HEY! Another chapter done (*gives self a high-five*). I'd update a whole lot quicker, but I've got midterms this week and then I had a choir concert yesterday, and I've got a viola recital coming up and then after that my orchestra will be performing (-and Omg I really need to practice-). But enough excuses, thank you everybody who reviewed! Yous are my muses!

Murder Junkie: OMG! When I read your interpretation of TJLCFTW I about died laughing! Thank you so much for your amazing review! Also…no, Colin is not Molly, but he does tie into Sherlock's past. Molly is still alive. I'm trying to find a a way to incorporate her into this story, but I've come up empty on ideas so far. Anyone got any ideas for me?

May the gods be ever in your favor

Sherlock was not happy.

John wasn't eating.

Sherlock suddenly realizes why John is so insistent on him eating. "Open your mouth," he demands, scooping up a handful of hash browns. John, looking pale and queasy shakes his head. Sherlock frowned deeper. "Yes"

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John insists.

"If you're fine, then eat"

"I'm not hungry"

"You're always hungry"

"You're the one who always says eating is pointless!"

"You're the one insisting on participating in a death match a hundred feet in the air!" Sherlock threw the hash browns. John ducked quickly, his eyes now very wide. Greg, who was sitting on the other side of him, ended up getting a face full of potatoes. "You need your strength!"

"He's right, Ronnie" Fred said as he sat down across from his little brother.

"Yeah," added in George. "The Beaters always go after the Seekers first. And you're so small a good hit from a bludger will send you flying straight off your broom." John and Sherlock both paled considerably. George looked guilty while Fred whacked him across the back of his head.

"What I mean," Fred continued. "Is that you'll want to eat so you can think clearly during the match. We've got a good team, but you'll still want to be the one to catch the snitch first."

"I know," said John as he half-heartedly started picking at the plate Sherlock had piled up for him. Sherlock subtly scooted closer, so that their sides were pressed together.

"If you fall," Sherlock whispered without looking at John. "I'll catch you," John paused and looked over at his friend, who appeared very tense and worried. John didn't say anything back, but he took hold of Sherlock's hand tightly and began to eat with a bit more enthusiasm. All too soon, it was time to head down to the pitch. None of John's teammates questioned it when Sherlock followed them into the locker room.

***1047****

Voldemort watched in boredom as his host climbed the Quidditch stands up to the Professor's area. He'd never been one for Quidditch, but today was necessary. The youngest Weasley whelp had seen him, Quirrell, approaching the corridor where the old fool was keeping the stone. As did the Malfoy brat, but the Malfoys were one of his own, he'd let the child live for now.

But Weasley, the child was too perceptive for his own good. The small blonde thing was constantly sending him strange glances, suspicious looks. Any other child, and Voldemort might have considered recruiting them when they were older. Weasley was magically powerful, a pureblood, well-mannered and well-connected. However, it was who he was connected to.

He was best friends with Harry Potter. If Weasley suspected him, he could pass it on to Potter, who would alert Dumbledore. Not that Dumbledore didn't already suspect. There was always the idea of recruiting Potter, the boy was interesting to be sure. More powerful than even he was at that age (loath as he was to admit it). He was intelligent, far more than any Voldemort had ever met. He'd even somehow cured the Weasley brat of a life-long disability before ever coming to Hogwarts. It's probably what made the smallest Weasley boy so loyal to him.

But, no, it was too risky. He was probably already too deep in Dumbledore's pocket.

****1047****

Sherlock was going to murder Dumbledore for allowing his John to play a death-game with boys almost twice his size.

He waited on a bench near John's things while his friend changed into Quidditch robes. Fred and George were laughing and chatting loudly, a bit too loudly Sherlock noticed. They were nervous, despite having been on the team the last two years. It was because of John, Sherlock deduced. The captain, Oliver, seemed overly happy. Also because of John, Sherlock immediately thought. The girls seemed subdued, but not nervous. Determined.

John was a wreck, though. He came out clutching his Nimbus in a death grip. His clothes were all crooked and he was trembling slightly. Sherlock got up and began smoothing out John's robes. "You'll be fine," Sherlock said, with confidence he didn't feel. It wasn't that he didn't trust that John was capable. Logically he knew that John flew better than many of the upper years. However foolish sentiment flooded his brain with all the possibilities of how things could go wrong, and leave John speared on his broom or smeared on the grass below.

Sherlock gripped John tightly. "You'll be fine" he said again, not sure who he was really reassuring. John hugged him back, briefly. Then he stepped away and took a deep breath.

"You ready?" asked one of the older girls, kindly. John gave her a weak smile. Sherlock restrained from glaring at her. A moment later, Sherlock headed up to the stands as John and his team made their way onto the pitch. He spotted Gremione seated beside Hagrid, waving her arms, beckoning him to sit with them.

"I'm so jealous!" Greg said enthusiastically. "I want to try out for Chaser position next year!" Sherlock absently nodded as the Gryffindors around him cheered for their team, who had lifted up into the air. A boy, Jordan, was calling out scores somewhere to his left. But Sherlock had eyes only for John who was watching the game with enraptured eyes. Without warning, John dived, his eyes glued straight ahead. "Weasley and Weasley block a hit from Flint and send it back! Wait, Weasley's spotted the snitch!" Lee Jordan cried out. That got the attention of the Slytherin Seeker, who immediately followed John in his descent. The two raced neck and neck all around the pitch. At one point, they both got very close, arm's out stretched. When John suddenly veered left, surprising the Slytherin who crashed his broom onto the grass three feet below where he'd been flying.

John looked about frantically. So, he'd lost it. "Ne'er would have though' John there would be so good at it," Hagrid said fondly. "Not when I'd known him back when he were just a li'l tike. His mam was ever so worried, she was. What with his limp an' all." Sherlock was about to respond to Hagrid, when Gremione suddenly gasped.

"His broom!" Sherlock's head whipped around so fast it hurt. He stood to his feet, hands gripping the railing tightly. John's broom was bucking like an angry mule. John was barely able to hold on. An especially furious buck made John's legs fly up and John fell, suspended only by his hands. The Gryffindors were all on their feet now, screaming at the Slytherins, accusing them of foul play. John lost grip with one of his hands, he struggled to replace it.

"What's wrong wit 'is broom?" Hagrid asked, voice sounding strangled.

"Look," said Hermione, though Sherlock ignored her, not looking away from John. "It's Snape! He's cursing John's broom!" Now, Sherlock looked in the direction she was pointing. His eyes narrowed, then he paled.

"JOHN" Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs, positioning himself in front of Hagrid. "JOHN LET GO!" By the help of some benevolent god, or by accidental magic on Sherlock's part, John heard him over the sound of the screaming crowd, somehow. He glanced to Sherlock, then closed his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Greg muttered horrified. John let go. The crowd cried out in horror.

"Accio John!" Sherlock's wand was in his hand, and suddenly John stopped falling. He hovered in air for half and instant, then flew straight for Sherlock, mouth wide open, screaming in terror. John collided with Sherlock to abruptly that both boys flew backwards, smacking into Hagrid's large belly. Sherlock recovered first, forcing his aching body to his feet, then kneeling beside John, who was bent over all on fours, gasping. "John? John are you okay?" John wasn't answering. He was clutching his chest, mouth open and throat constricting. Sherlock began to smack his back. With a wet hack, something small and golden landed in John's hands.

"Weasley's got the snitch! Gryffindor wins!" Lee Jordan called gleefully. The Gryffindor's all swarmed John, slapping his back, congratulating him. John beamed, holding the snitch up high. The Slytherin's booed, and called for a rematch, saying it didn't count. They went ignored by the coach. John (and Sherlock who was refusing to let go of John) were carried down to the pitch by a group of seventh years. The rest of the team touched down, cheering just as loudly as their fans, but looking a bit more concerned for their little Seeker. The twins reached Ron and Harry first.

"Ronnie!"

"Are you okay?"

"Blimey what happened with that broom?"

"It just went crazy!"

By the time the twins let go of him, Oliver had already retrieved his broom, looking happy and thoughtful. "I had McGonagall check it over, she said there's nothing wrong with it." He handed it to John. John was about to say something else when Sherlock began to drag him by his hand through the crowd of well-wishers back towards the Gryffindor locker room.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. His arms were suddenly full with consulting detective, who was holding on to him so tightly John was having trouble breathing again. Sherlock was talking, but John couldn't understand what he was saying as Sherlock's face was pressed firmly into the front of his robes. "What?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Quirrell was trying to kill you." Sherlock's grip grew tighter. "Why was he trying to kill you?" John ran a hand through Sherlock's hair, trying to calm him down.

"How do you know?"

"Gremione saw Snape staring at you, muttering. But it was Quirrell behind him that was cursing your broom. You don't need a wand to counter a curse that it being cast, you only need to be close to the source. Snape didn't have his wand out. Quirrell did." Then Sherlock went back to muttering into John's robes.

When the rest of the Gryffindor team came in a few minutes later, John flushed in embarrassment, but didn't push Sherlock away. Angela and Katie cooed at them while Oliver only rolled his eyes, still too pleased by their win to care about the strangeness of their newest teammate. The twins shared a look.

Sherlock had cured their baby brother's leg, made him confident, drew him out of his shell, and now he' saved Ron's life. Molly Weasley would be getting a letter tonight. And, as far as they were concerned, Sherlock Potter was officially a Weasley.

*****1047*******

"I'm telling you, it was Snape!" Greg insisted. "I know he's after whatever Dumbledore is hiding on the third corridor! Lavender and I were going to the staffroom yesterday to see if her…something she lost had been left in a classroom and a teacher picked it up. But when we got there, Snape was having his leg mended by Filch. He said something about a three-headed dog before he saw us and screamed at us to get out! He's obviously guilty! Why else would he be having Filch mend him rather than Pomfrey?"

"Well in all fairness she is rather scary," John joked. He was soon silenced by a glare from Hermione and long-suffering look from Sherlock.

"I agree that it is rather suspicious, but it doesn't change the fact that he saved John while Quirrell was the one who tried to curse him off his broom!" Sherlock said, seating himself in John's lap. They were in Hagrid's hut, drinking hot mugs of…whatever Hagrid had handed them, celebrating Gryffindor's win. The giant, however, was currently outside picking a pumpkin he was going to gut for them, wanting them to taste freshly fried pumpkin seeds.

"So, it sounds like Quirrell used the troll as a distraction on Halloween, then went to go get whatever Dumbledore is guarding. But Mycroft and I intercepted him, stalling him long enough that McGonagall found us. After we left, Snape must have arrived, and, thinking that Quirrell had already gone in, entered the room and was bitten by Fluffy. After Fluffy chased him out, he must have heard the commotion down the hall, because he met up with us before we got to the bathroom. Then, today, Quirrell tried to kill me because I stopped him and Snape saved me."

Gremione seemed to deflate, John's explanation making sense. Sherlock's eyes were wide, a strange look lighting them up. Then Sherlock beamed "John you're brilliant," he said, twisting around to take John by the shoulders, shaking him. "Obviously Snape is on our side. Now we just need to figure out what Quirrell is doing it for? Money? Eternal life?"

"Rubbish," said Hagrid, who had just entered the hut, bearing a huge orange pumpkin. "Why would Quirrell do somethin' like that? 'Fraid of his own shadow 'e is."

"It's a front," said Sherlock. "He's trying to steal what Dumbledore has hidden here."

"Rubbish! 'es a Hogwarts teacher!"

"He tried to kill my John."

"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why John's broom acted like that, but Quirrell wouldn' try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh - yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what

it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel -" Hagrid blanched. "I shouldn'ta said that. I shouldn'ta said that."

The three kids shared a look, but said no more.

*****1047******

November soon grew very cold, even in the Gryffindor dorms, despite the large fireplace heating up the whole place. The Gryffindor first year boys soon grew jealous of Sherlock and John, who kept each other warm each night. (Though they were obviously all too manly to even consider sharing with someone). It became a common sight to see John and Sherlock snuggled up together in the morning. Sometimes one or the other was already awake, just lying there holding their best friend. But more often than not, they were both still out cold. Colin and Neville both liked to watch them (it wasn't creepy at all, nope) enjoying the peacefulness they portrayed.

So when the boys woke up one Saturday to find John sprawled out on Sherlock's bed, without the Boy-Who-Lived in sight, they immediately started to worry.

"You don't think they got in a fight, do you?"

"What if they broke up!"

"They can't break up; they're John and Sherlock!"

"Sherlock can be a pretty huge git, sometimes though. Weasley's got the patience of an angel, he has."

"But John loves him! John would dump Sherlock! And Sherlock wouldn't let him!"

"Well, where is he? The lights in the bathroom are off!"

"I dunno, maybe he went for a walk?"

"Without John? C'mon Creevy, they're practically attached by the hip!"

"I hope he's not cheating on John…."

"Maybe Sherlock's getting cold feet about Neville's Yule Ball and needs some space?"

"Why would he? It's not like they're getting married."

"Awww, but that'd be so cute though!"

"They're eleven! Blimey Creevy you sound like a bloody girl!"

By this point, John was blearily opening his eyes, frowning and the whispered argument. "Who's getting married?" he asked sleepily. Then his eyes snapped open. "Where's Sherlock?" He sat up and looked around. "Did he ever come up, last night? I went to bed before him."

The other boys all frowned thoughtfully, thinking back. Neville shook his head. "I'm pretty sure he wasn't here when I came back from the library."

Dean snapped his fingers. "The library! I was returning that copy of Wittman's Simple Spellbook last night, and I saw Sherlock trying to convince Snape to let him into the restricted section!"

"Bet Sherlock was disappointed," snorted Seamus. "The man's a monster, he is. A right bat. Wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a vampire." Dean only shrugged. Colin looked relieved.

"You you guys aren't breaking up?" he asked hopefully. John's face turned cherry red.

"No, of course we're not!" he insisted, then choked on his own words. "I mean…we're not dating! He's not my boyfriend. We're just best friends."

"Best friends who share a bed, food, give each other expensive stuff, and go to balls together usually end up married," Seamus pointed out. John's face was so red it looked like he'd drunk five Pepper Ups and was about to starts spewing smoke out every pore. Just then, the trunk near Sherlock's bed opened up, and a ruffled looking Sherlock clambered out of it then flopped down (across John's lap) dramatically.

"I was up all night!" he pouted. "Not a thing on Flammel, even with the books Snape let me take from the restricted section. That git, he saw the books I checked out and smirked. He probably knew I wouldn't find anything useful!" John refused to looked at Sherlock, still embarrassed while the other boys were snickering and Sherlock typical lack of respect for personal space. "John? John? Are you listening to me, John? Am I in trouble again? What'd I do this time?"

Dean gave up the fight and collapsed to the floor in giggles. "It's like they're already married!" Sherlock sat up on John's lap, looking confused. He looked from Dean to John then to the rest of the boys who were still gathered in a sort of semicircle around their bed.

"You've been discussing our wedding?" he asked, with an unidentifiable look on his face. John shoved Sherlock onto the floor. The smallest boy hit the carpet with a thud and John stormed into the bathroom, locking the door against the laughter of his dorm-mates and Sherlock voice saying "So I am in trouble then. Any idea what I did?"

****1047*****

Mycroft's breakfast and conversation with Blaise was interrupted by a tiny body shoving his way between them and plopping down on the seat. "Hello, brother mine," Mycroft drawled with a sigh, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "What can I do for you this fine morning." Before Sherlock could answer, Blaise interrupted.

"Okay, I think I've ignored all of your weirdness long enough. Why, Draco, do you call him your brother? You'd never met him before this semester!"

"Because he's like the annoying little brother I'm grudgingly relieved to have again," Mycroft answered without missing a beat. Sherlock's face twisted in a strange way at this 'confession'. Blaise sighed and turned back to his meal. "I'm guessing your dilemma has something to do with why John refused to hold your hand coming into the Hall this morning."

Sherlock scowled. "Not really, but sort of."

"That's helpful"

"Unlike you"

"Sherlock, I don't even know why you're over here."

"Nor I" Sherlock muttered to himself. "I need information, Mycroft. Nicolas Flammel, ever heard of him?" Mycroft put down his fork and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"I believe he was briefly mentioned in a book a read some years ago. I tried looking for more information on him, he was interesting, but there wasn't anything. All the book gave was his birthdate and an empty line, signifying he's still alive, and that he was a noted alchemist."

"How is that interesting, Myc?"

"Because, Shirley, the book was a hundred years old and self-updating. Furthermore, Flammel's birthdate was in 1334."

"He's almost seven hundred?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide. "I must find out how he's done that! Imagine me and John," Sherlock hesitated then seemed to relent reluctantly "and you and Greg I suppose—a hundred years from now! John and I would have acres and acres of honey farm, and a case every day, because of how famous we'd be by then. You'd probably have taken over the world and Greg…I dunno I guess she can be my and John's housekeeper."

Mycroft snorted, but looked pleased that Sherlock had included him. "Don't forget me!" Blaise insisted. "I'd be Malfoy's main hitman!"

"If you really want to," Draco said. "You'd do well not to shout out that information in a crowded room." Blaise rolled his eyes.

"You both are ridiculous" he said fondly.

****1047*****

John had "forgiven" him by lunchtime, though Sherlock had yet to deduce exactly what he'd done wrong. He wasn't doing any experiments (where John could find them) and he hadn't stolen any more of John's clothing (it's just those sweaters John's new mother makes are so comfy and smell like John), and he hadn't insulted anyone in so long; Sherlock felt extremely proud of himself. (Ha! Take that Donovan! I can be nice to goldfish!)

In any case, Sherlock felt extremely relieved when John sat beside him for the first time that day and squeezed his hand under the table. But, just to be sure John wasn't still mad at him he tentatively asked, "we're still going to the dance together, right John?" John winced at Sherlock's worried tone, and the way that the entire table around them fell silent to hear his answer.

John sighed. "Don't see why not. Eat your meatloaf." John tried very hard for Sherlock's sake not to get irritated at the way the female population of the table (and Colin) cooed at them.

***1047****

November passed a bit too quickly for the "Golden Trio's" liking. Greg and Sherlock were busy researching anything they could find on Nicolas Flammel, but they only found strange obscure tidbits, like the date of his wedding or the accomplishments of his various children. John was constantly being dragged onto the Quidditch Pitch by Oliver and his own brothers to train, just in case something like last game happened again. To do this, Oliver cast a confundus hex on one of the school brooms and dared John to try and catch the snitch while riding this and dodging bludgers sent his way by the twins.

The third time John came back with a bloody nose, Sherlock attacked the three older boys (both verbally and with his wand). Needless to say, by the time Sherlock was done ripping them a new one, they had agreed to be more careful with "his John"

The most exciting thing that happened that month was when Binns and Sherlock were retelling great Fell Winter that caused an entire race of magical creature to go extinct, and how wizards were blamed for not aiding the Hobbits, leading to dwarves (ancient ancestors of the goblins now at Gringotts) declaring war on them. Dumbledore himself came down to watch the show (along with most of the seventh, sixth and fifth years), armed with a large bag of muggle lemon drop candies. Sherlock went all out for that, and the entire class was shivering with the intense cold wave that Sherlock send about the classroom. Dumbledore had awarded Gryffindor fifty points for Sherlock's incredible "Mastery of Illusion".

Another event that came about was Sherlock's discovery of animagus. It happened quite by accident. Sherlock had dragged John to the Transfiguration classroom early, so that he could question McGonagall about why exactly it was impossible to transfigure a book into fried chicken when it was completely possible to transfigure a book into a chicken, then fry it.

They were greeted by the sight of a cat sprawled out on McGonagall's desk. Sherlock, being the inquisitive person he is, went over to the cat and stared at it. "Funny" he said. "I thought McGonagall's familiar was that tawny owl she always gets mail from."

"Maybe she has two like me?" John suggested. Sherlock shrugged and they sat down to wait for McGonagall to show up. A moment later, and McGonagall was standing there, a stern expression on her face. Sherlock's eyes had grown wide and he'd pelted her with question after question. She'd answered every one, looking strangely proud of Sherlock, indulgently ignoring the way he was practically vibrating during the lesson, and not saying anything when as soon as she was done Sherlock dragged John from the room and to the library.

There was a surprising amount of literature on the subject of becoming animagi.

*****1047*****

Something woke Sherlock up. He was instantly alert, and aware of a strange magic in the room. He wished he knew more about magic to know just what kind of spell it was. But whatever it was, it was cast by a light magic wielder. The spell had attached itself to him, then led to a parcel on the foot of his bed (Sherlock knew it wasn't there before he fell asleep), then out of the room. A compulsion charm, he guessed.

Couldn't be a very strong one, Sherlock decided, burrowing deeper into John's arms. The blonde Weasley snuffled a bit in his sleep, but gathered Sherlock closer. Sherlock was just about asleep again when the spell redoubled in its intensity. Sherlock glowered at the parcel. It felt like an itch on the inside of his leg, along the bone. Restless Leg Syndrome, Sherlock diagnosed himself. Whatever the charm was, inaction caused it to inflict (hopefully) temporary RLS on him.

Sherlock sighed and slipped out of John's arms, careful not to wake his doctor up. Shivering in the early December air, Sherlock looked at John fondly for a moment, patted him on the head, then picked up the parcel with a world-weary sigh. A letter and a piece of fabric fell out. A cloak? Sherlock picked up the letter.

"Mr. Potter" Dumbledore's handwriting. Sherlock recognized it from when he'd managed to talk Dumbledore into letting him get a book on animagi from the Restricted Section. Dumbledore had needed to sign a piece of parchment as proof of his leniency.

"Your father left this in my possession shortly before he died," the letter continued. "Now I think it's time it was returned to its rightful owner. Use it wisely. Consider it an early Christmas gift from your late father." That was all, no closing or signature. Sherlock snorted, Old Father Christmas must have been trying to be mysterious. Sherlock took a look at the rather ugly cloak, but obeyed the spell and put it on.

Sherlock turned to look at himself in the mirror.

And he stared.

And stared.

And grinned. An invisibility cloak?! Oh, the things he could do! He should go prank his brother! Without another thought, Sherlock gleefully pranced from the room until the cover of his new toy. But, the compulsive charm had other ideas, and his feet led him to a room down an abandoned hallway. The door was slightly ajar. Sherlock frowned and pushed it open.

The room was dusty and filled with cobwebs. Sherlock wondered why the House Elves didn't clean this room. But then, maybe they'd decided it wasn't worth the effort. After all, the only thing in the room (besides himself) was a large, tacky mirror. Sherlock walked up to it. There didn't seem to be anything special about it, despite the echo of magic he felt surrounding the great ugly thing. He turned to John by his side.

"I wonder why the…John?" he asked. He frowned, where was John? He looked into the mirror, yup, there was John. He felt behind him without taking his eyes away from the mirror, but his hand just sliced through empty air where John should be. Sherlock frowned. He touched the mirror. The John in the mirror laughed at him and pecked Mirror Sherlock's cheek. Mirror Sherlock scowled at John, though there was laughter in his eyes. Sherlock felt his face go red.

"John?" he whispered to the mirror. Mirror John tilted his head as if to say 'Well? What are you waiting for?' Sherlock pulled the cloak back on over his shoulders and bolted from the room. He didn't bother trying to walk quietly as he ran back to the Tower. "Gethin!" Sherlock hissed at the Fat Lady, who sighed and swung open.

Sherlock took the steps two at a time, cast a quick silencing charm on his and John's shared bed then pounced on his friend. "GAH!" John screamed. Sherlock shook him, trying to wake him up faster.

"John, get up! Right now! Something to show you!" Sherlock pulled John from the blankets and swung the cloak around them both.

"Whoa! That's a—"

"Invisibility cloak, yes. But that's not it!" Sherlock grabbed John's hand and practically dragged the sleepy ex-soldier back the way he'd just come. It took a bit longer this time, because John was stumbling quite a bit. John must have run into about a dozen walls by the time Sherlock pulled him into the dark, dingy room. John tripped coming in, and ended up falling on top of Sherlock.

"Oof" Sherlock gasped as the larger boy landed on his stomach. John pushed himself up onto his elbows, shoving the cloak off of the both of them.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John demanded. "What's so important that you drag us both out of bed at two in the morning!"

"You don't actually know what time it is," Sherlock pouted. "For all you know, it could only be eleven." John tried to glare at him, but ended up giggling, which ruined the effect. He stood up and offered a hand to his barmy friend. "Besides, you'll like it." Sherlock promised as he pulled John, a little more gently this time, further into the room, until they both stood in front of the tacky mirror. Sherlock saw the exact same thing he saw last time (minus John kissing him), while John didn't see anything out of the ordinary at all.

"Sherlock?" John asked curiously. "It's a lovely mirror…but why does it merit all this fuss? It'd give it a two…at best."

Sherlock frowned, then stepped to the side. "Look at it properly, right in the middle." John sighed, but humored his friend. Then his eyes widened. He looked away from the mirror, all around, but his surroundings were the same as a few moments ago, except now Sherlock was smiling widely. There, in the mirror, was Baker Street, exactly the same as it had been…before…

Sherlock and John were standing center, hand in hand. Except, they were adults. They looked just like they had…before…but Sherlock had the famous BWL scar on his left temple, and was twirling his wand in his long fingers. John had on one of his Weasley sweaters. Mirror Sherlock and John shifted closer, smiling warmly at each other, Sherlock's arm going about John's shoulders, and John's going about Sherlock's waist. In the background…a tall, slender man with long blonde hair stood smirking at them. Mycroft, John realized. A striking woman with a fierce stance was laughing with an older looking version of Harry Watson. Greg, John smiled at her, and she waved back before returning to her conversation with John's older sister.

Neville was there, too offering herbal tea to Colin and Molly Weasley. Percy, Bill and Charlie were chatting in the corner with Dean and Seamus while Arthur Weasley stared in wonder at the muggle TV.

A lump caught in John's throat. His eyes stung because all of this was possible. "Sherlock" John managed to get out. Sherlock was there in an instant, and John almost protested, except the image on the mirror didn't waver. Mirror Sherlock only smirked at him, then planted a firm kiss on the mouth of Mirror John. Real John's face lit up red.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked. "What do you see?"

"B-Baker Street" John said weakly. "I see us there. We look about mid-thirties…Mycroft and Gremione…Neville, Colin, Dean, Seamus and my family are there as well."

"Why on earth is Mycroft there?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno," John admitted. "He's just there, smiling at you in that condescending way of his." Sherlock harrumphed. "Sherlock?" asked John in a small voice, looking at the Mirror version of themselves, who were comfortably leaning against each other, carrying on a conversation John couldn't hear. "Do you think this shows the future?" John tried not to think of the implications. After all, he was straight. He knew that, he'd been into girls since he was a small boy the first time around. Not that there was anything wrong with it. He loved his older sister, and she was a lesbian. It's just that he wasn't. And as far as he knew Sherlock wasn't ei…well, no, that's a lie. He had no idea about Sherlock.

"It's possible," Sherlock said thoughtfully, taking John's hand. "I saw myself showing you this mirror and…" Sherlock paused with a strange look on his face, like he was waiting for something. After a few minutes, John spoke up nervously.

"And…" he prompted. Sherlock looked disappointed, like John had said the wrong thing.

"Well it came true, didn't it?" Sherlock shrugged. "I hope it is," he said quietly. "I miss Baker Street. I wonder why Mycroft is there, though? Maybe it's some sort of holiday—Oh, of course!" Sherlock said brightly. "It's probably Christmas time in the mirror, and you'd obviously invite Greg and your family, so Mycroft would naturally invite himself!" John laughed at that.

"Let's go back to bed," John told him, then flushed. "I-I-I mean, go back to sleep"

"Yes," Sherlock said, bemusedly. "Otherwise you'll be cranky tomorrow and blame me."

"Well it'd be your fault, now wouldn't it?"

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I'd like to thank hugiedog for her help in editing this chapter!