MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 1)

Twelve

*Hello fellow Sherlockians! I am back with the second part of my Potterlock series. If you haven't read part one yet, I suggest heading over to my profile right now and reading MCC: Fear Is A Choice.

WARNINGS: descriptive/disturbing images, language, violence, etc.

*Johnlock cuteness thrown in ;-)

*Some humor and jokes about other TV shows and movies in here.

*Feel free to review however many times you'd like, whenever you want!

*The characters of BBC Sherlock return to Hogwarts for their second year.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter. They belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and J.K. Rowling. All original story ideas belong to them. I make no money off of this story. It is for entertainment purposes only.

A young boy winced at a sharp pain that pinched his finger, a splinter digging in as a result of twirling a woodchip in his palm. As soon as the tiny fraction entered the first layer of skin he let the chunk fall to the ground harshly, settling to join thousands of replicas of itself. The boy did not pick up another one as he'd learned from his stupid mistake and lesson while hurting himself in the process.

The sun beat down as if to strangle him, sending flowing rays to hit the black All Stars that protected his stumbling feet. He kept shuffling them about, tapping them together or weaving them in and out of each other. It was hard for him to sit still after an unfortunate incident that almost took his life in his previous school year. This boy was not just an ordinary human; through the developing years of his infant stage, the kid with blonde locks for hair was possessed with a special ability that only a select population of the world could master.

He was a wizard.

The boy sat alone on a child swing set at the deserted local primary school playground, gently pushing his shoes off the pile of woodchips to rock back and forth. Not a living soul was in sight as he contemplated things on his own. This was the same school he went to as a younger student, only then he hadn't known his best friend then like he did now; the friend he'd met by learning about a certain school devoted to magic from. Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry.

A long stick with curved patterns and smooth bark was stuffed in his khaki shorts' pocket, but very few people understood the true power the wand could produce. He kept it with him yet hidden at all times, just in case the need arose to defend himself in a life-threatening situation.

He continued to swing freely in the sweltering heat, a frown permanently on his face and his red polo shirt consuming sweat stains on his back. A blue bike was leaning up against the nearby construction set poles, sparkling in the sun with an empty water bottle under the pedal chain. Perspiration was dripping down his back in large droplets, making his throat beg for water and his hair bangs stick to his forehead.

What he held in his hand was something a child would not normally carry around with them. The pocket radio was making gurgling noises as he tried to tune it. He had a strange addiction to Muggle music and always found himself singing along to various beats, knowing almost all of the lyrics. The device belched fuzziness at him once more and he shook the broken electronic, extending out the antenna to try and gather a signal. By tilting it for multiple attempts, he finally collected a faint DJ beat coming to fill his hearing. The song he'd caught wasn't very old, as it had been released early that same year. He kicked in easily and soon began to sing along, tapping a steady staccato on his thigh.

Feel my way through the darkness,

Guided by a beating heart.

I can't tell where the journey will end,

But I know where to start.

The radio gave off a high-pitched shriek and the blonde flinched at the ear-splitting screech, smacking the useless provider of music so it cooperated with him.

I tried carrying the weight of the world,

But I only have two hands.

Hope I get the chance to travel the world,

Cause I don't have any plans.

Another verse picked up and instead of lip singing he hummed the tune, his sounds rising and falling perfectly to the melodious pitch.

Wish that I could stay forever this young,

Not afraid to close my eyes.

Life's a game made for everyone,

And love is a prize.

The song faded for large gaps and then came back as clear as fresh water for some periods, but the notes died off and cut short much sooner than he wanted them to. He was left in total silence for several long, drawn out moments until he was able to boost his signal and discover the next tune on the playlist. However, he was only able to hear the few lines of the chorus through the obnoxious bellows of static he received instead.

I know that it's gonna take some time,

I've got to admit that the thought has crossed my mind,

This might end up like it should.

And I'm gonna say what I need to say,

And hope to God that it don't scare you away,

I don't wanna be misunderstood.

But I'm starting to believe that,

This could be the start of something good.

And then the radio cackled a final time and died, ending the muffled sound effects and cutting off sharply. The boy sighed and turned it over in his hand, muttering, "Stupid thing…Needs new batteries," and chucked it aside.

He suddenly felt a vibration coming from his outer knee area and flung his hand into his pocket, pulling out his cheap cell phone his parents gave him years ago in case of an emergency. That's not what he used it for now. He liked and tended to text his best friend in his free time; that is when he wasn't hanging around with him.

Black letters in a dedicated font stared at him on the screen, and he had to squint his eyes to read the message against the blinding sunshine. His brain took in the words and he realized it was a text from a boy who lived in a neighborhood close by to his.

Father just left for work. Ministry stuff. 'Top secret' apparently. Would you maybe want to meet up later in the afternoon? –SH

The boy who'd gotten the text sat debating what he really did want to do. After a little while, he sent a short reply.

Don't know yet. –JW

A response came back almost instantly.

What's that supposed to mean? –SH

He rolled his eyes.

I'll think about it. –JW

Silence surrounded him once more until about five minutes later, another beep came from his phone.

Where are you by the way? I've been looking for you for ages. –SH

I'm over at my old primary school. Been sitting on the swings for about two hours now. –JW

John, you're going to get dehydrated. –SH

That was the first time somebody had silently spoken his name through a communicator that day. Sherlock only used his name in text messages when he was extremely concerned or proving a point. Not serving as a good example of a best friend, the boy named John sent Holmes a lie back.

I'll be fine. I've got a bottle of water with me. -JW

The answer he got in return made him consider traveling back home as soon as possible.

John, you know you can't stay outside for that long. The heat will be too much after a while. It's over 100 degrees and I'm sure you'll end up with sunburn if you sit there any longer. –SH

Watson heaved a deep sigh, grabbing hold of the swing chain with one arm. With many topics of arguments, his body concluded it would be best to start the ten minute ride home.

Be back in a little bit. –JW

But he didn't move. He even told his best friend Sherlock Holmes that he was going to ride his bike back to his house yet he didn't get up from his seat. His gaze, focused intently on the tan ground, slowly transferred to his right. A crumbled newspaper was lying beside the front tire of his bicycle, words floating around the page and images moving in synchronization. In the wizarding world, pictures and words were bewitched to move around on tapestries and paper, making the world of magic 'unique' when it came to informational history and news.

Watson didn't know why he had a weekly junk copy of the new wizard paper The Daily Prophet, but he bent over gingerly and took the thin news article in his hands anyway. The presence of it displeased him but he needed to have a scoop on what was going on in the wizarding world over the summer holiday. The parchment looked cream colored in the daylight and he was familiar with the faces staring up at him. One photograph shocked him the most, being smack dab in the center of the front page. The head article was titled "Dementors Evacuated From Hogwarts, Returned Back To Azkaban."

Curious, his eyes traveled down the page to read the first couple sentences about the week's head story.

"After a tragic event that occurred at the end of the Hogwarts school term and nearly killed two first-year students, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has dismissed the Azkaban guards from the grounds and sent them back to their prison. The two boys involved in the incident were claimed to be chased through the Forbidden Forest by the dementors and then were attacked on the shore of the Black Lake, almost taking the life of the shorter student with blonde hair. The Ravenclaw was seen defending both boys from potential danger and collapsing at the Gryffindor's side. When he woke up a few days later, he was back to normal in no time. Both boys successfully recovered."

"Yeah, just barely," John said to himself. He skipped over a large paragraph until a quote and a name caught his eye; the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

"'Some of the professors who teach at the school were told from Holmes that it was Slytherin Jim Moriarty who was behind the attack, but the Ministry has no proof of this for evidence and therefore cannot punish Mr. Moriarty for his actions.'"

"What?" John yelled out in rage at Fudge's own words, not believing Moriarty could get away with something so serious as threatening two first years' lives. I never should believe this rubbish, he told himself. Eyebrows bowed in anger, he continued to scan the bottom of the page to collect a bit of information on the Slytherin's father.

"Jim Moriarty's father works in the Department of the Muggle-born Registration Commission offices and has indeed been keeping a close eye on Watson, as he is a Muggleborn."

What? That's a typo, John noticed, aware that he was a half-blood and had one wizard parent. Finishing up the article, his eyes wandered the page and fell back on the image of the dementors of Azkaban.

The deranged, hooded monsters were attempting to suck the engraved image of themselves from the magazine, hiding their faces with ragged, grey cloaks. Their scabby, green hands were longing to drag John's face into the paper so they could destroy his soul forever. His encounter with them last year left his life hanging on the edge of a knife, struggling to survive with such a weakness as only the strongest wizards can overcome.

For dementors feed on nothing else but a person's innocent life, planning to strike and kill when available. What they leave behind is a frightening and piercing cold, drowning the victim in a wave of depression as they capture all your happy memories.

John had a bigger disadvantage when he'd discovered last year that the creatures could hurt you so much as to fool you that your loved ones were potentially dying to save your life. When Sherlock had suggested they practice defending themselves from the guards of Azkaban, he'd had a horrible experience with noises in his head that he never expected. Every time he was exposed to a dementor, an agonizing scream would blare in his ears, but he was the only one who could explain it since no one else could hear it. Not only that, but he also frequently heard the blast of an explosion. And it wasn't just it ordinary scream…

It was Sherlock's scream.

That night on the lake shore a Slytherin schoolmate named Jim Moriarty had tortured him so bad that he believed he was witnessing the death of his friend right then and there, when in fact the Ravenclaw was coming to rescue him from a kidnapping. Moriarty had made him shout out in grief with ease, shaking all his limbs and eventually ending his medieval scheme with stabbing the Gryffindor in the neck and injecting poison into his blood. He was lucky enough that his body could take the weight and he fully recovered from the liquid and a stomach injury in a reasonable amount of days.

John closed his eyes and curled his right hand into a fist, letting The Daily Prophet slide down his pants a few centimeters. He felt some strange warm wave run over his skin, a bubble that was sewing up the scratches of his injuries. When he slowly unclasped his hand, the tiny wooden splinter had vanished and his fingerprint had returned to normal.

Following sitting in the heat for another quarter of an hour, John made himself stand up and head off home. As he placed his hands on his knees and prepared to push up into an upright position, he flicked his wrist to check the time on his watch. 14:39. The date also stood out to him, yet he didn't show nearly as much interest as he should have.

July 7th.

Exhaling with the thought of having such a rough life, John gathered his items and shoved them into a spare bag he'd borrowed from his mum. He undid the cap on his water bottle to see if there had been any chance of some last drops, but none fell on his tongue when he tilted the cup at a 75 degree angle. Disappointed, he disposed of it and placed it back in the holder under the seat.

He kicked the stopper and began to walk his bike on up the winding road, waiting till he'd used the crosswalk to start pedaling. He tried to turn the radio on again while it was strapped to the handles, but it did no good as the device had completely given out. He swung his leg over the padded seat and took off, his bag draped over his back and his black All Stars glued to their platforms.

Twice he had to pull over to fix his hair, as it had grown a few inches since his last haircut and now his front bangs stuck out flatly almost farther than his nose. He kept his blonde locks neatly combed and parted slightly off center, his individual hairs sweeping over his skull with an extra flip in front as a finishing touch. Watson could definitely tell sweat droplets drenched his hair as he continued to ride along the edge of the road; he buried his hand back into his luggage and revealed a hand towel with the TARDIS sewn on it and dabbed his shining face. He kept the cloth curved over his shoulder along the ride so he could use it when necessary.

As he got closer to one of the busiest streets in town he heard many car horns beeping at him when he swerved to avoid obstacles in the road. Blinkers warned him of incoming cabs and the crosswalk signs turned white with a stick figure man to indicate that he could walk over the thick stripes in the road. Small businesses run by affectionate families lined the sidewalks, and he briefly glanced in the windows as he rode by on his bike.

Something in particular caught his eye as he passed a clothing store his mother loved to shop at. Dozens of scarves were displayed in the window and one reminded him of Sherlock's scarf he'd given him for Christmas. The child detective loved that scarf. He carried it during all his vacations and wore in during any season of the year.

His vision in the glass substituted and he was able to see the town background behind him, bustling with parents and couples who were trying not to die from the overbearing sun. Not too far ahead the road split in a 'V' shape and a gas station was built in between the intersections. Curious, he reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out some money, suddenly becoming more grateful as the thought of fresh water conquered his mind.

He made sure the road was clear before heading on over to buy a drink, careful to dodge the cars parked out front and the ones that were being filled up with fuel. Very fragile about who stole his possessions, he secured his bike to a rack with a lock and headed inside. The air-conditioned room felt so glorious on his cheeks, and he stayed where he was for a few moments to appreciate the coolness.

He went straight for the refrigerated section of the mini market and scanned the rows of energy drinks, finally spotting a freezer devoted to H₂O. His hand almost froze as he reached in to grab one on the bottom, the label crinkling against his fingernails. His stomach grumbled as he headed for the register and decided to pick up a quick snack as well. He found a shelf with energy bars but noticed cookies instead and selected a nut-free package, trying to cut low on the salts and sugars. Why not enjoy a couple cookies? After all, it is a very special day for me.

He smiled at the man at the register to show that he was friendly, delicately placing his purchases on the counter. There was a beep each time an item was scanned and the shopper listened for the amount needed to be paid. The cashier told him the price and John eagerly handed over his money.

"Thanks," John said, shuffling his items back. "Have a nice day," he wished.

"You too," the polite man told him. "Try not to stay outside for long. The heat's brutal."

John chuckled. "I won't. Thank you."

The young boy braced himself and rolled his eyes before pushing the shop door open with a jolt of his arm. The temperature melted him as he took one step out the door and scooted off to the side to munch on his delicious treat. He threw the wrapper away in a nearby trashcan before sinking his teeth into the vanilla flavor and smiling to himself.

"Happy birthday, John." He licked his lips, feeling the need to announce the important day to himself out loud. He was just 365 days from becoming a teenager, a scary thought that he didn't want to process too quickly.

Today, he turned twelve.

The cookie was swallowed in his throat with ease and he washed the last crumbs down with a swig of store-bought water. Already feeling 50% better, he swapped out his old water bottle with the new one and unlocked the key chain with his code. It was a four digit password that he'd randomly set a code to and didn't intend to change it for many years to come.

7437.

A vibration from his pocket told him that someone had texted him again. It wasn't a surprise when he pulled it out to find that it was from Sherlock.

Gotten any more progress done on your book? –SH

John was half sitting half standing while he tried to find the answer for the brunette. As a returning home gift last year his mum had given him a journal to write in. At first John thought it was a pointless present, seeing as he never wrote in his free time. But then when his parent had asked if he'd used it, she suggested an entertaining idea that would keep him occupied for a long while and help him develop a new skill. Every morning she listened to him rant about his school adventures with Sherlock, leaving out bits and pieces so she wouldn't get worried so much.

When she'd heard quite a load and was delighted to hear more, she suggested that he write it down as a story; to become an author. John was shocked himself by how much of his first year he'd remembered, and yet there was so much he left out as he wrote his tale. He wanted it to be entertaining and contain the most important parts of his educational years at Hogwarts so he could one day tell them to his children.

That is if I have any…

He completely spaced out and almost didn't send a digital message back before biking back down the street.

I think I've gotten a chapter and a half done. Should have a large chunk written by the end of summer. –JW

He was becoming too hot with his shirt on so it was thrown over his head as he took it off. Underneath it he was wearing a camouflaged Army tank top that showed off his upper arm muscles, clinging to his stomach and stretching down to cover his belt. He looked very much like a young soldier, doing his best of an impression of his father who'd joined the Army when John was a young lad. His body was quite stocky for a young boy, and he'd gained a lot of muscle over the summer from a few sports camps he did with a group of buddies. He now almost didn't have any fat in his stomach at all, but part of that problem was the fact that he'd lost a lot of weight from his strenuous recovery in the hospital wing.

He wiped the perspiration from his face one more time before making room in his bag for his polo shirt. A bit of sweat fell off his eyebrow and stung in his eye, forcing him to rub his irresistibly blue irises from any further damage. Flexing his muscles and stretching out his calves, he put his arms through his bag straps and prepared for the two mile bike back to his neighborhood.

John tried to play a little game while he biked down the road, attempting to keep the handles straight and coast directly over the white line acting as a boundary for the edge of the pavement. By looking down and keeping his eyes fixed on the road he was able to remain out of the way of traffic and somehow find himself turning onto his street sooner than expected.

He skidded over the small pile of pebbles at the base of his home's driveway and parked his ride in the garage, breathing out a sigh of relief that he'd made it to his destination unscathed. He slipped under the closing door as he made to enter the front door, unlocking it with a spare key his mum had set on the dining room table for him.

He was utterly confused when he heard the echo of the television coming from the room to his left just down the hallway. His bedroom was just past the living room on the ground floor, making it easy for him to roll out of bed in the morning and cook breakfast. He entered the open area and stood in the doorway to find his older sister Harriet sprawled on the leather couch.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, not in a rude way but needing to know. She'd developed quite a temper with her younger brother ever since he'd showed her his special talent, using hand magic to make a stone float in the meadow between his neighborhood and Sherlock's.

"Why do you think? I'm not planning on going anywhere this summer." John rolled his eyes at her laziness.

"Ok, then answer me this; where's Mum?"

"She's out."

"I know that…" I'm not stupid Harry, he grumbled, keeping the remark in his mind. "Out where?"

"To get groceries. She was gone after you'd left so early this morning. You would've known if you came home earlier."

"I didn't get up that early. Mum must have just been tired. I got up around 8:30," he pointed out. John narrowed his eyes and left his mouth agape as he was starting to get ticked off at his sibling. He turned to go but paused when he noticed what was playing on the screen.

"What are you watching?" he suddenly wondered, leaning on the cushions that rested on the back of the couch.

"Elementary."

"Really? You're watching American telly?" God, America is known for some crazy things, but by far Great Britain has better shows on TV.

"Stop judging me, John," Harriet snapped at him, arching her neck to give him a fierce stare. The birthday brother put up his hands in innocence.

"What's it even about?" he questioned, scrunching up his face as a pair of grownups went running by on the screen.

"A detective who solves cases." For once her tone sounded normal.

John snorted, noting that the room became brighter from the sunlight pouring into the room through the panes of glass. "Sherlock's totally better," he stated, and with that undeniable comment left Harriet to her own business.

His feet carried him into the kitchen and he threw his sneakers into his bedroom as he passed by, longing for a proper lunch. He scanned the cupboards and fridge for some decent food and found a container of noodles hidden behind the milk. Saving a plate he stuck the plastic bowl in the microwave and set a cook time to heat up his afternoon meal. While the appliance hummed in his ear and the strands of spaghetti popped from the torridness, he fished to start a conversation with Sherlock.

I take back what I said earlier. You can come on over in about an hour. –JW

The microwave gave off a ding noise and signaled that his lunch was ready to eat. He sprinkled some parmesan cheese over the noodles to add a bit of flavor and sat down at the bar overlooking the kitchen and dining room in their two-floored house. His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up immediately and giggled at Sherlock's agreement.

Sounds good. I can't stand Mycroft right now. Being his usual git self. Always helps to be around someone like you. –SH

John's deep blue eyes flashed at the heart-warming fact Holmes had shared with him. He decided to share his thoughts with his best friend about his difficult sibling as well.

It's not just you. Harriet's also giving me a hard time. She's almost always like that though... –JW

Perfect timing. His sister strutted into the kitchen to fling open a cupboard above the stove, pulling down the box of crackers and…

"Hey, that's my strawberry jam…" John cut in, causing her to glare at him as he tried to prove his point.

"So?"

"Mum bought that for me. Besides, don't you have nutella in there somewhere?" Watson was trying to do anything to make her stay away from his belongings.

"Why does it matter if I eat your jam or not? Mum can always just buy another jar," she argued, becoming even more stubborn. John was not going to lose this fight.

"Because that's for my breakfast! I can't tell Mum to get another container because I didn't know it was so low…Why don't you just keep your paws off and use peanut butter or something?" He felt stupid and shut his eyes tightly.

"God, you can't even remember that your own sister has peanut allergies, John."

"It's not my fault!" he shouted. "You have no idea what I've been through this past year! Jesus, Harry. Can't you be nice and respectful to me just for one day? You never give me any credit for anything."

"What am I doing wrong?" she shouted back, and John opened his mouth even wider.

"I am asking you a simple question: may you please not eat my strawberry jam?" he said, being specific and dropping his harshness to try and be kinder.

Harriet continued to hold the container in her hand. After a couple noiseless seconds she found some words to say back. "I really don't see what the big deal is little brother." She turned on her heel and took the spread with her, ignoring John's request.

"Of all days, you can't even be nice to me on my birthday," John mumbled, twirling his fork to fling a couple noodles around.

He couldn't stand it anymore. The sooner Harriet graduated from high school and headed off to university, the better. Now he really needed company.

Please come. –JW

He sent a second text before Holmes could reply.

If inconvenient, come anyway. –JW

Will do. –SH

John finished his boiling lunch and washed his dish off in the sink, leaving soapy bubbles so it could clean off some of the sauce. He heard a snippet of a sound from the episode Harry was watching but closed his bedroom door to block it out in frustration.

To be honest, even he thought so himself, his room was a mess. School books littered the floor, his Gryffindor robes were draped over his desk chair, and an assortment of wizard sweets were on his bedside table. His Hogwarts trunk was in the far corner and various things were falling out of it, including the white stained shirt that still had some of the poison from Moriarty's needle drained in the fabric.

Having some interest, he rummaged through his school supplies and found some things he didn't want to. One thing he did discover pleased him; hidden in the bottom corner, still gleaming after having been through some toil, was his lucky snitch. He caught it to gain an extra 150 points for Gryffindor, helping to lead his Quidditch team to win the victorious cup. He was the youngest player on the team, and being burdened with that grateful opportunity to play the wizard sport was an occasion he'd never forget.

As if it had been awoken by his touch, the tiny golden ball spread its picturesque wings, showing a silvery material while it floated before his face. For some reason the image of it made a frown come to John's face; perhaps it was the flashback of his first Quidditch match where he'd scraped several layers of skin off his arm, or maybe it was the reminder that Sherlock wasn't at the celebration party after the seeker had caught the tournament winner.

Nevertheless, the snitch must have learned not to fly away from him because it acted like a loyal dog attracted to its owner. By contact again, John grabbed the fluttering ball in his palm and the transparent wings folded back into its body. Instead of putting it in a place for safekeeping, he slipped it into his pocket and concluded that he would carry it around with him, knowing perfectly well it would help him in no way.

Lying on top of his desk was his journal, open to the table of contents. One chapter title was written in pencil, bearing a name John felt offended and depressed when being called; yet ironically, he'd used it in his first piece of writing.

Different.

He scooped up a spare writing utensil and his book, slipping on a pair of his favorite sandals as he heading for the backyard. He didn't inform Harry where he was going; he just filed out the back door as smoothly as a shadow.

There was a large oak tree about fifteen yards from the back porch, growing straight out of the center of the ground. Up in the higher and thicker branches was a wooden tree house, glass windows open a crack so critters could crawl in and out. A ladder climbed up to about the middle of the trunk where a platform was nailed, and from there on up a wider staircase led up to the actual hut.

A white fence surrounded the entire property and a community swimming pool was not far up the street. Lounge chairs and a grill were up on the patio, sitting under the shade of a gigantic umbrella. John crossed the yard and took a seat at the base of the tree, pulling his knees into his chest and settling his book in his lap. He glanced up at the sky and watched the puffy, white clouds drift away dreamily for a while, contemplating how to start his next chapter.

He suddenly heard the snap of a twig and turned to react to the noise, only to find nothing was there. A caterpillar crawled on a nearby leaf and munched happily, filling its stomach with many nutrients.

The blonde reached back into his pocket and pulled out his snitch, letting it unfold its wings and fly before his eyes. The flappers beat at over 100 miles per hour, almost resembling and matching up to the speed of a hummingbird. He never got over how beautiful and intricate the patterns on the outer shell were, gazing at the microscopic nuts and vines weaving around the surface. He also enjoyed the soft sound the wings made as it hovered in the air, simply looking like it was floating and connected on a string.

For the millionth time that day his phone made an alert noise, telling him someone was trying to come in contact with him. He set the book down on the ground next to him and let the snitch continue with its actions. Sherlock had come back with a notice for him.

Turn around. –SH

The Ravenclaw stood with his iPhone in his hand, leaning up against the pearl white fence gate and wearing his normal dress pants and a purple buttoned-down shirt. Taking his left hand from behind his spine, he brought it in front of his chest to expose a present wrapped in blue paper with a green bow perfectly stuck to the top.

"Happy twelfth birthday, John."

*I also do not own these songs I used. The lyrics belong to their rightful owners. They are:

-Wake Me Up by Avicii

-Start Of Something Good by Daughtry