Goodness….

Goodness Gracious….

I-I'm so sorry, guys.

Time just slips away, and I don't know where all of it's gone off to. I'm going to try to update more often, but then I always say that and never do…I'm sorry ToT

To tell the truth, back when I left my thumbdrive at my old bible college ( I think I told you guys about that) it had my plans for where I wanted to take this story. Now that I've lost it, I just can't remember all that I had wanted to do! It's very frustrating and that alone deterred me from writing very much. In addition, I'm so bogged down with homework and my job, I kind of lose all motivation to write.

Which is stupid, because writing is literally my favorite thing to do…

I need to be more disciplined, so hopefully I can train myself and do better for you all's sake, my sake, and Sherlock's sake.

BTW guysssss BTS got nominated for a Grammy and I'm so freaking proud!

Thanks for the reviews, they're my life blood

~James

Salazar found it hard to keep his eyes on the road.

The day was almost suspiciously pleasant; the weather was pleasant, the company was pleasant, his work load was pleasantly light and the crisp apple slices he and Godric were sharing between them were also pleasantly sour.

Something was going to go terribly, terribly wrong. He could feel it.

He didn't voice his concerns though, there was no need to worry Godric. Not that Godric would feel very worried. The incorrigible man-child would probably just laugh over any concern he felt for Salazar's sake, then proceed to make a fool of himself to sooth his friend's mind. No, there was no need to bring up his unease.

Salazar lazily flicked the reins against their horses' flanks with one hand as he reached for another apple slice with the other. Godric beamed at him, not pausing in his telling of some tale about their students, and helpfully opened the sack holding the snack wider.

"…but I told them it wouldn't work! So imagine my surprise when They ended up teaching me something! I'm so angry, Sal! The book had it wrong! You see, this is why one must always experiment! From now on, I'm not believing anything until I see it happen for my own self! Imagine!"

"That's not so hard to imagine, Godric," Salazar said smoothly around a mouthful of apple, behaving in a rude, casual manner he only would around one Godric Gryffindor. "You're rather an idiot." Godric didn't protest, he only giggled and tossed a chunk of apple skin at him. Of course, it was one thing to say this, and another to think that Salazar actually thought so little of Godric. Afterall, it was Godric who ingeniously weaved together the protections for beloved Hogwarts. It was Godric who managed to form a pact with the nearby Mermish tribe. It was Godric who invented a translation spell powerful enough to teach himself parseltongue, just for the sheer novel joy of sharing something with Salazar and Salzar alone.

Godric was beaming at him. Salazar shook his head, but smiled back.

The wagon they were hauling bumped and jostled over the dips and rocks and mounds in the muggle-worn road they were traversing. Muffled clattering of the potion jars constantly reminded Salazar not to force the horses to move too quickly. A small coven of elderly-ish witches and wizards had moved into a near by village, after hearing that not one, nor two, but seven young children were all suspected to have magic.

Salazar and Godric were bringing supplies to the coven, as well as the hope to see at least some of the children for themselves. Originally, Helga was going to go on her own, but Godric had begged to be allowed to go in her stead, claiming that it would allow Helga to catch up on taking inventory of the medical wing –something she had been saying needed to be done for weeks now.

Of course, as was the case with anything Godric did, Salazar was roped along like a pack mule. Yet, Salazar couldn't honestly say that he minded all that much. Not when Godric spilled his water skin all over the both of them. Not when one of the horses tossed a shoe. Not when Godric got so into his story telling that he whacked Salazar in the face mid elaborate hand gesture. Not when Godric all but begged for a forgiveness that Salazar had already given. Not when Godric tenderly took Salzar's supposedly wounded face into his hands.

Not when Salazar gently pressed a kiss to his friend's lips, then smiled as he pushed Godric back down into his seat, reveling in the shocked expression he wore.

Not when Godric laughed so hard his eyes closed shut tightly and he fell against Salazar's chest.

Not when neither of them bothered moving apart for the rest of the ride to the village.

"You're an idiot" Salazar informed him.

"I'm your idiot." Godric confirmed.

o͡͡͡͡͡͡╮(ꐦ ꈨຶ皿ꈨຶ)╭**********************

Sherlock Holmes, for as far back as he could remember, had been painfully aware of empty spaces. No one understood what he meant by this, except Mycroft. But Mycroft, for some reason, was able to fill the emptiness with more emptiness which made him so full of himself that it was nearly unbearable at times.

There was no way to explain the emptiness because there wasn't anything to explain. How do you describe…empty? All he knew, was that there were spaces here and there which were supposed to be occupied with something but weren't. It was a mystery. A mystery he'd been trying to solve for nearly all of his life.

There was an emptiness inside of him. He didn't mean this in an emotional sense, but very much physically. He imagined it felt much like what it would to lose an arm, or a leg. He knew that he was missing something internally, and yet because it had never been there in the first place he had no idea what it was. At Mummy's request, he spoke to doctors and psychiatrists about it. Sociopath. Anti-Social Personality Disordered. Autistic. Dissociative. They gave him so many labels that eventually even Mycroft had come forward to put a stop to it.

Sherlock, for the life of him, couldn't get them to understand that while there was an emptiness in his mind –which he was forever seeking to fill with more and more knowledge—there was also a tangible feeling of not-there-ness all over his body, just under his skin.

As he got older, he recognized that this empty feeling extended to the world around him as well. He first realized it when Mycroft went away to college. The empty feeling grew day by day by day by day until it consumed him. Mummy, at first, thought it was cute…how much little Sherlock missed his big brother. But it went beyond sentiment he could physically feel the distance between himself and his brother. This time, however, not even Mycroft understood and assumed that Sherlock was just being needy.

Every day, his eyes would flick over his shoulders, or he'd reach out, thinking that someone was there. That someone should be there, standing beside him. The air next to him seemed to be…cold.

From there, his life's quest became to just fill the empty. The horrible, horrible empty that followed him like a ghost. Adrenaline. Mystery. Puzzles. Alcohol. Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. Mystery. Drugs. Excitement. Drugs. Music. Drugs. Drugs. Darkness. Alone. Empty. Drugs.

Anything to forget the empty.

Anything to fill the empty.

Anything to remember what it is that he forgot and made him empty.

Missing Memories. Missing self. Missing persons. Missing meanings. Missing ambitions. There was a whole life that belonged to him that was just out of his reach and he didn't know what or why or how. Just that it was so.

Then Mycroft came back and forced him to stop doing the drugs, to get his life back into a semblance of order. Sherlock almost didn't bother, but then Mycroft threatened him. If Sherlock didn't take care of himself, Mycroft would leave again. This time, for good.

Too much empty. No. Not acceptable.

As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock needed that special connection he had with his brother. He needed Mycroft to be in his life and he hated it.

Resentment built a wall between the brothers, even when Mycroft did everything in his power to never ever again be too far away from his baby brother. His baby brother who, for some reason, was more sensitive to the empty than he was.

Then, a rookie named Lestrade took a strange interest in Sherlock. At first, Mycroft was protective and cautious. But the man seemed to regard Sherlock in nearly a paternal fashion. Sherlock, for some reason, seemed to give Lestrade more consideration than most people—not much mind you, but enough that Mycroft became involved personally.

And that is when Mycroft felt, for the first time, some of the empty he, too, had always lived with, lessen. Just a little bit. Ebbing away when he first laid eyes on Gregory Lestrade, after he'd had some of his men "invite" the other man to a warehouse for a brief chat.

Lestrade was the first person he ever trusted his baby brother with, outside of himself and Mummy.

Sherlock, with Lestrade and Mycroft both watching out for him, began to get his life back together. He was able to drown out the remaining empty, most days, with cases.

And then John.

Just

John.

The empty inside him was there, but the air never seemed quite as cold after meeting John Hamish Watson.

ʕ灬￫ᴥ￩灬ʔ**********************

Severus didn't hold hands.

He can count on one hand the number of people who's hands he has willingly held: His mother, Lily Evans and Sherlock Potter.

With his mother, it was an obligation. As a young, young boy he would hold her hand when crossing the street. He held her trembling fingers in the echoing aftermath of his father's ranting fury. He squeezed her cold fingers goodbye in a near business-like fashion.

With Lily, each time had been an exhilarating pleasure. Every instance held in a precious corner of his brain. She held his hand the first time they saw the bright red Hogwart's express. She held his hand after many a run-in with Potter. She held his hand when he'd needed comfort sitting in the cold, empty Mediwing. He'd held her hand walking along the side of the Lake.

Sherlock—Severus mused as he sat beside the still, pale child gently cradling one tiny hand in both of his own—was a combination of the two.

It was his duty to, at times, firmly take hold of the brat such as during apparition, or when dragging the precocious, unwilling turd through a crowd, praying that the two of them wouldn't be separated. He couldn't remember all the times Severus had dragged Sherlock somewhere by one of his little hands. Most of the time, it wasn't entirely out of affection for the boy. Severus himself had been manhandled by his brute of a father harshly gripping his shoulders or forearms, leaving bruises. Severus would rather cut off his own hands than subject his own son to such brutality. No, it was worth the extra effort to stoop down a little bit and catch the brat's hand.

Yet…it was first an action Severus spared no thought for. It was second nature to hold Lily's boy by the hand. It was an active concern in his mind to not grip the child in an area which might cause unnecessary distress. Most times he barely thought about it. Sometimes, however, when he allowed his mind to slow and think, he would always feel warmed and somehow lucky that this remarkable child let himself be let by a man so marred as Severus Snape.

Sherlock snuffled in his sleep, small fingers gripping and relaxing Severus' own.

Sherlock was back home, where he belonged and where he would stay until the start of the next school year. The boy had no need to sit in class to take his exams, though Dumbledore and Minerva both insisted he still take them, so in the following weeks instructors sworn to secrecy would be coming and going to give the brat his final exams for second year.

While had had woken up since the incident with the chamber, Sherlock had yet to recover to the point that he could do much more than glare or sneer, and complain of a pounding headache. Pomfrey had informed him that the child was suffering from complete magical drainage. Not many wizards ever fell to this point, because the body has several fail safes to prevent such a thing, such as forcing the wizard to fall unconscious and stop them from using up all of their magic.

Until his magic restored itself, Sherlock would stay this still and quiet parody of himself. Severus found himself looking forward to when the imbecilic child would be well enough that he could return to the terror he had been the previous year.

He couldn't help keeping a silent vigil over the boy as he slept. Severus kept thinking back to earlier the previous year, when he had so casually patted Sherlock on the head, waving him off towards the Hogwart's Express. Why hadn't he stayed to make sure he got on the train safely? No one needed to know that he was there for Sherlock, specifically. But those few hours, between when Severus dropped him off and when he arrived at Hogwarts, had to be when his attacker had struck.

Severus looked down at his child. Never again, he thought.

ʕ； •`ᴥ•´ʔ*********************

Tom was bored.

A bit miffed.

Mostly, though, just bored.

After severing his connection with Ginny, and sealing a deal with Sherlock, he'd retreated back into his horcrux and—per Sherlock's instructions—counted to three hundred. Because of this, he was unsure who had come and what had happened, though he found himself trusting in the Gryffindor's word that he would come back for him.

The already weakened Gryffindor had pushed every last bit of magic he could into Tom, rejuvenating him like Ginny was never able to. As soon as Sherlock's magic touched his soul, there was this tangible rightness which sunk into his very being. It was the whitest, purest magic Tom had ever tasted, and it was glorious. He'd have to ration himself, to let this magic last him until the start of the next semester.

When Sherlock would return.

When he would get his own body.

Until then, though. There wasn't much he could do. Sherlock had taken the basilisk, so there was no one left in the Chamber for him to speak to. Mostly, he just quietly plotted to himself all the things he would do once he had a body. He'd have to figure out a way to forge a paper history for his new character, his new role. Perhaps Sherlock's "brother" would be able to help with that.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

Ginny and John were both forced to go home to the Burrow early. They, like Sherlock and Draco they were told, would be taking their exams by themselves at some point in the near future. The two youngest Weasleys were provided with study guides, told "good luck", then shipped back home with their upset and clinging parents.

Ginny felt….absolutely hideous.

Her only friend…was using her? Had been trying to kill her all along. She'd poured so many hours of her first year at Hogwarts into that stupid book, into Tom, and now she was faced with knowing that it was all for less than nothing.

She barely knew any of her year-mates, never bothered to get to know them because she had Tom, and no one would have been able to understand her like Tom already did. She kind of stopped talking to Luna, because Luna was weird and not at all smart and clear ad concise like Tom. She barely wrote home, because all of her free time was spent writing to Tom.

She felt like she'd been pulled out of an entirely different world to this new, darker, harsher reality where she knew everyone's faces, but nothing more. She was a stranger, and so was everyone else.

Dumbledore had explained to her family that Tom had been influencing her mind, her actions, her emotions. And, so, to treat her carefully now that she was freed from him.

And yet….the feelings she'd been struggling with all this time didn't magically go away just because they'd taken Tom from her. If anything, she felt more betrayed and hurt and cast off than ever before. She'd been taken by an evil being. She'd been dragged away to the CHAMBER OF SECRETS…so…so why did their parents insist that John come home, too? Not even the twins or Percy were forced to leave Hogwarts early.

Mum and Dad fussed over John just as much as they fussed over Ginny, and it simply wasn't fair. Nothing belonged to her. Nothing in this whole dingy world with her poor family and poorer lot in life.

Nothing except Tom, and that all was a lie, too.

John tried to be nice to her, but she just quietly ignored him. She tried not to be extremely rude about it, not as if she were determined to not speak with him. She just quietly sat and stared at her knees, her entire body completely loose and completely tense all at once. Her head was empty and she was content with keeping it that way. She didn't speak, she didn't look at anyone, she didn't move unless she had to.

Everyone shifted around her, like they were too afraid of kicking up enough of a breeze to knock her over, lest she shatter. She didn't really care. She just wanted to be left alone.

Ginny laid on her bed, remembering the first day she wrote to Tom. She'd been so happy to finally have someone to talk to.

Now, she had nobody.

Her door slowly opened. She didn't move to look up. Footsteps.

"Hey…Ginny."

John sat down beside her on the bed. She still didn't look at him. She could tell he wanted to say something. He began a few times, never getting anything out but random, incomplete word fragments. Eventually, though, they just stayed there in silence.

After a few moments, John eased himself down, beside her. He grasped her hand.

She let him.

ღ‿ღ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ღ‿ღ

"THE BOY WHO LIVED IN A COMA"

"WEASLEY GIRL ATTACKED! DEATH EATER ACTION?"

"BOY WHO LIVED SAVES THE DAY AGAIN!"

Askaban was a horrible place to stay all around. That should just be a given. Not only were the nights cold, the food disgusting and scarce, and the guards nightmarish, but there was nothing to distract the inmates from their daily slog.

Thing is, it's just as bad for the humans who work there as it is for the criminals sent there. Sure, the dementors guard the prisons, but there's more to a prison than guards, and to be perfectly honest there were even some witch and wizard guards, just incase a prisoner needed correcting or removal who they didn't want kissed.

So, it was relatively easy to draw any nearby witch or wizard into a casual conversation; they were just as hungry for human interaction as the prisoners they were guarding. However, the chain gang at Askaban had soon learned the best way to glean information was to wait until several of the human staff met up and spoke amongst themselves.

"…Harry Potter….chosen one…"

"No way…."

"…the Dark Lord?"

"—ossibility, but….."

"Boy who lived…."

"….Hogwarts isn't safe…."

"monster….."

"…gonna happen?"

Sirius strained his ears as much as he could in his human form, which, to be honest, really wasn't much. Still, something was going on. Something big. He hadn't seen these bums this excited since the last Quidditch World Cup.

Every last one of them were smuggling several snippets of newspapers in their robes, sharing with each other and passing them around like contraband. It was ridiculous, really. As far as Sirius knew, no one cared if the guards read the newspaper. His curiosity itched at him, his old Marauder self rearing his head.

What was going on?

A small clipping slipped from a guard's hand and fluttered to the ground. Sirius eyed it, then subtly reached out with his magic.

It was tricky. He wasn't good at wandless magic like Lily had been, but he'd been in Askaban for going on twelve years now…there wasn't much else for him to do but practice what little magic he could and, besides, they'd snapped his wand.

He was weak, too weak. He could barely manage the thinnest tendril of power. It took him several long minutes, maybe an hour, to get close to grasping the paper. By that time, the guards had long since walked way, but that suited him fine.

His magic swatted at the paper, sending it flying into the air. He reached out for it again, frantically, and the paper fluttered higher. Sirius pressed himself against the cold bars of his cell, the metal leaving a painful scrape on his cheek. He stretched his skinny, boney arm out as far as he could.

There!

His fingers just pinched it. Breathing a triumphant sight of relief, he sat back.

"….coma?" his own voice sounded foreign to him, as the word seemed to slip out of his mouth without his permission. Harry. It was about Harry. Of course it was about Harry. Harry, who had grown up to be so beautiful. The small article was vague, citing that no one was available for questions, and the picture was dated to be a few months old.

Harry had eyes like Lily: green and bright and intelligent. His hair was like James: wild and dark. He stood beside a young redheaded girl, and for an instant Sirius could almost swear he was looking at an old picture of James and Lily.

On Harry's other side, was a serious looking blonde boy, with a rat sitting on his shoulder.

That…

That rat…

That rat.

With a roar that was more animal than human, Sirius collapsed into Padfoot and darted for the bars of his cell. He was so emaciated, so withered from his stay, that it took only a few minutes of wriggling and tearing and pulling.

He was free.

A wanted criminal with no future.

But he was free.

He had to see his godson.

Had to get him away from that rat.

Had to make sure he was safe.

Had to get his revenge.

Had to kill that undeserving filth

How DARE that rat. How dare he get to spend his days so close to his darling pup? When Sirius was caged like an animal.

Well. It's about time he started acting like the animal everyone thought he was.