Never Forget You

I dedicate this chapter to MoonxXxAngel and her best friend. I wish you happy endings.

I'm really happy with how much support you guys have given me over the past few days. I've been trying to finish up another chapter in Mischievous Intentions, but then my mind will keep wandering back over here. So I figured I'd just give in to my muse and write another chapter of A Study in Identity.

To those of you who have speculated about the "thrice born" part of the prophesy, most of you hit the nail right on the head. Not all of you were completely correct though. Kyoanna, though. I read all of your reviews and it just tickled me every time I got one. You are very close to the truth, dear reader. Very close.

Also, Kudos to those who figured out who Nelle is. Just as a hint: she's dying and it's kinda Sherlock's fault.

Anyway, I love you guys. Please favorite, review and follow. Your support means a lot to me. I promise this arc is ending soon, and we will move on to happier pastures and I promise that I had a reason for dragging our boys down this rather angsty road.

May the gods be ever in your favor (though they'd favor you more if you reviewed)

~James

Dumbledore was finding it harder and harder to remain calm in the face of this year's drama. The small group of Weasley and Malfoy boys were far from the first to invade his office out of concern for Harry James Potter. Filius and Minerva were also regulars to come and try to wring answers out of Albus, as if the Headmaster could simply wave his wand and make answers appear. Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins had also come up several times with various theories, some of which were actually part amusing and part ingenious, theorizing that Sherlock was victim of prank gone wrong. Blaise Zabini and several Slytherin upperclassmen had swallowed their pride and cited several school policies which stated that any student under obvious mental affliction or illness was able to be admitted to a health facilities by the headmaster. Even Neville Longbottom had summoned up enough courage to come to his office, alone, after Creevy had been petrified, begging Dumbledore to run diagnostic spells over his friend.

It had gotten to the point where Albus could no longer deny that, like with the love potion he'd instructed Molly to feed Harry, he'd made a terrible mistake when he'd ordered Harry's core be bound. Rising to his feet, feeling old a weary, Albus mentally ran possibilities for what was to come. With the Philosopher's Stone still missing, and Nicolaus dead, there was a very real possibility that Voldemort was either regaining power and laying low, or was in the process of coming back at the moment.

Lucius, as little as Albus trusted the Malfoy Lord, did not show any telltale signs of being back under Tom's dominion. Severus, as well, had yet to report any change in his mark. It was originally because of this that Albus felt safe in taking Harry down a peg and sealing his magic. But now, he didn't wonder if, somehow in some way, Riddle had interfered with the Goblins that Albus had….hired….to do his bidding. Perhaps this is why Harry Potter was now acting less like a hero and more like an entitled pureblood.

In a flash of green fire, Albus disappeared into the Floo with the words "Gringotts Lobby!" clearly spoken. A few minutes later, he was seated in the office of a dazed looking Goblin. "Jowlclutch" Albus greeted him genially. "I've come about the binding on Mr. Potter." Eyes distant and mouth slightly slack, the goblin replied.

"What of Lord Potter-Peverell?"

"I must have the binding removed."

The Goblin hesitated, and Albus stood, meeting the Goblin's gaze. He really hated using mind magic on a lesser creature such as Goblins and House Elves. It always left him with a mild headache, presumably because their minds were so very different from that of wizardkind. "I must have the binding of Lord Potter-Peverell removed, Jowlclutch."

With shakey breath, the Goblin nodded. "Have you a sample of Lord Potter-Peverell's magick, Headmaster Dumbledore?" With only slight reluctance, Dumbledore handed over a magically sealed vial that contained a tiny, white spark that danced around. It was the last bit of Harry Potter's magic that Dumbledore had in his possession. He'd taken it without the boy noticing one night as he and Ronald slumbered together during their first year. However, it was of no consequence. After all, he could always get more from the child after he came back from wherever it was Severus had taken him to be "treated".

Albus had no doubt that as soon as the magic binding the boy was released, that "Sherlock" would be right as rain, and back to terrorizing the Potion's classroom as he had done before. The Goblin's long, spindly fingers took hold of the vial with something like reverence, even through his magic addled mind.

"Very well," the Goblin breathed. "I shall perform the ritual, Master Wizard."

*****1047*****

Nelle was chanting, painting the boy's pale skin with thick, grey cream-like potion. The smoke coming from burning herbs make the area almost impossible to breathe in, but Severus wasn't going anywhere. With tense, worried eyes, he watched as his beloved student suddenly began to levitate off of the table.

Nelle seemed neither surprised nor concerned as she chanted, she eyes shut lightly, as though in a trance. It was only because of her apparent ease that Severus did not interrupt her to demand what was happening to cause the magic around the child to behave so. The markings painted onto his skin suddenly blazed with a blue fire that was curiously cold in temperature.

Despite being under a strong enchantment designed to keep him unconscious for the procedure, Sherlock groaned and writhed, prompting Nelle to cast a full body-binding spell on him. Severus winced as he saw the child go ramrod stiff. Nelle stopped chanting, instead grabbing a small cup filled with liquid which had been dripping from a bundle of magical flowers that had been dipped in the milk of a dragon, and pouring it into Sherlock's magically slackened mouth.

"The enchantment is strong," Nelle said, her voice raspy with age and use. "Old magicks. Goblin, probably. I can break it, but it will not be pleasant for the boy," she warned. "All of his previously contained magic will burst out of the parts of his core, which had been previously walled off. It may even physically hurt him."

"Any lasting damage?" Severus asked, fighting to control his composure, to not reach out and smooth the drawn, twelve-year-old brow.

Nelle set her mouth in a grim line. "Not if I can help it, lad."

****1047*****

Mycroft had always prided himself in his office of big brother. Back when they were Holmeses, Mycroft had utilized his vast army of goons and spies to ensure that his baby brother was always as well as he could be, even when Sherlock had been in the middle of his rebellious phase, on the run and on drugs.

Yet, even then, Mycroft hadn't given up on his brother. He knew the potential that his brother had and, more than that, they were family. And the Holmeses, for all of their many faults and flaws, didn't give up on family. True, there had been times in the past where this duty felt more like a burden he was forced to bear than anything else.

This was one of those times, and this time it wasn't even Sherlock's fault.

Mycroft had been trying all semester to figure out what was wrong with his baby brother. He'd become a verifiable genius on mind altering spells and potions, he'd become all but a professional ritual scholar, particularly in the areas of personality swapping rituals. He'd dug through ancient texts in every corner of the library, even the restricted section as his godfather had given him unlimited free access. He even researched creatures with dark mind abilities. He'd looked up ghosts and specters with the power to distort the souls of the living. He'd delved into the "magical science" behind curse scars and the possible repercussions and symptoms and the cures thereof.

In between his strenuous bouts of research and his classes, Mycroft had been firing honest-to-goodness volleys of spells, charms and counter-curses that he thought might have the potential to fix whatever was broken inside of his baby brother. Nothing worked. Nothing even happened. Next, he moved on to brewing his own antidotes and potions, then slipping them into Sherlock's food.

He'd enlisted the help of the first through third years of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, and several prefects from every house to help him keep an eye on Sherlock, and report back to him with anything and everything they could. Mycroft had mapped out his brother's behavioral patterns, his new diet, who he associated with, everything and including his speech pattern which had also altered from what it had been.
Even more worrying was how Sherlock's reading level seemed to have dropped several levels. He also slept more than what was normal for even a typical twelve year old, as his spies in Gryffindor reported that he often took naps in his free time that lasted several hours.

Mycroft had learned nothing except that his brother had been completely replaced. Replaced by a stranger. Mycroft put down the dusty old tome he'd been studying, not bothering to put it away as he knew that one of the House Elves assigned to the library would be more than happy to take care of it for him. With an undignified snarl, Mycroft slammed a fist on the desk top, his magic leaking out of his control, swirling in dark wisps around his fingers. Had anyone else acted in such a manner, they would have been tossed out of the library on their ears. As it were, Irma Pince only gave the Malfoy Heir a pitying glance, then looked the other way. Mycroft ignored her.

His shoulder ached.

He clasped a hand over it, feeling the gentle thrum of magic that pulsed in the runes tattooed to his skin with a bittersweet feeling. It connected him to his brother. His real brother, not the imposter walking around with Sherlock's face. He loved the simple design, the instinctive knowledge that it poured into the part of his brain that controlled his magical core that let him know his brother was alive. And yet, he hated it, because it never let him forget that, in some way, his brother was in danger.

It never stopped aching, throbbing like a second pulse. It prevented him from sleeping, guilted him out of eating, distracted him from studying and drove him to the edge of insanity. He massaged the runes, breathing in deeply, trying to regain a modicum of control. Pushing away from the table he'd been sitting at for three hours now, he strode of the library.

His feet carried him down a path that he'd often found himself going for the past month or so. He walked, almost as though in a daydream, all the way to the infirmary.

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and barely acknowledged it when Madam Pomfrey greeted him somberly, but no less warmly. He passed by the still forms that were the victims of the alleged Slytherin's monster. He spared a regretful glance for one Colin Creevey, but none of the others. Not until he reached the still form at the very end of the rows of an athletic young person with short, choppy hair that really was in dreadful need of another trim.

Even in a stillness like death, Gregory's eyes were bright with intelligence, curiosity. Inquisitiveness. All of the things that made her a great Detective Inspector in her past life, and what made Sherlock willing to cooperate…in his own unique way. Mycroft sat down in a chair beside the bed, and heaved a sigh, that turned into a silent sob. Just one. He was mostly cried out, and didn't that say something about his mental state. Him, who had once ruled over all England with a frosty, icy first. He felt like his heart had been put through a clothing wringer.

"Gregory," Mycroft's voice broke. "Gregory, I…I've heard that the mandrakes will be prepared for harvest in two weeks, just two short weeks, maybe less." He tried for a smile, but wasn't sure that it came out exactly right. "I tried your suggestion, a-about the fey who were known for mental manipulation." He groaned quietly. "I couldn't find anything. I'm not giving up, and I won't I won't. I just don't know what to do anymore. I know you thought that the monster had something to do with things, and that it affected Sherlock somehow. It's just, in all of the records detailing the Founder's Era, it says nothing about Salazar Slytherin having a familiar, let alone a 'monster'."

Mycroft hesitantly reached out a hand, placing it on Gregory's wrist. It was a habit he'd fallen into, upon the realization that, even though her heart had stopped, the flow of her magic had not. His mind, never still, had then hypothesized that this was the reason that there were no records of muggles being petrified in this way. Without magic to sustain the victim, they would die. Of course, this wasn't in the least bit helpful, even still Mycroft wasn't able to shut his brain up. With the stress he was dealing with, his mental control was shot.

…is Mrs. Norris sill alive because she's a familiar? But she's a familiar to as squib and so the magic shared between her and Filch between the familiar bond would be totally nonexistent. And as an animal, wouldn't it be plausible that it would take less energy to keep her alive? But then…what if Filch were to be petrified? Would the fact that his magic was mostly unavailable to him mean that he'd die?

Mycroft sighed, and tried to focus on the gentle rhythm of Gregory's magic, to empty his head from his random, useless theories that weren't doing anything but stressing him out. "I'm trying so hard," Mycroft whispered. "But nothing I do…I might even be making things worse for all I know. I've been reading about compounded magics, and…Gregory, what have I done? What-wh-what if everything I'm doing is only ensuring that Sherlock will never be himself again?"

His grip tightened on Gregory's wrist unintentionally. He heard a rustle.

His head whipped up so fast that his overused brain protested in pain. There, between Greg's slim fingers…with precision, Mycroft pried a stiff pieces of paper out of her hand. With a cautious glance at her face, Mycroft unfolded the page that had clearly been ripped straight from a library book. He spared a thought, wondering what would have prompted Gregory, rule-following, book-worshiping Gregory, to have disrespected a library book in such a way.

"Basilisk?" of course Mycroft had considered the possibility. But there wasn't much information about them, as they had to be purposefully brought into existence by extremely powerful Dark Wizards. In fact, it had been said that only a true Lord of the Dark was able to coax one into existence. It's true that Lord Slytherin had fit the bill, but Basilisks killed with their magic, they didn't petrify. And Mycroft had bigger things on his plate, to many other, more important things than researching mythical snakes. But then he unfolded it the rest of the way and saw two scribbles underneath the short article.

"Mirrors" Gregory had written. "Pipes"

"You," Mycroft breathed out. He ran through the list of victims. He laughed, disbelievingly. "You, my dear, are a genius."

Mycroft looked back down at the paper, then massaged his temples. "That…or I am terribly sleep deprived."

****1047*****

Sherlock and Aeldin followed the weak flow of his magic for what seemed like days. Aeldin did not speak much, preferring instead to drink in what he saw around him. After so long in that one, small room of Sherlock's mind, he was almost dizzy with how much more there was to Sherlock's seemingly instinctual Occlumency system he called his "Mind Palace".

This suited Sherlock just fine, as his thoughts were racing. Since this was his mind, was he then unconscious? How long had he been unconscious for? He couldn't ask Aeldin, because the soul fragment had no way of telling real world time. He hoped it hadn't been too long. He remember all the times, back before when Sherlock landed himself in a hospital after a case. John would stay by his side the entire time, which pleased Sherlock. However, his face would always be drawn and ragged, his eyes puffy and shoulders stiff. After particularly rough instances, John might walk with a sore knee for a day or two. This did not please Sherlock.

And yet, when Sherlock was being completely honest with himself, he loved that split instant right after he woke up, before John began lecturing him with a front of anger, when John's eyes would light up in the most spectacular way. Sherlock had saved every single one of those precious seconds, and stored them away in a treasure chest.

During his stint with the Dursleys, when things got really bad, when Sherlock was aching and hungry, when the loneliness got too be all too much, he's retreat into that secret room and pull out those memories. He'd play them on repeat, cherishing every one of the ten muscles in John's face that created his beautiful smile.

Sometimes he'd let the memory run through John's near consistent irate tirade "You're such a bloody idiot, Sherlock." "I don't know why I put up with you" "Don't go throwing yourself in front of cars!" "Do you want to give me a heart attack?" "I rather prefer you not dead, you git." He'd sit and listen to John's yelling. He'd watched John's angry tears that glistens in his eyes but never touched his cheeks. He'd remember the way that John would grasp his hand, without seeming to even notice he was doing so. He did it to remember what it was like when someone yelled at him to let him know he was wanted. Loved. Cared for.

Sherlock had a sudden urging to go to the room with the treasure chest and revisit those memories. After having gone so long without access to John at all, through memory or physical sight, his loneliness returned three fold, in a way that was almost painful despite walking side by side with Aeldin.

But he refrained. After all, he had little doubt that John would be there waiting for him as soon as he woke up, with that beautiful smile that could light up a million candles and put the stars to shame.

"Is that supposed to be there?" Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts. Aeldin stood still, about three paces behind him, pointing forward with a curious look on his face. Following his finger, Sherlock's jaw slackened.

"Er…no. No, it's not."

In front of them, at the end of the stream, was a great wall of magic. Sherlock approached it, placing a hand on it's side. It felt….wrong. Foreign. It wasn't his, he could tell that much. His own magic felt special, energetic, alive. This felt…cold. Like stone, yet fluid. Sherlock pushed, and while some of the energy swirled over his finger tips, he felt nothing give. It was ice blue in color, Sherlock's own was varying shades of white which occasionally become mother of pearl which occasionally became and iridescent mess of every color there was. Sherlock adored his magic for it's chaotic beauty but this magic was nothing like his. It was exactly one hue, so you could scarcely see the individual strands unless you looked closely.

"I believe we have discovered what put you in that closet," Aeldin said absently as he, too, pressed against the wall. Sherlock was about to reply something sarcastic, but just then the wall gave a great shudder. It created and groaned like an iceberg and Sherlock's eyes widened. He pushed against it, harder. Nothing happened.

With a growl of frustration, Sherlock mentally pulled on the pathetic magic he had left outside this barrier. The stream, the mere trickle of energy, responded weakly. Aeldin watched in concern as the stream began to turn into a puddle, pooling around Sherlock's feet. As the horcrux watched, it dried up everywhere but where Sherlock was.

"It's not supposed to do that," Aeldin warned. "Stop, Sherlock! You'll turn yourself into a squib!" Sherlock merely redoubled his efforts as he felt rejuvenated by the full contact with the remainder of his magic. It began to heat up, and Sherlock sighed in relief, as though he'd stepped into a hot spring. As more and more of the magic was pulled to him, it piled up into a respectable wave.

With a roar, Sherlock crashed it into the wall and listened with satisfaction as the barrier creaked in protest. Again and again, like a battering ram, Sherlock tossed every ounce of magic he had at the wall.

This is what trapped him. This is what kept him from his family, his friends. He just needed to break it, Sherlock was sure, and then he'd wake up.

"What are you doing?" Aeldin had fallen backwards, forced to the ground by the force of Sherlock's furious attack.

"This is the way out," Sherlock spat out through his gritted teeth. "This hall, it leads to my core. It's trapped my core."

Aeldin staggered to his feet, legs wobbling on the shaking ground like a new born foal. He braced himself against the wall. With all of the energy he'd siphoned off of Sherlock, he poured it out of his body. It wasn't white, like Sherlock's pure magic. It had begun to mingle and mix with the remnants of Aeldin's own magic in his fractured soul. It was a strange, dusty grey, but it would have to be strong enough.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Aeldin, in an instant knowing what Aeldin had taken from him, then dismissing it as unimportant. Together, they threw Dark and Light at the wall between Sherlock and his core,

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

"There is something wrong," Nelle muttered. "His magic…it…" she frowned, and leaned closer while prying open one of Sherlock's eyes with two fingers.

"What is it" Severus ground out, feeling more agitated and peevish than he had since he still served the Dark Lord. "What's wrong?"
"His magic has all but disappeared," Nelle shook her head. "I don't understand it." She took a deep breath. "We may be running out of time, Severus."

"Running out of time for what?"

Nelle didn't answer. Instead, she rushed out of the room. Severus found himself on his feet without a thought, poised to follow but Nelle soon returned with her hand clutched around the neck of an ancient looking leather sack. With the speed and precision of a muggle black jack dealer, she reached into the bag, pulling out a handful of sparkling gems, each carved with runes that were unfamiliar to Severus, and flipped them onto Sherlock's body, which was still floating a solid eighteen inches above the table top.

The gems clung to Sherlock like magnets, and the crystals still rotating above his form spun faster until they were but a blur. A terrible noise, like screams, came from nowhere. Severus resisted the urge to cover his ears. And then, an even more horrible, nightmarish sound pierced the air of the small house.

"Jooooooohn!"

Sherlock's scream was animalistic, full of pain and heartbreak. His back arched as a burst of magic suddenly through off the body bind. Severus was quick to replace it, but it took several times before one would stay in place. All the while, Sherlock thrashed and screamed guttural, unintelligible noises. Only a few words were possible to be made out. Mycroft. Severus. John. John. Mummy. Mycroft.

The sudden drop in noise when the body bind succeeded, despite the crystals still shrieking, made something inside Severus squirm with not-rightness.

Nelle's eyes glowed black. Severus instinctively shied away from her. Despite his own orientation being dark, and having served the Dark Lord, Nelle's magic was on another level from any other magical person Severus had met. She was powerful, which is why he'd taken his child to her in the first place.

She laid her hands on him, and the crystals shattered, the gems cracked, and a wave of the purest, whitest, strongest magic he'd ever seen exploded from Sherlock's body, destroying the table beneath him, and decimating Nelle's kitchen. The smoke that had permeated in the kitchen had dissipated completely, perhaps cleansed from existence by Sherlock's magic.

As for Sherlock, his eyes were open. Just as Nelle's eyes had shone black with her power, Sherlock's were an eerie white. Severus stepped closer to the boy, placing his hand on the boy's forehead. A soft breath exhaled from Sherlock's lips, and the white gave way for green. Sherlock blinked once. Twice. He looked around himself, confused at why he was laying on the broken remains of a wood table. Snape was by his side in and instant, drawing the tiny boy into his arms, body curling over his child in an instinctive, protective move.

"S'vrus?" Sherlock asked, eyelids droopy, and jaw slackened. Sherlock took a deep breath, as though doing so was difficult work. "Severus?"

"I'm right here, you insufferable brat," Severus assured him which what was most definitely not a smile. He framed the tiny face with his hands, thumb brushing away the moisture that had gathered at the corners of those beautiful, beautiful eyes. A warmth he hadn't realized he'd lost grew in his chest as Sherlock gave a tiny whine and turned his face into Severus' shirt. What the brat said next, Severus could have predicted word for word.

"Where's my John?"

***1047****

Tom grinned in cruel satisfaction as he dipped his host's fingers into the severed neck of a crow. He always did enjoy finger painting. He hummed to himself as he stroked letters onto the wall. He was disappointed to find that Sherlock had disappeared, but he had no doubt that, which Sherlock's strange new attitude, that the Boy-Who-Lived would come to this pathetic girl's rescue. He was, after all, a Gryffindor.

Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever