Chapter 4

The rest of the school returned to Hogwarts soon enough after Christmas, and classes resumed again almost immediately. John learned to make eggcups cartwheel, cheered on the Gryffindor Quidditch team (even though they were thrashed by Ravenclaw), and endured the gentle, but remarkably persistent teasings of Mike, Yasha, and practically the entirety of first years on Valentine's Day, when they all insisted he should be buying Sarah flowers. Or at least stealing some from the greenhouses. Besides the fact that John didn't think he could manage to sneak a single begonia out of the greenhouses without being strangled by something else, or perhaps taking a cutting of Venomous Tentacula instead on accident, he continued to insist that Sarah was not, in fact, his girlfriend, and the two of them were not planning to be involved in any way besides friendship. Ever. Period. However, every time he said this he felt himself going a bit pink, and he couldn't help but notice Sarah growing more rosy still.

It was between Charms and Potions on that-most-dreaded-day-of-pink-and-glitter, as John was beginning to call the whole day to himself in his head, that he just managed to slip away from a pack of merciless Slytherins, all singing rather badly after him and making unimaginative references to Shakespeare characters. He dashed down a beautifully quiet corridor, then sighed and leaned against the wall, clutching his side from the running. It was tough to be best friends with a girl, especially one who had to be so pretty. John looked around the corridor, recognizing where he was after a moment, and was just about to take a longer route to Potions (where, unfortunately, he'd have to be with both Sarah and the Slytherins in one place), when he heard soft whispering coming from somewhere nearby. John's natural curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't help but peer around the corner, peeking his head around the edge of an archway.

There were two older girls standing there, holding each other with hands on each other's waists and barely more than an inch apart. One had long, dark, and thick wavy hair and was wearing the blue-trimmed robes of Ravenclaw, and the other had short, blond hair cut above her ears and with sweeping bangs to one side. It took a full few seconds of shock for John to register that this second girl was, most diffidently, Harry. The other girl was the same girl he had seen sitting with her at Christmas, and they were kissing.

John immediately tore his head away from the archway and careened down the hall, his eyebrows shooting up across his forehead. This careening was, however, far from silent.

"Uh oh, there's someone there," said a voice.

"We were going to keep this quiet."

"JOHN WATSON!" Shouted Harry's voice. John wasn't going to turn, no he most diffidently wasn't, Gryffindor or not. If he just kept running he would never have to talk to Harry about that, not at all.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and realized that Harry had caught up with him. She had always been the faster runner, and she anchored him to the ground firmly with her grip.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. John couldn't tell how angry she was. She wasn't fuming, wasn't spitting, but she certainly seemed upset. Nervous?

"Hiding from Slytherins," said John truthfully.

"And you just happened to walk in on me—here?"

John had a feeling she had been about to say something different, but he didn't question her. "You weren't really very well hidden."

Harry snorted, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"

The other girl was walking up to join them tentatively. John glanced at her briefly before turning his attention back to Harry. "No, of course not. But...why...can't I?"

Harry gave him an odd look. John really didn't know what to make of it. Her mouth became a little smaller, her eyebrows moved a bit closer together, and her head tilted to the side. She looked...questioning? Pitying? Slightly surprised, surely, but not as if she was disappointed in him, though. It made him feel uneasy.

"I promise I won't," he assured her.

"I know," said Harry. She gave him a small smile, and then took the arm of the other girl. They both turned and walked away, leaving John looking after them with his school bag by his side. He shook his head slightly, and then turned in the other direction to make his way to Potions.

About a week later, John was eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table when Harry plopped down into the seat next to him.

"Hi," he said, a little surprised. In all the months he had been at Hogwarts, she had never tried to join him in the Great Hall before.

"Her name's Clara," Harry said without preamble.

"Oh," said John. He smiled at her. Harry was smiling rather widely herself.

There was a pause. "And... are you...?" asked John.

"Yes," said Harry. She smiled yet more largely. "We're actually going to Hogsmeade together this weekend."

"Great," said John. And he meant it. Whenever he had seen Harry since Christmas, she had seemed much happier than the Harry he had known of past months.

His older sister looked at him sideways, her lips quirked. "And you can tell people. If you want to."

John didn't know what he was feeling, but it was a good feeling. Harry clapped him on the shoulder and then stood up to leave. As she turned, John noticed that Clara was waiting for her at the end of the table.

"Harry?" he called out. She turned to face him, bangs sweeping out of her eyes with the movement.

"I'm proud of you," said John.

"Thanks, little bro," said Harry. Then she turned, and, hand-in-hand with Clara, went to sit at the Ravenclaw table.

Sherlock's second term was, as he may have called it, uneventful. The news from the war spiraled in with the owls every day, becoming grimmer and grimmer; he was at the top in every class with barely any effort; and he never saw Mycroft. In fact, he systematically outlined Mycroft's schedule and habits so as to be sure the two of them would never come into contact by chance. Sherlock's favorite hours were those taken up by the Quidditch matches, when the entire school evacuated the building and left him entirely alone. Alone was how Sherlock found he liked to be.

Once Sherlock had learned to avoid the people, it was the banality of Hogwarts that began to get to him. The classes were predictable, the hallways easily mapped within the first three months, and the beauty of the grounds and surrounding mountains did little to impress him. Sherlock wondered, on occasion, whether he should take up giant-squid taming just to fill his time.

Instead, however, he was drawn more and more to the library. Unlike the many Ravenclaws before him to devote themselves to deconstructing the shelves, Sherlock felt as if his very sanity depended on it. He needed the knowledge to distract himself, or else he felt he may die of boredom. Before Easter break, he successfully learned to brew all the potions that were taught up to the O.W.L. level, plus several more whose recipes he nicked from the restricted section. Pickpocketing the teachers for keys was absurdly simple (he had found that Alohomora did not work on every locked door in Hogwarts). After Easter break he moved on to the N.E.W.T. level potions, and his Transfiguration work was getting better all the time. It became Sherlock's goal to master everything up through at least the fourth year level in all his classes by the end of the school year. Except for the dull bits. No use in wasting his time and memory on those (Astronomy suffered accordingly).

As the castle entered June, Sherlock realized his time to study was shrinking by large proportions every day. Once the students were sent home for the summer, he wouldn't be allowed to do magic for another two months. He'd also be in the same house as Mycroft, closer in distance than they had been since last August.

Sherlock had no trouble securing a compartment all to himself on the train. The Hogwarts Express had been built to hold exactly as many students as it transported to and from Hogwarts every year, but he had earned quite a reputation for being off-putting and even somewhat hostile, a reputation that had long been disseminating beyond just his own year. What's more, upon setting his trunk down by the seats, Sherlock had immediately set up his cauldron and potions' kit on the floor, and soon the acrid smell indicating that he was taking advantage of his last hours to do magic was causing every person who passed by to not only wave their hand in front of their face hastily, but also to increase their speed and quickly leave him alone. That was how he liked it.

As Sherlock jumped down from the scarlet steam engine, having thrown his trunk down in front of him a moment before, he began to scan the crowd for Mycroft. It was, finally, necessary he find him, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it to himself. He navigated through the embracing families quickly, soon finding the tall figure alone by a pillar near the wall where they would leave the platform.

"Ah, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "How nice to see you after all this time."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"And I even had minimal words from your teachers about you, too. Although, I must say, stealing the boomslang skin...I was a bit disappointed you were caught."

"I wasn't caught," said Sherlock. "Professor Hadaway just suspected it was me because he doesn't like me."

"You'll have to work on that, little brother," said Mycroft. "You can detest the rest of the world all you want, but you're going to soon learn it's best to keep yourself on good terms with the people you need things from. Or, at least, the people you don't need certain less pleasant things from."

Sherlock grunted.

"We're going out that way," said Mycroft pointing. "We'll exit the station, then find a quiet alleyway for us to Disapparate from. I can take you by side-along Apparition."

"Obviously," snorted Sherlock.

"Fine," said Mycroft sniffily. "Let's go."

They walked through the solid brick wall, leaving before any of the other students had even had a chance to think of disengaging from their parents, and appeared on the other side of the platform in the Muggle version of King's Cross Station. Sherlock trailed behind Mycroft, dragging his trunk along behind him. He was still all joints and skinny limbs and not exactly strong for his age, but as much as the trunk burdened him, he refused to ask Mycroft for help, even though his older brother had long turned seventeen and could have sent the trunk ahead of them to their destination, as he had obviously done with his own.

Sherlock had known long before they stepped outside, of course, that this was one of the days in London where Mycroft would actually have occasion to use his umbrella. A gray mist engulfed the city, falling down from the drab sky and onto Sherlock's shoulders, dusting his hair with moisture within the first few minutes that they walked. Mycroft had opened his umbrella as soon as they left the station. A dark mop of untidy curls trailed after a small navy canopy, winding along the London streets until they both stopped behind a block of small shops, between a heavily graffitied wall and two red phone booths covered in peeling stickers.

"Grip my arm now, Sherlock," said Mycroft.

Sherlock complied, applying as little pressure as he could. Mycroft looked down at him, giving a small, impatient sigh, and then twisted.

The two of them were immediately thrown into uncomfortable, oppressive, swirling, indistinguishable color and pressure. Sherlock's body felt like gasping, but his lungs couldn't do it. Before he could panic, however, he was thrust just as suddenly out of whatever they had been in during their moment of Apparation, and Sherlock saw they had appeared in the familiar garden of their small house in Sussex. There they were again, the blue house on the left, the green house across the street, the tomatoes and geraniums growing between the neighbors and the brick side of the Holmes family's house, a blue picket fence enclosing the plants. It was raining here, too, and Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft before entering the house. To his mild surprise, the door sprung open before him without him having to unlock it―he had reasonable control over his own magic without using a wand, but it had been some time since he had last used it in this way, or had it run away with him.

"Alright, what is it, Mycroft, you've been standing there for forty seconds already," said Sherlock, who was draped over his bed inelegantly, throwing darts into his ceiling without a single shred of interest in the activity. Merlin, he needed to find a way to entertain himself without magic. The past two weeks had been dreadful.

The only blessing, Sherlock supposed, was that Mycroft was so busy with his now full-time job at the Ministry that he barely remained at the house in Sussex, instead spending long hours in London with the Ministry. Sherlock had spent days trying to distract himself, wandering as far away from the town as he could before Mycroft eventually dragged him back; throwing each of his books aside in turn as they failed to captivate him; trying his own chemistry experiments on whatever they had in the kitchen or he found outside. At the moment, however, Mycroft was hovering in his doorway, and everything about him suggested he had something unpleasant to say.

"We are going to a colleague of mine's house for dinner tonight."

"You are going to a colleague's house for dinner tonight."

"No, Sherlock, we are going."

"I don't need to eat, I ate this morning."

"That is unacceptable, and―"

"Just because you feel the constant urge to shovel food into your well-practiced mouth does not mean―"

"Regardless of whether or not you are hungry, you shall be accompanying me, Sherlock. This colleague has requested it and I am unable to arrange an untimely accident for him before this evening."

"Why does this colleague know I exist?"

"Unfortunately, I am not the only person at the Ministry privy to sensitive information, and some of the others there know I have a brother. Believe me, Sherlock, I have attempted to keep you well-hidden from view."

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are. And you will behave yourself."

"Or what? Civil war?"

"Something like that. Or a more destructive continuation of the one we're in. Perhaps I shall arrange for you to retake your first year at Hogwarts then, with an overbearing Hufflepuff tutor to assist you, lest you fail all of your classes?"

Sherlock snapped his head up, glaring daggers at Mycroft. "You―"

"Yes, I would, Sherlock, so come to dinner tonight. Or there will be consequences."

Sherlock spent the next few hours lying on his bed, imagining a million gruesome deaths for Mycroft, most of which involved chimeras.

Mycroft's colleague turned out to have quite an estate, somewhere else in the South of England, a location that Sherlock had quickly forgotten after Mycroft told him. He'd also forgotten the colleague's name, and what he did with Mycroft at the Ministry. Some government thing, unimportant to Sherlock.

Mycroft insisted that they walk up to the front door instead of Apparating directly to it, and Sherlock maintained a stony silence throughout the walk. His older brother had the good sense not to attempt to engage him in conversation, or snap last-minute reminders of table etiquette at him.

Once they were admitted to the villa by an aged house-elf, Sherlock and Mycroft were led to a large dinning room, where the host and a son (approximately two and a half years older than Mycroft, settled at a boring desk job at the Ministry that would appease the father but not delegate him any real responsibility) were already sitting.

"Ah, Mycroft!" said the wizard who must be the colleague, standing and gesturing them to seats. "Good to see that you were able to leave work at all today. Barty Crouch isn't making things easy for us, is he?"

"No, he certainly is not," said Mycroft, sitting down and giving a pointed look at Sherlock to indicate that he should do the same. "The amount of authority he's attempting to gain at the Ministry! Clearly he thinks he'll be minister once Bagnold's gone. Anyway, Howard, this is my younger brother, Sherlock."

"Ah, Sherlock. Such unusual names in your family! Well, we're wizards, aren't we? What should I expect? And you'll be at Hogwarts now?"

"Yes," said Sherlock tersely. He had attempted to inject as much arrogance and impertinence as he could into the syllable, meaning to send the message do not talk to me anymore as clearly as he possibly could.

Mycroft glared at him, but then turned his attention to the man and said, "Sherlock has just finished his first year."

"Splendid," said the wizard. He had grizzled brown hair, ruddy skin, and took up his entire chair with ease. "This is my son, Victor. He just finished at Hogwarts three years ago."

Spot on, then, thought Sherlock to himself. Being two and a half years older than Mycroft would mean that this Victor could have easily graduated Hogwarts three years ago.

After this, however, Sherlock paid little attention to the conversation. Mycroft and the other man went to some lengths complaining about how much there was to do at the Ministry with the war against Voldemort, how unhelpful the Aurors were, how Voldemort seemed to be getting stronger and stronger, and yet Dumbledore was still being so mysterious about his own contributions to the war effort. Sherlock picked at his food once it was brought, trying to eat as little as possible without the wizard saying anything to him. He didn't notice that Victor had been trying to catch his eye the entire meal, as if he somehow thought that Sherlock was someone he could share conversation with as Mycroft and his father prattled on about work.

Finally, after what seemed to Sherlock to have been pure hours of mindless boredom, Mycroft's foot connected sharply with his shin under the table.

"Ow!" exclaimed Sherlock, looking at him in outrage. He quickly realized, however, that everyone at the table had been staring at him even before this outburst.

"What?" he snapped.

"Mr. Trevor just asked you what house you're in at Hogwarts," hissed Mycroft.

Sherlock glared at "Mr. Trevor" at this, answering shortly with "Ravenclaw."

"I was in Ravenclaw myself!" said Trevor boisterously. "I remember, I was actually nearly a hatstall, one of the first since Minerva McGonagall―"

"No you weren't, you were in Hufflepuff," said Sherlock, before he could stop himself. Then he realized that he probably wouldn't have done so, anyway, even if he had thought to. Beside him, he heard Mycroft exhale as if he wanted to groan.

"What do you mean?" asked Trevor, suddenly looking at Sherlock much more critically.

"You were in Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, not Ravenclaw. There was a small badger emblem engraved into some of the silver in one of the rooms we walked through on the way here, a clear replicate of the Hufflepuff house crest. Not a family heirloom, however, Hufflepuff's line died out centuries ago, and Trevor is not one of the surnames associated with any old wizarding families, regardless. I can also tell that you fear personal attack by Death Eaters, even though you rank highly at the Ministry, but it was only in the past few months that you began to take this threat seriously―this was when you had a second wand fitted into that walking stick you have propped up against the chair there. You were a Beater at Hogwarts, judging by the shape of your ears, though you were either very poor or very good―they are not so mangled, so perhaps you failed to make the team multiple years consecutively, or you were good enough to stop most Bludgers from hitting you. You have also visited New Zealand and Japan within the past decade, and you used to be quite closely associated with someone with the initials J.A., but you have now been trying to cover that up for quite some time."

This was the most Sherlock had spoken at once in several months. Trevor fell face-first onto the table in a faint.

"Merlin's beard, Sherlock, did you have to do that?" said Mycroft, bringing a hand to his forehead in what seemed like both shock and exasperation.

The next day, Mycroft came into Sherlock's room slightly after midday and sat down on the end of the bed without invitation.

"What?" asked Sherlock. His heart sank a notch lower in his chest; he had very nearly gone out of town again today to see if he could find a beehive in the forest, and if he had done so he would have missed this visit from Mycroft entirely.

"I just got back from the office."

"Oh, you'd left?"

Mycroft ignored this. "Your little speech last night alerted me to a most singular tattoo Trevor had in the crook of his elbow, which he had just procured a potion for. To make it disappear."

"Mmm," said Sherlock. "J. A. Don't know how you missed it."

Mycroft ignored this, too. "The potion, however, is a class-C non-tradable item. When we raided his house last night, we found that he'd had stores of the potion before. And it wasn't hard to deduce that his wife had used liberal amounts of it in the days leading up to her death."

"Wonder if it works on Dark Marks," said Sherlock absently, staring up at the smiley-faced pattern of dart holes in his ceiling. Should he add an eagle next?

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "I wondered exactly the same thing. Turns out it doesn't, and that's why his wife had been trying to use so much of it."

"And how did you deduce all that?" asked Sherlock, slightly sarcastically.

"Trevor confessed most of it once we'd found the potion. But not all of it. Enough for me to piece together the rest, and realize that his wife had been in with the Death Eaters, and branded with the Dark Mark, before she was killed two years ago. We thought Death Eaters killed her, but now it turns out that it may have been the Auror who was caught in the struggle as well."

"Fascinating," said Sherlock blandly. "What happened to Trevor?"

"He's being held for questioning. Might get a sentence to Azkaban, but I doubt it."

"Why not?" asked Sherlock, feeling alarmed for the first time.

"He's a good worker. I don't like him personally, but he gets things done, and that's the kind of wizard we need right now at the Ministry."

"What?" demanded Sherlock. "You know that his wife was in with the Death Eaters, and yet he's not going to be held accountable for knowing about it and not turning her in?"

"The Ministry is in a tough position, Sherlock. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a lot stronger than we've been allowing the Prophet to let on, and unless some real headway is made soon, we can't afford to expend anyone who can help with the effort."

"And you trust him. After finding out about this."

"No, Sherlock, I don't. But I don't trust anyone at the Ministry, much," said Mycroft, standing up to leave.

"Why did you tell me all this?" asked Sherlock.

"Why did you say anything about Trevor's tattoo?"

"To annoy him," answered Sherlock quickly.

Mycroft smirked. "I'll see you later, Sherlock," he said. A moment later Sherlock heard him Disapparate downstairs.

Sherlock sat reclined on his bed again, plucking the strings of his violin as he held it to his chest. Maybe he should disclose his deductions more often. Could be interesting.

AN: So, if you're wondering why Sherlock and John still haven't met yet, don't worry, it'll happen. I'm using the first year or so to set things up and establish them as characters in particular situations before they meet each other, just like they are in the show. Starting second year soon! I have big plans for the second year….