I'd like to say that this chapter begins "Book 2", even though I'm not going to bother with setting up a new "story" on my account. If I remember correctly, The Chamber of Secrets started just before Harry's 12th birthday, when he was locked in his room and was visited by Dobby. Most of you would probably pick up on this anyway, but I wanted to clarify for the few people who would miss it.

I think it's too soon for the Grangers to meet up for a prolonged period with the Malfoys or Weasleys because it would probably lead up to John and Mycroft's families discovering their past lives, and that would just make everything needlessly complicated.

Severus, however….

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed recently! You are my muses. Speaking of, I'd like to thank my dear cousin, AlwayzHuman, for being my greatest muse of all. My cousin has recently started her very first Johnlock fic, so if you guys could check her out and show her some support that would mean a lot to me! Just go to her account and select her story "Flower Perennial". It's actually mostly thanks to her that I'm as into fanfiction as I am. She told me she updates her story every Friday. Also, thank you cousin for looking over this chapter with meeee XDXD LOVE YOU!

So, yeah, this is a bit of a filler chapter, but I hope you like it anyway!

May the Gods be ever in your favor!

~James

Severus, as a rule, despised children. Couldn't stand them and never could. Any possibility of him ever enjoying the idea of being around a child had shriveled up and died the moment he became a professor at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. All day every day, each year he taught he had to put up with the sniveling brats as they whined about his strict standards, his taste in fashion, even things as trivial as the shape of his nose. Though, despite popular belief to the contrary, Severus never actually acted on this hatred. True, he appeared to be extremely biased towards Slytherins and against every other house, Gryffindor particularly. But this was for the sole purpose to keep up his façade of Death Eater for the remnants of Lord Voldemort's followers. It was expected of him. And despite his dislike for children, he still protected them with wandless, muttered protection shields every time a cauldron exploded, still made sure that anyone harmed was immediately escorted to the medical wing (even if they were escorted there by a firm hand on their ears), and he never tolerated bullying or blood slurs against anybody.

And yet for all that he was expected to do, he found himself inexplicably fond of one Sherlock Potter. This was the result of the union between his childhood tormentor and the love of his life. By all rights, Severus should hate the boy. His colleagues certainly expected him to.

During staff meetings, whenever Filius commented on Sherlock's power, he did so while looking at Severus pointedly, as though expecting the Potion Master to argue, then the small man would look surprised when Severus never did. Minerva, when she spoke of his prodigy-like skills, would glare at him, as though daring Severus to insult her star pupil. Even Pomona, when she laughingly updated the other professors on how Sherlock was still unable to remember any of his classmate's names, would glance at Severus and hurriedly mention how the boy was at the top of his class. Most annoying of all was the shocked and slackened faces whenever Severus quietly spoke words of praise about the Potter boy's accomplishment in Potions.

They only saw the bitter man Severus was forced to play the part of, due to his role he'd unwittingly forced himself into as a young man. They never saw him deflecting hexes that older students flung at Sherlock's back as they little boy walked oblivious down the Hogwarts Hallways hand in hand with "Johnald" Weasley. They never saw him vanish the poisoned jug of pumpkin juice that a jealous older Gryffindor had plopped in front of the genius. They never saw the small smiles he'd hide behind scowls and stern lectures when Sherlock "experimented" while his and the Little Weasley's potion ingredients during class. They never saw the sudden yet explosive feeling of pride that erupted in his chest when Sherlock showed him his letter from Hogwarts declaring he'd gotten O's in all his subjects (Except in Potions, in which he'd gotten an E). They never saw the warmth that filled him when people on the street assumed that Sherlock was his son, whenever Severus took Sherlock for an outing to get them both out of the small house for a few hours.

They never saw the nights when Severus would check up on Sherlock to ensure that the light sleeping potion he'd slipped in Sherlock's evening meal was in effect, nor the few moments of weakness when Severus would gently rearrange the thick blankets around the tiny frame. They'd never know the painstaking carefulness with which he selected items to gift the brat on his birthday. They'd certainly never know Severus' new secret, the one he'd hold closest to his chest: that he accidentally started to think of Harry James "Sherlock" Potter…less and less as James Potter's son.

He could see Lily in almost everything the small boy did: the way he scrunched up his nose, the way his scrubbed his hands through his hair when he was agitated, the way he stomped and threw his arms around when he was frustrated, the way he hit/kicked/stabbed/threw things out of anger, his fiery temper that was quick to cool, the light in his eyes whenever he found something interesting and new to learn about, the tenderness in his beautiful green eyes when Sherlock interacted with animals or "his John".

But…Sherlock had also unconsciously started mimicking Severus, as children were known to do. Sherlock began eating with a knife, like Severus did, spearing his food with the blade rather than using a more conventional fork. Sherlock held the potion-making utensials with the same odd grip that Severus favored. The boy also picked up Severus' quirk of spinning quills when he was considering something whilst writing an essay (though Severus can't remember every doing so in front of the boy). Sherlock also utilized Severus' infamous drawl, and many people had commented to Severus that the boy's glare was unsettlingly like his own. The boy hated the same foods that Severus did, while they had the same favorite dessert. Neither of them enjoyed flying, or Quidditch, and Sherlock often adopted the same look of dread whenever John played on his broom that Severus knew used to appear on his face when Lily played.

Severus hadn't even realized he'd been noticing all of this, hadn't realized it had mattered until he'd taken Sherlock and John to Romania to visit Charles Weasley and someone named Francine. He accidently called Sherlock his son. It had been a simple slip of the tongue, but, perhaps that had made it all the more profound.

It had been in a shop just outside the dragon reserve in the small wizarding town that had sprung up in the cradle between two wooded mountain sides. The woman haggling at the front with him had paused to glance over Severus shoulder at Sherlock, Granger, Draco and Little Weasley, who were pouring over dragon books near the back, in awe over the beautiful pictures, as they were yet to see an actual dragon.

The woman had clucked and cooed the way old women do when faced with something they deem "precious". "All your children?" she had asked him, her English heavily accented. Absently Severus had answered while examining a bottle of a rare plant's extract.

"Just the small one." Then they had settled the prices for the food, ingredients and various souvenirs before they bid her good-day and walked out. It wasn't until they were hallway up the path leading to the reserve that Severus had even realized what he had done. It's unreasonable how much the realization shook him up, even after he'd tried to tell himself that he'd meant to say that Sherlock was his ward, not his child.

It wasn't the last time that people assumed that Sherlock was his. At the ranch, the men there had assumed that Sherlock shared Severus' last name. It surprised Severus that it had been Chalies Weasley who corrected his collogues, not one of the children. It had put Severus in somewhat of a bad mood, for reasons that escaped even himself, so he'd set about lurking near the sheds, speaking quietly with one of the tamers while Charles led the children about the large, grassy area where they kept the younger dragons.

Severus had been set on ignoring the children for as long as possible, but was unable to resist scanning the lawn at the sound of a rather shrill scream. His heart about killed itself when he saw the smallest child running towards what was obviously a nesting mother atop a clutch of eggs. The tamer closest to Severus called out something in Romanian, sounding panicked.

Severus had apparated across the area within a blink, then he froze. The nesting mother had begun to nuzzle the little boy in the stomach, as though scenting one of her own young. Afraid to move, lest he provoke the dragon's ire, he stood there feeling out of place. Charles softly approached, looking as nervous as Severus felt. "Unbelievable" the young dragon tamer breathed. "Pricilla never acts like that. Sherlock's an absolute natural with dragons! I should take him to see the older dragons later! Old Felix hasn't let anyone near him in four years, I wonder how Sherlock would fare trying to feed him! OH! Or Rudi! He's one of our grouchier ones, but I'll bet Sherlock… "

Severus rather felt justified in the stinging hex he'd hit his ex-student with.

*****1047*****

John was sure he'd never felt happier. He had parents where were involved and invested in him, he had siblings who he got along with (most of the time). He loyal friends, including one mad consulting detective. He was healthy and whole, and he had a son. It was odd, sure. But John was determined to be there fore Colin, even if he couldn't ever be able to fill the role of father, like he maybe might have could, had things been different.

But with Sherlock spending more and more times with Professor Snape ("He's taking me to France, John. There are rare pixies there! The dust is needed for a potion that will cure paralysis, though under careful examination I had a theory that it will also cure…") he had more freetime than he knew what to do with. Because of this, he started begging his parents to let Colin come over to the Burrow more often, so much so that his brothers expressed concern that he was "cheating" on Sherlock. When John tried to inform them that they weren't actually an item, their concern had increased so much that they started needling Colin, interrogating him, treating him like some sort of homewrecker.

That is, until Colin asked in confusion "Wait…I thought you two were dating" at which point Colin and the twins began talking about John and Sherlock's "future", planning their wedding and baby showers, spending hours talking about all they ways they should decorate their house, and what careers they should go into that would complement each other.

After that visit, the twins seemed to considered Colin John's second best friend, after Sherlock. The one John would hang out with when Sherlock wasn't available. A sort of substitute. John tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling he got when he realized how true that was.

Even still, his heart broke a little when Colin teared up when he came to see him and Sherlock off to Romania. They only spent a week there, but by the end of that week, John was glad to be leaving. He didn't know if he'd be able to stand much more of seeing Sherlock run heedlessly towards dragons as though they were simply overgrown dogs who needed attention. And while it was interesting to volunteer in the reserve temporarily, John firmly crossed out dragon trainer as a possible future career.

If only Sherlock had felt the same way. He pouted for a full two days after they left Romania, according to Professor Snape who had apparently complained to Mr. Weasley about it. The only thing that shook him out of it was when Colin announced one day that they were going to make a Sherlock Holmes movie.

The next day, Sherlock snuck out and into London, where he could watch the filming. John only heard about this when a near frantic Severus Snape came bursting through their Floo to demand that Sherlock explain why he'd left the house before breakfast. And then turn a ghastly shade of white upon hearing that Sherlock wasn't there.

John had owled Mycroft, who had sent a letter back saying it was obvious where Sherlock went and not to be alarmed, while also not telling John where it was he went. Severus had spent the day casting tracking spells and locating charms, none of which worked. Molly was panicking, Arthur was trying to reassure her, and Severus was convinced that Sherlock had run away back to Romania, and had been eaten by a dragon.

Then around dinner time Sherlock had shown up asking where "Severus" was. If John hadn't been so relieved, he would have laughed at how red Snape's face had gotten as he very visibly fought with the urge to embrace the mad genius, and throttle his skinny neck. In the end, Snape had grabbed hold of Sherlock's ear and drug him back through the Floo without another word to the Weasley's until the next day, when a Hedwig appeared at the breakfast table with a letter informing them that Sherlock would be unavailable for anything for the next week.

So, John spent that time getting to know his son. While John wasn't able to be a father to Colin, he was able to act as big brother/guide to the wizarding world. He showed Colin the best spots to see fairies, brownies and leprechauns. He helped him out with his homework, and various home recipes for simple cures that weren't taught in the Hogwarts curriculum. It was still awkward whenever John was invited to the Creevey residence, and he came face to face with Mary, but it was made easier by the fact that the woman didn't recognize him.

*****1047*****

For both of Sherlock lives, he'd always felt like he was racing against something, be it his brother, a rival, a criminal, a simple feeling or times itself. He lived life coiled like a spring, ready to leap at any given moment. He was barely able to relax himself enough to fall asleep, despite how exhausted he was. His mind would be forever pounding out observations, dancing about numbers and facts and ideas, coming up with experiments his fingers would be itching to perform. The taut, constant stress made it impossible for him to enjoy eating. It always felt far too heavy, weighing him down. It was always so hard to swallow, even when he knew, when he felt how hungry, how malnourished he was. He hated eating because of it, the discomfort of food knotting his stomach would distract him for at least an hour after wards.

Even on the quiet days, he'd feel as though there was something just beyond him, mocking him, that he had to accomplish, or figure out, or defeat. Sometimes, he thought it was his brother, his big brother who had always been smarter than him (as much as Sherlock loathed to even think that) watching him through secret cameras. Other times he thought it was the idea that there was something interesting going on that he wasn't a part of. Some nights, when the flat was so still he could almost feel John's deep breathes from the room above him, he'd think it was the subconscious knowledge that one day he would die and everything he's ever done wouldn't make so much as a scratch on history.

So much energy was always buzzing just beneath his skin, in the hollow of his bones. It made him pace in agitation, even when there was nothing physically wrong. It made him strike out in frustration at the slightest provocation. It made him moody and short-tempered, glaring and insulting people at every hand.

From the first few days as Harry Potter, he still had that uncomfortable vigor resting inside of him, made worse by the fact that his new body was unable to move. And then he turned his father's hair blue. Suddenly, he was feeling more tired than he ever had, and he passed out. He had only been four days old. When he awoke, his parents were still bursting over the fact that their son was such a magical prodigy, that he had performed accidental magic at such a tender age, when most children did not show signs until two or three at the earliest.

Most of the agitation had remarkably disappeared. Sherlock had long ago theorized, around the time he was two, that in his past life he had been a squib, unable to access his magic, thus the uncomfortable sensation of too much energy. Even after this discovery, though, he never really felt at peace. True, it was easier for him to sleep now, easier to eat on occasion (particularly when in close proximity to John, most likely because the doctor's presence causes Sherlock to unconsciously relax a bit more) but he never really felt peace.

Until he realized he did. It happened the third day of his "grounding". It was a strange experience, one that Sherlock had never had before. He had apparently broken several rules (Sherlock had probably deleted something he shouldn't have) and as a result he was confined to the house, not allowed to accompany Severus on visits or errands, nor allowed to visit his "minions". He wasn't allowed to even go out to the yard or owl or Floo call.

Sherlock was fine with this, he had experiments to do and he hadn't explored all of the mirror of Erised's contents, and if he got (unlikely but still) lonely there was always Aeldin who he could talk to whenever he felt like. In fact, something about the whole scenario left him feeling…pleased. He honestly wasn't sure why, but whenever Severus would come home for the day and, scowling, ask what Sherlock had done that day, an unknown feeling would rise up and made him grin responding "Nothing".

After one such conversation, Sherlock found himself laying on his bed in the room Severus had given him. For the first time Sherlock could remember, he was feeling lazy…but he didn't feel like sulking. It was a pleased sort of lazy, like how the cats Mrs. Hudson once babysat used to act. He was spread in starfish formation across the covers, eyes staring wide open at the ceiling. His mind was blank. His back was completely untensed. His arms and legs felt like warm jelly.

It was easy to breathe.

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs caused his languid mind to stir, offering up observations and deductions in a less frantic way that it normally would.

Heavier than normal, but hesitant. He's feeling guilty about the punishment.

Pausing outside the doorway, feeling awkward, wondering if he has overstepped his authority as my guardian.

Hand on the doorknob, grip abnormally tight. Angry at something, me? No, himself for overreacting. Did he overreact? The punishment was rather light, to be honest. Nothing like Father used to do. Barely even yelled.

A sigh. He sighed. Is he tired?

The door opened to reveal Severus, his eyes briefly flicked over Sherlock's form, amusement flashing in them for a brief moment. Wasn't sure I was actually in my room; he had considered the possibility that I had left again. Ridiculous.

Severus paused, and seemed to consider whether or not to speak. His dark eyes were piercing, and his mouth was pinched. He looked rather like John did when Sherlock was being "an arse". Lazily, he ran over a few memories of how John would act in this situation, of how John had told him to act in situations like this. Severus cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but whatever he had come in to say, Sherlock stopped him with a simple "Thank you", looking directly at him, green eyes meeting black "for everything".

It seemed to shock the professor a great deal, and Severus soon after stalked back out without a word. Sherlock gazed blandly at the still-open door for several moments, before mentally shrugging and entering his mind palace. Aeldin had promised to teach him mermish.

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

Ignotius Peverell set down his quill, then picked up his nearby handkerchief to wipe off the specks and smears of ink he never failed to splatter all over his fingers whenever he wrote. The sun was shining, and all was well, the warm beams heated up his family's manor house through the large ordinate windows that decorated the walls. Near his feet, his four year old was sleeping curled up with the family's pet niffler, and across the room his darling Accalia sat at a low wooden table, teaching two of his daughters the art of warding. He could hear sounds of his sons just outside screaming and hollering out like so many savage muggles.

He stood up, his bones twinging just a bit, stress and grief having aged him far passed his fifty-seven years. He crossed the room to press a tender kiss to his wife's forehead, then ventured on passed to his study. Once there, he locked the door. Then warded it for good measure. Speaking muttered words of a dead language, an invisible compartment on his desk unlatched, and he pulled it open, taking out a thick piece of shimmering silver cloth.

He also pulled out a needle, forged by a goblin friend of his, and a spool of thread unwound from the cocoon of a young wrackspurt. Slowly and painstakingly, he embroidered runes along the edges, for protection, luck, stealth, longeivity, health, warmth—anything Ignotius could think of that may one day protect the wearer while sealing the near-perfect invisibility into the cloth, sure to make it last for many, many lifetimes.

Just as he was pulling the needle through one last time, someone knocked on his study door. Smiling a bit, he cut the thread with his dagger, and shook out the cloak. While Ignotius didn't have the talent for needle point like his wife did, he felt that he did a suitable job. And so, he tucked it over one arm and opened the door, to reveal Accalia herself standing there, a look of amusement on her face.

A twinge of regret overtook Ignotius. He hadn't yet worked up the courage to tell her about his plans, for fear of her turning him away out of disgust or fear. He reached out with his free arm and embraced her, but she pushed away with a sound of annoyance. "Rawlins has brought his suitor, Ignotius," she scolded him. "Why have you hidden yourself up here? You should be down there, examining the boy!"

"You mean interrogating him," Ignotius smiled fondly at her. "Though something tells me you have already done an admirable job, my warrior. Is the young man yet alive?" Accalia scowled fiercely at him, but said nothing as Ignotius chose that moment to sweep the cloak about her shoulders, the enchanted side within, and the silvery visible fabric facing out. "For you, fierce one." Accalia's ire softed somewhat as she fingered the soft texture, but suspicious eyes were next turned on him.

"Be down shortly," she commanded him, eyes narrowed. "Or no number of gifts will save you." Ignotius placed a solemn hand over his heart, making his lovely wife scoff and turn on her heal. He watched he go, then approached the closet in the corner of the room. Inside stood a tall mirror. Ignotius had tried and fail many times to create the reverse of his brother, Cadmus', veil. He'd tried for years to bridge the gap between life and heaven, to bring back his family. All, he felt, who had passed long before their time.

At one point, he'd thought he'd done it. In his reflection, he could see his dear brothers. His mother. His father. All of them were alive and well, and beckoning him. But when Ignotius tried to pass through the screen, he only found himself in an empty room.

Years have passed since then, and though he would forever miss his brothers, his dear obnoxious older brothers, he was content with his lot in life and his only desire was to protect his remaining family forever. So, when he looked upon the mirror that now stood hidden in his closet, he only saw himself standing beside his wife with his children scattered about them. Smiling, Ignotius summoned his journal to his hand, then entered the mirror. He passed by a decorated box that breathed with familiar magic without so much as a glance in its direction: he had to hurry. Instead he reached for a smaller, plain black box and tucked it into his pocket. After placing his journal on a shelf with the others like it, he left, walking as fast as he could while retaining a noble poise towards the sounds of his family getting ready for their meal.

His eldest son, and his heir, Isen, stood near his mother, staring starry-eyed at a young man with dark hair, pale olive skin and bright brown eyes that seemed to flash almost red. Isen looked up as Ignotius walked into the room, and with a word to Accalia, the two young men approached Lord Peverell, both with a poorly hidden nervousness. "Father," Isen said, his voice trembling minutely. "May I present Heir Ophiuchus Olvera Slytherin…" Isen continued to babble about the many accomplishments of his beloved, but Ignotius all but tuned him out. He examined the young man with a critical eye.

Dark aura, but untamed. Has not ventured far into the Dark Arts but has a natural affinity for it. Hand twitching towards his wand: nervous, but good at remaining under a calm facade. Trained in defense, probable advanced dueler. Stains on his fingers, hair recently washed, but still holding traces of oily residue, Potioneer. Standing angled in front of Isen, protective. Possessive.

…suitable.

For now.

"Welcome, Odysseus!" Ignotius said cheerily, gripping the young man by the arm and fairly dragging him towards the heavily laden table, which the servants were still adding to.

"Ophiuchus…" Isen corrected with a flushed face.

"Yes, yes. Sit down, young Oglefus!" Ignotius smiled, "get to know the family why don't you? I'll want you know about your career and the state of your fortune—"

"Father!" Isen hissed, face still burning.

"—as well as do you still live with your parents, or have you established independence? Furthermore, what are your personal aims for the next twenty years? How many children would you like? Do you prefer Kneazels or Hippogriffs?"

"Father, may I speak with you?" Isen begged, already inching out of the room.

"Of course, of course," Ignotius beamed at his son, aware of his wife giggling behind her hand, watching as their eldest all but dragged his father out of the room. "If he can't handle me, he's not good enough for you," Ignotius started the conversation. Isen seemed to wilt, all of his irritation and embarrassment leaving him.

"Father…" he sounded resigned. "Please…he's normally very quiet. It took a lot of persuading to get him here." Ignotius smiled at his son.

"I have a good feeling about him," Ignotius declared, startling his son. Lord Peverell grinned at him. "Did I forget to mention that I and Ophiuchus are already somewhat acquainted? His mother and I had a rather long conversation the day after you first mentioned him to me."

"That was before he began to court me!" Isen protested. Ignotius just smiled, reaching into his pocket. "What is that?"

"Your Heir ring," Ignotius smiled at him. "I should have given it do you years ago."

"I already have one, Father," Isen said, confused.

"This one's better," his father assured him. "It belonged to my elder brother, Cadmus, though you probably don't remember him." Ignotius opened the small box to reveal a smooth, odd looking stone set in dragon's gold with the Peverell crest shining from within. Pressing it into Isen's hand, Ignotius met his son's gaze. "Ophiuchus has my blessing. But don't tell him until tomorrow."

"…Father!"

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

Kudos to people who look up the meaning of Ophiuchus' name. Lol I know this was kinda short and filler, the next chapter will really get into book two. Hope you guys have a great day! Please Review!