Hellllooooooooo readers! Finally! Another update! Yes, yes, applaud me and send me fruit baskets, I have not abandoned this fic! Haha.

In all seriousness, I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter. I wasn't sure the best way to reveal magic, and I know this scene doesn't do much for actual displays of magic, but Harry's not allowed to do that outside of school anyway.

Thank you for your marvelous reviews - they honestly keep me going. I can't believe I'm almost at 500 - I never thought I'd get this amount of response for this fic! Special thanks to Suosikki, elohopeaa, NATWEST, mabidiso, and CheddarTrek for your input last chapter, and thanks, MelodySong231 for the offer. I may take you up on it.

General Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters I mention, and the names of the texts are not mine either.

Warnings:...umm possibly not well-thought-out writing? We'll see how it goes. Be on your guard. That being said, enjoy!


John absorbed the scene with a sense of bemusement. Sherlock was wrestling with a dog. He wished he could say that he had seen everything, but knowing Sherlock disproved that statement about five times every day. He was shaken out of his stupor by Harry's low cry. With an inarticulate moan, Harry quickly stepped forward and grasped at the book Sherlock was clutching. When Sherlock's hands tightened unconsciously on the leather binding, Harry's hands grew frantic, and Wolfgang growled and worried at his sleeve. Taken aback, Sherlock released the album into Harry's worried embrace, and Wolfgang subsided. Harry backed against the couch, stroking the leather, checking for damage, but not opening it. His face was pale, and Wolf snuggled up against the boy, somehow managing to look very contrite.

During these events, John had managed to piece together what had happened in his head, and he rounded on Sherlock angrily.

"You couldn't help yourself, could you?" He demanded. "You couldn't just wait until we got home, you had to go through Harry's things. Those are private Sherlock; it is very disrespectful to go tearing through another person's possessions, I'm sure Harry would have just shown you had you asked!" John had worked himself into a scathing irritability, and Sherlock, for once, looked at a loss for words. He gazed at John, then his eyes flicked to the large black dog pressed against Harry.

"John," Sherlock began, "I didn't go through Harry's possessions – the dog had the album out when I arrived at home, but it is the most incredible thing, John! The photographs -"

"Sherlock!" John cut across him before he started spouting his deductions that John could barely ever follow, "Wolf did not get the album out! You can't blame it on the dog, Sherlock, we are not in primary! Take responsibility for your actions and apologize to Harry!"

Harry seemed to have calmed down and ascertained that the album was undamaged, but now he was looking positively sick with apprehension. He looked up and saw the flatmates glaring at each other, neither willing to listen to the other. He cleared his throat and asked in a shaky voice,

"Mr. Sherlock? You didn't ... you didn't see the pictures, did you?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped from John to Harry, who was looking positively sick with apprehension. He grinned, a full-out expression of glee that John only associated with the most clever and impossible murders. A chill ran down his spine.

"Yes, Harry," Sherlock – John didn't know that Sherlock's voice could purr, but here it positively did, "what interesting photographs you have there."

John coughed, and broke in again, "Really Sherlock, let up. Harry is a teenager – it is perfectly understandable if he has a few pictures that, er, that is to say..." he trailed off as Sherlock laughed – a short bark of amusement that had John very nervous.

"Oh, John, it is nothing so dull as that! Though the format of these pictures may make images of the, ah, Irene Adler variety quite a bit more interesting and blackmail-worthy. No, no! Harry, could you possibly tell us why your two dimensional images, with no discernible wireless connection or screen, are able to move?"

Harry, if possible, paled even further, and John saw the dog seem to shrink into itself and whine slightly. Nonplussed, he broke the thick silence.

"Move? You mean, like holograms, or 3D..." he trailed off as Sherlock's pale eyes snapped towards him.

"John! Listen to me, for God's sake. I said they move, as if it were a small, two dimensional video clip on replay. The photographs play the same scene, presumably for quite some time, if Harry would only let me take a look." Sherlock's attention quickly shifted from his flatmate to his new charge, and he eagerly stepped forward, reaching for the album. Harry, however, cringed back into the cushions, clutching the book even tighter to his chest. Wolf stepped in front of Harry, and snarled, baring teeth that were, John admitted to himself, terrifyingly large. Sherlock paused, piercing the dog with his icy stare, before flicking his eyes to the distraught boy. He frowned, and John just knew that he was plotting a way around the dog and towards Harry. Harry's expression was agonized; he looked as though he would defend his album tooth and nail, but he also looked sick with anticipation of John and Sherlock's possible rejection of him. John decided to head that thought off as quickly as possible.

"Harry," he began, "if those pictures are private, I understand, but we are your guardians now. You can trust us – we won't be angry with you or like you any less no matter what you do."

Harry's eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John. He licked his lips, and shifted nervously, still clinging to the album like a lifeline.

"It's not that I don't trust you," Harry said finally, with a pleading glance at John, "it's just that it's a really big secret. I could get in trouble if I tell you. Mu – erm, you're not supposed to know." Harry informed them with an apologetic look towards Sherlock. A heavy silence fell over the room.

John glanced at Sherlock, who was obviously doing some very quick thinking – quick for him, that was. He seemed to be looking through the leather cover of the book, and was muttering to himself with a small line between his brows betraying the extent of his concentration. Wolf seemed to relax when no one moved toward Harry, and sat back on his haunches, pressed against the boy.

Finally, Sherlock addressed Harry.

"You recall, Harry, that my brother placed you under mine and John's guardianship?" he queried. Harry gave a slow nod, so he continued, "then perhaps you remember Mycroft saying said guardianship subjects us to 'family laws'. I assume this means something to you, particularly when mentioned in conjunction with 'partial disclosure'. I have to infer from this context that disclosing whatever secret you are guarding will not result in your being penalized." Sherlock concluded his explanation with a triumphant smirk. Harry blinked, trying to process what Sherlock had just said. John sighed at Sherlock's vocabulary – the kid was twelve, for God's sake! - and paraphrased for Harry.

"He means that because we're like your family now, you can probably tell us the secret without getting in trouble, right? If you want to." John smiled reassuringly at Harry. Harry nodded slowly, and bit his lip. He drew a quivering breath, and shifted the album in his arms.

"I – I can probably tell you, you're right," he started, and Sherlock grinned with gleaming eyes, "but – but you might not like me after I tell you. You probably won't want anything to do with me," he finished sadly, looking down. Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to say something insulting and insensitive and entirely counter-productive, so John cut him off. He moved slowly towards Harry, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Harry, when we agreed to take you in, we did so because we like you, and we want to look out for you. You obviously haven't been looked after very well, and you've gotten by," he said hastily, for he saw a flash of indignation in Harry's eyes at him implied helplessness, "but the point is you shouldn't have had to. We're here to support you no matter what. And even if it turns out that the news isn't great, we'll work through it. We'll listen to you, and we'll make it work. So please, could you tell us, if you're comfortable, because I think Sherlock is about to explode." This last John said with a mocking smile as he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder. Harry had stiffened at first, then relaxed into the loose embrace, smiling tentatively back at John. He looked mildly dazed, and John maneuvered them so that they were sitting together on the couch. Wolf curled up on the other side of Harry, and Sherlock stalked forward eagerly, glad to be past the reassurances and coddling, evidently.

Harry leaned into John, and looked up at Sherlock through his dark eyelashes. He cleared his throat, and stroked the album.

"The pictures were moving," he said quietly, "all of the ones in here do that. They're my pictures of my mum and dad. Mum and dad, they were," here he hesitated. He looked imploringly at John, who nodded gently. Wolf nudged him in the side and licked the hand on the album, and Harry turned to meet Sherlock's steady gaze. "My mum and dad were magical – they were a witch and a wizard," Harry said with a an assertive voice. He opened up the album to display it to the men, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm a wizard, too."

00oooo0000oo

Impossible, was Sherlock's immediate thought. Magic defies everything observable – it conveniently explains away things that would make sense if only people used their minds. He rerouted his train of thought as he stared at the open pages of the album. There was no technology to make an image do that – not yet. Carefully, looking to Harry for permission, he plucked a photograph out of the book. It was entirely identical to a normal, if old-fashioned, picture. There was no screen, no wireless receptor to project pixels onto a super-thin screen. It was impossible for this to be a video set on replay. It was impossible for this to be an optical illusion made by shifting one's perspective of the image. The solution offered to him was that it was magic. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Never had he hated quoting himself, but upon applying that practice, he was left with the incontrovertible fact: magic existed.

Sherlock spared himself a moment of self-pity, before excitement flared in him. This opened up whole new realms of possibility! There was so much to learn! What were the limitations of magic? How does one harness and use magic? What crimes, previously unsolved, could be explained, logically, by magic? He almost cackled in glee. He had been lamenting the dullness of existence mere hours ago, and now, this wonderful new project had literally come knocking at his door. He looked up from the photograph to meet Harry's anxious green eyes.

Ah, he thought, fear of rejection. This is probably what caused his relatives' distaste for him – if he had been born to parents able to harness magic, and lives with presumably mundane relatives, then either his aunt or his uncle had been previously aware of magic, though their sibling. The inability to perform magic undoubtably engendered a resentment towards the practice, possibly enhanced by fear. The bitter sibling would be faced with raising the child of the talented brother or sister, and watch as it displayed similar talents, resulting in antagonistic behaviour. Harry has lived with this all his life, he realized, and has never had it explained to him. He just knew that he was unloved, and believes it to be his fault his is unwanted.

Contrary to what most believe, Sherlock did not have a total disregard for others' emotions. He was able to discover motive, and manipulate people into giving him information, and that required an understanding of the human emotive and thought processes. He could guess what it was that Harry feared, and what he needed, and where he wouldn't bother with most people, Harry could provide him with information on magic, so it would be worth his while to reassure the boy. It had nothing to do with the way those green eyes were gazing at him so imploringly. He was certainly not moved by such things.

Sherlock smiled widely at Harry, and said, "this is simply brilliant, you must tell me all you know! How does one harness magic? What can be done with it? How are you trained in its utilization?" Harry blinked at the barrage of questions, and John was staring at him agape. Sherlock suddenly had an epiphany. "Your trunk! There are magical implements in it! May I see them? Please?" Sherlock almost begged. John was staring at him like he had never seen him before, but Harry was grinning at him delightedly.

Good, he thought, the boy seems sufficiently reassured that I will not turn him away. Indeed, my interest in the subject is evidently a positive to him, he thought smugly. John broke in then.

"Harry, while you having magic is amazing, do not let Sherlock have free access to your trunk unless you want all of your things experimented on," he said grimly. Harry's smile flickered for a moment before it came back bigger than before.

"John, you can come and pick out things for Sherlock to look at!" Harry said enthusiastically. "Sherlock, you wait here," the boy said in a strict tone, which was rendered rather ineffective due to how adorable he was when he was trying to look severe. Not that Sherlock ever thought anything was adorable. He huffed indignantly and crossed his arms as the two made their way toward Harry's room.

When they were safely ensconced in the room, and had their attention appropriately diverted, judging by the low murmurs he could hear, Sherlock turned and faced the dog, which was still lounging on the couch. He fixed it with an appraising glare.

"Don't think I've forgotten you," he said. "I know you got that album out, and now that magic is a viable solution, I will be looking for how you did so. Harry claims that he only met you the other day – I will find out the reason for your attachment to him, as well as the extent of your abilities. I will work under the assumption that you can understand me, so don't bother playing the idiot. And don't even contemplate interfering with Harry," he concluded. The dog glared at him, baring his teeth, before snorting and burying his nose in his paws.

Sherlock heard a sharp tapping at the window, and turned to see what had made the sound. His eyes lit up, and he lunged for the catch that would open it, while Wolfgang looked up interestedly.

0000oooo0000

Harry shifted through the stuff in his trunk, still on a high of happiness. Mr. Sherlock and John knew about him being a wizard and they still liked him. John was treating him just the same, and Sherlock was interested in magic, not afraid or condemning of it. It was such a relief, and made him feel so warm inside that he was kind of embarrassed. He was also embarrassed because of how much he had liked John's hug, and how happy Sherlock's kind of creepy smile had made him. He dug out his magical items, as John sorted through his schoolbooks. He was muttering to himself, and Harry listened with half an ear.

"The Standard Book of Spells, two volumes, that should make him happy. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi good Lord he'll want to experiment. Perhaps don't show him those ingredients just yet, let him burn himself out on information first," he said as Harry shifted his Potion's supplies. "Yes, definitely don't let him at your – your cauldron, is it? He'll probably blow the flat up." John said this last part with an exasperated air. Harry smiled.

"My friend Neville is horrible at Potions – he's melted a few cauldrons and he's always exploding things," he confided to John. John looked interested at this.

"So you go to school for this, then? Amazing." He looked at the books spread out before him, with subjects such as Transfiguration and Potions, and smiled at Harry's pile of magical paraphernalia. "So, what have you got there, Harry?" he asked, and Harry smiled at him. He proudly displayed his most prized possessions – the potions ingredients were shoved off to the side. John whistled lowly when he saw Harry's wand, and looked at the Nimbus with curiosity. He didn't ask questions however, and he gave the Cloak a mere passing glance.

"Why don't we just take out your books for now, yeah? We don't want Sherlock destroying any actual magic stuff," he said with a smile at Harry. Harry nodded happily, and helped John pick up the texts he had accumulated through two years of magical education. The went back to the sitting room, arms loaded down, only to be met with another extraordinary sight.

0000oooo0000

Sherlock was crouched on a table, frozen in an awkward position as he tried to maintain his balance on the shaky foundation of books and papers. Wolf had his tail in the air and was wagging it energetically as he panted, slobbering onto the floor. But the most astonishing thing was the white bird that was facing off with Sherlock from the mantle. She was perched next to the skull, and her wings were flared out, making her appear three times larger than she actually was. Her golden eyes were glaring at Sherlock's outstretched hand, and her beak was snapping angrily.

"Harry," John began weakly, "what ...?" He trailed off uncertainly, not sure how to phrase the question.

Harry peeked around his books, and his face absolutely lit up.

"Oh, that's Hedwig!" he said enthusiastically. "Hi, Hedwig!" The owl, amazingly enough, rotated her head without shifting anything else, and made a soft mewling sound at the boy. It almost sounded motherly, and Harry grinned. He met John's eyes, and said in a proprietary tone. "She's my owl."

John just stared at the scene before him, and wondered why Sherlock had to engage in an altercation with every animal that entered their flat. This led to the thought 'why are there animals in our flat?', and that led to John wondering if Mrs. Hudson's fondness for feeding strays would extend to allowing a pet owl. He came to the conclusion that the addition of Harry to their household would make his and Sherlock's previous adventures look quite sensible and prosaic in comparison.


AN: So, thoughts? How do you think it went? Are the different pov still working? I'm hoping this is flowing OK, and not going too fast. I didn't want to go too far into Harry's emotions, because teenagers just aren't that introspective about stuff like that, but I felt that it needed to be explained. And I know that Sherlock is seen as an someone oblivious as to how to act around people, but that doesn't mean that he can't behave, he just considers it to be a waste of time. Someone with that amount of understanding about motivation and human thought process would have to be able to observe how others react, and I think Sherlock simply never feels the need to operate as a normal person.

Please review, it means so much to me, and I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions! You guys are part of the reason I write! Yay, You! (But mostly yay, me. I just like writing haha.)