Hey guys! I know it's been a while, and so I'd like to offer an explanation and an apology. I was talked into attending a certain Bible College down in Florida, where they put so many blocks on the internet that everything from YouTube to Facebook Messenger isn't allowed. Therefore, I was unable to get onto FFN. Granted, I could have written offline, but the whole Bible College experience was soul crushing and it devoured my muses into a deep dark hole of religious rubbish and impractical standards. Furthermore, when I ran away from said college, I lost the thumb drive that had the next three chapters for this story written out…ugh….soul crushing…
I'm back now, fingers crossed, I'll hopefully be better at updating.
I love you ALL, especially those (76) people who left PMs, and the even greater number of people who left reviews. In fact, PLEASE keep sending me messages/reviews, because it's because of all of those people that I'm even writing right now at all.
Also, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to wennifer-lynn. Thanks for the encouragement :)
May the gods be ever in your favor,
James
Sherlock opened his eyes.
The previously dark, cramped space, which had been cold and oppressive, had grown inexplicably warmer so suddenly that it took a few moments for his occupied mind to process it. Cautiously, he looked up. A soft golden glow filtered down from an unreachable opening, through which nothing was visible except light. Sherlock was able to see his surroundings for the first time.
He wasn't in a closet.
Sherlock leapt to his feet, heart pounding as he took in his prison.
His coffin.
The wooden box stood upright. It was a simple construct, made of what appeared to be rough pine. Sherlock threw his weight against the side, hoping to topple it over. Nothing. Nothing except a sore shoulder that is. Once more, he rammed into the side of it, the howled in frustration. Either something was holding him up, or the coffin was stuck inside yet another enclosure.
Sherlock pulled on his hair. Where was he? Quite some time had had to have passed by now. Surely, people would be looking for him by now? Severus must be worried. Even Dumbledore, the despicable Santa clone, has to be wondering where he got to. After all, he'd been taken directly after the start of school. He'd already arrived at Hogwarts. Hadn't he? His memory was a fit fuzzy, which, in and of itself was concerning enough considering that Sherlock had an eidetic memory.
Sherlock inspected the light coming from above, and noted that there was nothing physically producing the light that now filled the inside of the small space. Nothing that he could see, anyway. It was almost as though there was simply a rectangle made of solid energy some two feet above his head, yet when he stretched his arms upward towards the light, he felt nothing.
Biting his lip, Sherlock braced his back against one wall, and put the bottom of his left foot against the opposite one. Then, he slowly straightened his leg, inching his back upwards as he used his arms on the walls to his side for balance. He positioned his right foot next, above his left one. With his pulse racing, pounding in his ears, his head passed into the light.
He couldn't see anything but overwhelming, blinding light. Sherlock shut his eyes against it and found the flesh of his eyelids still painfully illuminated orange. He opened his other senses and breathed in fresh, free air. It smelled like summer, outside his childhood home where he and Mycroft would spend a rare afternoon outdoors when the sun was high. It felt like a hug, warm and secure. It made his heart hurt for John.
With a wobble, his elbows gave way and Sherlock crashed to the bottom of the coffin with a groan. He was still trapped with his worst enemy: his own mind. Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. Why had no one come for him, not even his captors? No one had come to deliver food, nor water. Which means that it can't have been more than two or three days at most, since Sherlock hadn't even started feeling the horrible sensation of severe dehydration. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't tired.
Just lonely, though not as cold as before.
It felt like it had been so much longer than three days though. It felt like an eternity since he'd seen his friends, his family, his John. At this point, Sherlock would be pleased to even see his fat pig of a cousin. He just wanted to not be alone anymore.
"John!" Sherlock called out, though his voice was more hollow than it had ever been. Any hope he'd had, had been steadily fading since he'd found himself in this coffin where, perhaps, he would meet his end. "Severus! Mycroft…" his voice broke. Moisture welled up behind his eyes, still closed to block out the horrid light that had filled him with such nostalgia and loneliness. "John." A gasp burst from his chest so quickly that it burned. Sherlock clutched his ribcage. He'd never felt such pain. "John."
"John…"
"Myc…"
"Help?"
Sherlock drew his limbs closer to him, and felt his lungs all but collapse as the air deflated out of them. He felt as though he no longer had the strength to refill them, and as he sat there, not breathing, he wondered idly if it was possible to will oneself to die.
"SMAAASSHH!" The entire coffin quaked. Sherlock found himself jolted against the back wall, and grunted as the last bit of air in his lungs was forced out. He then sat very still, his eyes very wide. Bright, treacherous hope rose up in his gut, past his chest and filling his throat, choking him.
"CRUNCH!" the coffin juddered yet again, and Sherlock unsteadily shoved himself upward. He heaved himself against the side of the coffin, beating a frantic rhythm into the wood with his fists which had long since grown raw from abuse.
"Let me out! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LETMEOUTLEMMEOUTLEMMEOUTLEMMEOUTPLEASE GOD INEEDTOBEOUT!" Sherlock kicked and screamed and attacked the coffin with a vigor he didn't know he had left in him.
A muffled voice from the other side answered him. Sherlock immediately stopped making any sound, in hopes that the voice would say something again. It did, but Sherlock still couldn't make out any specific words. Was he being rescued? Or was this his capture come to taunt him?
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, all the while realizing that whoever was on the other side probably had no idea what he was saying either. The coffin lurched yet again, but, this time, the tiniest of cracked appeared right in front of Sherlock's nose. Now, he could very clearly hear a voice on the other side speak a word, and Sherlock barely had time to turn away and cover his face before the coffin's wall exploded in a shower of magic and splinters.
"BOMBARDA!"
*****1047******
Severus stared hard at the young man before him, busily chopping up dandelion stems, muttering darkly under his breath. Sherlock Potter was in detention, once again. Severus took a deep, steadying breath, reminding himself that what he was about to do was for Sherlock's own good. With the rising number of attacks, word had come from the board of governors that they might have to, at least temporarily, shut down the school.
If they shut down the school, then Sherlock would have nowhere to go but back to those blasted muggles. There was no way on earth that Potter would agree to accompany Severus back to Spinners End. Snape was fairly certain that Potter had something to do with the attacks, not only where most of the victims somehow connected to him, but Sherlock had been acting more and more aggressive towards the Slytherins. The only positive change being that, in the months since Christmas holidays, he'd finally started to treat the Little Weasley like he was supposed to.
Severus approached the young Gryffindor, inwardly cringing at the thought of what he was about to do. "Mister Potter" Severus drawled. Irritated green eyes met his own. "One day, you will thank me." Hopefully. The ire in Sherlock's eyes were replaced with confusion.
"Stupify…" A flash of red and Sherlock slumped over, landing in Severus' ready arms. With three long strides, Severus carried the tiny, unconscious form over to his fireplaced. He balanced Sherlock's body in one arm, so that he could use his now free one to grab a handful of Floo powder from a jar on the mantle.
"Nelle's Den" he intoned as the flamed flashed green. An instant later, he was stepping into a cozy looking living room that smelled strongly of medicinal herbs. "Nelle!" Severus called out, his voice echoing in the quiet house.
"Here, Sevvy!" An elderly woman with one blind eye and a crooked back hobbled over to him. "This is the lil' termite, eh? I'll take care of him, put him over there." Nelle carlessly gestured in the general direction of a rough-looking table with a worn, well-used quilt haphazardly thrown over the top of it. Tenderly, Severus laid the boy down.
"Fetch the crystals, Sevvy," Nelle commanded him as she collected random bottles from cluttered shelves and overflowing drawls until her boney, spotted arms were struggling to hold them all. She plopped them onto the table next to Sherlock's sleeping form with a clatter. "Rune stones as well, lad."
Severus quickly brought her what the old crone needed, as watched in silence as she set to work. With a spryness that took Severus by surprise, Nelle tossed dried flowers and leaves into her fireplace with unexpected accuracy, causing a thick cloud of grey-blue smoke to pour out of it. Nelle waved a wand that was just as crocked and gnarled as she was, and the cloud spun into a compact vortex and gathered around Sherlock's body.
Next, Nelle heated up the rune stones, then applied them onto Sherlock's body where the magical flow was strongest. She used runes of purity and cleansing, of power and revealing, of health and well-ness.
Lastly, she took the crystal and hung them in the air above the child. One by one, they began to spin amid the cloud of incense. The magic in the air filled them with light, and they spun faster and faster until there were two dozen crystals all rotating above Sherlock. The room was filled with the sound of the crystals vibrating, humming. It was ethereal.
Nelle chanted, waving her wand. Sherlock groaned and his back arched. A runestone of revealing suddenly blackened and crumbled into dust, blown away by the cloud. Where the stone had been, however, the ghostly form of the rune it held still glowed briefly, before a small white fire licked at Sherlock's robes and flickered out.
"It is as you expected, child," Nelle murmured. "There is powerful binding upon his very soul. His core is at war. But it was not caused by a potion…" She frowned. "Not right now, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"There is tampering in his body," she sighed. "Not just his soul, not just his core, but all three. It was too much for him. The boy who has been walking about in this skin is not Harry Potter. Or should I say, he is Harry Potter…and only Harry Potter." Nelle levelled a very keen eye at Severus. "And we both know that this boy is far more than just the heir to the Potter fortunes…don't we?" Severus said nothing. Nelle cackled.
"Casting that aside, you don't need worry about the potions. He's already been cured of their effects. Now we just need to free his magic, mend his core and find his memory wherever it may be…." Nelle cracked her knuckles and Severus winced, half surprised that the knobby things didn't shatter at the rough treatment.
"Thank you, Nelle," Severus said quietly. "I know you have little reason to aid a denizen of Hogwarts after the horrible treatment you suffered at her hands." Nelle gave Severus a sympathetic look.
"My quarrel is with Alby. Sevvy," Nelle told him sternly. "You never did naught but listen to my blathers and blithers with the ears of a rabbit. And asides, Nicky would come back from the grave and haunt me if I e'r let a child go on suffering when I could have helped. Hear me?"
"I hear you," Severus smiled. "Thank you, Nelle."
"Never mind that! Go fetch a bark of birch, hoof of griffin and heart of hart."
"Aye aye, Nelle"
****1047****
Tom was very nearly ready.
He was growing more powerful by the day, and Ginny was growing weaker. Just a few more days and, at long last, he would be able to finally meet Sherlock Potter face to face. He was certain that he would only need one conversation with the boy, and he'd be able to get the answers he craved about this walking enigma. This boy who defeated a boy many times his age when he was but a babe. This boy who was so intelligent he could read your life in your face. The boy who had become a completely different person out of the blue.
Of course, most of his image of the boy came through the eyes of a love sick schoolgirl. Yet, there were things that Ginny said that Tom very sincerely doubted this bland child could have come up with on her own. There was something suspicious about what had happened to Sherlock, and Tom wanted to find out what.
*****1047****
Mycroft hadn't seen his brother all day. Even though Sherlock…wasn't quite himself, Mycroft always made sure to see him at least twice a day. That morning, Sherlock hadn't been to breakfast, and John had been sitting with the Longbottom child and Sherlock's ex-Potion's partner. Later that day in Potion's, Sherlock's normal seat next to John was also empty.
When dinner time rolled around and Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen, Mycroft determinedly made his way over to the Gryffindor table.
Before Sherlock's illness and resulting change in behavior, Mycroft had been only warily accepted by the Gryffindors. However, since then, whenever Sherlock wasn't around the entirety of Gryffindor had gone out of their way to ensure that Mycroft knew that he had their sympathy and support. It was…nice…but to be perfectly honest Mycroft would have preferred to have his baby brother back, and the ire of the entire house than whatever potential political connections he might gain from this opportunity.
"Where is he?" Mycroft began, admittedly somewhat brashly, but he was worried dammit. The Gryffindors shared pitying looks. The Weasley with glasses, Percival, patted Mycroft on the shoulder as John answered him.
"I was about to go ask you…" there was a weight in John's eyes, a slouch in his shoulders and Mycroft had noticed that his limp steadily came back, growing more and more pronounced throughout the day. "He…"John held himself, as though trying to give himself comfort. Longbottom aggressively cuddled him from his left side as John's eyes filled with tears while he struggled to get words out.
"Sherlock didn't come back to the tower last night," Longbottom whispered as though it was a terrible secret. "He always comes to say goodnight to John, even back when he first…got….weird. And even when before that when he was doing experiments. He never forgot to say goodnight to John."
"We waited up for him," the boy on the other side piped up, Finnigan. "We waited until the early hours, we did."
"Do you think…" a female second year a few seats down leaned forward to throw her own two cents in. "You don't thin…the monster got him? After all, it went after Gremione…"
"NO!" John suddenly shouted. "No…he's fine! He's probably out hunting unicorns or mermen or fire-breathing dogs or-or-or" Longbottom pulled him closer as John began to cry. Mycroft hung his head. Percival made space at the table for him and, after a moment's deliberation, Mycroft sat down. With the practiced manner of a big brother (Mycroft would know) Percival filled up a plate and plopped it in front of him.
"Eat" said the older Weasley. "After dinner I'll take you both to the headmaster's office and we can ask him about Sherlock. I'm worried too, but if we're going to look for him you'll need your strength."
"You're going to help?" Draco asked Percival suspiciously. Percy looked almost offended.
"OF Course I'm going to help, you ninny," Percy sniffed. "As prefect it's my job to take care of those in my house, and as a brother it's my job to take care of my siblings. Sherlock happens to fall into both categories so obviously I'm not going to stand for him spending another night out wandering about doing Merlin knows what."
Mycroft picked up a fork and reluctantly speared a cubed vegetable. "Thank you…" Percival smiled kindly at him.
"Of course."
****1047****
Helga Hufflepuff smiled warmly at the little girl before her. "Madria," she chided with barely contained laughter "How many times must I tell you that Animagus transformations are not done with transfiguration incantations."
"At least once more," Madria sniffed. "There has to be a connection!"
"Of course there is," Helga conceded. "But not where you're looking my sweet," she clucked as she waved her wand over a rather disfigured looking wing growing at an odd angle out of where Madria's arm should have been. Madria watched carefully as her arms were slowly returned to normal.
"Thank you, Professor," the girl beamed at her. With a fond swat, Helga sent her out of the infirmary. Childish laughter echoed in the stone halls long after Madria had left.
"You must be more stern with them, Puff," said a smooth, amused voice. Helga turned, and very nearly bumped into her fellow professor. Power filled red eyes were dancing with mirth. Helga playfully tossed a harmless handful of daisy tops at him. "How will they ever take you seriously? If this goes on and their impertinence is left unchecked we could very well be left with an uprising on our hands."
"Well," Helga huffed, rolling her eyes and setting about her task of carefully placing clay casks of potions into a hay lined crate, "Hecate bless the man who would have to rise against them." She conjured up another layer of grass to put on top of the breakable containers before charming them against cracking. "For the goddess knows that Godric will surely join their cause."
"Join them?" Salazar snorted indelicately, much in contrast to his carefully cultivated image of the nobility that he was. "That buffoon would instigate the rebellion."
Helga scoffed as she sealed the crate closed and began filling a second one. "Come off of it, Sal. You and I both know you'd never raise your wand against that 'buffoon'. He's got you wrapped around his finger." Salazar spluttered. Helga arched an eyebrow. "When he got the bright idea to enchant broom sticks to FLYyou simply went along with it. And then proceeded to play with him. Look me in the eyes, Sal, and tell me you would have tolerated that sort of nonsensical whimsy from anyone besides Ric?"
"Godric would have indulged in that foolishness regardless of whether or not I encouraged him," Sal argued. "I simply ensured that he didn't kill himself. With his luck, he'd probably have managed to impale himself on a broom handle!"
"Who would?" Helga and Salazar turned to see a petite young man prance in, his arms filled with fresh mandrakes, magically petrified so as to not be a threat. "Jenson? That lad is pretty off balance on a broom. I should give him pointers later." Godric flashed a bright grin at Salazar and Helga, both of whom found themselves returning it despite themselves.
"Got you a little something, Puff," Godric smiled, pressing a dry kiss to her check, having to stand slightly on tip toe as he did so. "Found these in the wood, thought it best to harvest them before a student pulled them out and died." He carelessly deposited the enchanted roots onto an empty bed, covering the clean blanket in dirt and insects. "You done with those packages yet?" he asked before she could respond to either thank or rebuke him. "I've got the hippogriffs ready to go, and Rowena already had the elves bundle up the food into the cart."
"What about the clothing and wand materials?" Salazar interrupted Helga just as she opened her mouth.
"Already loaded. So? You done?"
"Yes, yes!" Helga picked up both crates and shoved them into Godric's slender arms. Sparing a moment to pull a blade of grass out of his wild hair. "Off with you! And mind those potions! They're worth a good deal!"
"S'not like we're selling them, Puff" Godric mumbled.
"No," she agreed. "But I don't feel like rebrewing them, you ruffian. Now OFF!"
"I'm off!" Godric replied with a wink. "Coming along with me, Sally?"
"Just why would I join you on your traipse to the country side, fiend?" Salazar retorted superciliously. Godric bumped into Salazar's side with his shoulder. Helga had to smile at the two of them. Salazar was pale, with smooth hair the color of morning sunshine and eyes the shade of rubies, Godric was tanned by said sunshine and crowned by a rough mane of shaggy black locks and eyes like pools of deep water. While Salazar was strong and tall, Godric was…not. And yet, despite Godric's lack of stature he was the most valiant of them all. And reckless. And creative. Brilliant when he wanted to be but he rarely cared to be.
"Because you love me," Godric rejoined. "Come Sally, we've work to be done." With a deeply put upon sigh, Salazar stalked out behind his smaller friend.
"Helga, send a fowl if one Lord Eanruig comes to call, yes?" Helga sighed rather than answer but it didn't really matter. The two men were already out the door to deliver goods to a nearby town which served as a refuge for magi and druids alike. Briefly, she whispered a prayer to Hermes for their safety, then went back about her business.
****1047****
Sherlock slowly turned around, waving away the debris cloud caused from the total destruction of the coffin's side. "Aeldin?" It couldn't be possible, it just couldn't. Yet it was. There, before him was a young man with a thick head of raven hair and forget-me-not eyes set on a fair face. If those weren't telling enough, the figure was also wearing an old fashioned Hogwarts uniform with a green necktie.
The older boy knelt down before Sherlock, looking as though he wanted to physically reach out to him but not feeling comfortable enough to do so. "Are you alright?" Aeldin asked. "What's going on?"
"When did you get a body?" Sherlock asked rather than answering. Aeldin frowned. "You don't have a body? This…this isn't. N-no, this? It's all…" Sherlock began to laugh, helplessly. Hysterically. "It's all in my head, isn't it?" Sherlock gasped. "That's why I'm not hungry or tired or thirsty. That's why no one came. I've been stuck in my mind palace." Sherlock dropped his head to thump against the remaining wall of the coffin. "Funny….I don't remember building this particular structure."
"You don't know how you got here, then?" Aeldin asked dryly. "Or why the entire palace is in complete shambles?"
"What?" Sherlock asked. He began to rise, and Aeldin pulled him up by his elbow, steadying him. "Show me. Also, how long has it been?"
"Merlin, Sherlock. How am I supposed to know?"
Sherlock glared at him, and then ignored him to instead glower at the mess which used to be a perfectly organized paradise of order and cleanliness. It looked as though a pack of trolls had thrown a frat party. It was the work of a moment to set the area right, but as soon as he finished with one room, putting every memory back into place, he'd find another part of his palace that had been completely decimated.
"How did you get out?" Sherlock asked Aeldin while he worked. "I don't recall giving you free rein of the place." Aeldin looked somewhat sheepish and somewhat guilty.
"As if your untrained mind could ever hope to be a match for me," the soul piece said haughtily. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I could have left whenever I wanted, I simply chose to do so now out of boredom."
"Yes," Sherlock humored him. "And I'm sure my obviously weakened mental state had nothing to do with it at all." Aeldin sniffed imperiously. Sherlock found himself growing weary very quickly, and soon and to cease in the repairs.
"Are you alright?" Aeldin asked in what was most definitely not concern. Sherlock had bend over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily which he shouldn't have had to feel the need to do, considering that he wasn't a physical being at the moment.
"I don't know," Sherlock found himself saying truthfully. "Something's terribly wrong. Look at my poor magic. It's been drained or…" Sherlock placed his hand in the stream which flowed through every room. It felt as powerful as ever. Why, then, was it so weak. "Wait." Sherlock walked opposite to the current, following the stream back to its source.
"Wait? Here?" Aeldin asked in disbelief. "Really?"
******1047*******
Severus sat next to the unmoving, sleeping child, his hand carding through knotted hair. When Sherlock came back to them all, he'd throw a fit about the state of it, Severus thought idly before bringing out his wand and carefully smoothing the knots and snarls from the strands. "He's already mending," Nelle said comfortingly, coming up to him. "He's powerful, and his magic is wild. I believe that he would have been fine, eventually, even if you hadn't brought him to me. He was already fighting. I just gave him a little nudge."
"Will there be any long term consequences?" Severus asked quietly. Nelle shrugged as she poured a clear liquid into Sherlock's mouth, then forced hi to swallow. "Do you at least know who did this to him?" Severus begged, itching for a name that he could raise his want against in defense of his suffering child.
"I do," Nelle said. "And if you would set aside your blinders, Severus, you would as well." She lifted her old, weathered hand and made as if to pat Severus on the shoulder, but at the last second gave him a resounding smack on his arm, making him flinch back more out of surprise than hurt.
"What?" Severus snapped.
"Let him sleep, you humming bird," she cackled. "He'll not wake any sooner just because you're sitting there grooming him like some ugly breed of cat." Severus gave a hearty "Hmph" and resolutely turned away from the ancient witch.
******1047*****
"Peppermint Sticks" Percy said in a clear, bossy tone of voice to the gargoyle at the end of a hallway. The statue seemed to regard Percy for a moment, before slowly shuffling out of the way. Just behind the statue, a staircase shifted and warped itself into existence from out of the brick. "After you, gentlemen," Percy said to Mycroft and John with a sweeping gesture.
Mycroft stepped forward first, striding up the stairs with all the grace of a well-bred aristocrat. John was soon after, but with his returned limp his ascent was far slower. Percy felt dread and fear creep into his soul like a frost as he watched. The way John leaned and swayed as he struggled up the stairs was in no way unfamiliar to him.
Percy patiently walked up the stairs behind his younger brother, every now and then offering a helping hand when John seemed to struggle. "It's all right, Ronnie," Percy whispered into his brother's ear. "We'll find him, you'll see."
It came to no one's surprise when Dumbledore's office stood open, waiting for them. The Headmaster sat behind his large, sturdy desk with his hands folded in front of him. His blue eyes twinkled in knowing as they shuffled in. Mycroft gracefully dropped into a chair without waiting for invitation while the two Weasleys present awkwardly stood until Dumbledore waved a hand towards the two remaining seats.
"What can I do for you boys?" he asked.
"Where's my brother?" Mycroft asked.
"Straight to the point then, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore smiled. "Rather unusual for a Slytherin, I must admit." Mycroft's face pinched, and John could tell that Mycroft was about to lose his temper.
"Do you know what else is unusual, Professor?" Mycroft asked with a thin veil of politeness. "The fact that my little brother hasn't been seen by student, professor, ghost nor house elf in the last twenty four hours. Please, Headmaster. Where is he?"
"It's just that we're very worried, sir," cut in Percy, afraid that the young Slytherin might had offended the most powerful wizard in Europe. "He hasn't been to any meals, hasn't been to the tower, and when we tried to send an owl to track him the poor thing just flew around in circles."
Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I do not know for certain where young Mister Potter is," Mycroft stiffened and John began to tremble. Seeing this, Dumbledore was quick to continue. "I do, however, know what he is doing."
"And pray tell, what is that?" Mycroft hissed.
"He is receiving treatment."
Percy looked gobsmacked, while John and Mycroft simply looked relived. "Even I don't fully understand, but it seems that a little prank played by a student went wrong. We are uncertain whether it was an allergic reaction, or a here-to undiscovered reaction to that particular potion with the healing potions that were prescribed to young Harry, or if the potion was made incorrectly or a tragic combination of the two."
"But it's reversible?" John asked, his voice thin and shakey.
Dumbledore's kindly finally cracked a bit. He looked tired and, maybe even a tad guilty. "We can always hope, can't we Mr. Weasley?"
*****1047****
Maybe if I get a hundred reviews I wont wait another three months for the next update….lolol