A/N: If you've read this story before, you might notice that something is different. Rather than write this as a series of multishots, I've decided to fill it all in properly. That means changing a few scenes and filling in some holes before I get to the point I was at before (with Sherlock at Hogwarts). Enjoy the new material.

Lunch that day was a quieter affair than breakfast had been, which was not saying much. Vernon and Petunia had remained closeted in the sitting room all morning, speaking in hushed, strained tones. Even Sherlock, who had sharp ears, was able to make out very little.

"Found us…found him…no telling what their next move will be…"

"Sent a very clear reply…"

"…won't be enough, Vernon, I know these people…"

"Blasted boy…"

"We'll just …"

"…think they can…"

"But don't you think that's a little…"

Uncle Vernon's face was still purple with rage when they sat down for lunch: yesterday's dry chicken with an unenthusiastic salad cobbled together by a nervous Aunt Petunia. His enormous face seemed to swell every time his eyes met Sherlock's, across the table. Sherlock, taking the hint, inhaled his food without tasting it, but when he made to leave the table Uncle Vernon called him back. Sherlock sank back into his chair, knee twitching nervously.

Beside him, Mycroft was calm and steady as a rock. This made very little difference to the younger boy, who knew better than to put too much faith in their declared truce.

"Your aunt and I have been discussing matters," said Uncle Vernon with visibly forced calm, "and decided that due to the, er…strain of recent events, we will be taking a family holiday."

Sherlock almost laughed aloud. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that. And honestly, it was worth putting up with Ms. Figg's excess of cats if it meant time free from the oversight of Mycroft and his parents to ponder the implications of his letter…to try some magic, purposely this time…to make deeper contact with this secret society of wizards…

Then he remembered something.

"Mrs. Figg's leg is still broken," he said, trying to sound casual about it. "So I'll just stay here and fend for…"

Aunt Petunia let out a small gasp of horror, and Uncle Vernon's meaty hand curled into a fist on the table.

"And we come back to find the house burned down?" Vernon snarled, with some justification. "You'll do no such thing." He took a deep breath and offered what looked like an exceedingly painful smile. "No, Sherlock, you'll be accompanying us this time."

Oh. Now Uncle Vernon's plan, ludicrous as it was, made sense. Sherlock gave a small cough to cover the chuckle that had escaped him. The stupidity was so thick in the air you could cut it with a knife.

"Pack a few essentials," Vernon said, narrowing his tiny eyes. "If you're not in the car in half an hour I'll drag you there myself. If I catch you with any odd chemicals I'll pour them down your throat. Myc, you have my permission to do the same."

Mycroft, who had kept quiet all this time, politely interjected.

"Father, you've forgotten to tell us where we're going."

"Dress warm," was all Uncle Vernon said before leaving the kitchen.

Sherlock managed to make it to the second floor before letting out a snicker.

"Is he serious?" he asked Mycroft in an undertone. "Do they really think we can outrun these people? Mycroft, your parents are asinine at the best of times, but this really…"

"…takes the cake," said Mycroft, for once not bothering to deny it.

"You'd know all about taking cake," remarked Sherlock, to seal his triumph, but was quickly distracted. "Why didn't you try to talk him out of it?" Mycroft had displayed the capability to temper his parents' idiocy on more than one occasion.

"He won't be talked out of this one. I'd just work him up more, trying. They shoved me out of the parlor, remember? Me. Learn to read people, Sherlock."

"I prefer the SparkNotes version," said Sherlock lightly. "Most people can be summed up in four letters or less. Are you just going along with it, then?"

Mycroft shrugged. "What else is there to do?"

"Sabotage," suggested his cousin a little too enthusiastically.

"I wouldn't bother. They'll know it was you. Anyway, this inane gallivant will give us one advantage: the opportunity to observe the lengths to which these people will go for our little birthday boy."

Sherlock blinked. The fact that tomorrow was his birthday had completely escaped him. His birthdays had never really been relevant. The current conversation was more pressing.

The lengths to which they'll go…for me?

"That will be interesting," he mused. "Not to mention what they're capable of."

The hotel was a bust, in Mycroft's opinion. A rundown wooden place on a freezing, dismal seashore, paint flaking off the walls like a bad case of dandruff. Mycroft stopped to inspect what looked like a pile of seagull droppings on the front step before stepping reluctantly inside.

"So, are we hitting the beach tomorrow?" he couldn't prevent himself from asking in a sardonic tone.

No television, no Wifi, and no continental breakfast. The former two meant missing out on several days of political news, with the elections this very week. Unless he could somehow come by a newspaper in this godforsaken hellhole. Mycroft ground his teeth.

The quip about the beach had been just that, a quip. A colder, less inviting stretch of shoreline could hardly be imagined, even if you were fond of the outdoors, which Mycroft wasn't. Fortunately he'd brought along his first-edition copy of Les Miserables to occupy himself. His French could use the work.

At least he'd have the opportunity to monitor Sherlock, as they were sharing a bedroom. It had only one bed, although a threadbare armchair and a small lumpy sofa sat in the corner beside a feebly flickering lamp. Sherlock would take one of those, if he chose to sleep.

That was a relief, anyway. Mycroft, though not given to sentiment, despised the sense of unease that curled in his stomach when his cousin was subjected to less-than-humane living conditions. It was the main reason Mycroft had rescued the scrawny child from the cupboard under the stairs on his own seventh birthday.

"I want him to play with me," he'd pouted, in a way he had observed ordinary children doing at school. "He doesn't do anything if he's stuck in that cupboard all day. You can put him in my second bedroom, as long as he knows it's mine."

That last had been necessary, though looking back through this interval of time Mycroft realized that he didn't know when (whether?) he'd begun caring for his cousin, or to what extent his motives had actually been selfless.

Not very. He knew better than to flatter himself.

Sherlock had wasted no time dropping his ragged school knapsack, dutifully packed with a toothbrush and a few items of Mycroft's old clothing, and curling up in the armchair beside the filthy window. He was looking out over the sea. At first Mycroft presumed his cousin was already scouring for signs of witches and wizards coming to rescue him from his dismal surroundings…and then it occurred to him that Sherlock had never seen the ocean before. Never accompanied the Dursleys on holidays to Majorca, or indeed ever left London or its suburbs. Not since he was an infant, anyway.

Neither boy had brought enough belongings to bother unpacking. Mycroft dropped onto the questionable sofa across from his cousin, book in hand. Instead of opening it, however, he found his eyes fixed on Sherlock. Heedless of the grime, the younger boy's nose was practically pressed against the glass, eyes fixed on the waves roving over black rock and grey sand. A lone seabird landed in a puddle of dirty water, pecking at some bit of trash, and Sherlock's eyes lit on it.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"It's not, uh, always like this."

Sherlock glanced his way, eyes dark green in the fading twilight.

"Mum and Dad picked the most out-of-the-way place imaginable. Obviously it's a sham holiday. You might still get some fun out of it, though. Since you like the outdoors. We don't actually know when—or whether—any of these magical people are going to show up. We haven't exactly planned a rendezvous. You may as well explore."

Sherlock nodded.

"I could come, if you like." Mycroft regretted the offer as soon as he'd made it. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"To keep an eye on me?"

"Of course," said Mycroft a little too quickly. "Mum and Dad won't let us go unless I make them, anyway. Or we sneak out. And these floors creak worse than Aunt Marge's spine."

Sherlock sighed. "You just don't want me getting up to magical shenanigans without you."

"It is a good place to practice," Mycroft agreed, looking out at the isolated shoreline. "Do you have any idea…"

"No."

"I thought you might. The vanishing glass seemed intentional."

"If I'm annoyed, sometimes things happen. But I can't predict the effect."

"Let's go about it methodically, then," Mycroft suggested.

Sherlock sneered at him. "I really don't recall inviting you along."

"I'm the smartest person you know."

"That's no feat."

"I'm the only one you've got."

"For now."

"I'm willing to help."

"Requires legwork."

"You said you need an annoyance.

"You're quite capable of that from a distance."

Mycroft sighed, and the tone brimmed with a candor Sherlock had never heard before. "I'm still figuring things out too, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We're family."

"So?"

"That's what I'm trying to work out."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. "Sentiment doesn't suit you."

"Let's steer well clear of it, then." Mycroft pushed to his feet and kicked off his shoes, intending to stretch himself on the twin mattress and read. At the last moment he halted.

"What were your parents' names, Sherlock?"

A long silence.

"Lily and James," said Sherlock finally. "They told me once."

"Thank you."