Sherlock Holmes was fourteen and he was tired.
He was tired of the torment and ridicule, tied of the mundane reality in which he lived. He was tired of being surrounded by idiots. They were all so stupid. There was something very wicked living out in the Forbidden Forest, something that had been killing and drinking unicorn blood for its reviving properties.
He just thought it was all rather tidy that Harry Potter became the boy who lived ten years ago on Halloween night, and then as soon as he turns up at Hogwarts strange and dark things start happening. There weren't that many variables. Quirrel was one of them.
There was something odd about Professor Quirrel, something very odd indeed. Where was he on the night of the feast, when the troll got into the dungeons?
Potter thought it was Snape. But Snape wasn't...he wasn't thick. If he wanted to let a dangerous creature into Hogwarts he'd do it via the front door and he wouldn't get caught and he certainly wouldn't intentionally let it in in the dungeons, where all his precious Slytherins were, and his even more precious potions.
Sherlock couldn't even say that, Snape might have made mistakes, but he was certainly no evil man. Sherlock saw that, when few of his fellow idiot class mates could. He saw part of himself in the professor, and that worried him. Obviously an only child, half-blood according to the records he'd found. Bullied and alone and oh so terribly terribly sad, trauma and bla bla bla. And then he's in too deep, he begs Dumbledore for help, and Dumbledore agrees.
Sherlock had his theories about how it happened. He reckoned Snape had never overheard the prophecy (he'd research it as soon as he'd started Hogwarts and learnt more than just fairy-tales and folklore about the boy who lived). Snape had been listening not on Voldemort's orders but on Dumbledore's, drip feeding the Dark Lord information. And Dumbledore's so sure he can protect them, better Voldemort find out from Snape than find out some other way.
That way it's on their terms not his.
He's so sure he can protect them, both couples, the Longbottoms and the Potters. But of course he couldn't, never could. And Snape becomes the Judas of the Wizarding World. The hated, the betrayer, and remains that way for the rest of his godforsaken life.
Snape was an idiot like the rest of them, a spiteful and bitter man, aged beyond his years. But Christ, if he at fourteen could tell the man would never intentionally harm a child, then surely other doubters could accept that? He supposed Potter wasn't to be expected to be too bright, only eleven and all.
Still, if he can tell from the mudstains on Quirrel's trousers that the man's been spending an unexplainable amount of time in the forest, then surely Dumbledore knows. But why would Quirrel need the blood of a unicorn...
And as he delves deeper into the mystery he finds that Quirrel spent a long time in Albania, where Voldemort was said to have fled to, weakened but not completely destroyed. Sherlock gets told to stop researching, to stop prying and putting his nose were it doesn't belong. But they're so stupid. He goes to Dumbledore and demands he does something, and Dumbledore tells him he is, he's doing all that he can.
Mycroft writes to him and tells him to back down. Some things must play out in certain ways.
He knows at Potter's first Quidditch match that Quirrel tried to kill him. But why...was he working for the Dark Lord? Was he collecting unicorn blood and sending it to him?
He wrote a letter to his brother, he tried to tell a few people, who laughed him off. Why on earth would Quirrel do something like that? Such a weirdo...you can't just accuse people of being Death Eaters Sherlock. Just because he gave you an A on your last essay.
He tells Granger he knows she set fire to Snape's robes, that she shouldn't be concentrating on Snape but instead on Quirrel. But each time he tries to warn Potter, something or other stops him. And Dumbledore won't listen.
None of them listen. They never listen.
They call him a freak. He decides it's so much easier just not to care. He tries to keep tabs on Quirrel, who acts innocent and stuttery, but Sherlock knows he knows, and what's worse, Quirrel knows he knows he knows.
He can accurately predict who'll win the next Quidditch world cup, they listen to him then, but they won't listen to him now. He feels betrayed by his brother who refuses to act, stating that Dumbledore has it under control. Even now, years later, Sherlock knows Dumbledore wasn't the white knight everyone thought he was.
On a wide scale, he let the school be infiltrated by dark magic and risked lives almost every year since Potter turned up because he was too obsessed with raising him as a weapon, a sacrificial lamb. On a small scale, he was never there, he never stopped them.
"Come on then freak! You think you're tough. You and me. No wands. No magic. Just fists."
When he fights he has to hold back, because he knows he could inflict so much damage, the shit he'd be in if he did. When he duels he has to hold back, because he knows that his skill is superior to theirs. And he's so tired of respect and behaving. He's so tired of letting them walk over him.
Then one day, in February of '92 he has enough. He almost kills Bowen Duffield.
"You think Quirrel's got Voldemort on the back of his head or something? You're the only freak in this school."
He points out that Duffield's father was a death eater, and he sees Malfoy's eyes narrow, only a first year, but Sherlock doesn't relent.
"Taking tips on how to harass and bully Malfoy? I would have thought your father gave you enough already."
"It's a pity Duffield, that your mother couldn't say no to the Dark Lord and his minions. Says she was under the imperius curse, but seems to me like she was proud to be Voldemort's whore. She still talk to Bellatrix Lestrange?"
And soon Duffield's attacking him. A curse that almost knocks him flat. He yells something else about pictures of Duffield's mother in a paper soon after the war. Yelling that at least Lestrange was willing to suffer for her twisted ideology, at least accepted the monster she was.
And he knows he shouldn't have said it. Of course not.
They call him names, gay, fag, freak. They screech things about his family. So he retorts. It's not really an insult if it's true. It's not slander if it's true.
But Duffield's attacking him and he really thinks the boy's going to kill him. Sherlock has no excuse to be near the Slytherin dungeons at gone midnight. No excuse the teachers would accept. The Slytherins weren't in their dorms either, but they get away with murder.
Sherlock thinks they really might this time.
It hurts. All the words. All the spells and the feet and the claws. Someone said crucio. He knows someone said crucio. He knows. Fourteen and he knows and it hurts. It hurts so badly.
So he fights. He goes for it and he almost brings a wall down. Peeves is yelling and the Bloody Baron is bellowing. His spell hits Duffield square in the chest. He's sobbing, there's a cut on his forehead and he slamms a fist into the side of Dufffield's head. And another. Sobbing as he attacks an unconscious body.
He didn't know which teacher pulled him off the Slytherin, but somebody did.
Unsurprisingly none of the Slytherins saw anything but Sherlock attack Duffield. Duffield only acted in self defence. Strange that, Sherlock's covered in bruises, he can barely stand himself. He's got a few nasty magical cuts that take Pomfrey ages to heal.
But no one saw anything.
So Sherlock gets nearly a years worth of detentions, and later, when Potter performs a far more serious spell that nearly kills Malfoy, Sherlock notes he only serves detention for the rest of the term. Sherlock gets them till Christmas, and he nearly empties the House Points, only for Potter to fill them back up again. Letters written home and severe yelling ats.
It just makes things worse. So next time he doesn't bother. Duffield's friends corner him and he lets them hit him. Taking their anger out through physical means instead of magical. It hurts less. If he doesn't provoke them and just let their fists talk.
Snape finds him. Snape stops them. Snape's the only bloody one who cares. Mycroft doesn't. Dumbledore doesn't. Since when did he care about pupils? Lets Snape teach doesn't he? Snape who Sherlock learnt was Longbottom's biggest fear, Longbottom who's parents were tortured to the brink of insanity, who's been bullied since he was a toddler by family members and fellow pupils alike. Sherlock finds it disgusting. Snape might not be an angel, but he still fights for them, and Sherlock doesn't think that justifies his behaviour.
Dumbledore doesn't stop them starting rumours about Potter in his second year, claiming that he's the heir of Slytherin when he's obviously not. Doesn't even try. (They called Sherlock the heir of Slytherin for a while, until they realised that was far fetched, even for them). Doesn't bother with sex education or protecting the pupils from mundane and real horrors.
Sherlock can forgive him for Quirrel, and forgive him for turning Potter into a sacrificial lamb. He understands why. The master plan. Let the Dark Lord into the school, hope Potter defeats him. Let an innocent man rot in Azkaban, hope it works out. He can sort of just about understand. The lies. The deceit.
But he can't forgive the little things. The negligence.
It was May '92 when the Golden Trio finally found out about the unicorn blood, and all of a sudden they were looking and researching. He overheard the name Nicholas Flammel and it all started to fit together.
He warned Dumbledore, that whatever he was hiding was going to be found. It was. And suddenly he was believed again. Harry and Hermione and Ron defeated the Dark Lord. Child's play. Odd, thought Sherlock, that it seemed as if the obstacles for keeping the Dark Lord out seemed geared towards the Trio. Towards the four actually.
A herbology challenge for Neville, who didn't go, something Dumbledore hadn't counted on. A hand an eye, challenge, to test Harry's skills of flight. A chess game for Ron. A puzzle for Hermione. Odd how it was challenging, but not that challenging.
He'd brought it up over dinner with Mycroft that summer. Mycroft had told him to keep his mouth shut. That was when Sherlock realised that Dumbledore was building himself an army.
He'd mused that on the last day of term, for rumours of their plight had spread across the whole school. Everyone knew the freak had been right. Apparently Granger was looking for him. Hard to avoid her when he shared the same house as her. Not too hard.
But he was tired. He was so tired.
He came across a hidden room when he was hiding one day. He had long given up attending lessons. He didn't care about graduating. There wasn't any point, because none of it mattered. He didn't want them to hurt him, didn't want another upsetting letter sent to Mummy. There was only one person he had any real desire to talk to and that was Potter, who was bedridden and Pomfrey refused to allow him through the door.
Erised, it said on it, the mirror in the room that he found. He was hiding in particular from a few rather cruel sixthyears that day. He'd realised he was attracted to men, and had discovered that made him gay. And apparently that wasn't a good thing to be.
He was glad he got to go home soon. But he was tired of lying and pretending to be someone he wasn't. Pretending to be stupid and thick and...
The mirror showed him as he was. But on one side of him was Mycroft and his parents, who were so proud, on the other his peers, his friends. He had friends...no. He didn't. Alone protected him. Alone is what he had.
"You missed my lesson today," came a familiar snarl from behind him. But it was softened, blunted at the edges slightly, as if the speaker's heart wasn't in it. "Mr. Holmes, I do not think it would be wise to miss it again next year. Do you? That is if you're going to be taking it at NEWT level, then I suggest you try to at least pass your OWL."
"To do it at NEWT I'd need an O," Sherlock had said without turning. The tears in his eyes were blurring his vision. "So a pass wouldn't be enough."
"I'd take you at a Pass over the Weasley twins with an Outstanding Holmes," the potion's professor had smirked. "At least I know you understand the basic skill of potions, even if you refuse to participate in classroom activities and fail to follow simple procedures..."
Sherlock nodded and turned away.
Snape didn't move as Sherlock reached the door, finally he dragged his eyes away from the looking glass. "I wouldn't return to look for the mirror if I were you Holmes. It won't be here, and if it was, just looking at it for too long would drive you mad, it shows you're-"
"Desires, I know, I'm not an idiot."
"I'd beg to differ."
Sherlock managed a slight smile. He glanced back at the potion's master. "What do you see, professor, when you look at it?"
"I see myself..." he began then trailed off, mesmerised. "I see myself surrounded by some of the most precious and difficult to brew potions in the world, all of which I brewed myself."
Sherlock had simply nodded as he left, but as he let the door swing shut he realised that Snape had probably not been quite truthful. Sentimentality and all that. It was very unlikely that he had been truthful in fact. But for once Sherlock left it at that, for, as he supposed, it had been quite a personal question after all.