Sorry it's been a while, college started and can I just say I HATE BIOLOGY! I'm not even sure why I have to take it, I mean, I'm a Writing Major….*sweatdrop*.

IAmASLythercal: I'm sorry you don't like the ships I chose, but each to their own, you know? But don't worry, their relationship will be very innocent for a while yet. And, because I am Asexual, I will probably never write any smut in this story. I tried once by request of a friend for another story…and…it was…*cough* weird and uncomfortable for everyone involved. Like. Blech.

sesshys lover: I'm glad you like my story! It's always nice to get new readers.

Alec Castairs: Your review made me happy.

NyxLafayette: Sherlock came to me the other day and reprimanded me for my "unforgivable laziness". Soon after, we together found this chapter hiding in the back of my brain underneath the first season of The Series of Unfortunate Events. (Which, btw, we both agree is amazing. XD)

Harriverse: It's reviewers like you that make me able to keep writing. Thank you so much for your support.

Guest: Funny story, I actually posted that last chapter right before watching The Final Problem. I just knew that Sherlock liked pirates from Mycroft's comments in previous episodes. XD

Thank you everyone for your reviews, I'm sorry I couldn't reply to them all! I love reading them, and they make me so happy. I've had quite a few people ask me about Godric, and let me just give you guys one hint:

There is a recurring Thing that is brought up multiple times. Once you figure that out, the rest should be easy peasey. Lol. Hope you Review or PM me if you have any complaints, compliments, comments, suggestions, ideas or questions! I love hearing from you! (And it'd be super awesome if I eventually got 1 thousand reviews. It shouldn't be that hard, I mean, if everyone reading this just reviews once, it should happen pretty much right away….)

LOL May the gods be ever in your favor!

~James

It was almost funny how normal the day was. The Gryffindors chased each other around the grassy lawn, screeching and hollering like animals. The Ravenclaws debated philosophy in corridors or told riddles in corners or studied in the library. The Hufflepuffs sat in little clicks gossiping or working on homework. The Slytherins played chess or politics, while pretending to ignore all the people they deemed beneath them. The Professors were hiding from the students in their offices and Peeves was flooding the seventh floor hallway. All in all, it was just a regular weekend at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

One would never have guessed that just under a half an hour ago, one of the teachers died a horrible death. Or that two of their students now held the key to eternal life. In fact, the whole situation was so absurd that John found it hard to keep in his giggles, which was a bit not good, concerning that his best friend had basically just committed man-slaughter (A word which here means: accidentally vaporized his DADA professor).

Sherlock even seemed a little disturbed as he sat on his bed, staring at his "shiny rock". "How does the elixir even come out?" he asked eventually. "Do you pour water over it into a cup, having some sort of magical essence blend with the water? Does the stone actually produce the elixir in some way? I see no opening where it might pour out."

John sat next to him. "Maybe you soak it in a bowl, and it'll turn the water into elixir. Sort of like how touching it to lead will turn it into gold."

"The only reason why that particular property is at all worth mentioning is because of the Treaty at the end of the Fourth Goblin War, you know that right?"

"….no?"

"Goblins made the Wizards swear and unbreakable blanketing oath to never conjure or otherwise produce gold. Goblins have complete authority over all Wizarding Gold, which is why they now run the banks. Because of this, there is a magical restriction that makes it impossible to, for example, transfigure my pillow into a gold block. The Philosopher's Stone some how get's around that Law."

"Have you tested it yet?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. He took out his wand and summoned a quill from his school bag. With a muttered spell, the feathery fibers turned into metal strands. That done, Sherlock pressed the stone to it. John couldn't help the grin that grew when the grey feather slowly began shimmering a gold color. John picked it up. "It's heavy" he noted.

Sherlock snorted. "It's gold, John. What did you expect?" John gave him a sort of smile.

"THERE YOU ARE!" Gremione cried, throwing open the door to their dorm. Mycroft was right behind her. "It's about time," she huffed wrapping her arms around Sherlock's boney shoulders. "Next time, actually come find us instead up sending a paper airplane."

"I had first attempted to sent a patronus," Sherlock grumbled, "but for some reason the vapor refused to take corporeal form." Mycroft awkwardly patted his little brother's shoulder.

"It's a rather complex spell," Mycroft informed him. "Only approxamatly .02% of all wizards can actually perform the spell, and even then it usually takes years of practice."

"Neither of my parents can," John said. "But my brother, Charlie, can. His takes the form of a dragon, as you could have probably guessed. Bill's close though."

"I'll have it mastered by fall," Sherlock said stubbornly. John smiled fondly at him. "By the way, Quirrell is dead."

This rather casually said sentence was met by stunned silence by Mycroft and a dramatic gasp from Gremione. "Was it You-Know-Who?"

It probably says something a bit not good that Sherlock was first confused as to why Greg was bringing up Mary, but then Sherlock remembered the wizard's strange insistence on calling Voldemort by that vague moniker. "In a way," Sherlock said. "Voldemort was possessing Quirrell, and I suppose whatever saved me the night of Halloween ten years ago tried to save me once more, however unnecessarily."
"What do you mean?"

"I mean there's some sort of protective magic, most likely my mother's, woven into my own aura. As soon as I touched Quirrell's skin, which was soaked in extremely dark magic, while he was angry, the protective magic acted up. It completely consumed him. He's nothing but ashes now."

There was an awkward pause of silence. "So…" Gremione started, trying to break the quiet. "You're a light wizard then? I would have thought you were Dark from your personality." Sherlock gave her an acknowledging nod.

"Personality is only part of what determines your magical affinity. Mostly it comes from ancestry. As a Muggleborn, Greg, your personality is the main determining factor. However, both of my parents were extremely Light in nature. Therefore, I am a Light wizard, though any child I may have would have a greater possibility of being a Dark affiliated witch or wizard because of my semi-Dark personality. Does that make sense?"

"No," said Gremione plainly. "If that's true, why the heck am I Dark?"

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

It had been some months since Aeldin had simply been a misshapen mass of black magic. Now, he appeared to be a nine or ten-year-old boy with a slightly translucent body and rather smoky hair. He'd also learned by this time to manipulate Sherlock's mind palace enough that his small room was now equipped with two comfortable chairs, a book shelf full of Sherlock's memories (Though only from this life so many of the books were rather dull), and picture frames depicting…well, they mainly showed John.

Currently, Aeldin was sitting in one of the chairs with a rather large book filled with stories of Sherlock accidental (actually accidental) magic. Such as the time accidently turned Dudley into a shrub. Or that other time he somehow banished Piers across town. Or again when he withered all of Petunia's roses. Apparently, Aeldin found these memories humorous, because when Sherlock opened the door the the improving mind space, the ex-Dark-Lord was quietly chuckling to himself.

"I'm yet to understand just how you came to the conclusion that you and Malfoy are brothers, but it's fairly obviously that you're nearly as powerful as I was at your age. Though, and it's painful to admit this, but you've a rather impressive amount of control for one so young. My magic was a bit too much…and rather explosive at times." Aeldin informed him as Sherlock took his seat across from him.

"In the books I've found on Occlumency, many wizards say that an organized mind helped with an overpowered magical core or underused body" Sherlock replied. "Apparenlty, I'm a natural Occlumens, so that helps I suppose." Sherlock peered at the book. "Is that all you've been doing?" he asked. "Snooping into my life?"

"What else is there," the shadow boy asked. "And before you ask again: no I don't want to learn the violin."

"Fine," Sherlock pouted. "Be bored. See if I care." Aeldin rolled his eyes and put aside the book.

"How has your warding been coming along?" he asked with the same tone Mycroft used to get when asking Sherlock if he'd managed to "stay clean". "I trust you've been practicing?"

"Of course," Sherlock waved his hand. "I warded a box then had my brother test it; it was satisfactory. Furthermore, I broke into the third floor corridor where Dumbledore was keeping the Philosopher's Stone after successfully dismantling an alarm ward."

"Did you get the stone?"

"Yes, and you were there, too. The other you. That used to be in Quirrell."

"Used to be?"

"I may or may not have accidentally vaporized him."

"…"

"Yes that was my reaction as well."

"What do you plan on doing with the stone?" Aeldin sighed, as if resigning himself to the fact that he was stuck in the head of a boy who defied all logic and magical laws.

"Aside from turning all of John's things into gold? I don't know. I'm going to wait on actually using the stone for my own immortality until I'm around the age of twenty-three, as I seem to remember that being a good year for me. Physically, anyway."

"What are you talking about?" Aeldin raised his eyebrows suspiciously.

"Conquering the world with my army of John clones. Do keep up."

"You're so immature," Aeldin sighed. "And what of the soul piece that had been in Quirrell? Since your professor wasn't an actual Horcrux, I wonder if the soul piece was destroyed or not."

"I don't think it was, after all. It didn't appear to have, ahem, settled all that well."

"How so?"

"It was sticking out a bit."

It was obvious from Aeldin's face that he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. But then he massaged his temples with his hands, much like Mycroft used to do when Sherlock replaced all of his disgusting health food with cake and cookies. "Did he say anything about using the stone to regenerate himself?"

"You mean yourself?"

"Just answer the question."

"He might have; I wasn't really paying attention. I'll ask my John later."

"…*sigh*…Just in case, I've thought of a book that might have the answer…"

****1047****

Narcissa paced their bedroom floor, absolutely livid with her husband. "I thought we agreed that we would be using his friendships to add to our own side of the war!" She screeched, scaring several House Elves who had been trying to clean up the debris from Narcissa's earlier tantrum, when she first found out about the contract Lucius had nearly managed to secure for their son. "Not hand over my baby to DUMBLEDORE!"

"I do agree," Lucius said calmly. "I only told Dumbledore what I did to secure the contract. And so long as the boys get along this summer and Potter returns to Hogwarts in the fall unscathed, that contract is as good as ours. And with it, the Boy-Who-Lived. Think, Narcissa: the boy is neglected, perhaps abused by his relatives who he has been with since infancy. We would be the first loving home the child has ever known. He'd come to think of us as his parents, and we'd raise him in ways fitting of a pureblood. And should the time come that our Lord returns, we would have not one, but two ready and willing sons for his service."

Narcissa stopped pacing, instead just glaring at her husband, arms crossed. "And if it backfires?" she snapped. "If Draco is drawn to Dumbledore through his husband?"

"He won't be," Lucius assured her. "Of this I am certain. You heard the way he condemned those filthy muggles for their treatment of his friend. And I can hardly imagine that the Potter boy has much faith in Dumbledore, with him knowing that it was the good headmaster who placed him with them in the first place."

Narcissa seemed to be calming down, but at the same time she was still obviously tense with worry. "I will allow the child here," she exhaled. "I wanted that anyway. But as for the marriage contract, do we even know if Potter is capable of bearing? I know that our Draco isn't! I may be a Black by birth, but I've no desire to see the Malfoy line dwindle away because of your schemes. Enough of the Pureblood lines have fallen, I don't want our names to one day be listed among them."

"I…will have him tested."

***1047***

The end of the year feast out did every meal John and Sherlock had had in the Great Hall yet. There were banners depicting the four Hogwarts mascots and the gem scales that were used to measure House Points were sat in front of the Professor Table. Gryffindor and Slytherin were both thrumming with energy. It was hard to tell which gems there were more of: rubies or emeralds.

Sherlock had already started stacking cookies into a miniature leaning tower of pisa with the hand that wasn't squeezing John's under the table, ignoring Dumbledore's speech expressing his sorrow over Professor Quirrell's "unexpected departure". Sherlock and Mycroft, the psychos, had found it hilarious that no one even noticed he was missing until three days later at his next class, which happened to be the Gryffindor first years.

The students had filed in, chatting and joking like usual after seeing that the Professor was nowhere in sight. John and Gremione had been fidgeting uncomfortably, being aware of Quirrell's fate. As the minutes passed by with no sign of adult supervision, the students got gradually louder and Sherlock got increasingly more bored. Until, eventually, the boy genius had stood up and strode over to the desk declaring, "Turn in your text books to page 71, Quirrell's explanation of the Mr̥tyu Niẏati curse was, at best, pathetic…" and he continued like that, with his year mates obligingly obeying, until Madam Hooch stuck her head in, having wondered why she didn't hear the Professor's stutter.

Dumbledore had "filled in" for Quirrell for the last few weeks, with Snape occasionally coming in when the headmaster was busy. Though, usually Dumbledore let Sherlock lead the class, sitting back and observing the Boy-Who-Lived with a strange intensity that made John want to grab Sherlock and run. This man was nothing like the kind person who had tried to help John with his depression some time ago.

"…And so, in fourth place" Dumbledore finally began to announce the points, bringing John attention back to the feast. "Is Ravenclaw with 287 points!" There were some applause but it was halfhearted at best and John saw Sherlock smirk. They had heard from older kids that Ravenclaw almost always got most of their points from answering questions in classes, and usually got third or second place. But with Greg, Sherlock and Mycroft attending, the standard had been raised higher for everyone, which resulted in fewer points being given away in class. Furthermore, it wasn't uncommon for a young Ravenclaw to break down and throw something, resulting in a deduction of points, after realizing that they hadn't made the top five or ten of their year. "In third place is Hufflepuff with 302 points!" The yellow table cheered. They had pulled ahead with their usual method of working hard to be the nicest house in the school. The Hufflepuffs were almost as efficient as Sherlock at promoting House unity. "And in first place…" Dumbledore paused with a playful smile. "With and astounding 689 points, is Gryffindor! With Slytherin a close second at 687!" There were boos mixed in with the cheering, but the Gryffindors were on their feet screaming so it was hard for John to hear them.

John almost felt a little pity for Mycroft, who had gathered in a large amount of the points himself. But Gryffindor had Sherlock and John and Greg, who were both far more dedicated and mature than the majority of their house. Not only that, but Professor Binns liked giving Sherlock ten or twenty points after every lesson, which nullified any that Snape took away from him in class for not participating to the fullest of his abilities.

"Next year, let's make it a thousand!" said Dean eagerly. "With the three of you, it's possible! Especially if John keeps playing for Gryffindor, we'll win the cup next year as well!"

****1047*****

John woke, a feeling of dread already settled firmly in his gut. He kept his eyes shut, hoping that he could prevent the day from happening if he just didn't move. He turned his face, burying his nose in the curly hair that lay next to him on his pillow. Sherlock was already awake, reading a book. John squeezed his best friend a little tighter and sighed.

The last day of term was yesterday. Today, they would be leaving for home. And while John somewhat missed the Burrow and the members of his family who weren't at Hogwarts with him, John would miss Sherlock infinitely more. It was already settled, much to Molly Weasley and John's disappointment, that Sherlock would be staying with the Malfoy's this summer. Of course, Draco had insisted that John was allowed over whenever. And there was always the get together at Colin's to 'look forward to', but for the most part they would be on opposite sides of the country.

"You'll be over often, so there's no point in getting depressed, John." John finally opened his eyes. Sherlock put his book to the side and pushed down the comforter that had been covering them both. "I've already decided that we'll be going to Neville's this Saturday."

"Really?" asked Neville happily. "Great! I'll tell Gran."

"I wanna come, too!"

"I'm invited, right Nev?"

While the other boys begged and pleaded for their own invitations, which the happily confused Neville readily gave, John only slid off his side of their bed and began to pull his casual robes from his trunk (which was now, for some reason, holding a great number of Sherlock's clothing and books—he'd have to sort that out later). Sherlock pulled the jumper John was holding out of his hands. "Stop"

"I need to get dressed, Sherlock."

"No. Stop with the…the…that."

"And the award for Most Articulate Genius goes too…"

"That. Stop that."

"I'm not doing anything." Sherlock blew a lock of hair out of his face, before wrapping his arms around John's neck in an awkward sort of hug.

"Why don't you just ask your parents if you can stay with my brother and I as well?" Sherlock asked. "They live in a mansion, John. There's more than enough room for you."

"I can't do that to my parents," John knuckled the morning grit out of his eyes. "They can't stand the Malfoy's, you know that. Plus, I haven't seen them all year. I'd be a bit not good for me to choose to spend the summer away from them as well. Especially after all they're done for me."

"We'll still see each other often. It'll be no worse than when…" Sherlock trailed off, finding himself once again thinking of You-Know-Who. "then when we didn't live together." He finished a bit lamely, but confident that John understood what he meant. John gave a slow nod, still not really looking at Sherlock, who handed him back his clothes. After John disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for the day, Colin bounded over to him.
"Both of you are still coming to my party, right Sherlock?" he asked. "I can't wait! I didn't really have many friends before Hogwarts—too weird, you know. So my parties never had many people before. But now, there'll be almost twenty people coming! I'm so excited!" the smaller boy was practically bouncing up and down.
"I'm still intending on coming," Sherlock said indulgently. "John as well, I believe. It's unlike him to change his mind.

***1047***

All of the Gryffindor first years squeezed into one of the larger compartments. The nine of them loudly celebrated the end of their year the entire way home, while repeatedly promising to write and visit. "You better!" warned Greg. "I don't know if I'll be able to survive a whole summer without magic."

"We should meet together at Diagon Alley," said Seamus. "There's an amazing ice cream parlor there, we could get together for lunch sometime."

"And there's an indoor Quidditch pitch in Levenham," Neville said. "I used to go there with Ernie from Hufflepuff, before Hogwarts. It'd be nice to go again. We all could!"

When the candy trolley came by and Sherlock produced a large bag of gold, the cry of joy that went up was loud enough to draw a concerned Percy to their compartment. "Ronnie, do remember that if you eat too many sweets you'll get a stomach ache," he warned his little brother after he saw the mountain of candy that Sherlock's friends had bought with his money.

"I brought real food from Hogwarts to feed him too. Stop worrying Percy," Sherlock looked irritated at Percy insinuating that he wasn't taking good enough care of his John. Percy bit his lip, wanting to say more but deciding to let them be.

****1047****

It was hard to focus. Even harder than it had been the last several months when he'd been stuck inside the head of his follower. There was only pain, horrible pain that would have had him screaming in agony if he'd had a body. But as it were, there was nothing he could do but keep moving as if the pain was chasing him.

****1047****

Antioch was a prodigy and wandless magicks. From the time he was a very young boy, he had so great control over his magical core that he was able to wandlessly and wordlessly conjure, not summon but conjure, a living breathing dragon infant to amuse his younger brothers. His parents were impressed and pleased, and immediately contacted the most prominent names in magic, including Myrddin Wyllt and Alburich Durinson. The day he turned five, Antioch was shipped across the sea to a place where the Necromancer Alburich taught him all the secrets of his trade. For twenty years, Antioch stayed there with minimal contact with his family. When he returned, he was even more powerful than before, with a thirst for new experiences. After teaching his younger brothers the basics and leaving them with the tools to teach themselves more, he left to travel the world.

His journeying brought him to a village where a wand maker lived, who was said to produce unbeatable wands. Antioch, thinking it humorous for someone such as he, so gifted in the art of wandless necromancy, decided to apprentice himself to the man. His employer was a vain and prideful man. But while his wands were unparalleled in quality, he had yet to create one so powerful that none could conquer it.

One day, the wand maker sat outside carving a strip of holly wood away from the bough, when he saw two young men approach his apprentice. They embraced warmly and with many tears, and the wand maker understood that they had not seen each other for a long while. It was not many minutes after that, that the youngest challenged his older brother to a mock duel—without wands. Challenge accepted, the power that was thrown about was unparalleled by anything the wand maker had ever seen produced by one of his creations.

Soon, every young witch and wizard lined up to challenge the young apprentice; they with their wands, and Antioch with only his hands. And one by one they were defeated with little to no effort from the wand apprentice.

A fortnight passed, and the wand maker and his apprentice went looking for bowtruckle infested trees that might be harvested for wand wood. Antioch had grown to see the wand maker as an older brother, chatting happily and carelessly as he collected the wood. But the wand maker had long ago been taken by jealousy, and as Antioch reached up to collect a bough of elderwood, the wand maker drew his wand. In a moment, Antioch's head rolled across the forest floor, his body and blood hitting the base of the old tree.

Without remorse, the wand maker cut open the young man's chest and drew out his heartstrings. With bloody hands and calloused conscience, he braided them together as the elder tree drank up the young man's blood.

When he next returned from out of the woods three days later, he spun a tragic tale of how poor Antioch had been murdered by a band of wizards jealous of his power. The town believed him and mourned the loss. But his grieving brothers were suspicious. Being necromancers in their own right, they detected their brother's aura very close every time they visited the wand maker. But it wasn't until many months later when the wand maker boasted his greatest achievement—a truly unbeatable wand—that they discovered its source.

The wand maker, a previously mediocre duelist, bested the entire town with his wand save for the two remaining brothers who refused to participate. That night, the middle brother crept into the wand maker's home and slit his throat, claiming the wand as his own. He destroyed the wand maker's remaining stock, save for one elder wand, which he placed in the cold hands of the dead murderer.

The next day, a servant found him and sent for the authorities who confiscated the wand. Yet, the very next day, the wand was stolen from the city vaults, the guards all murdered. Meanwhile, the two remaining brothers left town bearing a beautiful box containing what was left of the third.

****1047****

The train slowed to a stop, jerking and bouncing with brakes squealing. Mycroft snapped awake, having dosed off towards the end of the trip. Gremione was next to him, reading a book to herself, sandwiched between Lavender and Parvati. Neville and Seamus were nowhere to be seen, but Dean was sitting next to Colin, playing with their Bertie boxes. John and Sherlock were predictably snuggled up together, fast asleep.

Mycroft took a deep breath, stretching his arms upwards. Around him, the other kids began to get up as well, grabbing their things from the overhead. Mycroft collected Sherlock's things for him, shrinking them as well as his own and placing them in his pocket. He shrunk down John's as wel, but handed them to the small Weasley boy, who was now blearily blinking his eyes.

"I can see my parents!" Greg said, sounding pleased. She quickly gave the various children around her hugs, including Mycroft for some reason, then flounced out of the compartment throwing a promise to write all of them over her shoulder. Colin was the only one to answer her, besides John, and he gave Sherlock and John each an embrace of his own.

"Don't forget about my birthday," Colin fairly ordered them yet again. "I'll send my owl with more information later." Similar good-byes were exchanged until it was just Mycroft, John and Sherlock left alone with their pets and baggage.

"You better write, berk," John told Sherlock fondly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, saying nothing. The three of them exited the train together. Mycroft found that he felt some pity for his brother and John, though he knew that they'd see be seeing quite a bit of each other over the summer.
"Ronnie!" the three boys turned to see Molly Weasley waving her arms from where she was standing with the rest of the Weasley crew.

"Well," Ron said awkwardly. "I'll be seeing you, then," and he began to turn away. Though in a surprising show of fast reflexes, Sherlock grabbed him about the waist and pecked his cheek. John grinned, as they let go. After another long, awkward moment, John finally began to head towards his family.

"We can probably visit Neville's this Saturday, we'll see him there." Mycroft tried to console his depressed looking brother. "And there will be plenty of outings that our year mates will have planned. Not to mention all of the birthday parties that will be taking place. Blaise's is in late June, and he's already invited him."

Sherlock nodded, once. Still staring after where John was following his family towards the barrier. "Draco, darling!" Mycroft, recognizing his mother's voice, turned.

"Come," Mycroft tugged on Sherlock's sleeve. He led his brother over to where the Malfoy parents were smiling genially at the two of them. "Sorry, mother," he apologized in his best "mummy's boy" tone, which he had perfected over the course of "Draco's" life. "We were saying goodbye to our friends."

Narcissa smiled at the two of them. "That's alright, dear. But come now, we've reservations for dinner."

"And we'd best head for the apparition point before too many people congest the walkway," Lucius added as they headed towards the barrier, his long legs striding in time with the serpent headed cane he swung in his right hand. "Do you have everything, Mr. Potter?" Lucius asked politely. "Enough for the summer?"

"Yes, Lord Malfoy," Sherlock said, mimicking his brother's mannerisms. Normally, he wouldn't bother, but if the Malfoy's grew tired of him it was within their rights to send him back to the Dursleys…not something Sherlock wanted. Lucius smiled at him.

"No need for that, Mr. Potter," he said, his tone a bit warmer now. "Lucius will be fine, and I'm sure my wife would be happy for you to call her Narcissa. You are to be staying with my family, as such you are a guest. No need for such formality."

"Then," Sherlock said, inwardly grinding his teeth at having to pander to the wizarding world's mandatory politeness. "I ask that you call me Sherlock." He then pointedly looked off to his left, where Blaise was waving to the two of them, completely missing Narcissa's barely covered smile.

****1047****

Ron was quieter than normal as his family sat down for dinner in the Burrow, which was saying something seeing as how he'd always been a very withdrawn boy. "I don't see why Harry decided to spend the holiday with the Malfoys," Molly was saying as she set down the crock of stew a bit harder than necessary. "He was happy enough over Christmas break, wasn't he?" she demanded.

"It's not personal, mum," said Fred, helping himself to a large portion of stew. "He just wanted to spend some time with his brother."

"And Draco's an okay kid," George added around a mouthful. "A bit stuck up, but it's to be expected I suppose."

"Draco's nice to me," Ron felt obliged to say. "And Sherlock didn't want to be a burden to our family over the summer."

"We wouldn't have minded if he'd wanted to pitch in," Molly said, sitting herself down.

Arthur set his cup down harshly. "Yes," he bit out. "We would have, Molly. I wouldn't stand for a boy to pay his own way, even one as well-to-do as Sherlock Potter. I for one think that it's incredible that he's reaching out to Draco. Reminds me a bit of how his own father reached out to Sirius."

"Yes," Molly said loftily. "And we all know how well that turned out."

The table was quiet. Surprisingly, it was Percy who broke the silence. "Sherlock is a very mature boy, who is confident and very much firm in his beliefs. The Malfoy's wouldn't be able to sway him to their side if they tried. And I don't think they will. After all, Draco gets along very well with the Muggleborns in his year, and he hasn't once called out family 'blood traitors'. In fact, he asked Hermione and Colin many many questions about current events in the muggle world."

Arthur smiled at his third son. "That's splendid!" he said. Then he barked out a laugh. "I wonder what ol' Lucy will think when he finds out his own heir is going blood traitor."

"Dad," Ron spoke up. "Is it okay if I spend Saturday with Neville?"

The Weasley patriarch looked surprised at the change of conversation. "Longbottom? He invited you again?" asked Molly. John inwardly sighed, wishing that Sherlock hadn't told him of his mother's gold-digging. He'd been willfully blind to it so far, but now that he knew it was painfully obvious. "That's good!" Molly said, a little forcedly when John didn't answer right away. "They're the good sort of people."

"Yes," said John quietly. "Neville gets lonely, since it's just him and his Gran. So he invited the first years for a picnic in his greenhouses."

"I don't see why you can't go, son," Arthur said warmly. "Be sure and owl your friend tonight to let him know." John nodded. "I take it that Sherlock will be there." John managed a smile.

"Yeah," he said, tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. "It was actually his idea. He more or less just told Neville that it was happening. But Neville was happy to ask his Gran."

The twins laughed. "Sounds like something Sherlock would do," said Fred. "A few of the third years have started calling him Lord Potter behind his back."

"Well he is," Percy said. "Isn't he? I mean, an heir at least. But being an, I don't mean to sound callous, but being an orphan he has the right to apply early for his Lordship. And being the Boy-Who-Lived, I'm not seeing him being denied it."

"You should bring that up when you see him Saturday, dear," Molly said excitedly. "Oh! Isn't this exciting?"

"I will," John said uneasily. "But I'm not seeing Sherlock wanting the Lordship. I mean, won't he have to sit on the Wizengamot?"

Percy nodded. "That's true. He'd be called on to vote on every bill that is raised, and even on trials. Also, his word would have even more weight than it already does. But overall, not much would change while he's in school. He'd have to appoint someone to vote in his stead until he's seventeen."

"Let's just hope he doesn't ask Malfoy," Molly sniffed. "That's probably why he invited Harry over."

"Sherlock had Draco invite him," John felt mildly irritated as he picked at his stew. "It was their idea. From the sound of it, Draco's parents were only informed of their plans on Christmas."

"They've been planning it since Christmas?" asked George, crumbs from his dinner roll falling from his mouth. "Why didn't they invite you?" Percy kicked George hard under the table in a manner that was probably meant to be subtle.

"They did," John admitted. "But I turned them down, because I wanted to come home. Sherlock and M-Draco were disappointed, but then they decided we'd just have to visit each other a lot, so that no one would get lonely. Also, Colin Creevy has a birthday party next week. Can I visit Diagon Alley to get him a gift?"

"Certainly!" Arthur said happily. "Percy and I were going tomorrow anyway to pick up some medicine for Errol. You can come along and find something then!"

"Arthur," Molly said in a quiet tone, "We can't buy a gift for Creevy." She looked both guilty and depressed when she said this, and John's anger for her lifted somewhat. "I'm sorry, dear. Maybe we can whip him up some homemade cookies!"

"It's alright, mum," John said. "Sherlock's been giving me allowance." The mouthful of stew that Fred had just taken was promptly spat back out. "He said it's only fair since he expects most of what I buy to be for him anyway." Arthur laughed heartily. "If we need it, I can help out with groceries." Arthur stopped laughing.

"Now look, Ron," he said. "That money is yours and Sherlock's, and expect you to treat it as such. We," he pointed from himself to Molly. "Are your parents and it is our delight to care for you. Understand?" John chewed his bottom lip.

"It'll be better now anyway," said George, wiping off his arm from where he got hit by his twin's spittake. "Since we don't have your medical bills to worry about anymore."

"George Fabian Weasley!" Molly shrieked. "You apologize to your brother!

"I didn't mean anything by it, mum," George protested.

"It's true," said John. "I don't want to go to doctors anymore. I'm fine."

"And if he ever gets worse, again" Fred jumped in. "We just have to ship him to wherever Sherlock is."

****1047****

John couldn't sleep that night. He lay there, in his bed, staring at the ceiling thinking about his life. He was guilty for feeling relieved that his father had turned down his offer to help out financially, and he was angry at his mother for only wanting his best friend around for his money. He was worried about how the Malfoy's were handling Sherlock. He was a tad lonely after spending every waking moment during the semester with his best friend. That, and he was cold. His small, cozy bed had never seemed so large and uncomfortable before.

About an hour later, just as his eyes had begun to grow dry and heavy, something scratched at his window. He was sitting up in an instant, his wand already in his hand, quickly grabbed from where he had stashed it under his pillow, despite not being allowed to use it during the summer. To John's confusion, it was Hedwig. The snowy owl was pecking furiously at his window pane. Sliding out of bed, John went to open the window. As soon as he did so, Sherlock's owl circled over to Ian's roost, helping herself to some of the water there. John carefully untied the letter and small box from her leg, stroking her back gently.

Obviously, it was from Sherlock.

"John,

I'm bored. Dinner was uncomfortable because I didn't feel like eating, but Mycroft's new slaves had decided to take us somewhere fancy. At least I don't have to share a room with Mycroft. It happened once, about thirty years ago when Mummy and Father took my brother and I someplace for holiday. We were staying in a cottage someplace, information deleted. Only two bedrooms, Mummy thought it would be "quaint". It turned out to be rather painful, actually. Literally, physically painful. It involved several chickens and a wire cutter but in the end both Mycroft and I ended up spending the majority of that holiday in the hospital.

I still hold to that it was entirely Mycroft's fault.

I have been experimenting with that mirror. Turns out it doesn't show the future. Don't know how I missed it. Obvious. It's such a bother being short, I keep missing details up high. I hate having to gape up at the ceiling like Creevy in order to see everything. In any event, it's a rather ingenious safe, of sorts. I'm still experimenting, but I've come to the conclusion that it may be somewhat sentient, capable of recognizing its owner. This is because you are able to store things in it, however when Mycroft tried to retrieve things from it, he found it impossible. I, on the other hand, can freely enter and exit the mirror.

It's like a door of sorts, there's a room on the inside. I'll show it to you when you visit, John. It's too risky to bring it out at Neville's, but perhaps sometime during the week. The Malfoy's already said I could invite you. I wanted to send one of the things I found, and interesting watch, with Hedwig along with this letter, but Mycroft informed me that people sometimes attack owls with parcels and I didn't want to risk it.

In the meantime, I've made two potions for you. One is a calming drought, just in case. The other is a potion called Dreamless Sleep that I'm sure you've heard of.

See you Saturday,

W. Sherlock. S. H. J. Potter-Holmes

(I'm thinking about changing my name legally, what are your thoughts?)

*****1047*****

So, who do you guys think should represent Sherlock in the Wizengamot? Lucius? Arthur? Dumbledore? Snape? Make sure to review and let me know! Next update will prob be in a week…or two…maybe…