A/N: Okay, so this week in "Rachelea can't keep her friggin' drafts straight after seven years", I have added a chapter 8 to give more details about Sherlock's sorting. It doesn't have to be read to understand the story. Ch. 12 is also new. Not planning to keep reshuffling; I've just settled far more deeply into this project than I initially intended.
If you're new to this story, ignore this note! It's all been perfectly plotted from the beginning, and definitely written in order! *hides the two hundred pages with years 2-7 on them.*
Ignored by the hurrying throngs of people, a scrawny, black-haired boy stood before the glass case that housed the largest exhibit and stared inside. If any had stopped to notice the boy, they would have thought his unblinking gaze more suited to the snake inside—but the reptile was asleep, head resting on its coiled body, apparently unmoved by the carrying voices and occasional taps on the glass from the zoo's visitors.
Sherlock could definitely relate. Casting a quick glance behind him, he wondered what the rush was, why people scurried through a trip undertaken for pleasure.
Sherlock had never been to a zoo before, and didn't expect to be again. That was for people like Mycroft, who had pocket money and friends and, above all, a family who actually cared. So in spite of the heat and stifling crowds, he was doing his best to enjoy it now.
Uncle Vernon was a gorilla, he had decided—loud and brash and prone to displays of aggression unless he got his way. Aunt Petunia was as graceless and bony as a giraffe, but carried herself through her unbearably dull life with all the self-satisfaction of one of the peacocks strutting between picnic tables with the pigeons. Mycroft was a panther, secretive and aloof. On certain occasions twining into your path like a housecat wanting attention. And always, always dangerous.
I am a snake, Sherlock decided, tracing the inert, curled body in front of him. Evidently the serpent agreed, because all at once its lids snapped open and the strange, slitted eyes fixed on his. Sherlock caught his breath and returned the stare, ignoring his own wide green-eyed reflection in the glass. For a moment the noises behind him grew quiet, the details at the corners of his vision blurred, and there was only his staring match with the snake. As was usual on the rare occasions Sherlock found his attention completely and utterly caught up in something, the crystal-clear focus was so sharp a relief he could cry.
Except Sherlock Potter didn't cry. Not from what his cousin labeled 'petty grievances', not from unfamiliar relief, and certainly not from the illogical, heart-pounding exhilaration flooding through him now.
He raised a thin hand to the glass, resting on its smooth surface, imagining that he could step through the glass to stroke the metallic scales and peer back more closely into the slitted pupils boring into his.
"Hello," he murmured.
The snake arched its neck slowly upward until its head hung at his eye level. It stayed that way for a long moment, swaying back and forward, and then opened its fanged mouth. The tongue flickered in and out, but what emerged was not a hiss.
"Hello, small human," it said.
Sherlock blinked once, hard. He knew what Mycroft would say, what his teachers would say—this was clearly impossible. Completely unbelievable. Well, it was the latest in a series of things should have been impossible but weren't. Therefore it was logical to assume that some of the prevailing scientific theories were wrong, and proceed by gathering all the data possible.
"I didn't know snakes could speak," he said as casually as though his heart weren't threatening to break out of his ribcage.
"All creatures can sspeak," the boa constrictor replied, and this time Sherlock made out the hissing undertone. "Excccept those that are incredibly dull." It flicked its head lightly to the side to indicate the rushing crowd, one or two of whom were beginning to take notice of the reptile's strange behavior.
Sherlock grinned. "Most creatures, then."
The dip of the snake's head affirmed this. "Mosst creaturesss here."
"Where would you go, if you were free?"
The tail jabbed toward the glass, indicating a sign in the lower corner.
"Native to Brazil. Bred in captivity," Sherlock read aloud. He grimaced in sympathy. "That's me, too."
There was no time to register the snake's hissed warning before another voice sounded above Sherlock's head. Piercing, as always, in its mild eloquence.
"How very melodramatic of you, cousin." Mycroft was amused. "What have we here?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw. It wasn't like him to fail to notice Mycroft's approach, but nor was it every day that he found himself in conversation with a reptile. Logic and gathering information was all very well, but he could hardly be blamed for getting carried away in sheer delight at the unbelievable. Sherlock turned to his cousin with a carefully schooled expression of boredom.
"It's a boa constrictor, Mycroft. I was led to assume that your early graduation to secondary school was an indication that you could read, but apparently I was wrong."
"And you've been having a lovely little chat with it."
Sherlock bit down his anger. It wouldn't do to let his cousin know how close he had come to the mark. Though who knew how long he had been standing there?
"It seemed the only opportunity for intelligent conversation that would arise for a while." He turned back to the glass. The snake was resting its head again, but wasn't asleep. It seemed to be regarding him with almost an air of amusement.
"What?" Sherlock hissed.
"Do uss both a favor, small human."
"What do you mean?"
The tail tapped the glass again.
Sherlock brought his hand up to the smooth surface. What the snake was suggesting was utterly ridiculous. Just like the time his teacher's wig turned blue, and the spontaneous combustion of Aunt Petunia's rhododendrons. But it was ridiculous to assume that he could actually…
His hand was touching empty air. The glass had vanished.
Sherlock would treasure the look on his cousin's face for the rest of his life.
Mycroft, usually calm, collected, and more pompous that any thirteen year old had a right to be, had seen the glass vanish and stumbled backward in panic. The snake was moving within seconds—Sherlock felt a thrill that ought to have been fear race up his spine as the huge serpent slithered toward him, past him…he could swear he heard a quiet "Thankss, amigo," as it went by…and then, with a playful nip at Mycroft's ankles, it was gone. In blind panic, Mycroft seized an umbrella from a passerby and brandished it, but the boa constrictor was already vanishing into the crowd.
Sherlock pressed his back against a wall and smiled as the first screams rent the air.
It wasn't very long before the letters came, in floods.
Sherlock had had barely a day to kick himself over letting the envelope into the presence of his aunt and uncle—stupid, idiot, they never let you have anything, why would they let you keep that?—when the downpour came. It was the best—that is, the least boring—afternoon of Sherlock's life. As Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon shooed the boys frantically from the parlor, Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He himself had three letters shoved down his shirt and another in the waistband of his too-large jeans. No doubt Mycroft had at least five.
No sooner had the brief, but very enlightening conversation between his parents ended before Mycroft corralled his smaller cousin into his room.
"All right," he said, steering Sherlock onto the rug and plopping down beside him. "Spill. I have little doubt that the contents of these letters are identical, but we may as well be sure." He removed a half-dozen letters from the sleeve of his cardigan as he spoke.
Sherlock scowled, but Mycroft's idea made sense. Given that the younger boy had no power to prevent his interfering cousin from reading his letter he supposed they may as well pool their data. He pulled out the three letters he'd tucked away, leaving the one in his waistband hidden. Mycroft was unpredictable, and if he tried confiscating the letters—for my own good, of course—Sherlock wanted at least one copy to peruse at his leisure.
Mycroft seized a letter opener from his desk and carefully slid the blade under the scarlet seal of the first envelope. Sherlock would have kept back at least one, of course; but that didn't concern him. What concerned Mycroft were the contents, and as he pulled a sheaf of oddly heavy paper (parchment?) from the envelope, Sherlock leaned forward and the two boys read together.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…
When they had finished the letter—the beautiful, impossible letter—they set about opening the rest of the envelopes. Each letter was identical, down to the impossibly symmetrical curves of the handwriting. Sherlock turned the parchment over and over in his hands, studying it from every angle. Mycroft leaned back against the mattress, thinking aloud.
"Whoever these people are, they're either pulling some massive practical joke on you—"
Sherlock's eyes cut his way for a split second, and Mycroft laughed.
"Far be it from me to waste this kind of resources on you, little cousin. Quite apart from the fact that I don't have two dozen trained owls at my command."
Even that wouldn't really surprise him, Sherlock thought, but knew better than to say aloud. He settled for, "So either it's a joke, or this…magical society…has kept their secret from the world for years. Centuries, probably."
"I don't imagine it's all that difficult."
Sherlock shot him an incredulous look. Mycroft waved a hand lazily. "Trained owls and magical schools aside—I mean, if this is real they'll have some sort of magical method to cover that up anyway—but even if a few people notice, so what? They get labeled as drunkards or lunatics. Anyway, you heard Mother and Father. They knew and kept the secret, and you'll never meet two such…"
"...boring…"
"…practical people," he finished.
Sherlock cast him that flat glance again, which Mycroft knew was a façade to cover mounting excitement. Hope, after all, was a weakness, a weapon.
"So you think all this is true?"
"Scientific method, little cousin." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't think I've forgotten the vanishing glass incident," suppressing a shudder. "Don't tell me you had nothing to do with that. There is definitely something…"
"…special…"
"…weird about you."
Sherlock huffed. "You have only circumstantial evidence as far as the snake is concerned."
"Just like all the incidents at school."
This time Sherlock kept sullenly silent. It was really no surprise that Mycroft knew.
"All right." He finally threw a piece of parchment down in Mycroft's lap. "What do you make of it, I know you're dying to say…"
Mycroft needed no further encouragement.
"Emerald ink, not your standard ballpoint tip. Not a calligraphy pen either, but similar…I'd say a quill, except there's no variation in ink flow…no sign of dipping the tip to refill the calamus…impossibly even handwriting, but the tip left clear indentations, so it isn't printed…"
Sherlock, lost in contemplation, opened his eyes long enough to give Mycroft a look that said magic.
Mycroft cleared his throat and continued, picking up an envelope this time.
"They've got your address here, down to your bedroom, which implies a highly efficient level of surveillance, to the point of creepiness…"
Sherlock snorted quietly. The irony was not lost on Mycroft.
"The only blemishes are a few sharp impressions here…"
"The owl's talons, of course."
"Precisely. And the intricate wax seal, the coat of arms—"
"—indicates a near-obsessive fixation with tradition, as does the use of parchment instead of paper. However magical the society, I find it difficult to believe they have more efficient methods of producing goat skin than wood pulp."
"Quite." Mycroft drew up his knees and regarded his younger cousin expectantly. "What are you going to do?"
Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and presented Mycroft with his sweetest smile.
"Because we've enjoyed such a close relationship all these years. Any particular reason I should begin sharing my thoughts with you?"
Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
"Allies, little cousin. You saw Mum and Dad's reaction, do you honestly want me on their side instead of yours?"
"Ah, the lovely yet treacherous bloom of family loyalty."
Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft made a point never to indulge in activities as uncouth as snorting, but he was sorely tempted now.
"Sherlock, look at the resources these people have. Do you think you could stay away from them if you tried? Mummy and Dad, much as I love them, are being delusional."
"I'm flattered," said Sherlock drily.
"You're wanted, Sherlock. Savor the unfamiliar sensation."
"Shut up," said Sherlock absently, scanning the parchment again. "You just want a…" he found it a little difficult to get the word out. "A wizard on your side. Whatever side that may be."
After a long moment he relented. "I suppose I'll answer the letter. 'We await your owl'…that's obvious, at least. Nice of them to assume we all have intelligent predatory birds as pets."
"Who knows, you might have a talent for necromancy. Those remains in your room…"
Sherlock cut him off. "Were already dead, it's an experiment."
Mycroft walked to the window to scan the thick carpet of owls coating the nearby cars. "I think you're covered on that count anyway."
Sherlock, still sprawled on the floor, held up a hand in mock resignation. "Got a pen?"
Watching his cousin secure the folded notebook paper to the leg of an unnaturally tame chocolate-brown owl, Mycroft spoke up. "These letters are quite formal. You don't think it would be better to respond in kind?"
"What, and slaughter a goat?" Sherlock cast him a look of disdain. "Just because these people are stuck in the Dark Ages doesn't mean I'm going to be."
Mycroft swallowed his grin along with an unexpected pang of jealousy. These wizards weren't going to know what hit them.