HI! Sorry It's taken so long to update, with college starting and going to all sorts of activities, life is crazy right now. Also IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! I'm so happy…Funny thing is, I got two pet corn snakes for my BDay (whom I named Sherlock and Watson), and later today my siblings and I are going to binge watch all of the Harry Potter movies. Ha! Because of that, I was in the mood to write another chapter. Enjoy!

****1047*****

The month passed by in a strange combination of too fast, and too agonizingly slow. Sherlock was glad for the time that allowed him to experiment with various things he bought from the apothecary and to read all of the books he'd bought from Florish and Blotts. However, the days didn't end soon enough, time wasn't fast enough. He wanted to be at Hogwarts, because he knew that's where he'd find John.

It had to be.

He made sure to eat three reasonably sized meals a day (for John's sake, obviously), and he slept close to five hours a night. A new personal record. Around the middle of August, he indulged a good "I'm bored" sulk, like he hadn't been able to at the Dursley's. He curled up in front of the fire, in his pajamas and bathrobe, muttering under his breath at everything that was wrong with the world. When he went out in public, he made sure to keep his long hair in front of his scar, and his muggle clothes donned, so that no one would recognize him. He hated being the Boy-Who-Lived almost as much as he'd hated his celebrity status in his last life. Still, no one seemed to expect their savior to look or act quite like Sherlock, so he had a reasonable amount of anonymity for now.

Four days before it was time to go to King's Cross, he realized he was running out of potions ingredients, so he dressed and grabbed a money bag before returning to the apothecary. The last two times he'd been in, he'd been the only customer. This time, however, as he walked through the doors, he immediately noticed the sour-faced, sallow-skinned man browsing the selection of ingredients. Sherlock examined him, taking in his appearance and deducing.

"Finished staring?" the man had noticed Sherlock. Sherlock met the man's gaze unflinchingly, which seemed to surprise the man, though he quickly schooled his features back into a practiced scowl.

"You're the Hogwarts Potion Master." He said, it wasn't a question. The man's face showed even more surprise.

"Dressed like that, you must be a Muggleborn, so how could you possibly know?"

Sherlock hesitated, remembering Gremione's warning not to cause trouble. But then he decided that it didn't matter because he wasn't at school yet, there was no way this man could punish him. "Your hair for one." The man stiffened, his scowl becoming more pronounced. Sherlock noticed and noted it, but pretended not to. "Your hair is unnaturally oiled, obviously not from product. Yet your clothes are neatly done and clean. Furthermore, your fingernails are clear of dirt, proving that you are not a naturally slovenly man. Which means the state of your hair can be explained by constant exposure to Potion fumes, which leave residue in your hair. In addtion, you are pale but this not genetically so. Therefore, you must spend much of your time in doors. You carry yourself confidently, and you automatically meet people's gaze with intent to intimidate. Normally this might indicate that you have high station, but your clothes are old and well taken care of, which means you receive low pay. Authority figure, then. Used to being obeyed without question. The position of the wrinkles on your face despite your obviously young age, no more than forty, indicates a large amount of stress. The scuffs on the toes of your shoes…are from stone? Stone steps. Many of them and frequently traveled." The man's face was slack with shock. Sherlock continued on with his rant anyway. "It's easy to assume that the combination of stressed authority figure, who brews potions for a living while earning low wages, in a facility big enough to merit many, many flights of stone staircases indicates that you are the Potion Master at Hogwarts."

The man was silent for a moment, then he crossed his arms looking down at Sherlock with interest. "What is your name?"

"Sherlock, and yours?"

A frigid pause followed Sherlock's question for a long, awkward moment, before the professor deemed it worthy enough to merit a response. "Professor Snape." There was carefully hidden shock, and calculating coldness on the man's dour face. But Sherlock chose to ignore it for now.

"I look forward to your class." Sherlock said honestly before stepping around the man to grab the student potion gear pack, as well as a few other items just for him. The man was still there watching him when he left.

****1047****

Sherlock packed his things early on the morning of September 1st, eager to reach King's Cross. Tom the bartender had informed him that, while the wizarding world doesn't actually have taxis, they do have a bus. So, once on the curb, Sherlock held out his wand. Almost instantly, a hideous bus squealed to a stop in front of him. A young, spotty teenager jumped out with a cheery grin and began to prattle off some obviously rehearsed line. "Welcome to the night bus! For eleven sickles you can—" Sherlock handed him three galleons, effectively cutting him off.

"King's Cross," he said striding over to a seat, his owls in a cage, the handle clutched in his left fist. He sat down in one of the less filthy seats, near a window so dirty that it could be considered opaque. With a jolt, the bus took off, swerving and lurching through the streets of London.

****1047****

Ron wasn't that nervous, though his family seemed to think that he should be. All three of his brothers (who still lived at home) paid him visits that morning, with reassurances that it was all going to be okay. Even Ginny was rather clingy, giving him lots of hugs and holding onto his arm all through breakfast. Ron gave them all smiles, but none of them seemed to see it. Molly tutted over him, straightening his hair and clothes, and giving him advice like "When you see someone you want to be friends with, just smile! You've got a nice smile."

Now they were nearly to the barrier and Ginny had a tight hold on his left hand, Molly on his right. Ginny was pleading with Molly to let her go a year early, because clearly Ron wouldn't survive without her. "They'll eat him alive!" she wailed.

Percy rolled his eyes as he charged ahead with his cart. The twins soon followed, then Ginny helped Ron push his cart through, even though he didn't really need any help. In the station, hundreds of families were gathered around saying their good byes. Older kinds simply ran right onto the train, excited to see their friends. Mothers of younger kids were blubbering messes, while pretty much every father there just stood around looking awkward.

His own father clapped him on the shoulder as Molly did her best to smother him with her own body. The twins finally took pity on him, wrestling their little brother away with promises to send a toilet seat to Ginny. "C'mon, Ronnikins," they tell him, giving him a gentle push before each grabbing one side of his trunk. Their things are already shrunk and in their pockets. Ron smiled after them, waved to his parents one last time, then boarded the train.

He hasn't gone fifteen feet when an arm shoots out of a compartment and drags him in.

****1047****

Sherlock stepped off of the Knight Bus, wishing he had a chance to question the driver more about it. However, he wants to be able to see everyone as they get on the train, and to do that he has to be there early. It's only when he steps into the large station, that he realizes he has no idea how to get to platform "Nine and three-quarters" and he fumes, trying to figure out how on earth he forgot to question someone about this.

He figures that any guards around here would be muggles, and therefore useless. So he goes and sits on a bench near platforms nine and ten, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his knuckles. His owls sat beside him in their small cage, trying to sleep. Wizards stood out in the muggle world, so it should be hard to find a wizarding family and follow them onto the platform. He ends up waiting, bored, for nearly fifteen minutes before a large, loud family heads towards him. They were obviously wizards. He could tell from the way the father excitedly gawked at everything around him and the children stared at people with a strange fascination. Their clothing was also strangely mismatched and the fact that they were saying things like "packed with muggles" was also a nice clue.

The first thing that Sherlock noticed was that they were all redheads. The second thing he noticed was that the first thing was wrong. There was a boy, slightly taller than he (due to his stunted growth from malnutrition) but obviously the same age who had straw blonde hair. From the way his family acted, they were all very protective of him in a way which showed he was either mentally handicapped, crippled, extremely babyish, the favored child or a combination of those options. The boy was limping, Sherlock noticed as he watched curiously.

Despite the blond boy's limp, when he stood still as one of his older brothers ran passed Sherlock right into a brick barrier, he showed no signs of discomfort that would usually accompany a wounded or disfigured leg. Psychosomatic then? All of a sudden, realization hit Sherlock over the head.

The boy had a straight backed posture, while the rest of them slouched, showing that he was more used to strict discipline than even his father. He had a worried look in his eyes as he glanced around them, though they became fond when he looked at the little girl (possibly a sister) clinging to his arm. Said girl wailed "But they'll eat him alive" and the boy scrunched up his nose in a way that was heart wrenchingly familiar.

John, his brain supplied unhelpfully as his heart started doing its best imitation of a beached narwhale. That is to say, flopping around heavily and uselessly. His mouth was open and gaping. John looked very much like his old self, like Sherlock. Though Sherlock had originally thought that it was only a freak coincidence that he so closely resembled his past life. Afterall, Greg was a girl now and Mycroft wasn't pudgy.

But Sherlock smiled at the boy who was so very much, John. Somewhat stocky, but soft—not chubby, just soft. His eyes were the same bright blue. His nose was still just as expressive. John ran passed into the barrier with his sister and Sherlock soon followed, owls in hand. Though, he walked right passed John, who was saying one last good-bye to his family, after the parents had come through, and boarded the train. He chose the first compartment that was completely empty.

And waited.

He watched through the window as John escaped his clingy parents and followed his brothers onto the train. As soon as John was within reach, Sherlock threw open the compartment door, grabbed John by the arm.

****1047****

Ron stumbled into the small compartment, tripping over his bad leg, and ending up sprawled out on the floor. He groaned, thinking that it was his brothers trying to cheer him up. "Gits," Ron sighed, sitting up. He was facing the window, which let in light from the station. Whoever had pulled him in was standing quietly behind him. Ron got unsteadily to his feet and turned around.

"Fred, George, what's the…" Ron stopped talking.

In front of him was a tiny boy. He was shorter than Ron by half a head, and Ron was by no means a tall boy. The other child had pale skin, stick-thin limbs and a sharp angular face. His hair was thick, black, curly and untamed. His eyes were a ghostly, glowing vivid green that seemed to flash silver. But then there was the boy's clothes…he wore a long familiar coat, despite it being late summer, and a blue scarf around his neck. On his legs were pressed black slacks and over those was a white, silk button up. There was no doubt who this boy was.

Déjà vu hit him. This was so like when Sherlock had come back from the dead, back when he'd been dating Mary (who he'd divorced after she shot Sherlock). Leave it to his best friend to defy death not once, but twice. There was no way this was anyone but Sherlock. The boy stood there, looking both lost and confident but completely unsure of what to do now. John slowly stepped forward and cupped Sherlock's cheek with an outstretched palm. Sherlock tilted his head, to lean into the touch. His eyes were wide and questioning. "Sherlock…" John breathed.

Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile "I found you, Doctor". With a muffled sob, John tackled Sherlock in a fierce hug, his arms wrapping around his friend's skinny frame, his face pressed to the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock returned the pressure almost desperately. Somehow, they managed to sit down on a seat without disentangling themselves, and they stayed like that for a long while, neither of them noticing when the train had started moving.

"I missed you," John whispered, after their anguished clinging had softened to simply having their arms hanging around each other. "I missed you so, so much." Sherlock said nothing, but nuzzled his face into John's chest, breathing deeply in contentment. "I'd heard about reincarnation stories before…I know how rare it is…I was certain I'd never see you again."

"Oh, please John," Sherlock huffed and John smiled at how young he sounded. Merlin, how young they were. "I never doubted I'd find you. I was lost without my blogger." John smiled, yanking Sherlock closer so that the smaller boy was practically on his lap. Sherlock didn't even protest, just burrowing into the warmth of John's sweater. John felt so much more content than he had in years as he ran a hand along Sherlock's back. The smaller boy sighed happily, and John got the impression that if Sherlock were a cat, he'd be purring.

Suddenly, a thought struck him and he stiffened. "John?" Sherlock tried to get his attention. "John, what's wrong?"

"I didn't think I'd ever find you," John said, croaking slightly.

"Yes, you said…" Sherlock searched John's face and the ex-Doctor saw exactly when realization dawned in his friend's eyes. "You told someone you remembered."

"Yes. The Potion's Master. Professor Snape."

"Interesting." Sherlock said, his face growing thoughtful, before sliding off of John and climbing up onto the opposite seat to reach into the overhead. John felt slightly affronted that this news merited such little reaction as Sherlock rummaged around the luggage area blindly.

"That's it?"

"Should there be more?"

John smiled at the typical Sherlockian answer, but soon decided that if Sherlock wasn't bothered by it, then John wouldn't be either. "I bought you something," Sherlock said, surprising John yet again. "You know, since I never doubted I'd find you" he said pointedly. John blushed at the non-to-subtle tease. Sherlock pulled a wire cage down from above and settled it on the seat next to John. Inside were two owls, one white and one dark grey. "This is Hedwig," Sherlock said, stroking the white one through the cage. "And this is Ian," he brushed the other's belly with a finger. "He's yours."

"I have a familiar, but I've always wanted and owl." John said, opening the cage so that he could better pet his new fowl. "My older brother, Percy, gave me his old rat, Scabbers." John produced the rat, which Sherlock barely looked at before asking for John to describe his life so far and then John insisting he do the same. After an hour of them both talking, Sherlock felt guilty for being the indirect cause of John's pain and John felt guilty for being so depressed and miserable when Sherlock clearly had the worse end of the deal.

"Of course you'd end up being Harry Bloody Potter," John summed it all up with a laugh, deciding not to worry about how he was going to murder the Dursley's for now. Perhaps he could convince his mum to let Sherlock stay at the Burrow in the summer.

"My thoughts exactly," drawled a voice from the now open compartment door. A lone, pale boy stood there. Ron recognized him from the papers, Draco Malfoy. They'd never met in person, but Ron know their fathers hated each other. "John, I take it? It's too bad we don't run in the same circles; it would have been nice to talk about before with someone."

John's eyes widened. "MYCROFT?" the boy nodded. John grinned, somehow Mycroft as a boy was nowhere near as frightening as he had been in their previous life. Ron Weasley rose to his feet, extending a hand to Draco Malfoy, which the boy took almost warmly.

"I must apologize, Sherlock," Mycroft said stiffly as he released John's hand. "It seems you were right, after all."

"I told you he wasn't ordinary," Sherlock sniffed petulantly as he cradled Hedwig in his lap. John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock.

"You two knew the other had been reincarnated as well?" he asked incredulously before realizing how strange that sentence was. Both ex-Holmes men gave him a look that clearly said obviously.

"Oh, Greg, too." Sherlock said off-handedly. "She should be along soon enough." John huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"You've got his name down, after all these years. But now you're confusing his gender?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John as Mycroft sat himself down beside his brother. He shook his head.

"He was reincarnated as Hermione Jean Granger. A muggle-born witch. We've been in contact for the last six years via emails on private messages."

"Six years?" John asked, somewhat jealous…alright, incredibly jealous. Though he felt better when one glance at Mycroft told him that the Malfoy heir felt the exact same way. Sherlock remained oblivious as ever as he only nodded, going on to tell them about 'Gremione's' dentist parents and how she'd been stalking Donavan and Anderson all these years from afar. And how their old flat was now a memorial.

Mycroft was in the middle of describing his new life when there came a knock on the door which slid open before John could grant permission. There stood an athletic looking girl with extremely short hair, tanned skin and a bossy expression. She was already wearing her uniform robes and had a pencil tucked behind one ear. Next to her was a chubby boy with dark hair and baby blue eyes, who was wringing his hands.

"Have any of you seen a toad? Sherlock!" the girl cried suddenly, a grin splashing on her face as she charged forward to embrace her friend. "It's good to see you face to face!" Greg murmured holding Sherlock's tiny frame to her chest. Greg sat back and looked Sherlock up and down, then she ran her hands through Sherlock's unruly hair. "You're so tiny," she mused to herself.

"Likewise, Greg," Sherlock said solemnly, though John saw some amusement in his friend's bright eyes. "What is the toad's name?" he asked the new boy.

"T-Trevor" the boy said. Sherlock nodded, pulling out his wand, gently pushing 'Hermione' onto the seat next to Ron.

"Accio, Trevor the Toad" For two seconds there was no reaction to this, and Sherlock looked distinctly disappointed. But then…Splat. Against the window of the door, a toad suddenly smacked against it.

"Trevor!" the boy cried in alarm as he opened the door to peel his familiar off the glass. Luckily, the toad seemed to be only dazed, not injured. "Thank you…Sherlock, was it? I'm Neville, Neville Longbottom. It's so cool that you can already do magic like that. Gran wouldn't let me try anything until I got to Hogwarts. Said I'd poke my eye out with a wand. Honestly…" The boy huffed in resignation, then offered a hand to shake, which Sherlock did after a moment.

"Yes, I'm Sherlock. I take it from the way you said your last name and your fine clothing that you come from an old wizarding family? Light, if your wand material is anything to go by. Obviously I can't see the core, but Applewood is as light as they come. You're not very confident, though. You should be. Your magic is powerful…wait…" Sherlock frowned. "That's not your wand is it?"

"H-How did you know?" Neville asked in surprise.

Sherlock waved that away. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you get one that suits you. Perhaps I can help you with that at some point. That wand with have to do until then."

"Gran wants me to deal with this one," Neville said, fingering the hilt, which was sticking out of his pocket, gently. Mycroft was looking at Sherlock in fond amusement as Sherlock deduced their new 'friend'. John was just glad that Sherlock wasn't being as cruel about it as he usually was. But then, this was a child, so Sherlock was probably purposefully censoring his deductions.

"Gran? Not raised by your parents…so that wand must belong to one of them. They must either be dead or absent, be not estranged, making your grandmother overly sentimental in wanting you to be more like them which prompts her into forcing that wand onto you."

"Yes!" Neville looked amazed.

"Not very smart," Sherlock shook his head and John hoped that that comment wasn't an insult directed at Neville. "I still stand by my opinion that you need one of your own. I suggest you ask a professor when we get to Hogwarts. Stop pacing, Greg, and sit down." Sherlock snapped at Gremione who had stood back up and was anxiously stepping around, looking like she wanted to say something else. Sherlock moved across the seat so that he was next to John. Gremione sat down by Draco, and then patted the seat next to her. Neville sat obediently, though he looked wary of Draco.

"You're all friends, then?"

Gremione nodded. "I haven't seen them in ages, though." Neville looked confused but didn't ask any questions, instead listening as John prompted Sherlock to explain what he knew about want cores. After a few moments Draco joined in. When they were nearly there, Hermione prompted Ron to find his brothers, so that he could change into his school robes before they got to the school. But Sherlock had stubbornly refused to put on the robes, saying that he was fine as he was.

****1047*****

The train pulled to a stop, and a voice informed all of the students that they must leave their luggage there to be taken up to their rooms separately. Sherlock huffed as he unshrunk his own trunk with a tap of his wand. He gently prodded Hedwig back into her cage. The little snowy gave an indignant hoot but did as she was bidden. John did the same with Ian, then closed the wire door. "They'll be alright, then?" he asked. Mycroft sighed but nodded, he was the only one who bothered answering. Gremione and Neville were soon caught away in the stream of students that was gushing down the hall of the train. Mycroft stayed steadfastly directly in front of John and Sherlock, seemingly unaffected by the other children pushing and shoving past.

Sherlock had a hand slipped through one of John's, and was holding on in a death grip. Had the Consulting Detective tried to do this in their past life, John might have—to his shame—jerked his hand away and lectured about the inappropriateness of it. John might even have shouted out to anyone nearby who might listen how "not gay" he was. However, John did none of those things. Instead, John only tightened his own grip on the smaller boy…just to ensure they weren't separated again, obviously.

A giant of a man stood on the platform, swinging a huge glowing lantern that was spilling yellow sparks. The children stood back a bit from him, wary. All except for Sherlock who dragged Ron up to the front, still holding his hand, and greeted the giant with cordial formality. The giant wasn't nearly as eloquent in his salutations. "'ullo, 'arry!" he boomed, his voice echoing around the stone corridor of the train station. "Alri'gh there?" he asked, a kindly light in his black eyes. Sherlock assured him that he was, and no sooner than he had, then did the giant spin around, swinging a huge arm to bit the children follow him.

"Who's that, then?" Ron asked Harry.

"Hagrid," Harry replied simply. "He's the one the school sent to intimidate my relatives into allowing my attendance. A bit of an oaf, incredibly stupid, but fairly tolerable." Sherlock smiled at his friend. "Like you"

John willed himself not to smile, instead forcing a scowl and whacking Sherlock over the head, using the hand that wasn't still clutching onto Sherlock like he was a John's lifeline. 'Hagrid' led the children down a quaint forest path that was illuminated by nothing but the celestial lights overhead and Hagrid's lantern. And if John clung a bit tighter to Sherlock, it was only to ensure that neither of them stumbled. Soon enough, they came to a stony beach where a fleet of rickety looking rowboats, minus the oars, bobbed on the water of a black lake. "N' more than four t' a boat!" Hagrid informed them. To their left, Sherlock noticed Gremione and Neville getting into a boat that already held two petite Indian girls. Sherlock dragged John over to one that looked marginally less like it's capsize under their weight.

Mycroft was following them, but, for once, Sherlock found he didn't mind. Sherlock only pressed closer to John's side, pretending to be scooting as far away from his brother as he could. Sherlock wasn't faking the scowl he gave Mycroft when his brother flashed him that smug, knowing look. Just before the boat began to drift off, a tall boy with dark skin and darker hair spiked up on his head clambered into their boat, sitting down next to Mycroft.

"There you are, Malfoy" the boy said. "Been looking all over the train for you. I thought you were supposed to sit with Pansy and I."

"Whatever gave you that impression, Zabini?" Draco asked in a drawl. "Potter, Weasley, this is Blaise Zabini. An acquaintance of mine. Zabini, this is Harry Potter and Ronal Weasley." There was shock on the boy's face.

"Really, you're actually Harry Potter?" then Blaise frowned. "Where are your robes?"

"Wizarding fashion is ridiculous, impractical, uncomfortable and unfashionable," Sherlock sniffed. "I wouldn't be caught dead in them."

"You'll get in trouble," the boy warned halfheartedly, though looking like he completely agreed.

"What is the worst they can do? It's not like they can kick the Boy-Who-Lived out of Hogwarts for violating dress code." Sherlock scoffed, hiding a smirk as he saw John trying not to giggle out of the corner of his eyes. John's arm tightened around him, and Sherlock most definitely did not lean into the touch. Blaise looked back and forth between the two of them, then shrugged to himself.

"Point there, Potter." Blaise said.

"Call me Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because 'Harry' is stupid."

That surprised a laugh out of their new acquaintance. "Alright then, Sherlock. Call me Blaise. You can as well, Weasley. You two friends?"

"Obviously," John drawled, mimicking Sherlock's annoyed tone. Mycroft cracked a grin at this. "Call me John."

"I thought your name was Ronald."

"It is."

Blaise was quiet for a moment, looking confused. Then his giggled a bit and said "You're strange. I hope we can be friends." John, being the amicable person he was, agreed immediately, while Sherlock pretended he hadn't heard. Blaise seemed to only find this amusing.