A/N: Saw Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Still upset that they killed off my second-favorite character (and favorite female character in literature) (and fans can go on about "ambiguity" and such, but that death was still a disappointment). I wrote this as consolation. And I'm sure other people could do it much better, but nobody has yet, so. Write a better version of this, or something similar, please?

Also: not a one-shot. Hopefully it'll be eight chapters total, one for every summer, since Connections is sapping me of all my Hogwarts inspiration.

The neighbors had moved into Number 8, Privet Drive two weeks ago. A married couple and their daughter now inhabited the house that had, for the past month, been for sale. They were the subject of much talk amongst the local gossip network headed by Petunia Dursley.

They quickly got to know each of their neighbors, except for a small boy they had only seen a glimpse of once before Petunia Dursley had hurried him away. Further questioning revealed his identity to be that of Harry James Potter, miscreant and black sheep of the "Perfectly Normal Association" of Little Whinging, Surrey.

One month after they moved in, their daughter climbed out of her window and crept to Number 4. She pressed her ear to the door and wiggled the doorknob. Nodding to herself, she leaned back a little, removed a bobby pin from her hair, and inserted it into the lock. She took a small paperclip, unbent the end, and inserted it as well. She fiddled with the two pieces of metal, feeling out the pins in the locking mechanism and unlocking the door.

It swung open with a quiet click.

The little girl replaced the bobby pin and pocketed the paperclip before stepping into the house and slowly shutting the door behind her. On tiptoe, she moved around the house, examining her surroundings.

The kitchen was spotlessly clean, unnaturally so. The white counters gleamed, even in what little moonlight came through the windows. There were three places set at the table.

She could hear snoring from the downstairs bedroom: an older man, definitely not the mysterious Harry James Potter. She assumed that the room contained both Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

Still on tiptoe, she began climbing up the stairs. One of them creaked – she froze for a second, listening for any change in the snoring. When no reaction came, she continued her climb. There were two bedrooms on the second floor, along with a bathroom. One of the bedroom doors was open – it was filled with broken toys.

She opened the other door slowly. Dudley Dursley, the son of Petunia and Vernon, was sleeping on his side, sucking on his thumb and making little grunting noises that were more appropriate on a pig than a human. Making a face, she closed the door, freezing again when it made a little squeak.

Where could Harry Potter be? Obviously she had missed something. There was nowhere upstairs, which meant that he was downstairs.

She crept down the stairs, skipping the one that creaked.

Where had she missed? Did the boy sleep in the same room as his Aunt and Uncle?

She shrugged and peered inside the last bedroom. Then she withdrew, quickly. For whatever reason, Vernon and Petunia had been...celebrating...last night, and she did not need to see the results.

Then she noticed it: scratch marks.

It wouldn't have meant much, except for the fact that the Dursleys didn't own a pet of any sort. And while Vernon's sister Marge apparently bred bulldogs, she did not visit enough for the scratches to be so engraved into the wood around the cupboard. So what could make these gouges, and why?

She unlatched the cupboard, and stared in shock. A small boy with a messy shock of black hair slept in the small cupboard. He was thin – almost emaciated – and a bruise was forming on his ribcage.

He was also, if the wide green eyes staring at her were any indication, awake.

"Hello," she whispered. "Would you like to have some fun with me tonight?"

It might have been a come-on if she didn't say it in such an innocent tone. She held out one hand, and he stared at it for a second, as though it might turn out to be a fish. Then, with a shaking hand, he clasped her hand and simply felt it.

"Come on," she repeated, and pulled him out of the cupboard. As a young girl, she really shouldn't have had the strength to lift another child, but Harry Potter was mostly skin and bones, so he came up rather easily.

She led him through the door and down the street.

"Mr. Fairbanks won't be home tonight," she informed him. "Every Wednesday, he goes off to visit a lady-friend. His wife is going to be following him thanks to an...anonymous tip. So they won't be back for a while."

Harry didn't say anything. He hadn't actually said anything since she'd taken him from the cupboard.

"Hey," she called. "Did you hear me?"

He ducked his head. "Yes miss. Sorry miss."

Polite, apparently. Nowhere near the image of scruffy miscreant the Dursleys portrayed to the rest of Little Whinging. Hopefully he wouldn't be totally averse to the idea of petty crime.

She led him to the door of Number 12 and jiggled the doorknob. To her surprise, the door was unlocked, and she crept in. Even if she was reasonably certain neither of the Fairbanks would be home that night, it never hurt to be careful.

There was a sudden motion and her world went dark.

"Wakey, wakey," a voice said. She blinked twice, her vision swimming into focus, and looked up. Mr. and Mrs. Fairbanks stood in front of her.

"Oh, good," said Mrs. Fairbanks, "she's awake. I'm glad. I do so like it when they're conscious."

She quickly assessed the situation. Her mouth was taped shut, and her arms and legs were bound tightly to a chair.

"See, my husband doesn't go out cheating on me," Mrs. Fairbanks explained. Her voice was light and whimsical, fluttering between pitches disconcertingly. "He brings me pretty little presents."

The woman reached out her hand and stroked her cheek. "Like you."

Mr. Fairbanks smiled benignly at his wife. "Anything for you, luv," he said, and pressed his lips to her cheek.

Things were not looking good. Where was Harry Potter?

"Anyway," Mrs. Fairbanks drew out the word. "Let's see just how pretty you are, my little poppet."

She popped the last two p's and giggled. She moved forward...

...and kept moving forward, falling on her face. A large knife stuck out of her back, blood pooling around the wound.

Mr. Fairbanks recovered quickly with a scream of rage.

"Who did that?" he bellowed. "Who killed my wife?"

He reached down and removed the knife from his wife's back. At the last second, he rotated his body and parried a thrust from another knife. He reached out for his attacker, but the knife wielder dodged backwards and to the side, taking another swipe as Mr. Fairbanks overextended.

The older man dropped the knife as the other blade sliced open a gash in his forearm. There was a moment in which the man seemed confused, and then the blade entered his ribcage and stilled.

Mr. Fairbanks stared at the shadows before his legs gave out and he fell to the floor, dead.

The girl watched as Harry Potter stepped out of the shadows. "Thank you," she told him. He simply stared at her. Then: "You're welcome, miss."

There was no mistaking the shy smile.

"Alright, let's get the valuables," she said, businesslike again. "You take the upstairs, I'll clear out the downstairs."

Harry moved up the stairs silently, and she started emptying drawers, looking for jewelry. In fifteen minutes, Harry returned, carrying a large black bag.

"Got everything?" she asked.

"Yes, miss," Harry replied.

"Good," she replied. "I'll keep the money and give it to you every day so you can buy some lunch. I'm assuming the Dursleys would take anything you held onto as soon as they saw it."

"Yes, miss," he said again.

"I'm sure we can become excellent friends," she said, ignoring the two cooling bodies on the floor. "I know your name; do you know mine?"

"No, miss," said Harry.

She gave a smile she was told looked mysterious and alluring. "It's nice to meet you, Harry Potter. I am Irene Adler."