Chapter Two

Diagon Alley

"Mycroft. Mycroft. Myyyyyyyycroft." Sherlock squeezed his older brother's hand and shook it, but to no avail. He figured that Mycroft was simply having a bad day, and that the loud, busy streets on London were making him all the more uncomfortable. So Sherlock shrugged, and decided that he would try again when they were in a more quiet area.

Sherlock wondered how Mycroft was finding his way through town when he had his nose buried is the piece of parchment the funny old wizard had given him. Mister Dumbledore was his name, yes. Sherlock already liked him far more than his other teachers at his old school, the ones that smacked his hands with a ruler whenever they found him playing with things under his desk. The ones that preferred the mean boys and gave them praises for beating Sherlock up after school. However, that didn't matter anymore. Sherlock was certain that this new school was going to be wonderful. He wouldn't be called names for being different there, because everyone would be different. At that thought, Sherlock smiled.

"Bloody instructions," Mycroft mumbled, and Sherlock glanced up at his brother. Mycroft handed him the parchment. "It says to go to the back of some seedy pub, push a series of specific bricks, and we will be on the wizard street. What sort of rubbish is that? Why can't there just be a sign, or a door that says "to Dragon Alley" or however it's called..." Mycroft continued to mumble as he pulled Sherlock along toward their destination.

Sherlock read over the instructions. He wasn't sure why Mycroft was so huffy about them. They made perfect sense to him, and he told Mycroft so.

"Well," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes and hiding a smile, "that's probably the reason you were accepted to the magic school, and not me." Mycroft tapped the side of his head. "Not clever enough, I suppose."

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together. "But Mycroft," he said, "you are the cleverest person I know." Mycroft smiled and threw and arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Quite right, I am."

They reached the back of the pub where, just as the parchment said, was a large brick wall. Following the proper order in the instructions, Mycroft tapped several bricks with his umbrella. He then stood back, and they waited.

After a few moments, Mycroft threw his arms up and shouted in frustration. "Bloody instructions!" he grumbled, pulling the parchment from Sherlock's hand, "Bloody wizard… Bloody magic school—" A loud rumbling interrupted Mycroft, and both boys turned to see the brick wall moving out of the way. The bricks seemed to fold in on themselves until there was a doorway big enough to fit two people, and they stopped.

Sherlock was the first to snap out of his shock. "Come on, Mycroft!" he said, pulling his stunned brother through the new doorway. Mycroft shook his head. "Bloody magic school…"

The first thing to hit them was the noise. Compared to the early-morning low rumble of people hustling to work on the non-magic side, the magic side was complete and utter chaos. Men, women and children were hurrying in every which way, shouting and calling for one another. Many waved hello to each other as they passed. Some even stopped to chat with other families. It was nothing like Sherlock had ever seen before, people being so friendly with one another. A grin spread across Sherlock's face.

"Dear God, what sort of Hell have we come across?" Mycroft said, scanning the crowds with plain disapproval etched into his face. Sherlock smacked his arm. "Stop being a prat, Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Where'd you learn a nasty work like that?"

"From you. You were talking to someone on the phone and you called him a prat. You sounded very angry."

Mycroft's ears reddened and he glanced down at the parchment. "So, we need to get a few things, then. Let's start at the top…" Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "A wand. A wand? Now where on Earth are we to get—"

"Excuse me," Sherlock said to the closest person to them. It was a young man in a smart emerald green cloak. He glanced down at Sherlock and smiled. "Do you know where we can find a wand? We're not exactly from here."

He glanced up at Mycroft, then back at Sherlock. "Muggle-born, I see. Me, too. Don't worry, you'll get used to the noise." He winked. "It's Ollivander's you're looking for. Just up the street, there. See the sign? You can't miss it."

Mycroft planted a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiled at the man. "Thank you…?"

"Lestrade," the man said, bowing his head slightly, "Greg Lestrade. Auror. Er, think detective for wizards." He winked at Sherlock again. Sherlock's mouth fell open. "There are wizard detectives?"

"Don't you know it, little man. Well, I ought to be off," he looked at Mycroft, "hope to see you around, sometime." And with that, he strode off.

Mycroft stared at the area where the Auror had disappeared into the crowd. Sherlock tugged at his sleeve. Mycroft shook his head, smiled at Sherlock, and together they made their way to the wand store.

An elderly man sitting at a desk glanced up from a book when the two boys entered the store. Mycroft made his way to the desk. "Hullo, my brother needs a, erm, a wand. Are you Ollivander?"

The man smiled warmly and stood up from the desk. "Garrick Ollivander, at your service." The man, M. Ollivander, gestured to himself and bowed.

M. Ollivander straightened and looked at Sherlock. "Now," he said, coming round to the front of his desk and scratching his chin, "this one is in need of a wand, you say? Well, let me think… ah, yes!" M. Ollivander turned on his heel (quite bouncy for a man his age, Sherlock thought) and disappeared amongst the rows of long rectangular boxes that filled the store.

After a moment, the old man returned with a lovely silver box. He held the box out to Sherlock. "Dragon heartstring core, twelve inches, cherry wood, fairly pliable."

Sherlock opened the box to reveal a beautifully crafted wand—a reddish brown finish, intricately carved handle with what seemed to be drawings of dragons breathing fire. Sherlock stared at it with wide eyes.

"Go on," M. Ollivander said, "give it a go! These wands are rather… moody, let's say, but it looks like to me that you're the one to handle it. Now, let's see."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the polished handle and pulled it out of its box. At first touch, a delicate warmth spread through his entire body, like the heat from a fireplace. The wand felt right in his hands, like it was made just for him. Sherlock grinned and looked at M. Ollivander and Mycroft. "Give it a flick, now," M. Ollivander said, and Sherlock obeyed.

With a blast of light, confetti and sparkles shot out the end of Sherlock's wand, dusting the floor of the entire shop with colourful little pieces of paper and glitter. M. Ollivander whooped and clapped his hands. "Oh, wonderful! And on the first try, too! What luck, what fun."

Clutching his new wand tightly and grinning like a madman, Sherlock waited for Mycroft to pay M. Ollivander and they made their way to their next destination.

"Alright, it looks like we need your uniform, now. I believe we passed a clothes shop on our way to Ollivander's—yes, there it is there." Mycroft pointed at a small building a little ways off from the wand store. A woman, this time, greeted them at the door. "Ah," she said, smiling down at Sherlock, "this has ought to be your first year at Hogwarts, am I right? Which means you'll be needing three sets of plain work robes, black, one plain point hat, black, one pair of dragon hide protective gloves—oh, you will need dragon hide, it certainly is the best material—and one winter cloak, black with silver fastenings. Am I correct in saying this?"

Mycroft blinked, glanced down at the parchment, then back at the woman. "Er, yes, ma'am. All of that. Please."

With that, Sherlock was measured, dressed, and the boys were sent on their way with all of Sherlock's new robes.

Their final destinations, the book and cauldron stores, were even faster than the robe store; the clerks took one look at Sherlock and practically threw all the appropriate things into his waiting arms.

The two boys walked in silence down the street as Mycroft checked off the final remaining items on the list. "Well, Sherlock," he said at last, "says here you can get a pet to keep with you at school. An owl, cat or toad. How about it?"

Sherlock perked. "Really, Mycroft? But what if mum and dad get angry when I bring home a pet?"

Mycroft laughed, suddenly sour. "Sherlock, they're never home. I doubt they'll even notice you left."

Sherlock winced, tears welling up in his eyes. Mycroft started and pulled his little brother into a hug. "I'm sorry," he said into Sherlock's shoulder, "I didn't mean that. Of course they would notice. They love you dearly. They love both of us. Please, brother mine, don't cry. Here, the pet shop is right over here. Why don't we head inside and see what they have?"

Sniffing, Sherlock took his older brother's hand and let him lead him into the pet store.

Sherlock knew his parents were away very often because their jobs made them. He knew that, if there was another way, both his mother and father would spend every waking moment with both of their sons. What hurt Sherlock was that Mycroft had forgotten that.

A dark-skinned woman with wild gray hair and a scraggly-looking parrot on her shoulder met them at the door. "Greetings, good sirs. How may Charles and I help you on this fine day?" Charles, the parrot, made a noise that sounded more like a cough than a squawk. Sherlock suppressed a giggle.

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably, and said, "hullo, yes, my brother would like to get a pet for school. Sherlock, is there anything you had in mind?"

The woman, however, shook her head. "You have to let the animal choose you, or else the match will not work." The woman turned around, and Mycroft rolled his eyes at her back. "You may look around the store, boy. I do not guarantee any of the animals will take to you, however. Best of luck, dear." With a cough-squawk from Charles, the woman made her way to the back of the store and out of sight.

Sherlock stood for a moment, feeling awkward. He glanced around the store. There were all kinds of strange creatures; owls, rats, bats, cats, toads, lizards, frogs, turtles, tortoises, canaries, parrots (much nicer-looking than Charles), budgerigars, and countless others that Sherlock didn't even know the name of. He passed every cage slowly, looking for any signs that the animal had 'chosen him'. Yet every single one the boy passed seemed more than disinterested. Most didn't even look at him and when they did, they were either afraid or didn't seem to care. Sherlock huffed and straightened, only to see that the woman was standing off to his side.

"Excuse me," he said, nervously (for the woman made him quite nervous), "how do I know if the animal has, er, chosen me?" The woman looked him over.

"You won't find much of anything with the reptiles, boy," she said, and steered him toward a separate section of the store. "I think you'll have much more luck with the birds."

She planted Sherlock in front of a sleek-looking black owl. "You didn't answer my quest—," Sherlock began, but the woman had already gone. Sighing, Sherlock weaved his way through the cages. Still, the animals seemed to be less than interested in him. He was about to give up and return to his brother when a large cage in the far corner of the store caught his eye. Inside the cage, a beautiful black hawk sat perched on its stand. Its head, before tucked neatly into its wing, lifted and its eyes met Sherlock's.

Sherlock grasped one of the metal bars on the cage. The hawk cocked its head to the side and made a small cooing noise. Sherlock smiled, and pushed his hand through the bars.

"Whoa, careful, boy, that girl's a little grumpy!" the woman said, but Sherlock didn't care. He stopped his hand right in front of the bird's beak. Her black eyes stared at his hand.

I wouldn't do that, she's a—" the hawk ruffled her feathers and rubbed her head against Sherlock's open palm. "—biter. Well, I'll be."

The woman put the black hawk—who Sherlock decided to name Pax (a roman goddess)—in a smaller travelling cage. Mycroft tried to pay her, but she simply shook her head. "I have been waiting for someone to bring home this beautiful creature for years, ever since she was a eyas. All I need is to know that she's going to be in a happy home." The woman smiled, kissed Sherlock on both cheeks, and send the two boys on their way.