Thank you all so much for your continued support.

Guest: 1047 is a Batman reference. My first fandom I was involved (read: obsessed) in was Batman. I loved everything Batman. And while the actual date of his parents' murder is different depending on the comic, it's generally accepted that it happened at 10:47 pm. Also, back when Bruce hid the cave behind an old grandfather clock, the secret entrance could be accessed by turning the hands into the 10:47 position. Also, it's my belief that he also uses it as his unlock key for his mobile phone. Lol, but that last part's just me. Hope that explained things! Yeah….it has nothing to do with Sherlock at all….lol

Lol, thank you all for the attention you've given this story. I love you all. Also, I wanted to clear up one thing because several people expressed concern to me. In the ACTUAL prophecy, one of the lines go "Joined by a warrior of peace by his side, for neither can live unless the other survives" Note that this is different from the cannon prophecy, which said "For neither can live Whilethe other survives." Basically, this prophecy, unlike cannon, does not foresee any deaths. You're welcome.

May the gods be ever in your favor,

~James

Ignotius furrowed his brow as he bent low over his parchment, gripping his quill with fingers so tight his knuckles were turning white. Around him were sounds of life. His seven, beautiful children played about the house he shared with his precious wife, who was currently cooing to their youngest son while tending to whatever she was making for supper. Accalia occasionally threw a worried look over her shoulder at him, but Ignotius could only smile.

He hated worrying her, but this had to be done. Both of his brothers were now dead, and as much as Ignotius had hated their meddling in his affairs, he had still loved them in the way little brothers do. Now, with Cadmus gone he truly had no one left but his wife and children. Not that he really needed more, but even still. Ignotius rose from his seat, running his hands through his seven-year-old's, Augustus', curly hair. He embraced his wife from behind, kissing her cheek chastely. Accalia leaned into him, humming.

"I must go and gather some supplies for a ritual," he informed her quietly. He felt her shoulders fall and he inwardly winced. He'd been disappearing a lot lately, with little to no explanation. But it needed to be done, and so he steeled himself and turned her about so that he could kiss her temple. "I'll be back soon," Ignotius said quietly, brushing a stray blonde strand away from her frowning brow.

"You better be," she said in mock severity, though he could see the unease in her guileless blue eyes. "Or I'm throwing your meal to the dogs."

Ignotius smiled at her. "Before dark," he promised.

Then he set about double checking he had all of his things: his wand secured in his sheath on his arm, his good cloak to keep out the chill he'd be walking into, his protective amulets and various magical items tucked away in his many pockets.

"Be safe," Accalia called out as he exited his home. "And be careful!" He paused to caress her face, then peck her frown.

"I love you," he'd only say.

He strode out to their stables as clicked his tongue as he opened the gate. Immediately, his faithful hippogriff, Phylla, trotted over to him, tossing her head. He petted her flank, then began to saddle her. Within minutes he was mounted and Phylla was galloping out of her pen, master astride, wings spread out. A few mighty flaps and they were airborne, souring parallel with the clouds. It was an exhilarating feeling. Or so Accalia always said. Personally, Ignotius was just trying not to throw up all over Phylla's feathers.

For nearly three hours he flew, until his thighs were beginning to become stiff. Finally, the air around him seemed to become unbearable frigid all at once. With nary a word, Ignotius steered Phylla down towards the earth, among frost covered trees.

Hopefully, the spell he'd been working on would work. Ignotius alighted, stepping lightly on the dead leaves and twigs that litter the ground, making his steps creak and crack every time he put his boots down. He held his wand tightly in his hand, senses on high alert. Then he felt his stomach drop down to his knees. The hairs on his neck were raised, and the chill was more determined than ever.

Ignotius spun around to face the demon, the wraith, the ghoul of despair that had come to devour him. "Clamabo fortisaspiciam," he chanted, desperately summoning up an image of his wife, his children. "Expectabo patronus!" A small quadruped creature leaped from his wand and hissed at the wraith. "Exmundabit!" The light creature attacked the wraith, tearing into its unholy form. The tormentor of souls howled in pain. Ignotius couldn't help but smile at the sight of the small, usually furred creature destroying such a monstrosity. The little thing always reminded him of his wife.

Ignotius and his spell animal didn't cease their attack until the monster was nothing more than wispy shreds of cloth, which Ignotius picked up and carefully stored in one of his pockets. Then he knelt and brushed his hand over the back of the small animal he had summoned before all at once, it dissipated.

Ignotius looked up at the sky and cursed.

His wife was going to be livid.

***1047***

Tom Riddle had been staring at this cursed mirror for many, many nights now, through the eyes of his follower. According to his follower, Quirenus saw naught but his master, full and whole once again. Though occasionally Tom could see the truth: Quirenus holding his dead wife and daughter. And yet most of the time, Tom could see nothing at all. Not even his own reflection.

It baffled him, why would it show the fantasy that Tom despised above all (him existing no more), when according to every other source, it was supposed to show your hearts deepest desire. Quirrell fidgeted, stretching his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other. Inwardly, Tom sighed. He might as well have his host retire for the night, they would learn nothing else.

Of course, it was then that they heard voices coming from the nearest chamber. "Danger lies before you, while danger lies behind…" a young voice was reading Severus' poem out loud. The voice…ah, it was the little Weasley.

"Drink" commanded a second voice, interrupting Weasley. Potter.

"What about you?"

"Trust me" A moment later, the two little boys came tumbling through the fire. Quirrell couldn't help but stare in shock at the arguing couple. The boys slowly looked up, making eye contact with them.

"Knew it." Said Potter.

"I know, git," replied Weasley.

"B-boys," stuttered out Tom's host, "Wh-wh-what a s—" Sherlock interrupted him.

"Stop stuttering. I know it's just a front, and it's an annoying one at that. So either speak normally or shut up and let your master talk," the boy snapped. The little blonde elbowed Potter in the side.

Quirrell's face stopped twitching. "I confess, boys, I'm a little surprised. I'd have thought you'd suspect Severus."

"Why?" scoffed Sherlock. "because he's a meanie?" he mocked in a babyish voice. Quirrell's eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers and suddenly, ropes bound both of the children tightly. Still, neither of them looked very alarmed: the Weasley looked determine, while Potter simply continued to look amused.

"Be quiet, I must examine this mirror."

"It's how you get the stone, isn't it? How though? Does it reveal the place?" Then Potter's eyes widened. "Or is it the place?" Tom inwardly smirked. The boy was definitely bright, he could prove himself useful. Quirrell, though, only scowled.

"Silence!" he cried. "A child such as yourself could not possibly…"

"Let me speak to them" Voldemort commanded his follower. "Face to face".

"But, but my Lord," spluttered Quirrell. "You are not strong enough."

Voldemort felt anger, but the brushed it aside abruptly. "I am strong enough for this." And soon he could feel the thick folds of fabric fall away from the deformed thing that now acted as his face. He could see the disgust and intrigue in both boy's faces. "Yess, see what I have become?" he asked. "Mere shadow and vapor. And yet, I was once more powerful than even your precious headmaster. Even he feared my presence. It wasn't until you" he looked directly at Potter. "that I was reduced to such indignity. And yet, with the power of the stone, I may become again what I once was. Tom used Quirrell's magic and released Potter, though he kept Weasley bound. "Come, and look into the mirror. If you aid me, you will be rewarded."

"And why should I?" asked the cheeky little brat, who was sitting there on the floor playing with his friend's hair, smirking. Quirrell growled, though Voldemort felt a notch of respect for the little wizard. Hardened Aurors have been known to faint on the spot in his presence. "What could you possibly give me that I don't have already? Power? Ha. You're no better than magical headlice right now. Money? I'm the second richest person in the wizarding world. Fame? I'm already a celebrity. So tell me, Dark Lord. What do you have that I might want?"

"I could simply kill you," Voldemort mused.

The boy snorted. "Sure. You tried that before, how'd that work out for you?"

"Immortality is the prize I've sought since I was younger than you," Voldemort told the boy, drawing closer (though it was slightly awkward, because to do so, he had to force Quirrell to walk backwards). "Surely even a child such as you can appreciate such a thing. Wouldn't you like to live forever, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed and stood, dusting off the seat of his pants. "Good boy," Voldemort mock praised him, earning a glare from the First Year. "Now, look into the mirror. Tell me what you see."

The child rolled his eyes, but obediently walked to stand in front of the mirror. "I see me and John sitting in a room in the tower of a castle." The boy said, his face blank. But Voldemort was well used to Slytherin masks of all sorts. He could see the smirk fighting for freedom on his lips.

"Liar" Voldemort hissed.

****(Sherlock'sPOV)*****

He watched as his DADA teacher slowly turned around, whilst unwinding the turban from his head. Sherlock felt John tense against his bonds. Where the back of Quirrell's head should be, was a second, rather hideous, face. Alarm rose up in him. Oh, Merlin. Is that what would happen to him if Sherlock didn't get Aedlin out of his head?

He barely felt it when the ropes fell away from him, barely registering what snake-face wanted. "And why should I?" Sherlock snarked at him, and was slightly relieved to see amusement in Voldemort's eyes. Perhaps Sherlock had been mistaken? Perhaps the main piece of Voldemort was not as insane as he'd originally feared.

Eventually, Sherlock found himself standing in front of the mirror. Like before, he saw himself and John, standing side by side. And yet, this time he had John appeared to be around early twenties, and their fingers were intertwined. John grinned at him and held up his hand to reveal a small, red rock, which he placed in Sherlock's inside pocket.

"I see me and John sitting in a room in the tower of a castle."

"Liar" And then the vision shattered, an suddenly Voldemort was standing right behind him, (snake-face forwards, Quirrell was still standing backwards to allow his Lord more control). Sherlock readied his hand to flick his wand out of his sleeve, but stopped when he saw the expression on Voldemort's face.

Shock. And horror.

"Godric" Voldemort gasped.

"What?" Sherlock frowned. Voldemort choked and stumbled.

"My Lord?" asked Quirrell in alarm.

Voldemort stumbled again, and Sherlock reached out instinctively. But the moment that Sherlock touched the skin of his wrist, a horrible smell of burning flesh (which three out of four of the wizards in the room were very familiar with) filled the air. Quirrell began to scream, he whirled around and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's tiny throat, and squeezed. Both John and Voldemort called for him to cease what he was doing, but by the Quirrell's hands and been burned away until there was nothing left but stumps.

Moments later, and their professor had crumbled away to blackened dust.

The ropes fell away from John, and he ran over to Sherlock, who was gasping, rubbing his sore throat. "Are you alright? Let me see." Sherlock let his friend pock and prod until he was satisfied that there was no lasting damage. Then, they simply sat there in silence looking anywhere but at the pile of ash and robes.

"Is it alright if I admit I have no idea what just happened?" John eventually asked. Sherlock laughed, once, then steepled his fingers. "What did you do to him?" John aske in a quiet voice.

"I don't know, John." Sherlock said quietly. "But we should get out of here, before someone finds us." He stood, then whipped out his wand. Before John could ask him what he was doing, Sherlock had already shrunk down the mirror of Erised and stuck it in his pocket. Then he grabbed John's hand.

Getting out was easier than coming back in. The only hard part being the Devils Snare. In the end, John kept a fire going around him while Sherlock levitated him up, then John brought Sherlock up after him while playing the violin. It was hard to believe they had only been down there for an hour and a half. It felt like so much longer.

"Let's find Greg and Mycroft," John panted, after they ran out of Fluffy's room. "I'm sure they're worried." Sherlock only grumbled a little bit as John dragged him to the Gryffindor common room.
"Where have you two been?" Percy squawked as soon as they entered. "Your robes are filthy!" he scurried over the them and began cleaning them up with his wand. "Oh, good gracious," Percy scowled.

"We were exploring," Sherlock said with wide eyes, "like pirates." And the expression on his face was so adorable that Percy completely forgot about being worried and simply cooed at him.

"Did you find any"

"Treasure, captain?" asked the twins with matching grins.

Sherlock took something out of his pocket. "I found a shiny rock." The upperclassmen all laughed and whispered about how cute "ickle firsties" are, while John stood there wondering where the heck it came from.

****1047*****

I'm sorry this is way shorter than normal, it's just this was really hard for me to write for some reason. Everything I wrote just turned out so horrible, and so I'm just going to post what I have, now, and work on it more later.