"Don't make heroes out of people, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." Sherlock replies with a frown, sounding a tiny bit defensive.

The whole time Hermione was silent, letting the two of them argue on themselves, but there was something about Sherlock's statement and the almost undetectable trace of hurt that laced his tone - something that she recognized only because she grew up knowing every little thing about him - that made her heart clench. She called him out, "Sherlock."

He turned to look at her, remembering that she was still in the room, and gave her that calculating gaze again, as if still trying to figure her out. "What?"

Hermione didn't answer, and instead stared at him, willing her gaze to convey what she couldn't yet with words. You are a hero, she thought as memories upon memories came flashing before her eyes. You saved me.

The look he was giving her was as intense as hers, and for a split second, Hermione thought there was something akin to understanding in those pale blue orbs. However, it was gone as fast as it came, as the pink Iphone chimed loudly in the room.

Sherlock is instantly all action, forgetting their unusual staring contest. "Excellent!"

"Dead about twenty four hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"

"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

"Yes. I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth..."

"And there are more bruises...here and here..."

"He's been in the river a while which has destroyed most of the data..." Sherlock told the group currently on the Thames. It was a bit chillier this morning, while the birds were squawking louder than usual, and the river itself was as still as the body Sherlock was currently inspecting, laying there dead and flat on the ground. His phone beeps, and suddenly he smiles. "But I'll tell you one thing. That lost Vermeer painting is a fake!"

Lestrade made the customary confused look at Sherlock's sudden exclamation. "What?"

" - we need to identify the corpse. Find out who his friends and associates are –"

"Wait, wait! What painting? What're you on about?"

Sherlock looked at him disappointedly. "It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master. It was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago and
now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."

"Ok. So...What's that got to do with the stiff?"

"Everything." Sherlock smiled excitedly. "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" this time it was Hermione who asked, quite curious.

John added, hiding his hands on his pockets unconsciously in response to the chill air. "It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?"

"Jewish folk-story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. Real name Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world." Sherlock rambled and gestured at the corpse. "That's his trademark style."

"This was a hit?"

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the breath out of his victims with his bare hands."

"What's this got to do with that painting? I don't see –" Lestrade helplessly waved his hand around.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, aggravated. "You do see. You just don't observe."

"All right, girls. Keep calm." John sighed in exasperation, sounding like a mother scolding her children and Hermione laugh out loud, finding it funny. The sound was such a contrast to the morbid scene around her, ringing throughout the still silence of the Thames and the others looked at her strangely, making her sheepish. She muttered a quick apology.

John continued. "Sherlock? Wanna take us through it?"

Sherlock does.

.

.

.

Hermione Granger, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson were currently inside a taxi, both men were seated beside each other, while Hermione was facing them on the opposite seat. The taxi pulls over, and John was about to get off but Sherlock stopped him. "No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will get you the address."

"Oh. Ok." John answered simply, before looking at Hermione. "You coming?"

"No. She's with me this time." Hermione raises her brow at this; Sherlock noticed before slamming the cab door shut and tells the driver to heads towards the Hickman gallery. He takes this moment of time alone to observe the woman in front of her upon closer look. She had that damnable gaze of familiarity again, and she looked at him straight in the eyes as usual, never shying away.

"Like what you see?" Hermione smirked.

He scoffed. "Just casually observing."

"Be my guess," she gestured languidly to herself.

She wore practical clothes again today. A plain black jumper with a white blouse underneath. Clean and well ironed khaki pants. Hair tied into a low bun. Nothing unusual. Her coat was hung comfortably in one of her arms, unworn. Sherlock comments on this. "Not cold?"

"Obviously," she smirked again, trying to imitate his tone, mocking him. For some reasons this made Sherlock smile in amusement.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, tagging along with us."

"I am."

"John mentioned this is part of your work? Your. . .research?"

"Sort of."

Sherlock's mouth twitched at the short answers. Nonetheless he kept on asking, and this time he was genuinely curious. "How do you find all of this? These. . .cases."

"Pitying." she answered immediately, and Sherlock was somewhat disappointed, thinking all she ever saw was the lives at stake, like most people. Yet she added, "To think that someone could be so bored to this extent. Playing with people's lives. Playing with you. It's foolish. I pity him."

"Oh?" Sherlock was intrigued and very much so. He squinted his eyes, steepling his fingers. No one has ever described this situation that way. Even him, because he found all of this exciting, novel, elegant. Not pitying, no. It never came to mind.

She looked out the window, seemingly melancholic. "He must've been alone all his life. He must've felt at some point that the world was against him, and so he turned himself against the world."

Sherlock was suddenly quiet at this. He couldn't, for the life of him, think of anything articulate to say. Her words resonated within him, in ways he couldn't explain. She sounded so sad, as if she understood, and to an extent Sherlock also felt that he understood, and then his heart ached, and suddenly he felt pity.

He couldn't dwell more on the feeling however, because the taxi pulled over in that moment, and they arrived at the Hitman Gallery.

.

.

.

Hermione, Sherlock, and John met up again after their respective tasks, and Sherlock brought them to an unpleasant part of town. The exterior of a grim section of a bridge arches, and the three of them walked side by side in silence. The road was damp, the air had this faint smell of something rotten, and the air was bitingly cold. A Chinese youth is spraying tags on the brickwork. He spots the three of them and scurries off into the night.

Sherlock looks up at the clear night sky. It's absolutely packed with stars, and so he commented. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"I thought you didn't care about things like that." John replied with a smile.

"I can still appreciate them."

They walked deeper into wherever was Sherlock was taking them and after a while John broke the silence. "Listen, Alex Woodbridge's flat was broken into. And someone left him a message. A Professor Cairns –"

"This way." Sherlock only muttered as he leads the way into the arches. The place was very sinister. Something vaguely resembling human shapes were found under sleeping bags and cardboard boxes, scattered among where the place was dry.

"Any time you want to explain –" John broke the silence again.

Sherlock finally answers. "Homeless network. Really is indispensable."

"Like me?" Hermione joked offhandedly, but everyone could see that her body was rigid, high on alert.

Sherlock chuckles at this but John asked again. "Homeless network?"

"Yeah. My eyes and ears. All over the city."

"Brilliant," Hermione comments.

"Of course."

The next few moments after this somewhat friendly conversation, happened in quick succeeding blurs. Suddenly, there was a giant shadow of a giant man, running as far away from them, escaping. Suddenly, Sherlock shouts loudly catch him! And suddenly, the three of them found themselves - panting and out of breath - in the middle of a vast planetarium basked in darkness. Then a calm, reassuring voice echoes out, booming loudly into the entire place, making their ears ring. "Jupiter! The fifth planet in our solar system. And the largest. Jupiter is a gas giant. Planet Earth would fit into it eleven times..."

Jupiter appears, projected onto the ceiling. Bathed in its light is an elderly woman in a track-suit, operating a control console. Professor Cairns comments in a bored tone. "Yes. We know all that."

The recorded voice squeals as she fast-forwards it. Images of planets and stars blur over her face as she does so, and then she played it normally again. The loud voice resumed. "Titan is the largest moon –"
Professor Cairns fast forwarded the video again, impatient. "Come on, Neptune. Where are you hiding?"

There was a sudden chill in the air and the hairs on her arm stood up. She suddenly stops, stiffens. "Hello?"

". . .Discovered by Urbain le Verrier in 1846 –" She stops the tape. Peers about. Her face is blue with the image of Neptune. "Tom? Is that you?"

"Tom?"

It's not Tom. A huge shadow falls across Professor Cairns' face. She gasps in terror as an immense hand closes over her face, swamping her nose and mouth. She staggers back against the console, accidentally playing the video fast in a very dizzying manner.

"A star begins as a collapsing ball of material composed mainly of hydrogen..."

"Golem!" Sherlock yelled amidst the noise and the three of them were revealed, bathed in star-light. The Golem turns and what Hermione sees made her want to desperately grip her wand in her hands, but she couldn't do that, not with John and Sherlock around. A nightmare face. A living skeleton. There was simply no other word to describe what she saw. The Golem had a milk-white, bald head and a deep-set eyes, giving him a vampire's look. His skin is shriveled, dry as parchment. He grins, exposing yellow teeth.

John raises his gun, and slid Hermione to his back, covering her.

". . .It is astonishing to think that many of the stars in the night sky are no longer actually there. . ."

The Golem lets go of Professor Cairns and she slides to the floor, dead. The giant man giggles and darts into the shadows. His laughter echoes through the chilly building, making Hermione even more agitated. It has been so long after all, since she found herself in a dangerous situation, but she was ready. She had faced countless encounters more terrifying than this. Saw actual, real life giants larger than this man. Saw a face more horrible – Voldemort's visage. She was ready, but she couldn't help the agitation she felt, because this time she had John and Sherlock to consider, and so she had to have the perfect timing to use her magic.

". . .Their light takes so long to reach us that many are actually long dead. Exploded into supernovas..."

"John!" Sherlock shouts again, in signal. Immediately John runs to cut off the Golem, before looking back at Hermione in concern. "Stay there!"

"Don't worry about her! She's a soldier remember, she can take care of herself. Focus!" Sherlock admonished, before running himself. There are rows and rows of seats in the planetarium. He knocks them up as he runs and they bang like pistol shots. In the flickering projected light it's almost impossible to see where the Golem has gone.

" . . . The Crab Nebula exploded in 1054..."

Hermione saw Sherlock as he races down one aisle. When he saw no sign of the Golem, he stops dead, listening. He and John were already far away enough already that Hermione finally took out her wand with a flick of her wrist. She gripped it at tight as she could, her whole body still as she waited for the right moment.

Suddenly the projection changes and the Golem is revealed, right behind Sherlock. Hermione's heart almost lurched out of her chest, but she held herself back. Not yet.

The Golem's enormous hands close over Sherlock's face like the petals of a monstrous flower. Sherlock was desperately gasping for breath and tries to get his hand
under the Golem's fingers to pull them away from his flesh, but it's no good.

"It is an example of what we call a pulsar..."

Suddenly John was there, jumping with all his might as he latched himself onto the Golem's neck, eyes closed as he was squeezing with all that he had. The Golem was truly a giant, towering both of them combined, and at this distance it looked like he was merely held down by pesky flies. The entire planetarium was bathed in ethereal colors, and sometimes the room was entirely dark, before a flash of light illuminates everything again. The narrator's voice was still resonating, muffling the sounds of John and Sherlock's struggles. It was then that Hermione ran as fast as she could.

Taking advantage of the chaos, and all the blinding colors swirling around her, Hermione Granger silently uttered three spells in quick successions, accurately hitting their target. The strong Stupefy hit Sherlock first, immediately rendering him unconscious. Next, it hit John, making him fall on the floor with a loud thump. The next spell however, was different, the green eerie light found its way to the Golem's forehead, rendering him dead. All of this happened in a split second, and Hermione's very blood was racing, alive at her magic.

She crouched over the giant man, grabbed his arm - not even flinching with the coldness of the dead man's skin - because her body was just as cold, the remnants of the Avada Kedavra a bitter taste to her lips, and Hermione apparated away.

She would've laughed at the ridiculous expression on Mycroft's face the moment she appeared in the middle of his office with a dead body, if not for the fact that she was in a hurry. "Contact Harry." She said simply, before apparating back to the planetarium.

Hermione found John and Sherlock where she left them and sighed in relief. She hid her wand back to its holster in her chest, and muttered a silent and wandless Rennervate.

Sherlock was wide awake in an instant, standing up so quick that Hermione felt dizzy at the movement. John on the other hand let out a groggy groan.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, eyes darting from left to right. "Where's the Golem?"

"He ran away after he knocked down both of you." Hermione lied easily.

Sherlock rubbed the spot on where he was hit with the spell, as if in discomfort. Then he gave her a suspicious look. "Really? Why aren't we dead yet?"

"I chased him away" she replied simply.

"Why didn't you just kill him?"

"You couldn't either. Who are you to judge?"

"Okay. Enough." John groaned again, massaging his temples. He looked like he's been hit by a truck, and Hermione could only guiltily think that maybe she should've toned down her spell a bit. "At least we're alive."

.

.

.

Sherlock is in front of the lost Vermeer, with John besides him, and was staring at the painting curiously. "I can't believe it took me so long to notice the star."

"I can't believe they used a boy – a boy Sherlock! - as hostage. Jesus Christ." John muttered disbelievingly. There was an undistinguishable chatter around them, with the police currently handling everything else now that the case was solved. It took them a moment before both men turned to look towards each other and asked the same question.

"Where's Hermione?"

The moment Hermione apparated back to Mycroft's office, Shacklebolt being the Minister of Magic, and Harry being the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was already there, looking over at the large body of the Golem still sprawled on the floor where she left it. Mycroft on the other hand, was far from it as possible.

Harry immediately went to her, eyes anxiously searching for any signs of injury. "Mione, are you alright? What happened?"

"He's an assassin Moriarty sent. Tried to kill us while we were solving a case and so I had no choice but to get rid of him," Hermione squeezed Harry's shoulder in assurance, but when it didn't ease the concern in his face, she sighed and looked at him intently. "I'm okay, Harry."

His agitation lessened somewhat, but Hermione knew he was far from assured. She could understand, because Harry knows it's the first time she's killed again in a long time. To have witnessed the mess she was in in the aftermaths of her first kill, and the many instances afterwards, Harry knew better than anyone how much it hurts her to take a life. Her heart softened at the reminder that he was there all those times and even until now, making the adrenaline in her veins finally subside, and she sat down at the nearest chair wearily.

"Mycroft, what are the consequences?" she asked.

At this, Mycroft finally moved from his spot at the far corner of the room, and cleared his throat. "Nothing great, he was a known assassin after all. He's killed so many important figures in the past that his death would be welcome. However. . ." he looked at Hermione gravely.

"However, I was the one who killed him," Hermione continued, aware of where this was going. "Directly involving the wizarding world. If Moriarty investigates the death of one of his best killers, he could possibly trace it back to magic. He has the resources, after all, and let's not imagine the implication if he finds out even the tiniest whisper of a hidden community such as ours." At this, she looked at Shacklebolt.

"This Moriarty, whoever he is. . . he's that capable that you're wary to this extent?", he asked.

"Yes." Hermione answered simply, but it was enough for both wizards to reassess their seriousness on the matter. If it was Hermione who said something was a threat, then it was a threat, and no room is left for arguments.

"We can't get rid of the body that easily. Even if we're not sure that Moriarty will look for it, let's just say that he does and finds nothing. He'll eventually trace it back to Sherlock, then at John, then at me. A lot of the homeless has seen the three of us leaving the area, chasing after him, and they can easily be exploited." Hermione stood up, walking back and forth in a straight line, with her mind racing, thinking of a couple solutions to their current predicament. "We can't even hand it over officially, for sure the autopsy would find nothing wrong with the body. Science couldn't possibly fathom the idea of magic, and we can't have them concluding the case with any ridiculous ideas they'd come up with. Most likely, the body will just end up in Moriarty's hands anyway."

She said this in one go, without stopping for a breath. And then suddenly she was in front of Mycroft, who looked quite startled at the pace she was talking and walking back and forth. "We need to have an official discussion from both sides"

"Both ministries of Britain haven't had an official meeting since 1926" Mycroft answered calmly. "Aside from that, only two other people knows about the Wizarding World officially, and I haven't associated myself with them at all, as we handle completely different things in the government. Moreover, Moriarty has spies even in my own department. Not to mention, the purebloods that would be for sure present on your side does not have any existing identity records in muggle Britian. If someone were to investigate them, they'd find nothing. Basically, to have a gathering would already mean something suspicious going on."

"How about we gather but under a guise?" Harry Potter piped in this time. "Something believable enough to have all the people needed in one place."

"Actually. . ." Mycroft walked over to his desk, and took out what seems to be an invitation. "There's this exclusive ball the elites of Britain holds for charity every year," charity was an excuse, it was more like the time for people to show of their wealth and influence, Mycroft thought to himself. "Every important person is required, or should I say, compelled to go there. And every year some new rich tycoon shows up so new faces aren't unusual."

"That's perfect then!" Shacklebolt exclaimed enthusiastically. "We'll hold the meeting there. Inform all the people needed. Show our faces for a while and slip out quietly. With a few flick of our wands, going unnoticed is hardly a task."

Everyone in the room was silent for a while, lost in their own perspective thoughts. After some time, Hermione asked. "When is this?"

"Tomorrow evening."

"It's settled then," Hermione straightened her back, commanding presence, and everyone's attention was wholly on her. "Harry, Kingsley, could you please deal with this for the time being?" she pointed at the giant body lying limp on the floor. "I'll do the rest."

"You don't need to ask Mione" Harry answered gently. "Do what you have to do. Just tell us if you need anything else."

Then, crouching down to hold the Golem's shoulder, Harry apparated both of them away, and with a quick nod to Hermione, Kingsley followed shortly after.

Now Hermione was left with Mycroft. The last time the two of them talked alone was when Hermione had to tell him about Moriarty. That meeting was cut short however, because not long after, Sherlock and John was already outside the room, trying to eavesdrop. Fortunately, she had silencing charms placed beforehand and had the time to quickly come up with something that would ease the tension between the two of them, to avoid Sherlock's suspicions when he predictably barged in a moment later. She was glad that by bringing up the monkey nickname, it miraculously worked and made Mycroft genuinely amused, dissipating the tense atmosphere. Unfortunately, that was not the case now, when the seriousness of their predicament erased all chances of humour.

"Hermione," Mycroft said suddenly, sitting down and sorting the files in his desk, voice tired. "Go home and rest. I'll deal with this."

If someone were to ask Hermione to describe the perfect Slytherin, she would undoubtedly describe Mycroft Holmes. Out of all the wizards and witches and muggles she's known, there really was no man more Slytherin than him. The moment she first met him, she knew that he meant it when he said she was insignificant.

It was not like the empty taunts she was used to hearing.

No, when Mycroft told her insignificant, it was uttered with absolute clarity. In his eyes, she held no worth, no value, no importance. She was nothing but an annoyance that wasted his little brother's time. If there was anything that Hermione was certain of his complicated character, it was this:

Mycroft Holmes is a cunning and cruel man who saw the world only for what it could give him. He cared not for details and implications, but always looked at the bigger picture. When he found out about the magical world, he was not surprised, he was not even a little bit curious. He only wanted to know how the information could benefit him. He was ambitious and driven, setting aside anything that held no importance to him. People. Family. Feelings.

Even Tom Riddle feared death, causing him to chase immortality until it ruined him. Mycroft Holmes on the other hand, didn't understand fear, and even if he did, he was more likely to deem it as part of his insignificant pile of trash in that big brain of his and ignore it.

If he wanted to achieve something, he did it. There was no doubt in the first place. He had no weakness, no qualms in going for the most practical thing to do, rather than the right thing to do. Everything he did was calculated. Hermione could even say Mycroft was more of a genius than his brother. And it is exactly for this reason that he became the most powerful man in Britain, holding even more influence than the queen. Hermione hated him as much as he hated her back then.

To consider all of this, to be reminded of just who she was dealing with, Hermione could truly say she was baffled by his recent behaviour, his recent . . .kindness. Was this another means to an end?

Hermione decided it was time to truly discuss things seriously, now that she was calm and not shaken to her core like the last time when she saw him for the first time in fifteen years. She opted for bluntness. "Mycroft. I get that you need me now. I really do," she looked at him earnestly, "but honestly, you don't have to force yourself too much. I won't leave Sherlock again. Not anymore."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "Basically, you don't need to do all these things. Fixing my apartment. Telling me to go home and rest. You don't have to worry, because I will do everything I can for Sherlock, with or without your convincing. When you pushed me back into his life, it was all that I needed, and I'm grateful. Truly."

Mycroft's gaze was intense. "Do you know why I chose this position? Why instead of being someone from the criminal class like Moriarty, I achieved power through this," he gestured to his office, the implication obvious, "when I could've been a better evil mastermind, and achieve control easier through. . .harsher means."

Hermione didn't expect this response at all. Still, she asked simply. "Why?"

"Because realistically, in the long run, being a politician is better than a criminal."

He resumed on organising the papers in his desk, but continued speaking. "It may be true that I can do so much more if I disregard ethics completely, be even more dangerous and powerful than Moriarty himself, but at the end of the day — as long as people will continue to have this distinction between right and wrong, those who are deemed a part of this wrong will eventually be persecuted, and those in the right will eventually prevail."

He paused and smiled as if in nostalgia. "To put it simply, I am here because I knew from the start that being here is the best choice. And so I did what was best for myself, what felt right, to me."

Hermione understood this completely. Only Mycroft could possibly look at things this way. Yet she still couldn't quite comprehend what Mycroft was trying to say. "I don't get how it is related to what I was talking about"

"This is me trying to tell you that I'm not forcing myself at all," Mycroft replied, finally looking back at her. "I'm merely doing the smartest choice, as always."

Hermione sighed, feeling stupid for the first time in a long while. "For Merlin's sake, get to the point."

"Doing these things — fixing your apartment, telling you to go home and rest," it was Mycroft who sighed this time, aggrieved that he was forced to say things that should've been so obvious. Sometimes, Hermione could really be as dense as Sherlock, he thought to himself. "I do these things because it's the best for me. Because if I don't, how can I possibly redeem my short-sightedness all those years ago, at that only moment of my life where I was foolish, and called you insignificant, and believed it to be true," he sighed again, clearly uncomfortable to be saying this much, but for once he saw no point in not doing so. "I saw your worth too late and is just making up for the lost time. Now, leave. . .and I'll update you in the morning."

To say Hermione was gobsmacked was an understatement. As usual, she didn't know if she was complemented, or insulted, or both at the same time. But she was moved, truly, it was really rare for Mycroft to say so much, even if it was still uttered in that same calculated tone. When she looked at him he was even the same as always, face cold and hard, and was now wonderfully ignoring her presence.

Shaking her head in frustration at the obvious dismissal, she apparated back directly into her flat without another word, and passed out in her bed immediately the tiredness finally getting to her.

.

.

.

I'll arrive in 10 minutes.

MH

Hermione took a brief glance at the text, before looking once again in her reflection in the mirror.

The hours flew by very quickly, night turned into day, and before Hermione even knew it, it was time to get dressed for the ball. Mycroft really did arrange everything on his own, like he insisted, and so Hermione had the time the whole day to prepare herself on the upcoming event. Truth to be told, over the years, one of the many changes Hermione had discovered within herself is that she actually really liked dressing herself up. Even if her taste was still not as extravagant and feminine as most girls, it was enough that she at least tried her best. Besides, after all the balls, and galas, and parties she had to attend in the Wizarding World to spread her goals and influence, she could finally understand the necessity of looking her best.

She donned in a tight fitting, finely sequinned bronze dress that reached softly on the floor, with a thin halter strap neckline wrapping delicately on her neck, leaving most of her back bare. The gown was styled simple enough, but it attracted light whenever she moved, and glittered like soft waves gently kissing the shore. She gave up on her hair a long time ago, and left it untied, the curls cascading wildly on her back, and framing her face just right. She put quite a few cosmetic charms on it though, to keep it untangled, smooth and smelling good the whole night. On her face, she opted for a natural look, focusing on enhancing those features that were wholly hers. Although, she couldn't help but go for a dark, blood red lip.

All things considered, she was good to go. Hermione felt the wand securely strapped and concealed in her waist for the last time to be sure, and finally waited for Mycroft to arrive. True to his words, ten minutes later there was a knock to her door. The moment she came out, Mycroft raised an amused brow but didn't say anything. Instead he offered his arm, and both started to leave the building.

Yet just as they reached the front door, near the stairs, Sherlock Holmes came barging inside in his usual manner with John Watson following closely behind, and when both of them saw who was about to come out, they stopped dead in their tracks.

Sherlock Holmes was not one to dwell on things of beauty.

Even if he sometimes appreciate the brilliance of the stars, or the vividness of flowers, at the end of the day these things were nothing to him, and so he didn't care and is even able to forget their existence. Looking at Hermione Granger now however, Sherlock's usually bright and clear eyes dimmed for a moment.

She was not sculpted perfectly like those models that one would see in magazines, nor did she have any particular striking features that would make eyes turn towards her. Her face had this natural charm, at best, the kind that gets prettier the more you look at it, but never really something astounding.

Nevertheless, there was something about the way she commanded presence, that even if she was besides someone like Mycroft Holmes who exuded an intimidating aura all the time, she nonetheless walked with an overwhelming confidence - that made light dance along the curves of her dress - that made people still turn to look at her first. And her hair, hair that Sherlock only ever saw tied up, was now flowing down her back, looking alive, like dark chocolate, like molten lava. And her eyes, eyes that always seem to look at him with a familiarity he couldn't fathom, like she saw the very truth of his existence, eyes that were staring at him the exact way at this very moment . . .Sherlock's mind raced. Thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts rendered him speechless for a while.

Hermione Granger was a vision, and he felt breathless.

"Wow. . .Hermione, you look. . .you look stunning!"

Sherlock faintly heard John's fervent exclamation. It was at this moment that time seemed to flow slowly in reverse, and moved forward quickly again to focus into that one image, that one image that immediately erased Sherlock's previous starstruck thoughts, and was replaced by extreme curiosity - at the image of Hermione's arms linked comfortably into his brother's, and all the implication it brings.

"You," he said softly, looking at Hermione with suspicious eyes. "You suddenly disappeared in the middle of our case. A day later, here you are, seemingly going to a party with my brother without inviting me. I'm hurt truly. I thought we. . .bonded"

At this, Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic Sherlock. This is none of your business. Now move aside because we're going to be late."

"You wound me too brother!" Sherlock exclaimed even more dramatically, purposely goading Mycroft. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. It's always my business to know everybody's business."

Hermione Granger suddenly took a step forward and with something resembling like a fond smile, she offered her other free arm. "Come on then. Come with us."

Mycroft's head turned to her so fast in surprise. "Really?"

"Really."

"You can't possibly expect him to go wearing. . .what he's wearing right now."

"What's wrong with what he's wearing?"

"His coat looks like its ten years old. He reeks of sweat from wherever he's from. For God's sake, I have a reputation to uphold!"

"Now you're the one being dramatic," Hermione laughed, before offering her arm out again, and Sherlock looked at it like its going to bite, but nonetheless linked it with his, ecstatic that things were going his way easily.

Too easily, is what he failed to realize.

Hermione then turned to John. "John, do you want to join us?"

Despite the numerous times Sherlock has called John all types of idiot, he was actually smarter than him when it came to a completely different matter — women. Looking at Hermione Granger now, with a smile that practically screamed trouble, he was definitely smarter this time. He laughed nervously, and went upstairs as fast as he could before calling out. "Uh, no! You guys go on. I have something to do!"

Hermione shook her head in amusement and muttered to herself. "Smart choice."

.

.

.

The ride to the venue was quick, and Sherlock could only scoff that of course, it had to be the most grandest and expensive place in the city. He went off the car first, followed shortly by Mycroft and Hermione. A lot of people were already milling about, donned in finery and luxury. Even outside the hall, champagne were already served and Sherlock immediately grabbed one, drinking it in one go. He grinned excitedly, eager to bury his nose into whatever interesting business he could find. Specifically, Hermione and his brother's business. Yet just as he was about to go inside the place with them, he suddenly felt he needed to go to the loo.

It was the last thing he remembered, before darkness claimed him.

.

.

.

Sherlock Holmes woke up some time in the middle of the night and saw that he was back in his room in Baker Street. He stood up and punched the wall near his bed, grunting in frustration. "Stupid. Bloody stupid! How could I have been so stupid!"

He went back to bed, closed his eyes, and immediately after he was standing before the large front doors of a grand, majestic palace. Sherlock was determined to find out where and when exactly was it that he was fooled and drugged and sent back home like a bloody kid. Was it the champagne he drank? Was it something else?

Hermione Granger, he thought with a mixture of anger and begrudging respect. That woman was a nuisance. He should have never let his guard down.

He went inside, the doors opening automatically upon his presence. This palace was his domain and it followed his every whim. It has been his greatest and longest companion, and if there was anything Sherlock trusted completely, it was the fact that his brain will never betray him.

Within the palace was doors upon doors upon doors, all in various shapes and sizes and even in colours, all leading into their own respective rooms that held all of Sherlock's most prized possession — his knowledge. He was familiar with everything, knew every doors and hallways and corners down to the very last detail. After all, he built this place. He ruled over this palace.

As he already knew what he was looking for, he immediately went up the grand staircase in the middle of the main hall, going to the second floor, turning left a couple of times, before finally arriving in front of a double french door. It was made from the clearest and smoothest glass one could ever encounter, and what held beyond was Sherlock's most recent memories. He opened them and went inside.

He skipped over most of the images, and focused instead on the moment they arrived at the venue. Everything was just the way he remembered. Nothing and no one was suspicious. He literally just walked inside the building, went to the loo at the insistent feeling that he had to relieve himself, and passed out shortly after. That was it. There was nothing more to it, and Sherlock couldn't even begin to accept that Hermione Granger completely fooled him.

There was no doubt that she did, he just didn't know how, and that frustrates him more than anything.

He left the room in a temper, slamming the door hard enough to break the glass, if not for the fact that it was an imaginary glass made within the depths of his brain and therefore indestructible unless he wills it. He went down the staircase hurriedly and went out of the palace completely. Once outside, he took an imaginary deep breath to calm himself.

Fresh air greeted his senses, and something else - the sweet, fragrant scent of Forget Me Not flowers. Sherlock squinted his eyes at the direction the smell was from, and noticed it was coming from somewhere within the back of his palace. Strange, he thought. There was nothing that he created over there. Yet, he followed the scent and went to look anyway. The sight that greeted him was even more mind blogging than the mystery of how Hermione Granger drugged him.

There, on the back of his mind palace, was a field that he has never seen before.

Thousands upon thousands of forget me not flowers grew wildly, scattered across the land, bathing it in blues and pinks and purples. At this distance, the scent was even stronger, overwhelming Sherlock all the more. Yet this was not the sight that caught his attention, instead, in the middle of the field, stood a rickety old cottage.

He walked closer, as if in a trance, until he was in front of it. The cottage was made entirely of wood, all worn out and rundown, but nonetheless intact. The only thing that seemed new was the door that greeted him, and the only thing that Sherlock could think of was that this door was the only door that he didn't recognize out of all the doors in his mind.

He walked even closer, and pressed his hand flatly against it. The wood was smooth, and warm. He grabbed the doorknob, turned, and found out that he couldn't open it, no matter how much he tried. The next thought came immediately: it was also the only door that he couldn't open amongst the hundreds of other doors within his palace.

Strange. Utterly strange, and fascinating.

He looked at the door closer, observing more details. It had a distinct colour to it, a specific kind of brown, as if golden. . .

It was then that Sherlock realized with absolute certainty that it had the same colour as Hermione Granger's eyes.

tbc.

A/N:

Credits to Elizabeth, a guess reviewer, who gave me the idea of Hermione dressing up and all. It's brilliant. Thank you!

And thank you so much to everyone else who shares their thoughts. I love reading every one of them. I want to respond to everyone, but I don't know how. The site doesn't have 'reply to comment' button or something, sigh.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this one!

Just a bit of disclaimer, on the case scenes, some of the lines were taken directly from the original script of the Sherlock series. Also, no profits earned, as usual. Sherlock and the Wizarding World belong to their respective authors.