The Holmes Manor presided in an isolated part of the Wizarding community of Chudleigh, with looming gates that stretched high and wide around the massive estate. It was a grand domain in its obvious wealth, but it gave one the sense of frigidity when looked upon for an extended time, its grey walls and shadowed gardens leaving you to feel as though you had no place there; and you didn't. No one had a place except for the cold, calculating family that lived there.
The Holmes family was one of the purest lines of wizarding blood in the history books, and it was perhaps one of the proudest and most contemptuous of the magic community, rivaled only by that of the Black family. The members of this household had always been the most power-hungry Slytherins the world was yet to see, until the arrival of a certain curly-haired, brunette boy whose first and foremost wish was to be a pirate.
That boy's name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.
The eleven-year-old gazed out his second story bedroom window with his crystalline blue-gray eyes with an air of boredom. He had been trapped in his room by that scurvy enemy of his to keep him from shredding the bilge rat's school robes to bits. Of course, that enemy was his older brother, Mycroft. The youngest Holmes huffed his frustration, fogging the glass in front of his face, obstructing his view of the outside world. Was it his fault that the pirate ship he had made for himself of his bed and junior broomstick required black sails? Obviously not. It was only logical that the most fear-striking of pirate ships required such a feature, but Mycroft had failed to see reason.
A mischievous smile lined the boy's face as he recalled the third year Slytherin's reaction, a snicker coursing its way through his body. How he did enjoy messing with Mycroft. There was little things to entertain him in the giant house. His parents never paid much attention to him, and his brother was the only social interaction he had, besides Redbeard.
A warm, genuine smile graced his pale features then. Redbeard was his secret pet. Mummy couldn't know about him. She despised animals of any sort, especially the mangy kind, but Sherlock had found Redbeard one day when out playing in the muggle playground, a place he was never supposed to go, but often went anyway. He remembered the red, shaggy coat bounding towards him, panting happily as it sniffed away at him, the lonely child on the swing. The park had been abandoned, and there wasn't anyone else around.
Sherlock remembered analyzing the dog. Fur slightly matted, and rather dirty. No collar, but friendly. Used to people. Paws rather calloused, so outside dog, more than likely a stray. The curly-haired child had grinned with delight as he coaxed the dog back the couple of blocks and brought him to the greenhouse that his parents never went in. It was far enough away from the house that no one would notice the dog's presence.
Well, no one except Mycroft.
Sherlock had had Redbeard (for a pirate had to have a pup with a pirate name) for almost a full week, and was bringing him some leftover roast the house-elves had cooked for dinner, when Mycroft had cornered him in the kitchen.
"You know Mummy won't approve of your mutt," Mycroft had sneered, plucking a speck of dust off his crisp, pressed suit sleeve. It was his usual gray three piece suit, much more formal than any other thirteen-year-old. Then again, he wasn't any thirteen-year-old. In his third year, Mycroft had already managed to secure a position as a prefect, usually a job offered to fifth years.
"It doesn't matter, because she won't find out," the younger Holmes bit back, pushing past the annoyance he called a sibling.
Mycroft only laughed. "You can't honestly think she won't find out. You're even more dense than I thought, brother mine."
"The correct term is denser, imbecile," he retorted. "Why don't you just shove off, Piecroft? Why not see if the house-elves can make you a cake or something."
He stomped out the back door towards the greenhouse then, hearing his brother call after him, "I'm not the imbecile who walks around with dog hair all over him, expecting not to get caught."
He had looked down then, noticing that his black button up shirt and black trousers had indeed betrayed his ownership.
Sherlock sighed, bumping his head against the window, his curls flattening against his forehead. Mycroft could be such a pain in his-
A loud crack could be heard behind him and he whipped around. Standing in the middle of his room, a house-elf looked up at him with wide eyes, draped in a loose cloth that it continued to toy with as it struggled for words.
"Yes, Nimmy, what is it?" the boy asked somewhat cautiously. Large pupils, nervous twitch, fear of eye-contact. Whatever the house-elf had to say couldn't be very good.
Nimmy fumbled nervously, "Master Sherlock should be knowing that Master Redbeard has been taken away."
The piercing gray eyes went wide with shock. "What?!"
The small creature only nodded. "Mistress Holmes had him sent to…" it seemed to stuggle with itself a moment before continuing, "a circus, sir."
"A… a circus?"
"Yes, sir. That's what Master Mycroft says to Nimmy."
"Mycroft?" The gray eyes hardened into ice as the name was spat from his mouth like venom.
The little house-elf quivered. "Y-yes, sir. He tells Nimmy of Mistress' actions with Master Redbeard. Mistress was very upset and sent him away to circus. Master Mycroft says to tell you-" but Nimmy was not able to finish speaking as Sherlock was already beating his shoulder against his door.
"MYCROFT!" Sherlock shouted with another slam against the door. His anger was building as he stepped back from the door to hit it again. How DARE he? How COULD he? His mind raced with fury as the door was blown from its hinges, and without a thought to his uncontrolled magic, he stormed through the now vacant frame in search of his brother.
He reached the eldest sibling's entrance and watched as it too burst out of his way. He walked in to find a stoic Mycroft with his arms folded with wand in hand, looking down at his brother with what almost seemed like pity.
Sherlock was about to charge when Mycroft flicked his wand at him while muttering, "Immobulus."
Frozen in place, Sherlock glared daggers at his traitorous brother as hot tears stream down his face. "You just couldn't help yourself could you? You always have to be Mummy's favourite," he shouted at the still unmoving Mycroft. "Where is he? Tell me where he is, you puffed-up cockatrice!"
The older shook his head. "Nimmy told you already-"
"Don't even start," Sherlock cut him off. "The circus? Really, Mycroft? You couldn't think of a more convincing lie?"
Mycroft didn't seem fazed by his accusations. "Mother wanted him out. You know how she can be with her temper." He narrowed his eyes, "Not unlike yours."
"What did she do, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.
The look that Mycroft gave him was telling enough, as the older boy lowered his eyes in shame and perhaps, for a fleeting moment, sadness. "She had him… removed."
Sherlock felt what little part of him that had any warmth freeze over and shatter into bits. The spell his brother had cast lifted and he crumpled to his knees, feeling an emptiness overtake him.
"Caring is not an advantage, brother dear."
The broken boy locked eyes with his betrayer, his own still hot with tears. Mycroft watched as the child's face hardened to an expression of cold hatred.
Sherlock stood up then and threw one last sentence at his brother before leaving. "You're right. It isn't."
The elder brother watched as the younger turned on his heel and left, flying down the stairs and out into the now dusky eve. Mycroft viewed from his window as a long coat and scarf blew in the wind as the curly haired wizard-to-be stormed away from the manor in the direction of that muggle park. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed. "Whatever will you do with a heart?"
The Holmes boys sat in their dining room, the morning light pouring in from the tall, majestic windows that lined the room. One sat rather stiffly at one end of the large mahogany table, reading The Daily Prophet and sipping a cup of tea like those much older than he usually did, while the other was at the other end, scowling at his breakfast.
They sat in silence, neither moving from their place. It had been three months since the Redbeard incident, and Sherlock had changed. To anyone but Mycroft, the change would have been overlooked, but the elder Holmes knew his brother. The childlike spirit had died, and the only heart the entire Holmes Manor had ever known seemed lost in the boys now frosted glare and constantly calculating eyes. It was there, Mycroft was sure, but it had been squelched by the loss of a… dare he say it… friend… he sneered as he thought of the word… and his own betrayal. Of course the two of them had had spats before, but this had wounded Sherlock, and it had left an ugly scar that would only fester into a boy who trusted no one. Perhaps it's better, he thought glancing up from his reading at the boy in question. He needs to use his mind. Emotions only lead to muddled thinking and pain. It's better this way.
Sherlock continued glaring at his eggs benedict with something akin to disdain. Food was a waste of his time. He was only here to collect the morning mail, but the dratted house-elves seemed insistent that he eat something.
"You can't glower away your meal, Sherlock," came Mycroft's voice, pulling him out of his reverie. "You eat it, not have a staring contest with it."
Sherlock only narrowed his eyes at his brother and returned his grimace to the plate before him. "Where's the bloody owl, anyway?"
"Expecting something, are we?" Mycroft asked, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
"You know perfectly well I am," came the biting reply. The brunette ran a hand through his rugged brown locks in frustration. "You've done the calculations yourself. Estimating the time it takes your owls from Hogwarts to arrive yearly, I should be receiving my acceptance letter today." He stabbed a piece of toast with enough ferocity to nearly crack the delicate, serpent-engraved china.
The young prefect chuckled at the annoyed boy, a glint of mischief in his eye. "Perhaps you aren't getting one. They may have heard tell of the trouble you cause just around here, keeping the household awake with horrid violin playing and experiments that nearly blow up the house."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, tugging annoyedly at his blue dressing-gown. "You may desist with your ramblings, Piecroft. Still on the diet? I noticed there's no raspberry scones and custard this morning." His stab worked as Mycroft glared and looked rather longingly at his plain cup of tea.
Looking around the overly decorated dining room, Sherlock knew every inch of it, from the silver and green drapes to the pearl-white molding with the family crest carved into it every 5.001 meters (whatever idiot had measured had done a poor job). His eyes found the window the post usually arrived through and low and behold, there sat an owl, awaiting entry as it rapt its beak against the pane.
A house-elf snapped into view, allowing the bird to fly in and drop a letter into Sherlock's awaiting palm, the red seal already confirming his earlier deductions. He ripped open the envelope, only to have a glare interrupt his eyesight. "Ridiculous windows," he muttered as he waved his hand and all the curtains snapped shut, leaving the chandelier to light the room.
"Your wandless abilities are quite astounding." Mycroft said without looking up from the Prophet. He flicked his wand and opened one curtain directly behind him to grant him more reading light.
"And your ability to state the obvious is equally so," the eleven-year-old shot back before returning to his letter. It was exactly as he'd been expecting, nearly identical to Mycroft's from two years previous apart from the addressee change.
He stood up then and began to walk from the room when a voice inquired, "And just where are you going, dear brother?"
"To change. And then the fireplace."
Mycroft raised a single chestnut eyebrow. "Why is that?"
Sherlock scoffed, "Don't be daft, Mycroft. I have supplies that I need to obtain." He began to walk again when the laughter behind him made him halt.
"Dear brother, you must be joking!" Mycroft looked at Sherlock then, an amused glint in his blue eyes. "An eleven-year-old walking around Diagon Alley alone?"
The younger boy scowled. "I do not joke." He stomped away as Mycroft was left shaking his head. He would show Mycroft he was not just an eleven-year-old.