Hi! Thanks for the Guest who reviewed about the Grangers. I hadn't even thought about the conversation that they and the Weasleys would have! As for Gremione's gender, she is a non-binary person who accepts the use of female pronouns.

Thank you for all of the kind reviews, however there were some voiced displeasure at my chosen pairing, and I would just like to point out that in the summary of my story I did, in fact, say that this would be a Johnlock fic. If you don't like that, then please don't read my story. Or, at the very least, don't tell me that you dislike it every time I make them do something fluffy.

While this IS an asexual romance, it is a romance never the less. And while I'm genuinely sorry that some of you don't like that, I don't feel sorry enough to change my story. Thank you.

It was ridiculously easy to leave Longbottom Manor unnoticed. Though Sherlock pouted that John was forced to go home at the end of the day, he and Mycroft were welcomed to spend the night. It was painfully obvious that Dumbledore had spoken to his longtime supporter, Augusta Longbottom, about bringing the Malfoy's over to the Light's side, using the relationship between Draco and the Gryffindor first years, particularly Harry and Neville. She made certain to let both boys know that they were always welcome at their house, all the while singing Dumbledore's praises and regaling them with tales of him many accomplishments. She even went so far as to subtly (or as subtly as a Gryffindor could manage, anyway) mention that Dark Magic was rumored to shrivel your soul and deform your body, ("Just think of what Voldemort looked like towards the end!").

Outwardly the boys were polite and well-mannered, much to Augusta's delight. ("You should be more like them, Neville. Perfect examples of pureblood heirs!") But inwardly, Sherlock was sneering at her. Dark Magic didn't deform your soul and body. Cutting up your soul was another story, but honestly Sherlock had the Philosopher's Stone, he didn't need a Horcrux.

That night, Sherlock and Mycroft crept to the receiving hall of Longbottom Manor, and Flooed to the Leakey Cauldron. They received an odd look from Tom, the barkeeper, but they ignored him and Tom left them alone. There was hardly anybody up, aside from a man at the bar (recently divorced, wife ran off with brother) and an elderly witch sipping a bowl of soup alone at a table in the corner (widowed, owns four cats).

The street of Diagon Alley was similarly deserted. Most of the shop's lights were off, the doors latched and locked. Carts were warded off with protective bubbles around them that would prevent thieves from stealing any goods. The few shops that were open were being run by yawning employees. The only sounds in the normally buzzing market place was that of owls from the emporium and the faint clatter of cauldrons being dropped. Occasionally, one would see a small group of shoppers leave a shop and enter another, or a lone wizard would leave a store and apparate away with a deafening crack that was heard echoing through the street.

The boys felt slightly ill at ease as they walked, having grown somewhat unused to this level of, for lack of better wording, unsupervised freedom. But they showed no outward sign of it. And if they walked a bit closer than they normally would have, neither of them said anything.

Gringotts was naturally still open, as goblins were nocturnal by nature and the day shifts were actually the less desired ones (both because of their natural preference for night, and their cultural hatred of wizards), therefore night was the optimal time of "day" to go if you wanted to catch a goblin in a good mood, as Mycroft and Sherlock were hoping to do. After all, a content goblin was more likely to accept a bribe to perform an illegal bonding ritual than a grumpy one who'd been dealing with pompous aristocrats all day.

They marched up the steep steps of the bank and bowed the passing goblins on their way to the front desks. "Awful strange to see such young things out alone at night," grinned the Goblin at the desk, baring their many sharp teeth. "What business have you here?"

Mycroft spoke up, having watched his father's many dealing with goblins. "We wish to pay for a bonding ritual. A brother bond." The goblin raised one eyebrow, smile falling away. "Money is no object," he added for good fortune. "Though time is of the essence."

"Run away in the middle of the night to get bonded?" the goblin seemed to teased them, tilting his head at them, as though they were a pair of mildly amusing squirrels. "My, how romantic." Both of the boys visibly winced at this, making the goblin appear even more amused. "I'm sorry, gentlemen" said the goblin, sounding anything but, "but it is bank policy to require a parent or guardian's approval for such things. Good-night."

"Then I wish to be emancipated," said Sherlock, speaking up. "I am heir of the Potter line, and I have been neglected by both my muggle and magical guardians. As a pureblood heir it is my right to demand it." The goblin's smile returned three-fold.

"One moment," he said before sending off a message via enchanted flying parchment. Then he jerked a claw to a nearby Goblin. They spoke briefly in their own, guttural tongue, before they were asked to follow the second goblin. They were lead down the hall, then bowed into a rather boring looking office room, with nothing inside but three chairs, a desk and a potted plant. They took their seats and waited until the door had shut behind the goblin to speak.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked. "You'll have to sit on the Wizenmagot if you do this. You realize that, don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "John's already told me. Don't worry, I've got it figured out." Before Mycroft could question him further, a goblin walked in, bearing a rather ominous looking bowl.

"You wish to claim Lordship, thrice-borne?" asked the Goblin with a predatory grin that made Sherlock instinctively scoot closer to his brother. He held out a claw, taking up one of Sherlock's small hands. "You'll have to provide some proof of your claim."

****1047****

"You have heard nothing, Severus? Seen nothing? What of your Dark Mark, has it darkened?" Albus demanded of his Potion Master as he paced across the floor of his office. He was agitated, he was nervous. He was scared like he hadn't been since Gellart and furthermore he was completely in the dark. He had no idea what was going on, and it was a new and unwelcome feeling to Dumbledore.

"I have told you," Severus said, beginning to look angry. "There has been nothing but society talk from Malfoy, and I don't associate with the others anymore. My Dark Mark is as faint as it was the day the Dark Lord was vanquished, and I have seen the same things you have." Minerva, who was sitting just a few feet away, looked from one to the other with an expression of weariness.

"How do we know Quirenus was not simply acting on his own?" Minerva asked. "You have to admit it is awfully suspicious for a longtime Muggle Studies teacher to suddenly become interested in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. And it would be foolish to think that something as grand as the Philosopher's Stone wouldn't attract the Dark Lord's attention alone. We were bound to be targeted by numerous parties."

Albus sighed. "I was yet to tell you this," he said as he sank down in his desk chair. "But Quirenus was found in the chamber when I entered. Or, at least, his remains were. Who ever took the stone also killed him. And not just killed, but completely destroyed his body. There was nothing left but his robes and a pile of ashes. And not only that, but the Mirror of Erised has gone missing as well."

There was silence, then Severus spoke, his voice marginally less angry than before. "And you hold to your idea that Quirrell was possessed?"

"I do."

"Why would Voldemort destroy his own vessel?" Minerva argued.

"Because he no longer had need of it," Severus said grimly. "If Albus' fears prove true, then The Dark Lord has risen again." Minerva closed her eyes, as though in pain. Albus nodded gravely, looking every year of his age. "We must prepare, if the Dark Lord has risen, then Hogwarts would be the first place he would attack. You must be careful, Albus. Whoever you chose as the Defense Professor must be carefully screened. If the Dark Lord had been accompanying Quirrell, then we are unspeakably lucky that we didn't lose any students this year."

"We almost lost Mr. Weasley," Minerva said quietly. "The little one, anyway. During that Quidditch match." Severus nodded, remembering.

"Don't worry," said Dumbledore. "The man I have in mind could not possibly be one of Voldemort's followers." He wasn't done speaking, but whatever he said next was interrupted by an alarm on one of his many trinkets going off, startling the three of them. Severus' eyes asked a question, though no one said anything as Dumbledore rose to check it. Not until they saw his shoulders tense and his lined face grow more worried did Minerva venture to ask what was wrong.

"The wards around Privet Drive are weakening."

***1047***

Lucius watched his wife get ready for bed, combing through her long hair with an ivory comb. "I enjoy having Sherlock here," Narcissa said suddenly, startling Lucius out of his thoughts. "It's almost as though…" she stopped and Lucius felt a familiar pang of guilt. His wife had always wanted many children, but because of the curse on the Malfoy family, was unable to. The age old hate of the Weasley clan rose up in him, but he pushed it aside for the time being so that he could focus on his wife.

"He's good for Draco," Lucius agreed. "I always thought our son acted far too…"

"Frigid?" Narcissa asked with a smile. "Like you?" Lucius raise an eyebrow, but said nothing. Narcissa turned back to her mirror. "The boy is very powerful; you can feel it just by being near him."

"He will make a good addition to the family," Lucius smiled.

*****1047*****

Sherlock slipped the heavy ring on his finger. "Congratulations," said the Goblin in front of him. Griphook, the mini-John in his head reminded him, smiled a truly fearsome smile "Lord Potter-Peverell". Mycroft looked smugly proud with the grin he was wearing. The Peverell Lordship was something of a surprise, it hadn't been claimed in over a century.

Many of the old lines had requirements for potential heirs that, if not met, they were not legally able to claim the Lordship regardless of blood. For the Potter Lordship, the heir need only have at least one pureblood parent. For the Peverell Lordship, the heir must have a light affiliation and their core must be a certain size. At first Mycroft had been skeptical that Sherlock, who was young enough that his core was not yet fully grown, would be either Light or powerful enough to claim the Peverell Lordship.

But apparently he was.

On the middle fingers of both hands, Sherlock now wore two rather tacky looking rings. The Potter Ring was golden, with the black shield crest of the Potter family engraved on the top. The Peverell ring was solid platinum, with an unidentifiable golden-yellow stone pulsating with power. Their strange family symbol was encased in the stone—a triangle holding a circle holding a line.

"As Lord Potter-Peverell," Sherlock asked. "I would like to change my name, and then authorize a blood bond for myself and my brother." The Goblin bowed low, then retrieved several ink pots, two quills and several scrolls of parchment from within his desk.

"A name change, brother?" asked Mycroft lowly. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John and I have already discussed it."

"And the name you wish to take upon yourself?" The Goblin interrupted them, a quill already poised in his claw above a scroll. "Though, Lord Potter-Peverell, I must warn that should you wish to change your surname, you may only legally take on the pureblood surnames you have right to. Which limits you the Black, Potter, Peverell and Shafiq names."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "I understand."

"Then, please proceed."

"William Sherlock Scott Hadrian James Potter-Peverell" Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly. The Goblin paused but a moment before jotting down the name, then proceeding to filling out the rest of the scroll. Sherlock noticed Mycroft staring at him out of the corner of his eyes.

"What?"

"Is that going to be William Sherlock Scott Hadrian James Potter-Peverell-Weasley when you get married?" he asked innocently. Sherlock began to scowl at him, then paused.

"I don't know," he said after a while, looking baffled. "Perhaps John will take my name. It's more important after all."

"I'd phrase it a bit differently when you bring it up, brother."

"Obviously."

"Johnald Bilius Hamish Peverell…John Ronald Bilius Hamish Potter-Peverell…"

"Oh, just shut up."

"If you would just sign here," Griphook spoke up, handing a peculiar red pen to Sherlock. "There will be a slight itching sensation on the back of your hand. Just ignore it, my Lord."

Sherlock nodded and scrawled out his new/old name on the parchment. "My blood?" Sherlock asked Mycroft when Griphook took the scroll back.

"It's a blood quill," his brother told him. "It's to ensure your signature is truly yours. After all, you can steal someone's face, but it's much harder to take their blood." Sherlock nodded.

"If you'll follow me," the goblin rose. "I will show you to the bonding chambers."

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Ready to be brothers again?"

Sherlock scoffed, striding passed him. "Please…" he drawled, though said nothing else as he followed the goblin deeper into the bank.

*****1047*****

They made it back to Longbottom manor just after three in the morning. They snuck into the room they were sharing (They had asked to share one so that it'd be easier to sneak out together) and sat down on their respective beds. Sherlock massaged the rune that he had magically printed onto his shoulder, knowing his brother—truly his brother—had a matching one on his own.

They had chosen a symbol that was the combinations of the runes Algiz, the rune for protection; Othala, the rune for inheritance and ancestors; Teiwaz, the rune for analysis and rationality; and Berkana, the rune of renewal and rebirth. The first three runes overlaid each other, creating the vague shape of an arrow, while the third was much smaller and slightly to the right of the first shape.

"You don't regret it do you?" Mycroft asked softly. "You always hated being my brother. Before." Sherlock didn't answer, knowing that his brother meant several things by that. On the logical, rational side, he understood that it wasn't actually necessary. New rules put in place protected children from risking losing their magic because of a stupid contract their parents had signed for them. If it really came down to it, they could always have just waited it out and put up with people knowing they were betrothed, then breaking off the engagement when they were adults. However, the small sentimental part of him…had missed being a little brother.

"It's illegal to marry a family member any more immediate than a first cousin," Sherlock said instead of voicing this. Mycroft slowly nodded, then pulled down his bed covers, slipping off his heavy outer robe. Sherlock stayed sitting up, staring out the window. The Mirror of Erised weighed heavily in his pocket, the last time he had peered into it, it had changed slightly. Sherlock stood before himself, and he instinctively knew that he no longer hid anything about himself for fear of being shunned by the few people he cared about. Behind him stood about four dozen people, starting with Mycroft and John standing at his shoulders, and fanning out from them. A few he recognized: Mrs. Hudson, Mummy, Greg. Most he didn't. They were unfamiliar familiar faces. People he should know but didn't. It was like he'd accidently deleted them. It was worrying.

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, who was laying facing away from him. "No, brother mine" Sherlock said quietly. "I don't. Didn't."

There was no sound for a long stretch. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

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

Aeldin rummaged through the many memories he had access to. He had learned much from the books that Sherlock had found in the Mirror of Erised. I.L.P. had studied with one Herpo Fole (Called "the Foul"), one of the greatest necromancers to have ever lived. He invented horcruxes, and while history recorded that he'd only made one, it wasn't completely true.

While it was often theorized that true regret could mend the soul and destroy a Horcrux, this was complete fiction made up by one of Socrates' followers who was a contemporary of Herpo the Foul. The truth was much more scientific…if you counted using the elixir of life at all scientific. Herpo experimented with horcruxes he made from his slave's souls. He had stolen a Philosopher's Stone from Socrates, who had been the one to create them, and had soaked the horcruxes in elixir made from the blood of an innocent. The soul piece had left the vessel as soon as contact was made and flown back to its original host.

Not only that, but Herpo had theorized that with each Horcrux made the soul was split exactly in half. With this knowledge, Herpo had made eight Horcruxes, then soaked all but the last and smallest one in the elixir.

Brilliant man, Herpo the Foul.

Which left Aeldin (he was actually growing rather fond of the name his host had given him) with the question of should he trust Sherlock with the knowledge of where his horcruxes were? If he followed Herpo's example, he could leave this small piece of himself in Sherlock and return the rest to his body. After all, who besides his own followers would ever seek to kill the beloved Boy-Who-Lived? But there was also the problem of his main piece not having a body at the moment. Of course, it was entirely possible for Sherlock to made a homunculus under his instruction, the boy was plenty capable.

Besides, who knew where his main piece was at the moment, if it had already taken steps to restoring his body?

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

Sherlock and Mycroft spent the next week and a half at Malfoy Manor exploring the Mirror's many books, devouring the information that had previously been all but lost to the wizarding world. Mycroft had all but drooled over the box of "time turners" they'd found, and had immediately claimed one for himself, which prompted Sherlock to put one around his own neck (despite having never heard of the contraptions before).

They had been working their way through a collection of books written on the subject of sea dragons when one of Sherlock's alarms went off. It meant someone was approaching their bedroom. Throwing down their books they stumbled out of the mirror and had but a moment to spare after shrinking it down and slipping it into Sherlock's robe pocket before the door opened and Lucius peeked his head in. He smiled at them. "I'm pleased to see that you boys have been getting along," he said with a meaningful look that had both boys smiling (though for entirely different reasons than Lucius was thinking), "But it's been three days and you've barely left your room. Go on outside, it's a lovely day and you're wasting in inside like a couple of vampires."

Sherlock pouted a bit, but soon acquiesced and began looking for his shoes. Mycroft led the way to their stables, where they could continue having their preferred level of privacy. The Abraxas Pegasus kept there tossed their heads in greeting when the boys walked in. "He sent us out here for a reason," Sherlock said as soon as they had checked for any eavesdropping spells. Mycroft nodded, his gaze off towards the Manor.

"Yes," his brother agreed. "And it probably has to do with the fact that Headmaster Dumbledore just apparated onto our front steps." Sherlock stuck his head back out of the stable to see for himself, just in time to see the Headmaster admitted into the Manor.

"I wonder what business he has with your father," Sherlock wondered aloud.

"Probably something to do with you."

"Might be checking to make sure your father hasn't chopped me up and put me in a potion, or used my gizzards for a Dark Ritual."

"Sherlock don't be absurd. A gizzard isn't an organ typically found in humans."

"….I knew that…."

"Of course, brother dear"

"….I just deleted it."

"I'm sure."

"…..Shut up"

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

Dumbledore invited himself to sit down in the Malfoy's home, causing Lucius' left eyebrow to twitch slightly, but both parties ignored the blatantly rude move on the head master's part. "Lucius!" Dumbledore greeted like the Malfoy Lord was an old friend. "How have you been this fine summer's day?"

"Perfectly well, Headmaster, thank you," Lucius said with only slightly gritted teeth. Dumbledore smiled blindingly at him.

"Please, Lucius, call me Albus!"

"Of course."

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," Dumbledore prompted.

Lucius nodded once. "If you are here to see young Mr. Potter, he and my son are out in the stables, playing with the animals. He's quite well, as I'm sure Madame Longbottom informed you. He'll be going with Draco to visit some more of his friends tomorrow."

"Excellent, excellent!" Albus said cheerfully, then his smile faded. "But, I fear I do not come here for an idle visit. While I am glad that Mr. Potter has been happy with you, I'm afraid I must return him to his relatives as soon as possible. Though I'm not so cruel as to deprive a boy of a promised play date, so I can wait to pick him up until he gets back from his visit." Lucius rose.

"His relatives!" Lucius hissed. "You can't be serious! They are muggles. They are animals of the worst sort!"

Dumbledore met his gaze. "If you are serious about collaborating with me, you must respect my views on muggles."

"And I will, so long as you are not forcing a young boy into an abusive home!"

"Abusive?" Dumbledore said in surprise. "Who said anything about abuse?"

"I did, Albus," Lucius said quietly. "That boy has scars up and down the length of arms and legs. I shudder to think of what the rest of his body looks like. He had trouble eating even the smallest amounts, he hides food in his room, he flinches whenever someone besides Draco gets too close and he barely sleeps. If that doesn't spell out abuse headmaster than why does this boy act so?" he demanded angrily.

"I'm glad you've come to care for the child, Lucius," Albus said, entirely brushing over the situation. "But he really must return to his family."

"Why?"
"For reasons I am unable to divulge. Just trust that his safety, his very life, is at stake." Lucius seethed.

"Why must he leave now?"

"The sooner the better."

"For how long?"

"The rest of the summer, unless you'd be willing to take him back for the last two weeks?"

"More than willing," Lucius snapped. Then he seemed to remember himself, putting back on his cool, Slytherin facade. "I'll not leave my son's betrothed with people who do not treasure him like he deserves for any longer than absolutely necessary."

Dumbledore stood, clapping his hands. "Excellent!" he said yet again. "Severus will we here to pick him up the day after tomorrow!" Lucius nodded stiffly. Dumbledore showed himself out. Narcissa strode into the room moments later, looking distraught, having heard the whole thing.

"Lucius," she began.

"I know," Lucius replied. "Don't worry, darling. If I were to allow this I'd be unfit of the name Malfoy."

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

The older Malfoy's were acting strange all morning. Lucius tried smiling at him over breakfast, which just made Sherlock feel very awkward. Mycroft seemed just as confused about his father's behavior. Narcissa insisted on picking out Sherlock's outfit, then brushing his hair out with gentle hands and a golden brush. They both seemed to go out of their way to be nice, and it was starting to freak him out.

"Do you think Dumbledore said something to them?" Sherlock asked his brother as they were getting ready to go.

"I haven't got a clue," Mycroft said as he pulled on his shoes. "But I don't think they'd be acting nearly as accommodating if they knew who we're spending the day with." Sherlock gave a little snort as he shrugged his favored coat onto his shoulders. "But, hurry. We'll be late. Madame Longbottom is expecting us any moment." Sherlock nodded, then followed his brother out to the receiving room, where Narcissa was waiting for them.

Lady Malfoy kissed Draco's cheek and then caressed Sherlock's unruly hair fondly. "Behave, boys," she said lightly, though there was underlying tension in her stance and tone that neither of the "boys" missed. "And remember to mind your manners."

"Yes, mother," Draco said placating with a smile. "See you in a bit."

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy," she raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Narcissa." She smiled at him, then took the small decorative box of Floo Powder down off the mantle to give them easier access. "Longbottom Manor!" Sherlock said loudly and clearly, throwing the pinch of powder down onto the base of the flames.

Lady Longbottom was already waiting for them with Neville, who was holding a wrapped parcel in his hands. "Hello there, young Harry," Lady Longbottom said warmly, despite forgetting his preferred name. "Ah, and Mr. Malfoy, too. Excellent. You boys have fun now, though" she turned to look sternly at Neville. "You really must learn to get over your fear of Flooing alone, Neville. You won't always have such accommodating friends willing to go out of their way to go along side you!"

"Yes," Sherlock said as politely as he was able (which wasn't all that much at the moment. "He will" And he grabbed Neville by the arm and took another pinch of Floo Powder from the bowl Augusta Longbottom was holding.

"Thank you for letting us use your Floo," said Draco with a smile, since he had a reputation to uphold, as Sherlock shouted out "The Burrow!" dragging Neville along with him.

It had taken a bit of planning on the children's part to get everything worked out. But children made the best strategists, particuarily children raised in stern and constricting environments. Which is why the Malfoy's thought that today Sherlock and Mycroft were spending the day at Longbottom Manor, while Lady Longbottom thought that the two of them were spending the day at the Burrow with Neville, and only stopped by because of Neville's (nonexistent) fear of Floo Travel. And the Weasley's thought that the two brothers had spent the night at Neville's prior, and only needed to swing by so that Mr. Weasley could drop them off with the Grangers, who would be taking them to the Creevy residence.

And the Grangers knew nothing. Nothing at all.

Meanwhile, they knew they wouldn't be discovered because since the Malfoys were a Dark family, they wouldn't willingly asscociate with the Weasleys, Longbottoms or (heaven's forbid) the Grangers. The Grangers had no way of contacting the wizarding world, because the owl they'd bought was currently away (Gremione had made sure to place a rather large order of random books the night before, to be payed for by Sherlock and Mycroft). The Weasleys wouldn't contact Lady Longbottom, because Molly would be embarrassed about using their family owl, Errol, to contact such a well-to-do person. And they didn't worry about Lady Longbottom because Neville had assured his friends that his grandmother cared so little about actually communicating with anyone that she hadn't sent an owl to anyone in nearly ten years, save for any shopping orders she made.

"Harry, dear!" Molly cried when Sherlock and Neville stumbled out of their rather cramped fireplace. "And Neville, too! Oh, hello, hello! Are either of you hungry? I haven't put away the breakfast food yet" she waved and offering hand at the table that was still laden with a plate of bacon and warm biscuits piled had on a tray. Sherlock smelled gravy from the direction of the kitchen.

"Thank you, but Narcissa already fed us," Sherlock said stiffly, craning his neck to try and find John in the happy clutter that was the Burrow. However, he only saw Ginny and Percy. The latter of which waved and smiled warmly at the three boys now standing in front of the fireplace, as he worked on what seemed to be a rather detailed Potion Essay. Ginny barely looked up from her plate before her whole face flushed red. Sherlock made a mental note to have John take a look at his sister later, just in case she was coming down with some strange wizarding disease.

"Sherlock!" cried a delighted voice. "Excellent timing, I just received an owl from Charlie. You remember Charlie, don't you, kiddo?" Sherlock smiled at Arthur as he strode in, a slightly wrinkled envelope and parchment piece held in his hands.

"Of course," said Sherlock, then a voice in his head (Whether it was John of Aeldin, he wasn't quite certain) prodded him, telling him not to be rude. He paused for half an instant, trying to think of something that might be considered less "not good" than He helped me smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts. "How is he?"

"In perfect health and as crazy as ever," Arthur laughed. "He asked me to remind you about his invitation for you and your friends. He said that you'd expressed interest in seeing the dragon reserve he works at. You thinking about going into Dragon Training, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's one possibility of many. It definitely wouldn't be boring." Arthur chuckled at that.

"He also says Francine says hello," Arthur said, squinting at the parchment in his hands.

"Francis is a girl?" Sherlock asked, somewhat surprised. Ginny looked up at this with a strange expression on her face. She actually looked like she was about to say something. Sherlock turned to look at her, curious because he hadn't heard her speak before (or if she had, he'd deleted it). But before she could say anything twin shouts of "RONNIE YOUR BOYFRIEND'S HERE!" rang out through the house.

"If it isn't our favorite genius"

"Our little prodigy"

"The baby Professor"

"Ickle Lord Potter"

"Soon to be ruler of this land"

"Of this nation"

"Of the world"

"Our dear savior!"

"Our beautiful angel!"

"Our soon-to-be-but-not-really-baby-brother-in-law!"

"Our—" whatever else Sherlock was, he didn't find out, because George was suddenly silenced by a throw pillow being thrown at his head. "Oy!"

"John!" Sherlock smiled, then frowned. "What's in the box?" John had sped down the stairs at the twin's cry. He held in his hands a wrapped box, tied with a red ribbon. John gave him a longsuffering look that told Sherlock he'd deleted something he probably shouldn't have.

"The new camera," John said wearily. "That we picked out…together…a week ag—oh, why do I even bother!" Arthur chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of his smallest son's head.

Soon they were all ready to go and piled in a car that Arthur had been tinkering on in his spare time. With a bit of spell work, the carriage was expanded enough for them all to sit comfortably. Normally, the drive would have taken a little over three hours, but thanks to Arthur's "adjustments" the flying car only took a little less than an hour to reach the outskirts of London.

Then came the exciting part "…no, Dad! Turn left here! Here! Oh, you missed it."

"RED LIGHT RED LIGHT RED…oh, well."

"NO! Don't do a U Turn!"

"THAT'S NOT A STREET!"

In the end they made it to the Granger residence in one piece, if looking a little green. Nevertheless, they thanked Mr. Weasley as they piled out of the car. Before he drove off, Arthur handed John a little toy dog, which he informed his son solemnly was a port key, and that they all had to be holding onto it when it was activated, or someone might be left behind.

Then, finally, they rang the Granger's doorbell. "I hope Colin appreciates all the hoops we had to jump through," Neville muttered under his breath as they waited. Greg opened the door, wearing cargo shorts and a leather jacket over a T shirt. "You shaved your head!" Neville said in surprise.

Greg ran a hand through her hair. The right side had been shorn close to the skin, but the rest was still a good few inches long, and able to flop attractively across her head. "Thought I'd try something new. Come on in! Mum's just looking for her keys. We can leave in a second."

"We're going in another Ottymobble?" Neville cringed. John patted his back.

"Don't worry," he said comfortingly. "It's not usually that bad. Dad's just really bad a driving."

"Legally speaking, he shouldn't be driving…or flying at all." Mycroft said dryly.

Greg frowned. "Flying? You took brooms all the way here?"

"No" answered Mycroft and Sherlock at the same time.

What seemed like an age later, Mrs. Granger left them on the front steps of a cheery yellow house that Sherlock thought very much fitted the personality of their bubbly friend. He knocked on the door, plastering a charming smile on his face. He'd learned by now that he was more likely to make John happy if he smiled in public. Sure enough, John was looking at him approvingly out of the corner of his eyes.

There was the sound of raised voices from inside, and several thuds that sounded suspiciously like somebody falling down a flight of stairs before a voice declared "I'm okay!"

The door opened revealing a little boy who had Colin's button nose, but red hair and brown eyes. "HI!" he said happily. "Follow me, Colin's setting up the play room!" Then the boy, who Sherlock assumed to be 'Denis' shot off into the house. Greg had no problem just striding into the house, and normally Sherlock wouldn't either, but something made him hesitate.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly. Sherlock shook himself and took John's hand. He followed the others, deducing the home as he went.

Father is messy, but good-natured. Mother, meticulous and stern, but kind. Boys, rambunctious and messy like father, making Mother stressed constantly. Younger brother and Father are fond of sports. Mother shows no or neutral interest in them, unless she has a personal interest in the players, much like Colin. Happy but strained family dynamic. Mother unhappily divorced from previous husband, married the step-father during bout of depression.

Sherlock felt the dread in his stomach increase. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" John whispered into his ear. Sherlock nodded and pulled John faster towards the sound of Colin happily greeting everyone. They soon found themselves in a playroom of sorts. It was a large, square area with mountains of toys piled up on shelves near the walls. In the center of the room were two large tables laden with birthday presents and the sort of paper dishes that was customary to use for Muggle birthday parties.

"…we'll be going to a laser tag place as soon as everybody gets here, and I talked Dad into taking us to the museum like we were talking about. And then my Uncle Jeremy is going to come and he's always lots of fun…" Colin was babbling to anyone who would listen, looking like he was on cloud nine. All of the Gryffindor First years were already there, except for Lavender and Seamus. Several Hufflepuffs had come (Sherloc still didn't know their names, except for Susan, but she was unnaturally loud for a puff). Three Ravenclaws were examining the television in the corner of the room, and even several Slytherin First years, including Blaise and Theo Nott, who had both used methods similar to Mycroft and Sherlock to be able to come.

As soon as they walked in, Blaise made a bee-line straight for them. "I've never been to a muggle house before," he said by way of greeting. "It's different than I expected."

"What did you expect?" John asked out of curiosity.

"…something not quite this…clean," Blaise said slowly. "And…the lights are all incredibly bright. And it smells weird."

"That's canned spray," Sherlock explained. "Muggles use it to cover up the stench of people." Greg snorted, but said nothing.

"Alright, children, how many people are we waiting for?" asked a feminine voice.

A very familiar voice.

A voice that sent shivers of fear down Sherlock's spine. Mycroft and John both tensed as well. Sherlock instinctively placed himself between his John and the source of that voice. Colin answered his mother. "Just five or so, but Seamus said he'd be a little late." Slowly, Sherlock turned around, and it was undeniably confirmed as to who Colin was speaking to.

"You-Know-Who" Sherlock muttered under his breath. Slowly, Mary Creevy Nee Morstan's eyes widened in disbelief. "She's back."