Pall Mall, London - 8:30 AM
The morning air carried London's usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, damp wool, and the lingering scent of yesterday's fish and chips when Mycroft Holmes emerged from his Pall Mall residence with the kind of measured precision that suggested even his breakfast had been scheduled and executed according to governmental efficiency standards.
Miss Smallwood was waiting beside the government Jaguar with the sort of professional patience that managed to convey both absolute readiness and subtle reproach for the world's general inefficiency. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe chignon that could have cut glass, and her expression carried that particular blend of competence and barely contained exasperation that came from managing the affairs of men who considered themselves indispensable to the functioning of the British Empire.
"Good morning, sir," she said, extending a manila folder sealed with red tape that practically hummed with classified importance. Her voice carried the crisp authority of someone who had learned to communicate urgent information while maintaining the diplomatic fiction that nothing was ever truly urgent in the upper echelons of government. "The consultation results you requested. Delivered by secure courier at oh-six-hundred hours this morning, along with seventeen other documents requiring your immediate attention, three phone calls from the Foreign Secretary, and a rather pointed inquiry from the Prime Minister's office about your availability for this afternoon's budget meeting."
Mycroft accepted the folder with the reverent care usually reserved for religious artifacts or unexploded ordnance, his pale eyes immediately noting the weight and thickness that suggested comprehensive analysis rather than cursory observations. "How delightfully efficient. Though I suspect the Prime Minister's inquiry was less pointed than apocalyptic, given yesterday's... discussions about fiscal responsibility."
"Your exact words were 'fiscal responsibility is what people invoke when they lack the imagination to solve problems properly,' sir. The Chancellor took notes."
"Did he indeed? How wonderfully literal of him." Mycroft settled into the Jaguar's leather interior with the kind of satisfied precision that suggested the world was arranging itself according to his preferences, as it should. "Any additional communications from our... consultant?"
Miss Smallwood slid in beside him, her briefcase clicking open with mechanical efficiency as she consulted her tablet. "None directly, sir. Though the facility director called at oh-seven-fifteen to report what he termed 'unusual activity patterns' in her quarters. Violin practice extending from midnight until approximately oh-five-hundred hours, several requests for additional writing materials, and—I quote—'that particular quality of silence that suggests she's thinking about something we probably don't want her thinking about.'"
"Ah." Mycroft's expression grew thoughtful as he broke the folder's seal with deliberate care. "Dr. Reeves always did have excellent instincts about psychological warning signs. Though in this case, I suspect Eurus's unusual activity simply indicates intellectual satisfaction rather than brewing catastrophe."
"If I may, sir—given your sister's history, is the distinction particularly meaningful?"
Mycroft paused in his examination of the documents, considering his assistant's question with the kind of diplomatic weight usually reserved for matters of international significance. "Miss Smallwood, you raise an excellent point. With Eurus, intellectual satisfaction and brewing catastrophe are often synonymous phenomena. However, in this instance, her interests appear to align with our objectives rather than contradicting them."
"And if they stop aligning?"
"Then we shall face that challenge with our usual combination of superior planning and strategic improvisation." Mycroft's smile was thin and satisfied, like a cat contemplating particularly stupid mice. "Cancel my ten o'clock with the Foreign Secretary—tell him I'm dealing with matters of national security that make his trade negotiations seem quaint by comparison. Push back the cabinet briefing until this afternoon, and inform the Prime Minister's office that budget meetings will have to wait until we've addressed more pressing concerns about the protection of British citizens."
Miss Smallwood made rapid notes with the kind of efficient shorthand that suggested considerable practice in translating Mycroft's diplomatic euphemisms into language that wouldn't cause immediate governmental panic. "Shall I provide specifics about these pressing concerns, or maintain strategic ambiguity?"
"Strategic ambiguity, naturally. Though if pressed, you may hint that we're dealing with matters involving both international crime syndicates and child welfare services. That should confuse them sufficiently to buy us several hours of bureaucratic paralysis."
"Brilliant, sir. Shall I notify Mr. Holmes of your impending arrival at Baker Street?"
"Unnecessary. Something tells me Sherlock will be expecting us." Mycroft's pale eyes were already scanning his sister's handwriting, absorbing her analysis with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for matters that could reshape global politics. "Besides, surprising my brother when he's attempting to educate an infant in the finer points of criminal methodology should prove... educational for all involved parties."
As the Jaguar pulled smoothly into London traffic, Mycroft absorbed Eurus's analysis with growing appreciation for both her intellectual capabilities and her unsettling psychological insights.
*Subject Assessment - Peter Pettigrew*
*Psychological Profile: Classic attachment-disordered follower with sociopathic adaptations masked by performative weakness. Subject exhibits parasitic behavioral patterns—seeks security through proximity to power while maintaining multiple exit strategies and betrayal options. Current emotional state indicates desperation balanced with calculating opportunism.*
*Probability Analysis: Subject's choice of hiding location will reflect need for security, familiarity, and strategic positioning. Based on psychological profiling and known behavioral patterns, ninety-three percent probability that subject has returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.*
*Rationale: Institution provides familiar environment with comprehensive protection, abundant food sources, and perfect camouflage among student pet population. Location allows monitoring of magical community developments while maintaining multiple escape routes. Subject's rat form provides ideal integration with castle's existing rodent population.*
*Behavioral Indicators: Look for rats exhibiting excessive cleanliness beyond normal grooming, strategic positioning for surveillance rather than typical nesting behavior, possible hoarding of human-relevant items, and emotional responses to conversations about topics irrelevant to normal rodent concerns.*
*Capture Recommendation: Overwhelming force applied with surgical precision. Subject desperate enough to fake death and frame childhood friend is capable of extreme violence when cornered. Do NOT attempt negotiation or gradual approach.*
*Warning: Subject has survived eighteen months of presumed death through superior cunning and strategic thinking. Any capture attempt must account for contingency plans, escape routes, and potential hostage situations.*
The analysis continued for several additional pages, detailing specific search methodologies, behavioral predictions, and contingency plans that demonstrated the kind of thoroughness that made Eurus Holmes simultaneously invaluable and absolutely terrifying to anyone with sufficient clearance to know she existed.
"Remarkable," Mycroft murmured, though whether he was praising his sister's analytical abilities or commenting on the disturbing accuracy of her psychological assessments remained diplomatically ambiguous.
"Sir?" Miss Smallwood inquired, noting his expression of concentrated interest.
"Nothing alarming, Miss Smallwood. Simply admiring the thoroughness of our consultant's work." Mycroft folded the analysis with precise care. "Though I suspect we're about to embark on one of those operations that will either be remembered as a brilliant success or a catastrophic failure that requires extensive bureaucratic cover-up activities."
"Shall I begin preparing the cover-up documentation, sir?"
"Naturally. Though do try to make it convincing this time. Last month's report about 'unusual weather phenomena' in the Thames estuary was rather transparently fabricated."
"I'll consult with the meteorological office, sir. Nothing says official credibility like incomprehensible scientific jargon."
## 221B Baker Street - 9:15 AM
Twenty-five minutes later, the Jaguar pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, where the familiar sight of Mrs. Hudson's pristine lace curtains and freshly scrubbed windows provided a reassuring anchor of domestic normalcy in a world increasingly complicated by magical criminals and family obligations that defied conventional understanding.
Mycroft climbed the seventeen steps with measured precision, noting immediately that the building's atmospheric signature had changed since his last visit. The space felt more occupied, somehow—not just with additional bodies, but with the particular kind of vital energy that came from housing a child whose presence seemed to transform even the most mundane environments into something approaching actual warmth.
The sounds drifting from the sitting room above suggested animated conversation delivered with characteristic Holmes intensity, though punctuated by what sounded distinctly like infantile commentary on the proceedings.
"...and that, Harry, is precisely why we must always observe the subject's hands before drawing any conclusions about their character or criminal intent," came Sherlock's voice, carrying that pedagogical tone he usually reserved for explaining blindingly obvious deductions to clients whose intellectual capabilities he found actively disappointing. "The hands reveal profession, recent activities, nervous habits, social class, and most importantly, their relationship with violence. Even at your advanced age of fifteen months, these observations will serve you well in avoiding unpleasant individuals and identifying potentially dangerous situations."
Mrs. Hudson intercepted Mycroft at the landing with the kind of maternal authority that suggested she had developed Very Strong Opinions about the educational methods being employed in her sitting room. Her gray hair was slightly disheveled, as if she'd been running her fingers through it in exasperation, and her expression carried that particular blend of affection and barely contained frustration that came from caring for men who insisted on making life unnecessarily complicated.
"Oh, Mr. Mycroft, thank heavens you're here," she said, her voice pitched low to avoid disturbing whatever intellectual discourse was taking place above. "He's been at it since half past five this morning—teaching that poor innocent baby about fingerprint analysis, blood spatter patterns, and the psychological methodology behind criminal behavior. The child's barely walking, and Sherlock's explaining the forensic applications of luminol detection!"
"And how is Harry responding to these... unconventional educational approaches?" Mycroft inquired, genuinely curious about the domestic arrangements that had evolved during his absence.
"That's just it—he absolutely loves every minute of it!" Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands in a gesture that encompassed both bewilderment and grudging admiration. "Sits there watching Sherlock like he's receiving revelations from Mount Sinai, making those little cooing noises that sound almost like he's trying to ask questions about the material. Most children his age would be crying or trying to eat the evidence samples, but Harry acts like he's attending the world's most fascinating university lecture."
"Exceptional children often require exceptional educational methodologies," Mycroft observed diplomatically, though his tone suggested he found Harry's precocious intellectual engagement equally remarkable. "Though I do hope Sherlock is also addressing more traditional developmental requirements—social interaction, physical play, emotional nurturing?"
"Oh, Mr. Lupin's been absolutely wonderful with all that," Mrs. Hudson said, her expression brightening considerably as she led him toward the sitting room. "Such a lovely young man, and so patient with children. He's taken complete responsibility for the practical aspects—feeding schedules, bath time, proper nap periods, age-appropriate activities—while Sherlock handles what he insists on calling 'intellectual enrichment.'"
She paused outside the sitting room door, her voice becoming even more confidential. "I've offered him the rooms downstairs, you know—the ones that used to be nothing but storage space and spider webs. He's been such tremendous help, and it was obvious he needed proper accommodation. I thought he might enjoy assisting me with the little café I've been contemplating for the front room—give him steady work while he sorts out his circumstances, and provide additional security for Harry without making everything feel like an armed fortress."
Mycroft processed this information with the kind of rapid calculation that made him indispensable to the British government's more delicate operations. A werewolf taking up permanent residence in the same building as Harry Potter presented both significant advantages and potential complications that would require careful management and ongoing assessment.
"That seems remarkably... practical," he said carefully, his diplomatic training preventing him from expressing his complete thoughts on the subject. "I trust you've given proper consideration to the security implications of additional residents with unusual circumstances?"
"Oh yes, Professor McGonagall explained everything when she helped establish the protective enchantments around the building," Mrs. Hudson replied with the kind of fierce determination that suggested she'd appointed herself Harry's primary guardian regardless of whatever official arrangements might exist. "She said having more people who genuinely care about Harry's welfare would actually strengthen the magical protections rather than compromising them. Something about love-based magic being more powerful when supported by multiple sources."
Her expression grew positively militant. "And Mr. Lupin would die before allowing anyone to harm that child, I can see it in his eyes. He looks at Harry like he's seeing the ghosts of people he loved and lost, like protecting him is the most important thing he'll ever do. That kind of dedication is worth more than all the official security arrangements in the world."
They reached the sitting room doorway, where the scene that greeted them was both heartwarming and faintly surreal in its domestic impossibility. Sherlock was seated cross-legged on the Oriental carpet, his usually immaculate appearance considerably disheveled by the practical requirements of interacting with an active toddler. His dark hair was mussed from running his fingers through it during moments of intense concentration, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal ink stains from impromptu note-taking, and his pale eyes were bright with the kind of intellectual excitement usually reserved for particularly challenging murder cases.
Harry was positioned directly opposite him, surrounded by an elaborate fortress of cushions and soft toys that had been arranged with mathematical precision to ensure optimal comfort and safety. But despite these age-appropriate accommodations, the child's attention was focused entirely on his cousin's animated explanations, his unnaturally bright green eyes tracking every gesture with obvious fascination.
Remus occupied the armchair that had traditionally been reserved for clients, though his presence somehow transformed it from a piece of professional furniture into something that suggested actual warmth and domesticity. His tall frame was relaxed in a way Mycroft hadn't observed since their first meeting, and his amber eyes tracked Harry's movements with protective alertness while simultaneously following Sherlock's impromptu lecture with barely contained amusement.
"...which brings us to the absolutely critical importance of recognizing behavioral anomalies in both criminal suspects and potential victims," Sherlock was saying, brandishing what appeared to be a magnifying glass that had been carefully modified for toddler safety—the lens was unbreakable plastic, the handle had been shortened and padded, and the entire device had been decorated with colorful ribbons that somehow managed to look both ridiculous and oddly charming. "Most individuals exhibit predictable patterns in their daily routines, social interactions, and stress responses. When those patterns change dramatically without obvious external cause, it invariably indicates internal pressure, external coercion, or active participation in criminal enterprises."
He leaned forward conspiratorially, as if sharing state secrets with his fifteen-month-old student. "The key is establishing baseline behavioral norms for each subject before attempting to identify deviations that might indicate criminal activity or victimization. What's your assessment, Harry? Do you think we should prioritize micro-expression analysis or focus on physical behavioral tells?"
Harry responded with a series of sounds that might charitably be interpreted as thoughtful commentary on comparative methodology, reaching toward the modified magnifying glass with obvious enthusiasm and what appeared to be genuine intellectual curiosity.
"Excellent point!" Sherlock replied with complete seriousness, as if his infant cousin had just proposed a breakthrough in forensic science. "Environmental variables absolutely must be considered when establishing baseline behavioral patterns. You're absolutely right to emphasize the importance of contextual analysis. Most investigators overlook the significance of situational factors in favor of oversimplified psychological profiling."
Remus caught sight of Mycroft in the doorway and rose with the kind of fluid grace that suggested considerable practice in moving through spaces without disturbing ongoing activities. His expression shifted smoothly from amused observer to alert attention, though Mycroft noted that even while greeting him, Remus's awareness remained partially focused on Harry's welfare.
"Mr. Holmes," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive blend of warmth and wariness that characterized people who had learned not to trust easily but still possessed the capacity for genuine affection. "I hope you don't mind the domestic invasion. Mrs. Hudson was extraordinarily kind in offering me accommodation, and I must confess I've become rather... invested in Harry's daily welfare."
"Not at all," Mycroft replied, entering the room with diplomatic precision while noting how Harry immediately turned toward him with bright recognition and what might have been actual pleasure at seeing a familiar face. "In fact, your continued presence here may prove remarkably fortuitous given the information I've just received from certain... specialized sources."
Sherlock looked up from his educational activities, his pale eyes immediately sharpening with the kind of predatory interest that preceded his most brilliant deductive performances. "Information? From what specific sources? And please don't attempt to fob me off with another tediously bureaucratic intelligence briefing about magical political developments or inter-departmental cooperation initiatives."
"The source must remain classified for operational security reasons, but the intelligence is both actionable and time-sensitive," Mycroft replied, settling into his customary chair and opening Eurus's analysis with practiced efficiency. "I have compelling reason to believe that Peter Pettigrew is currently concealed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, living in his Animagus form among the student pet population."
The silence that followed was so complete that even Harry seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, his bright green eyes shifting between the three adults with unusual solemnity, as if he understood that something significant was being discussed despite lacking the vocabulary to comprehend the specifics.
"Hogwarts," Remus repeated slowly, his voice carrying a note of dawning realization mixed with what might have been self-recrimination. "Of course. Dear God, why didn't I think of that immediately? He knows the castle better than almost anyone alive, understands its rhythms and hiding places, and a single rat among hundreds of student pets would be essentially invisible to any conventional search."
"More than simple invisibility," Sherlock said, his mind visibly racing through implications with the kind of systematic precision that made him legendary among those few individuals capable of appreciating his methods. "It's psychologically perfect for someone of Pettigrew's established behavioral patterns. He returns to an environment where he felt secure and important during his formative years, while simultaneously positioning himself at the absolute center of the magical community's most protected and prestigious institution."
He began pacing with restless energy, his movements sharp and controlled as his deductive processes engaged fully. "If he wanted to monitor developments in his case while remaining completely hidden from official scrutiny, he couldn't possibly choose a more strategically advantageous location. Access to information through overheard conversations, proximity to potential targets or allies, multiple escape routes through a building he knows intimately, and the perfect disguise among a pet population that no one would think to investigate systematically."
Mycroft nodded with evident satisfaction at his brother's rapid analysis. "The psychological assessment suggests he's likely been there since immediately after staging his apparent death. Possibly even longer—he may have retreated to Hogwarts directly after betraying the Potters, anticipating that suspicion would eventually fall on him regardless of how well he'd covered his tracks."
"How reliable is this intelligence?" Remus asked, his posture shifting into the alert readiness of someone preparing for immediate action. "Are we dealing with confirmed observation or theoretical analysis based on behavioral profiling?"
"Highly probable based on comprehensive psychological analysis, though not yet verified through direct physical surveillance," Mycroft replied with the kind of diplomatic precision that conveyed confidence while avoiding specific commitments about sources and methods. "However, the reasoning is sufficiently compelling to warrant immediate investigation, particularly given the extended duration of Black's unjust imprisonment."
Sherlock had stopped pacing and was staring out the window with the kind of focused intensity that suggested his mind was working through complex operational scenarios. "Remus, you need to contact Dumbledore immediately—not through normal communication channels, but through whatever emergency protocols exist for urgent security matters. If Pettigrew is indeed at Hogwarts, he must be located and captured before he realizes he's been discovered and attempts another disappearing act."
"Agreed completely," Remus replied, already moving toward the door with controlled urgency. "I can reach the castle within two hours using magical transportation methods. Professor McGonagall should be able to coordinate discrete search operations without alerting the general population or creating the kind of obvious security activity that might spook him into fleeing."
"Wait." Sherlock's voice carried a sharp note of warning that stopped Remus mid-stride. "Pettigrew has survived this long by being considerably more clever than anyone gave him credit for initially. He successfully betrayed his closest friends, staged his own death with sufficient convincing detail to fool trained investigators, and framed an innocent man for multiple murders. If he detects any unusual activity, increased security measures, or systematic search operations, he'll vanish again—quite possibly permanently this time."
"Then how do you propose we proceed?" Remus asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer would involve uncomfortable complications.
Mycroft consulted his sister's analysis again, his expression growing thoughtful as he absorbed her detailed recommendations. "The suggested approach involves identifying specific behavioral anomalies that distinguish intelligent human consciousness operating in animal form from genuine rodent behavior patterns. Pettigrew may be physically disguised as a rat, but he cannot completely suppress his fundamental human psychology, emotional responses, and learned behavioral patterns."
"Such as?" Sherlock prompted, though his tone suggested he was already formulating parallel theories about detection methodology.
"Excessive attention to personal cleanliness beyond normal rodent grooming requirements, strategic positioning for surveillance and information gathering rather than typical nesting and foraging behavior, possible hoarding of items that would be meaningless to an actual rat but significant to a human observer maintaining his assumed identity," Mycroft read from the analysis with growing appreciation for his sister's thoroughness. "Additionally, emotional responses to conversations about topics that shouldn't concern a genuine pet—discussions about Harry, about Sirius Black's imprisonment, about ongoing investigations into the Potter murders."
Remus's expression grew grim with understanding, his amber eyes darkening with something that might have been anger or determination. "He'd be constantly watching and listening, trying to gather intelligence about Harry's location and security arrangements, about whether anyone suspects he's still alive, about Sirius's situation in Azkaban."
"Precisely," Sherlock confirmed, resuming his pacing with renewed energy. "Which means our approach must be subtle enough to avoid triggering his suspicions while comprehensive enough to identify him among potentially hundreds of rats in and around the castle grounds. You'll require assistance, Remus—someone who understands both the psychological profile we're hunting and the magical detection methods that might be applicable."
"I'll coordinate with Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall," Remus agreed, his expression growing more determined as the operational parameters became clear. "Between the three of us, we should be able to develop a systematic search strategy that won't alert Pettigrew to our suspicions while ensuring we don't miss any potential hiding places."
"And when you locate him?" Mycroft inquired, his tone carrying the weight of considerable experience with capturing dangerous individuals under complex circumstances.
"We ensure he faces appropriate justice," Remus replied, though his amber eyes carried a hard glint that suggested his personal definition of justice might prove more immediate and definitively permanent than conventional legal proceedings would typically allow. "Sirius has been imprisoned in Azkaban for almost two weeks now, suffering under conditions that constitute torture for crimes he didn't commit, while the real traitor has been living safely among children and gathering intelligence about his next potential victims. That situation ends today."
Harry, who had been following the conversation with unusual attention and apparent comprehension, chose that moment to make a series of sounds that seemed almost like commentary on the proceedings. All three adults turned to look at him, struck by the uncanny timing and seemingly intentional nature of his contribution to their discussion.
"He understands far more than he should be capable of at his age," Sherlock observed quietly, his pale eyes bright with curiosity as he studied his young cousin. "Children of fifteen months typically lack the cognitive development to follow complex adult conversations or respond appropriately to emotional tension and strategic planning discussions."
"Perhaps it's his magical heritage manifesting in enhanced cognitive processing," Mycroft suggested diplomatically, though his tone indicated he found Harry's precocious awareness equally remarkable and potentially concerning. "Or perhaps he's simply inherited the family genetic predisposition toward exceptional observational abilities and analytical thinking."
Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to appear in the doorway, carrying a tea tray loaded with her finest china and the kind of maternal efficiency that suggested she'd been monitoring the conversation from the kitchen and had determined that important strategic discussions required proper refreshment and civilized social protocols.
"Mr. Lupin," she said, setting down the tray with practiced care while shooting meaningful glances at all three men, "I've prepared a proper traveling kit for your journey—sandwiches that won't go stale, a thermos of good strong tea, and some of those digestive biscuits you mentioned enjoying. Travel safely, and please bring back good news about that poor innocent man in that dreadful prison."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Remus replied, accepting the package with genuine gratitude that suggested he wasn't entirely accustomed to such maternal fussing. "Your kindness has meant more than I can adequately express."
"Absolute nonsense," Mrs. Hudson replied briskly, though her expression carried unmistakable affection. "You're family now, whether you like it or not, and family takes proper care of each other during difficult circumstances." She turned to Harry, who had crawled over to investigate the interesting sounds and smells associated with tea preparation. "And you, young man, must behave yourself while Mr. Lupin is away on important business. No more attempting to conduct chemical experiments with your porridge, and absolutely no trying to eat Sherlock's evidence samples."
As preparations for Remus's departure continued, Mycroft found himself contemplating the remarkable domestic scene they'd somehow created—a consulting detective providing advanced criminology education to a toddler, a werewolf preparing to hunt down a traitor hiding among school children, and Mrs. Hudson managing them all with the kind of practical authority that made even the most complex situations seem manageable through proper application of common sense and adequate tea supplies.
It was, he reflected with genuine satisfaction, either the most effective protection Harry Potter could have possibly received, or the most elaborate method of attracting unprecedented trouble that any family had ever devised.
Given their family history, it was almost certainly both simultaneously.
---
## Sherrinford Maximum Security Facility - 3:47 AM
The pre-dawn hours at Sherrinford were traditionally the most peaceful period of the facility's operational cycle, with skeleton staff maintaining essential security functions while the institution's more dangerous residents remained safely secured in their individual cells, presumably sleeping or engaging in whatever passed for rest among individuals whose minds operated on frequencies that most humans couldn't begin to comprehend.
During these quiet interludes, the facility's administrators allowed themselves the comfortable illusion that their systems were truly impregnable, their protocols absolutely effective, and their most brilliant prisoner was simply an exceptionally intelligent woman who played violin to pass the tedious hours of institutionalized existence.
This particular morning, their confidence would prove to be both tragically misplaced and embarrassingly naive.
Eurus Holmes stood at her cell's small reinforced window, watching the lighthouse beam sweep across the North Sea with the kind of methodical precision that would have seemed obsessive in anyone whose intellectual capabilities operated within normal human parameters. The timing was as reliable as atomic decay—every twelve seconds, the light passed her position, briefly illuminating the sterile interior of her accommodation before moving on to the next sector of its eternal surveillance pattern.
She had been counting those intervals for seven months, two weeks, and four days, but only now did they serve a purpose beyond simple mental exercise and the maintenance of cognitive acuity in an environment specifically designed to minimize intellectual stimulation.
"Twelve seconds of illumination, forty-eight seconds of relative darkness," she murmured to herself with the kind of satisfied precision that most people reserved for completing particularly challenging mathematical proofs. "More than adequate temporal parameters for phase one implementation."
She moved away from the window with fluid grace, her movements economical and purposeful as she approached her small desk. From beneath her mattress—a hiding place so obvious that the security staff had undoubtedly discovered and catalogued it months ago while remaining blissfully unaware of its actual contents—she retrieved what appeared to be a standard-issue hearing aid battery.
In reality, it was a sophisticated electronic device she'd constructed from scavenged components over the course of several weeks: hearing aid circuitry cannibalized from the facility's medical supplies, copper wire extracted from her violin's internal construction, and plastic housing carved from her food trays using implements that would have horrified the security staff if they'd understood their true potential.
"Guards rotate shifts in precisely eighteen minutes," she observed, consulting the duty roster she'd memorized through careful observation and strategic conversation with staff members whose psychological profiles made them susceptible to information-gathering techniques disguised as casual social interaction. "Dr. Reeves won't arrive for her morning evaluation session for another three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Maintenance cycle doesn't commence until seven-thirty, and the overnight security coordinator is currently dealing with a minor disturbance in Block C that will occupy his attention for at least fifteen minutes."
She activated her improvised device with a gentle touch, immediately gaining access to the facility's internal communication network through methods that would have impressed intelligence agencies across the globe if they'd understood that such sophisticated electronic infiltration could be accomplished using components scavenged from routine institutional supplies.
"Perfect operational window," she concluded with evident satisfaction.
Moving to her cell door, she examined the electronic locking mechanism with the kind of professional interest most people reserved for fine art or exceptionally well-prepared cuisine. Sherrinford's security systems represented the absolute pinnacle of institutional containment technology, designed by experts who understood that confining a genius of her caliber required considerably more sophisticated measures than simple physical barriers or conventional psychological manipulation.
Unfortunately for them, they had made the classic bureaucratic error of underestimating exactly what category of genius they were attempting to contain.
"Biometric scanner, twelve-digit electronic keypad, magnetic locking mechanism with manual override capabilities," she catalogued, running her fingertips along the door frame with delicate precision that suggested both technical expertise and genuine appreciation for well-engineered security systems. "Standard Whitehall Engineering specifications, model seven-seven-alpha, installed approximately eighteen months ago during the facility's most recent security upgrade cycle."
She paused, her pale eyes brightening with the kind of intellectual satisfaction that preceded her most brilliant deductive breakthroughs. "Which means they're still utilizing the manufacturer's default emergency override protocols, because bureaucratic efficiency always trumps actual security considerations when it comes to governmental contractors operating under competitive bidding requirements."
From her violin case, she withdrew what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary tuning fork, though anyone with sufficient technical expertise would have immediately recognized the sophisticated modifications that transformed it into a precision electronic frequency generator capable of interfacing with a remarkable range of electronic systems.
She positioned the modified tuning fork against the door's locking mechanism and activated it with a sharp, precisely calculated tap that produced a sound barely audible to human hearing but perfectly calibrated to trigger the electronic systems' emergency response protocols.
The door's various security components responded immediately and exactly as she'd predicted: the biometric scanner flickered through a brief diagnostic sequence, the keypad's digital display showed a rapid series of error messages before reverting to standby mode, and after precisely seven seconds of electromagnetic interference, the magnetic locks disengaged with a soft click that sounded absolutely thunderous in the facility's artificial quiet.
"Emergency override successfully activated," she observed with genuine satisfaction, though she made no immediate move to open the door that now stood between her and freedom. "Thank you, Whitehall Engineering, for your reassuringly predictable adherence to bureaucratic safety protocols. Heaven forbid someone should be accidentally trapped in their own cell during a fire alarm or structural emergency."
She returned to her desk and began gathering the few possessions that would prove useful for what came next: her modified violin and its camouflaged accessories, several sheets of her analytical notes written in the coded shorthand she'd developed specifically for occasions when her thoughts needed to remain private, and a small plastic container that had originally held vitamin supplements but now contained items of considerably more interesting chemical composition.
"Phase two initialization," she announced to her empty cell with the kind of formal precision usually reserved for official operational commencements. "Guard rotation occurs in eleven minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Security camera surveillance cycles every forty-five seconds on this particular corridor. Maintenance access to the facility's lower service levels will be... temporarily available in approximately six minutes."
She opened her cell door with careful precision, immediately noting the subtle change in air pressure that indicated the building's ventilation system was operating within normal parameters—a detail that would prove crucial for the next phase of her carefully orchestrated departure from what was supposedly Britain's most secure containment facility.
The corridor beyond her cell was dimly lit and completely deserted, exactly as her calculations had predicted it would be during the overlap period between guard rotations and routine security patrols. Moving with the kind of fluid silence that suggested considerable practice in environments where detection would result in immediate and permanently unpleasant consequences, she made her way toward the maintenance stairwell she'd identified during her first week of incarceration through systematic observation and strategic questioning of facility staff.
Sherrinford's architects had designed the institution to contain the most brilliant and dangerous criminals in Britain, but they'd made the understandable oversight of assuming that their prisoners would focus their escape attempts on obvious routes like main exits, visitor areas, or perimeter security rather than considering the more mundane but equally effective possibilities offered by the building's essential infrastructure systems.
"Access panel seven-seven-charlie," she murmured, locating the unmarked service door that provided maintenance personnel with access to the facility's mechanical systems. "Security classification: minimal administrative oversight, because honestly, what sort of person would attempt to escape through the sewage treatment and water purification systems?"
The answer, obviously, was someone who had spent several months studying the facility's infrastructure with the same methodical attention that other people devoted to crossword puzzles or television programming, and who possessed both the intellectual capacity to understand complex mechanical systems and the psychological flexibility to endure temporarily unpleasant experiences in service of longer-term strategic objectives.
Forty-three minutes later, Eurus emerged from a drainage culvert approximately eight hundred meters from Sherrinford's main buildings, her appearance somewhat disheveled by her unconventional exit route but her expression carrying the kind of satisfied precision that suggested every aspect of her escape had proceeded exactly according to her carefully calculated plans.
"Phase three implementation," she said, systematically wringing muddy water from her violin case and checking to ensure that her instruments had survived their journey through the facility's waste management infrastructure without significant damage. "Transportation acquisition, communication establishment, and the delightfully complex challenge of locating one very specific rat among the general rodent population of what is undoubtedly a very large and architecturally complicated castle."
She made her way across the rocky shoreline toward a small fishing vessel she'd been observing through her cell window for months—a boat that made regular supply runs between the island and the mainland, operated by a captain whose approach to maritime regulations appeared refreshingly flexible and whose psychological profile suggested he might prove amenable to providing unofficial passenger services for appropriate compensation.
As she walked, she began playing her violin—not the complex analytical compositions she'd been developing during her months of confinement, but something considerably simpler and more immediately purposeful. A melody specifically designed to carry over wind and salt water, mathematically calculated to suggest both harmlessness and irresistible curiosity to anyone within audible range, particularly individuals whose personalities made them susceptible to music-based psychological influence.
By the time the sun fully rose over the North Sea, Eurus Holmes was aboard a fishing boat bound for the Scottish coast, her violin case containing not just a modified musical instrument but also detailed plans for locating and capturing Peter Pettigrew. The boat's captain had been remarkably cooperative once she'd explained her situation in terms that emphasized family loyalty and the correction of serious injustices.
He'd also been quite impressed by her violin playing, though he probably would have been less enthusiastic if he'd understood that her musical selections had been specifically chosen to induce a state of cooperative suggestibility in listeners with his particular psychological profile.
"Family obligations," she murmured to the morning wind, her pale eyes fixed on the approaching Scottish coastline. "Such powerful motivators, aren't they? Especially when filtered through minds that understand exactly how to use them most effectively."
Behind her, Sherrinford's alarm systems had begun their inevitable discovery of her absence, initiating security protocols that would mobilize half the British intelligence apparatus within hours. But by then, she would be well on her way to Hogwarts, where a certain rat was about to learn that betraying the family of Eurus Holmes had been a very poor decision indeed.
The game, as Sherlock would say, was afoot. Though in this case, it involved considerably more family members than he realized, and at least one player whose methods made even consulting detectives seem restrained by comparison.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!