Hey guys! Thank you so much for all of your reviews! I just love reading through them. It makes me smile so big my brother always gives me weird looks. As for an update schedule!...
…..schedule? What is this skedual you speak of?
I don't really follow any schedule…my life is too hectic. I just write whenever I can, on whichever story I feel most inspired for. I mean, most times I update, I've literally just finished writing the entire chapter in one go. I'm sorry if this disappoints you…
Sorry about all the little mistakes…I do try to catch them…but editing is my Achilles heel….along with coming up with titles, spelling and grammar. xD
Lastly I'd just like to say that if any of you have ideas for funny moments between Snape and Sherlock, or Quirrel(Voldemort) and Sherlock PLEASE let me know! And any other ideas, period. Thank you so much for your support, I love you all!
May the gods be ever in your favor
~James
Mycroft was waiting at the Gryffindor table for them the next morning when John and Sherlock came down for breakfast. "Did you hear?" he drawled. "Some idiot left raw meat on the tables last night. Thestrals got in and trashed the place. It took all night for the teachers to mop everything up. Personally, I blame the oaf…Hagrid, I think his name is?"
"I'll thank you to not speak of my friends so," Sherlock sniffed. "And get your fat arse out of my seat. I'm tired, and would like to sit down."
"Tired?" John noticed that Mycroft suddenly looked mildly concerned, though he was sure Sherlock was purposefully ignoring it. Mycroft scooted over a few feet, and Sherlock pretended to reluctantly sit down next to him. John took his usual place to Sherlock's left as the other Gryffindor first years gathered around.
"The most horrible sound was keeping John and I awake last night," Sherlock said, his voice kept low. "It sounded rather like a dog…or three." Mycroft's eyebrows drew together as he tried to decipher what Sherlock meant. "It sounded as though it was chained up, someone should check on the poor thing, make sure there's nothing underneath it making him uncomfortable."
"I'm sure Hagrid would know," Mycroft said, his voice kept at a similar volume. "Let me know if there's anything I can do." John was struck by the honesty on Mycroft's face. Sherlock looked like he was about to insult Mycroft, probably reflex, but he stayed his tongue, instead nodding sharply. Mycroft gave John a friendly smile, then he gave Gremione a gentlemanly bow before rising from the table and sashaying over to where Blaise had saved him a seat.
"Bloody busybody," Sherlock mumbled as he scooted closer to John to grab a piece of melon off of his plate.
"Mind translating for us?" Gremione asked as she sat down in the seat that Mycroft had just vacated. "Because I know neither of you are very concerned about that dog's welfare." Sherlock looked scandalized.
"How can you say such a thing?" he asked, eyes wide. "It's a Cerberus Gremione, a Cerberus. Do you have any idea how rare those things…" he trailed off, catching a glance of John's pale face. Sherlock cleared his throat, subtly grabbing John's hand. "What I mean to say, is we're going to go see Hagrid this afternoon during break and ask him about the dog. If he is involved with the case, like I know he is, he'll act guilty. I might be able to deduce what the parcel was."
"Is it really that important?" John asked hesitantly.
"Do you want me to be bored?" Sherlock asked in the same tone that others might ask "Do you want my face to fall off?" Gremione rolled their eyes at the both of them as owls flooded the air above them. John was surprised when a long, thin package was dumped on top of his bacon. John was about to reach for it, when a letter was dropped on top. John opened the letter first as Fred and George came over to spy on the younger kids.
"DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE." The letter said in spikey, green ink.
"It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want everybody knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll think the school got it for you. As it is, you should be thanking your very generous friend. Furthermore, Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o'clock for your first training session.
Professor McGonagall"
"My very generous friend," John mused. Then he tackled Sherlock in a hug, knocking the other boy off his seat. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou" he babbled. "I've never gotten a new broom before! I've always had to make due with Charlie's old one!" Sherlock awkwardly patted John on the back.
"Yes, well," Sherlock cleared his throat with an awkward shrug. "I figured I owed you after all the times I took your credit card to buy experiment materials." A freckled hand from above scooped up the broom.
"Blimey, Ron!" said Fred. "Is this what I think it is?"
"Not fair!" George wailed. "Why'd you have to go and be best friends with a rich kid?"
"Not that we're discouraging it," Fred was quick to say, elbowing George in the ribs. "We're very happy for you and your boyfriend."
"Oi!" John protested, though it was halfhearted at best.
"You'll have to let us borrow this sometime, Ronnikins," George said.
"I've never even touched one, before," Fred said with more than a bit of jealousy as he ran his hands over the packaging paper.
"Give it back," Ron demanded. "I want to open it."
"But McGonagall said not to," Greg reminded them in her bossy sort of way. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"She said to not open it in the Great Hall," Sherlock said. "So give it to us, and we'll open it in the dorms." John jumped up and grabbed it from his brother. He and Sherlock dashed out of the Great Hall, up towards Gryffindor Tower.
***1047***
If there was one thing that Sherlock despised more than Mycroft…it was headaches. Ever since he was little, the smallest headache would make him moan and flop about uselessly, clutching at his head. Less because of the pain and more because it made it almost impossible to concentrate. Luckily, he almost never got them. And when he did, he always pretended he was bored, so as not to worry John.
But there was no point trying not to worry John, because John was already looking at him with concern. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and inched impossibly closer to John, who was already sandwiched against the wall on a bench in the DADA classroom. John had both arms around him.
"Is s-s-something t-the mat-t-ter, boys?" Professor Quirrel asked them. Sherlock gritted his teeth, feeling his headache double as the Professor drew closer. "Are y-you al-lright, Mis-s-ster Pot-t-t-ter?" Sherlock didn't bother answering, he only pulled on his banged with his fingers. John answered for him.
"May I please take him to the infirmary?" John asked. "He's hurting." The Professor hesitated, probably trying to figure out if Sherlock and John were faking it, trying to get out of class. Sherlock, meanwhile, felt like someone was trying to claw into his brain. It started like a pinprick at the front of his brain, and then it felt like a nail being driven into his skull.
"G-go ahead, M-m-mister Weas-s-sley," the professor told them with a kind look. "And l-l-let me kn-know wh-what Madame Pom-pomfrey s-s-s-s-ays," John nodded as he helped Sherlock stand up. Sherlock was suddenly hit with a dizzy spell and he almost fell down. John put his friend's arm over his shoulder and carried both their weights.
"Come on, Sherlock," John muttered. Sherlock gave him a dirty look, but made an attempt to stand on his own. The two of them managed to make their way out of the classroom, and as soon as the door swung shut behind them, Sherlock found the headache had lessened considerably.
"Are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.
"Headache," he said shortly. "Can't…brain…buffalo…dying" he tried to explain. John seemed to get it though, he always did. John half carried him to the infirmary where Madame Pomphrey came bustling over.
"Oh, dears," she said. "What happened?"
"Sherlock's got a bad headache," John said. "He couldn't concentrate and he felt really dizzy." Madame Pomphrey waved her wand over Sherlock, whose face was paler than normal, except for his scar, which had turned red. Pomphrey put her hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock pulled away, not wanting to be touched.
"You feel warm," she said kindly. "Is it your scar bothering you? I know that curse scars can sometimes act up for no reason. Why don't you lie down? I'll get you something for it." John thanked her and led Sherlock to the nearest bed, which Sherlock immediately flopped down on, face first. John climbed up next to him.
"Do you know why your scar is acting up?" John asked. Sherlock mumbled something and shook his head. John nodded, then laid down on his back next to Sherlock as they waited for Madame Pomphrey to come back with a pain reliever potion.
****1047*****
John watched Sherlock lie there, staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. John knew that a lot of people in his position would find this mildly disturbing, but John had been best friend with Sherlock Holmes—Potter—whatever—long enough that it didn't bother him. Sherlock lay flat on his back, his arms straight by his sides, his beaufitul green eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, unblinking. John put a hand to Sherlock's forhead, his friend not reacting at all, and frowned, feeling the unnatural warmth emanating from that thrice damned scar. John stroked his thumb gently over the irritated mark, loosing himself to thought as his fingers strayed into Sherlock's hair, gently running them through.
Sherlock always seemed very irritable in Quirrell's class, but John, until now, had always chalked it up to him hating the man's stutter. But now John wondered if it wasn't something more. He'd have to talk to Sherlock about it later, see if he had any theories (what was he saying "if"? Of course Sherlock had theories).
John's hand never stilled, and John didn't notice for a good fifteen minutes that Sherlock had fallen asleep under the gentle touch.
***1047****
Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace, trying to determine just what was makig his head feel like Mycroft and a half-lame bear tried to waltz through its halls. The stream of magic running through felt tense, like it was being pulled at. Sherlock soon realized that some of the magic was being stolen from the main current and redirected to the strange room he'd only been in once before. The room that housed that small black mass behind the chipped white door. The last time Sherlock had been in here, the small mass seemed to sigh in contentment and stretch out like a glop of margarine on a hotplate until it had spread out and seemed to grow a fraction of its size. But then it'd grown very still and Sherlock had grown bored so he'd left and not thought about it again, simply thinking it a new part of his wizardly make up.
But now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock cursed himself for being so stupid as he followed the trail to the ugly door. He opened it with some struggle, but it was easier than the first time. The black mass was no longer the size of a small cat, but rather than of a medium dog. It was vaguely humanoid, despite still being made up of wispy black clouds. It was also hunched over and trembling.
Sherlock frowned and knelt beside it. He hesitantly put a hand on the deformed child-like creature, strangely feeling like he should offer comfort, and feeling uncomfortable at the foreign impulse. The small thing jerked at the contact, but didn't pull away, instead it seemed to lean into his touch, and the stream of magic that had been diverted to it grew stronger. Something in Quirrell's class made this thing agitated, Sherlock assumed. But how and why? And what? Maybe the revolting amount of garlic that weirdo smeared on everything. Perhaps this creature in his head was allergic to garlic? Sherlock certainly held no fondness for that particular herb.
It was trembling, like it was cold. So Sherlock conjured a blanket (it's his head, he can do what he wants) and swept it over the creature. Then he sat back on his haunches and observed it. Was this the source of his magic? No, if it was it wouldn't be feeding off of the main stream. Then some sort of parasite? Perhaps, though it didn't seem malevolent. Sherlock could sense scrambled emotions coming off of it: Confusion, pain, anger, sorrow, remorse, relief, guilt. Sherlock sat there for what felt like a long while.
And then he felt someone brush his forehead. John his brain immediately told him what his eyes saw somewhere off in the distance. Then the fingers strayed down into his hair, and he felt calm steal over him and the creature. Sherlock close his eyes and lay down on the floor next to the small black thing. Further deductions could wait.
*****1047*****
The issue of seeing Hagrid was solved the next day, when Sherlock had quite recovered from his headache the previous day (not that John believed it, he mothered Sherlock even more than usual, from insisting on carrying his books to holding his arm steady as they walked down the halls together. Their friends weren't sure what was funnier: John's actions or the fact Sherlock seemed to enjoy it.), when Hedwig flew in, dropping a rumpled piece of parchment on Sherlock's empty plate. Sherlock smiled at the owl, giving her a piece of John's bacon and stroking the soft feathers on her neck. She gave him a loving nip on his nose, then flew off. Ian, who had delivered John with the latest of his mother's letters (asking him if her baby boy was alright, if he was eating enough, if his leg was bothering him, if he was getting along with the other children), stayed behind, seemingly content to sit upon John's shoulder. Sherlock smiled at bit at them, it looked like Ian was reading Mrs. Weasley's letter over John's shoulder.
"What's that, then?" Gremione asked, snatching up the letter. Sherlock didn't mind, he already knew what it was.
"It's a letter from Hagrid, inviting us to tea. We've a free period today, let's go then." Gremione scowled at him, as she always did when Sherlock deduced something and she wasn't sure how he'd done it. "Who else would send a letter that rumpled and smelling of dog and burning wood, and why else would he send it?" Sherlock asked by way of explanation. Gremione only sniffed in annoyance and dropped the letter back on his plate as Sherlock grabbed some of John's scrambled eggs with his fingers.
Lavender showed a bit of disgust that Sherlock was eating such messy food with his fingers, but she didn't say anything because John didn't seem to mind, he only pushed the side with eggs closer to Sherlock so his friend would have easier access to it.
"Mum wants you to come over, Christmas," John said. "I told her you don't want to go back to your muggle relatives. She and Dad were going to go visit one of my brothers, but something happened and we're all just going to the Burrow." Sherlock nodded, pleased at this and mentally listing the things he would order (via owl) to gift the Weasley's with on Christmas. "You're invited, too, Greg. Though I think your parents will want you home." Greg nodded sadly.
"I'm glad to see them, but I'll miss you, two." Gremione smiled fondly as Sherlock plucked a piece of toast out of John's hand, just as he was about to put it in his mouth. Sherlock took a bite and handed it back. John just seemed resigned as he chewed on the side that Sherlock hadn't bitten off of.
"Maybe we can all have a Christmas party at my house," Neville said. "We could have it the day before Christmas Eve! We could invite all the Gryffindor First years, your brothers-coz they're hilarious, John—and our friends from the other houses. I'm sure Draco would want to come, he's awfully fond of you two."
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Simply awful." The other children started listing off names of kids from other houses, and Neville took out a scroll and quill to jot down all the names.
"Gran has always wanted me to host a ball," Neville said. "She gets upset when I hide in the library whenever she throws one. I'm sure she wouldn't mind having the manor be the place we meet up in, I think she'd be too relieved that I'm finally acting like a pureblood heir."
"To be safe, you should owl her before we plan anymore," John said. Neville nodded happily as he took out another scroll and began penning his grandmother a letter.
That afternoon, the "golden Trio", as the first year lions had dubbed their little group, trudged down the hill towards the small wooden shack near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Sherlock and John were arguing about Sherlock needing to actually tie his scarf about his neck, rather than just dangling it from his shoulders.
"It's just a strip of cloth!" Sherlock argued, and Greg tried not to laugh at them. "It doesn't actually do anything! Leave me alone you fussy old woman!"
"It does too do something," John argued right back as he pulled Sherlock to a stop then grabbed his scarf wrapping it warmly and snugly about his neck. Sherlock stood there with an expression of displeasure on his face. Though Gremione didn't believe it for a second, because as soon as John stepped back and gave a little nod, satisfied with his work, Sherlock looped an arm though one of John's (though with his other hand he undid the scarf). Gremione sighed at them and pounded on the door of Hagrid's house.
There was a loud shuffling noise from the other side of the door, and a low growl. "Back, Fang, back," they heard Hagrid demand. The door opened with a slight groan to reveal the large bushy man standing there with a bright grin on his face. "Well, don't just stand there! Come in, come in!" he greeted while struggling to hold onto the thick collar of an enormous dog. Sherlock's eyes went wide and he immediately—to John's horror—reached for the dog. John nearly screamed when he saw Sherlock's tiny hand that close to the maw of a dog named Fang. But the dog let out a little yip accompanied by a butt wiggle as he nuzzled against Sherlock's palm.
"I like dogs, John"
"you don't say."
"Eh, don't worry about 'im none," Hagrid told John. "Big softy 'e is. Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded straight at Sherlock and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as fierce as he looked.
"This are my friends," Sherlock told Hagrid as he cuddled Fang's neck. "John Weasley and Gremione Granger."
"Weasley, eh?" Hagrid said, glancing at Ron's freckles. I spent half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest." John gave a little giggle.
"You won't have to worry about me," John said. "I'm far too busy taking care of Sherlock to cause any trouble." Hagrid grinned.
"Still going by Sherlock, then?" Hagrid asked with an affectionate look at him. "You know, yer Dad regretted naming you Harry. It was right after his own Dad died, and so James named you after 'im. Then, after you were born, he remembered just how much he hated people who named their kids after their parents. Your mum had a right laugh about that."
The rock cakes Hagrid served them were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their teeth, but the kids pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all about their first -lessons. Fang rested his head on Harry's knee and drooled all over his robes. Gremione and Hagrid bonded quite a bit over talk of magical creatures, what with Hagrid's need to boast about his 'darling pets' and Gremione's insatiable need for more information.
John drifted off into his own head somewhere early in the conversation. The newspaper laying on the table caught his eyes. It was the same one from earlier, about the Gringott's break in. John subtly nudged Sherlock and gestured at it with a nod of his head.
"What about Cerberus?" Sherlock suddenly asked as Hagrid was listing all the creature's he'd raised over the years. "I've always been fascinated by them."
"Oh, yeah!" Hagrid said, excited at their interest. "In fact, I still have the biggest of the litter I helped into the world! Good ol' Fluffy's the best guard dog you'll ever wave a wand at! Weren't surprised t'all when Dumbledore asked to borrow her for the year to guard the—" Hagrid suddenly stopped talking, and John watched as Sherlock looked a bit crestfallen, though you could tell through his eyes that his mind was going at a million miles an hour.
"The thing that you took from Gringott's right before it was robbed?" John supplied.
"Yeah, er—" Hagrid frowned. "I mean no! Well…how'd you know 'bou tha'?"
"Sherlock told me about your trip when he saw the newspaper the other day," John said truthfully. "Must be awfully important to put a Cerberus guard over it."
"Not so important that you need to know more about it!" Hagrid said, and that was the end of the discussion. The conversation soon drifted to John's brother Charlie, and from there to dragons. Before they knew it, it was time to head back up to the castle.
****1047****
Hogwarts' resident Potion's Master was at his wit's end with that Potter brat. He was cocky and arrogant…but not like James had been. James' arrogance had been cruel and his cocky wit had been ignorant at best and idiotic the rest of the time. However "Sherlock" was…dare Severus say it…almost justified in his arrogance. There was no denying that Sherlock was a genius. And if his strong suspicions were correct, Sherlock wasn't even a proper 11 year old. He was a grown man in a small body.
Furthermore, Sherlock obviously suffered abuse at the hands of his relatives. He was too small for it to be accredited to anything other than malnourishment. Sherlock always ate very little, but what he did eat he gobbled down like he was afraid you'd take it from him…another sign that food was withheld from him.
All this in mind, Severus wasn't sure how to deal with the unruly student who insisted on blowing something up in every single lesson. Before he'd met Potter, he'd assumed he'd be a mini-James, and Severus had planned to treat him as such…but Severus found that he…couldn't.
Not only was Sherlock leagues smarter than James ever was, but Sherlock more like Lily in personality. Sherlock had Lily's temper, her acerbic wit, her unwavering loyalty to her friends, the way they both freely gave their affection to their friends, how they tried to help people without letting people they were helping, how sweet they really were despite trying to cover it up with a front, how desperate they were to prove themselves despite having nothing to prove.
And then…there were his eyes. They were the exact replica of Lily's. There were other things: his cheekbones were the same as his mother's, he had her small, slender hands, his nose was like hers, and his hair carried a gentle wave while James' had been perpetually spikey and snarled.
Sherlock had even made friends with a few of his Slytherins! That was not something he'd expected from the Potter heir, but whenever he and his godson spoke, Draco had nothing but the best things to say about Potter…and Draco complained about everything.
But all this did not change the fact that Sherlock Potter and Seamus Finnegan were giggling as they lowered bovine mucus into a potion full of asp venom and odium essence. It's like they wanted their heads to be blown completely off their shoulders! "MR. POTTER" Severus snarled as he stalked towards them. Seamus' hands froze. Severus banished the mixture (ignoring the pathetically dejected look on the tiny Potter's face) and scowled down at them. "Obviously you couldn't care less whether or not I take points away or hand out detentions; behavior that the Weasley twins consistently display. I can't help but wonder Mr. Weasley," Severus turned on "Johnald". "If you are egging him on?" Severus narrowed his eyes, stealing his resolve against the heartrending expression on Sherlock's face as he realized where Professor Snape was going with this.
"From now on," Snape continued. "Every time I even suspect that you've goaded Mr. Potter into starting an inferno in my classroom, I shall not only put you in detention for a week with Filch, but you shall be banned from the next Quidditch game to either play in or attend."
The small Weasley face was pale, and Severus felt guilty for a moment, but he squashed the feeling. Sherlock may be a genius but he didn't know everything. It was only a matter of time before he hurt himself and his lab partner with his foolery. "And just so that I can keep an eye on the both of you at once, you and Mr. Finnegan will be switching places." There was silence. "NOW"
The two boys scrambled to retrieve their things. "Please professor," Sherlock said, lacking the usual cockiness. "John didn't do anything, he's been telling me to quit. I won't do it again, I swear."
"Good," drawled Severus as he internally breathed a sigh of relief. "Because my promise stands either way, Mr. Potter."
Severus smirked when he saw John smack Sherlock with his text book when the two boy's thought his back was turned. Briefly, he wondered if he and Lily had ever been like that. Severus froze as soon as the thought rose, then said a prayer that those two boys would have a happier ending.