Disclaimer: I still don't own Harry Potter or BBC Sherlock, and I'm still not making any money from this- just the entertainment of me and you.
"Just eat it!"
"No!"
John rubbed his forehead, huffing a small sigh of frustration.
"Eating is boring!" Sherlock stated- and sort of whined- as if it was the most valid, indisputable argument in the world.
John just stared at him, slightly open-mouthed. It was like dealing with a misbehaved child- admittedly, Harry was often considerably easier to take care of than the consulting detective he lived with. Sherlock, meanwhile, glared stubbornly at the plate of breakfast in front of him.
It was late in the morning. Gold sunlight streamed through the panes of the window, highlighting the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on some seldom-used surfaces. The odd family sat at the kitchen table, which had been cleared of most of it's clutter to make room for an actual, non-take-out breakfast, for once. Sherlock was clearly not pleased.
John cast a quick, wary glance towards Harry, who, too, was staring into his own plate- though it seemed to be in a more nauseated way than childish stubbornness- before turning back to Sherlock.
"Look," John hissed, trying to keep the argument out of Harry's hearing range, despite the fact that they were all sitting at the same table, "children are impressionable. If you just decide you're never going to eat, than what'll happen is-"
"Actually, I'm not very hungry, myself," Harry mumbled, pushing the untouched plate of food away from him.
John glowered at Sherlock, who actually seemed to shrink slightly under the intense, admonishing gaze.
"I'm feeling a bit ill," Harry murmured, so quietly, he almost wasn't heard.
John abandoned glaring at Sherlock and turned concerned eyes to Harry. He pressed a hand to the five-year-old's forehead to feel his temperature and looked him over with a carefully trained medical eye.
"You do feel a bit feverish," John said finally.
Ever since that incident with the snake, Harry looked horrible. He had the shadow of that horrified countenance always plastered on his face- he was always pale, always agitated, always quiet, and looked as though he hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep in days.
"Go get into bed, I'll bring you some chicken soup," John told Harry, removing his uneaten plate from the table.
The little boy gave a short, scared look. As of late he'd also been extremely clingy to his two guardians, hardly being able to stand them being in a different room than him. It was as though Harry was afraid that, if he'd ever let John or Sherlock out of his sight, he'd never see them again.
John gently ushered Harry out of the kitchen. "I'll be there in a minute," he reassured, and made sure Harry went to his room.
Turning back into the kitchen, John was met by Sherlock's snide smirk.
"What?"
Sherlock's half-smile widened, "To think, you were worried we would never be able to take care of him."
John ignored him and began rummaging around in the cupboards. Normally, he would have asked Mrs. Hudson- who adored the little boy and would've gladly made a large bowl of homemade soup- but she was off visiting a relative, so, John would have to make canned soup.
Sherlock sat at the table, watching John with an amused expression playing on his face.
"Stop it," John sighed irritably, heading out of the kitchen with the heated soup in hand.
"Suit yourself, mother hen," he heard Sherlock call, snickering as he did.
John mumbled to himself, "Not that you would ever take care of him."
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now."
He looked up, trying to see past the bars of the crib. He could vaguely see a dark figure- it must've been where the cold, horrible voice was coming from, but he couldn't see his face. He couldn't see well past the woman with the red hair sprawling out protectively in front of him. The terror and desperation he heard in her voice, though, made him very much afraid.
"This is my last warning-"
"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please- I'll do anything-"
"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"
He stood up in his crib, clutching at the bars. Why was the red-haired woman shaking and crying like that? Who was this cloaked intruder with the horrible voice?
A shocking green light flooded the room, putting him in awe for a moment, until he saw the woman drop like a limp rag doll. What was wrong with her? Why did she fall? Why wasn't she moving?
He turned his eyes up to this cloaked man, curious. But when he saw the hood, and the face it framed- the snake nostrils, the chalk-white skin, the horrid, glowing blood-red eyes- he felt his face twist as he let out a high-pitched scream and began to cry. Somehow, in some way, he understood who this monster was and what he had done.
A wretched, wicked smile flashed onto the monster's face as he raised his arm. The sleeve of his robes slid down the lifted arm, revealing a blackened mark burnt into his skin. Like a tattoo, although somehow much worse, was an image of a skull and a snake slithering around and out of the skull's mouth. For a moment he was transfixed on the symbol- why did it seem so familiar?
"Avada Kedavra!" the cloaked intruder cried.
A searing, horrible pain ripped through his forehead. His head was being torn apart, splitting at the seams*! He screamed, but he could barely hear it through the pain- it was ripping him, tearing him!
And then… he heard that monster scream, too.
But it soon was gone, and he was left alone in the burning house, the pain still pulsing through his small, aching body. He was kept company only by the two other people, now lifeless corpses, there- a man and the red-haired woman, whoever they were. He felt as though he should know them…
He awoke with a start. He did not sit straight up, but he had woken up with such a sudden force, it was like being slapped in the face.
Harry lay in his bed, clutching his blankets like a lifeline, feeling a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead.
As his eyes became adjusted to the dark room, and he was able to make out the vague shapes of objects in his room, he distracted himself. He focused on everything that wasn't that one dream- his racing heart, the strip of light streaming under his door, the sound of Sherlock plucking lazily at the strings of his violin, the barely-touched bowl of cold soup still sitting on his nightstand…
Even with his distractions, Harry just couldn't stop himself from thinking about that nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew that it was his father and mother, and that monster killed them with some kind of green light.
It all confused him, though. Every night since that snake incident, he kept having that dream- always the exact same one, never different. It was so clear, much clearer than any other dream Harry ever had. Why, if he didn't know any better, he'd say it was a memory, but…
Sherlock and John had always told him that his parents had been murdered, but they'd never really fully delved into the story. Was this how they died? What was that symbol? Who was that man with the snake face and sinister red eyes?
Why did it scare him like it did?
Harry buried his face in his pillow, willing his eyes to stay dry. He'd learned at a young age, while he was at the Dursley's, that tears would only make things much worse.
He didn't cry, but by morning, he sure felt a lot worse.
"What do you think's the matter with him?" John asked, sitting in a comfortable position in his armchair.
"Who? Harry?" Sherlock said off-handedly, still tunelessly plucking at his precious violin's strings, "He's clearly traumatized."
"Traumatized?" John sat straight up, "By what?"
Sherlock scratched the back of his neck with his violin bow and answered absentmindedly, "He probably connected the image of that snake and my skull intertwined with the Dark Mark."
Once again, John was left in not-understanding, "Dark Mark?" he repeated stupidly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "My God, for my sanity's sake, read those books on magic!"
"Your sanity has already passed the point of hopelessness!" John retorted.
They shot glares at each other until the tense silence was finally broken by John asking again, "What is a Dark Mark?" in a much more stern voice.
At first, it seemed like Sherlock wasn't going to respond, but he finally said, "Voldemort's mark. He used it for branding his minions and marking a place where he or his followers committed a murder."
"Voldemort was the one who-"
"He killed Harry's parents, yes," interrupted Sherlock.
Sherlock and John both knew the full story- or about as much going into the blood-protection- about that famous incident, as explained to them by Mycroft. Decidedly- more on John's part than anyone else- they didn't tell it to Harry. They'd decided to keep it limited to telling him, simply, that his parents had been murdered- without going into any sort of details- until he reached a better age, because it was exactly what a responsible guardian should do. Or, that's what John kept telling himself, anyway.
"You say it like you're announcing the weather," John reproached.
"That's because I am stating a simple fact," Sherlock growled, "But I suppose you expect me to go maudlin and teary-eyed every time-"
"I expect you to have a little sensitivity!" John responded sharply, "This is the reason Harry is an orphan and in-" he stopped suddenly, horrible realization sparking in his eyes, "It just doesn't matter to you, does it? It doesn't even matter to you if the victim of a murder is an orphaned and formerly-abused little boy that is now in your care. You're probably just disappointed that it wasn't a more interesting or mysterious crime."
Sherlock didn't even have the decency to deny it, he just… sat there, looking at John with a hauntingly blank expression.
Then, he just went back to plucking at his violin, as though there was never the interruption. But the blankness remained on his face like a mask, not letting John see what Sherlock was really feeling- if he was feeling anything at all.
John turned away from his sociopathic colleague, and looked on to Harry's room, where inside- unbeknownst to him- the young boy was still fighting down tears.
*an imaginary cookie to anyone who can identify what song that references. Hint, the full line is "Now my head's splitting at the seams"
I'm sorry about this chapter. It's a lot shorter than the first one, and probably filled with more errors and just generally not as good, because I didn't have as much time to work on it. I might rewrite it, just to make improvements, later.
Constructive criticism is welcome. Also, kindly point out any grammar, spelling, or punctuation errors, thank you!