Chapter 13
Harry was not wearing a hat. In fact, his hair was combed back, as much as his hair ever allowed itself to be combed back, to prominently display his scar-free forehead. Sherlock had also managed to add red tones to Harry's hair with something from a spray bottle that he assured John would wash right out. John made sure to bring an umbrella. And one of the weird wizard kid's hats that Sherlock had picked up for Harry on one of his many outings.
Sherlock used the spray in his own dark hair as well, and donned his own pair of glasses, the ones with just clear glass rather than prescription, and threw his cloth bag over his shoulder. John was left to wear his normal clothes with his normal hair and no glasses. He felt strangely disappointed, for all that he didn't really want to play dress up.
"Right," Sherlock rehearsed them while Harry bounced up and down, alternately running to look at himself in the mirror and then running back to the door to see if they were ready to go, "Sherry Watson Holmes is our son. Well, my biological son, your adopted one."
"What's bio-logical?" Harry asked breathing heavily and taking a moment to rest between his running back and forth.
"A biological son is when the mum and dad make a baby, instead of adopting."
Harry considered this. "How do you make a baby?"
Sherlock frowned. Not the disturbed or terrified sort of frown most parents get when faced with the prospect of explaining sex to their children. More considering, as though he were trying to find the best way to explain.
"I'll explain that later," John said quickly, "So…what kind of owl do you think we should get?"
Suitably distracted, Harry started on about how owls can be big or small and maybe a small owl would be good because Harry's small, but a big owl can carry big things like packages, and all the colors owls are and how they see in the dark.
"You're a Muggle, John," Sherlock went on, "But I'm a wizard so young Sherry is a half-blood wizard."
"Sorry…I'm a what?"
"Good…act ignorant, that's perfect! Muggle is the ridiculous term that glutinium sensitives have created to label those who aren't sensitive. Normally, non-sensitives aren't meant to know about glutinium or their culture…it's in their laws. But being married to me, and having a son in that culture gives you a free pass into it."
"Right…wait, you're a wizard? How are you going to pull that off? You're no more sensitive to magic than I am!"
"Glutinic energy, John!" Sherlock answered, "Ready, Sherry?" And he threw one final item into his bag and swept out the door, Harry bounding at his heels. By the time John had locked up and caught up with them, Sherlock had already managed a bit of his usual everyday magic to hail a cab.
John's first impression of Diagon Alley was that it was a bit touristy. It looked as done up and fancy as a theme park and John half expected to see a ticket taker charging exorbitant prices and signs saying 'this way to splash mountain!'.
"Daddy! Daddy daddy dad dad dad!" Harry exclaimed excitedly from Sherlock's shoulders as he reached out a hand to pat at John's head for his attention. Harry had taken to Sherlock's instructions to playact that Sherlock and John were his fathers with great exuberance. John wasn't sure how he felt about that. It gave him a strange feeling, something like pride mixed with guilt, like he had been blessed with something that wasn't his to take. Not to mention Harry's excitement over it made John suspect that Harry didn't really understand. He knew that they would need to all talk together about it. Later. For now, they had an owl to track down. John still wasn't sure how this was his life.
The street is bustling with afternoon shoppers going about their business as they pass shop after shop offering the magical, the strange, and the just plain bizarre. Harry continued to babble at them, trying to see everything at once from his perch. Sherlock had a relaxed, indulgent look on his face that he wore like a mask along with the glasses and red tint to his hair. A few people did glance at them but none of them stared or shrieked 'it's him! Harry Potter!'; John garnered more stares in his regular clothes than either of his companions did. A few stares bordered on rude, in fact, and John felt himself growing uneasy.
"Here we are!" Sherlock announced a short walk later, "Magical Menagerie. What do you say, Sherrinford? Shall we stop here?"
"Yes!" Harry answered, bouncing excitedly on Sherlock's shoulders.
"Alright, down you go," Sherlock said, swinging Harry off his shoulders and onto the ground, and together they went inside.
They left the bustle of the street for a new sort of cacophony as they were greeted by a veritable zoo of animals. Most of them didn't look particularly magical at first glance, just the regular pet shop fare. At second glance, however, many of the animals were behaving very oddly. At least, John was fairly certain that normal mice didn't do circus tricks. And while cats were always good at vanishing, John had never seen one actually go transparent. Before John could notice more, a small man darted from the back of the store. He had kitten riding on his head and a scoop in his hand and he looked rather harassed.
"Welcome," he gasped out, sounding rather out of breath, "To Magical Menagerie. How can I help you?"
"Yes, hello," Sherlock answered with a smile, his mannerisms so completely not his own that John found it hard not to stare at him to make sure John hadn't accidently wandered away and joined up with a stranger, "We're interested in owls, please."
"Just through here," the man told them, "Now, if you don't mind, I need to finish feeding the cheshires before they decide to find their own way around the wards again and feed themselves. Again."
In a back room of the shop there was a whole wall of owls. They came in all sizes and colors and nothing about them, despite their cages, suggested they were domestic animals. Wide eyes turned to stare at the intruders, a soft murmur of hoots the scrape of talons filled the room.
"What do you think, Sherry?" Sherlock asked. Harry didn't answer. He was clinging tightly to Sherlock's leg, and when John bent down to look closer he was startled to find that he looked on the verge of tears.
"Harr…" Sherlock nudged him with his elbow. Hard. John managed not to react by concentrating on the way Harry was staring at the owls with large watery eyes. "Sherry? Are you alright?" Perhaps he was scared. Perhaps they wouldn't be including a pet owl to their family any time soon. Harry mumbled something into Sherlock's cloak. Frowning now, John bent over and picked him up.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, his eyes darting from Harry to John, as though John might understand.
"Too small," Harry said, or perhaps something more, he was hard to understand.
"Too small? What's too small?" Sherlock asked, his eyes again darting to John, but John had no idea what Harry could mean. Surely it was not that the owls were too small; that one in the middle cage looked almost as big as Harry. Perhaps he meant himself?
"Cages too small," Harry managed to tell them, "Why?"
"Oh…ah…look, H…Sherry, the cages aren't small to be mean they're…they're to make the owls feel safe and secure. Owls sleep in the daytime, remember? I'll bet they go out and fly all over London at night." John had no idea if that was true. He doubted the shopkeeper used small cages for any other reason than to conveniently cram as many animals into his shop as possible, but perhaps these really were just the show cages and there really was plenty of space for the animals. Either way, Harry didn't look convinced. And then a thought occurred to John.
"Sherlock," he hissed, trying to somehow speak without Harry hearing, despite the fact that the boy was in his arms and watching them both intently, "Where are we going to keep this owl?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock answered, still looking a bit lost and worried.
"I mean is it…safe…to let it fly free? They're wild animals, Sherlock."
"Familiars," Sherlock corrected, "They're smarter than wild owls. It'll be fine, John." He offered John a careful smile, the sort that usually meant please let me get away with whatever I'm trying to get away with. John sighed.
"But, but, but," Harry said, still snuggled in John's arms, "But they can't fly."
"They like to sleep now, Sherry," Sherlock told him authoritatively, "They don't want to fly." As if to contradict him, no less than three tiny owls no bigger than John's fist suddenly careened in wild and excited flight about their single cage. "And the ones that really want to fly right now are able to," Sherlock said without missing a beat as he indicated towards the excited mini flyers, "See?"
Harry looked, a suspicious and stubbornly unconvinced look still on his face. It slowly dissolved though into pleased giggles as the owls continued to bound enthusiastically in convoluted circles. John was almost certain he saw one of them do a flip midair. It was as though they were showing off. Other owls ruffled their feathers, puffing up their chests, clicking their beaks against their bars.
"What do you think, John?" Sherlock asked, "They're small enough not to get in the way and young Sherrinford seems to like them."
"Er…" John said. He had a sudden vision of them taking all three and could just see them bouncing around the flat like excitable little terriers with the ability to fly. "Perhaps one a bit less…exuberant?" And as though a switch had been flipped, all three birds sudden settled onto separate perches, looking the very picture of calm. Harry clapped his hands.
Suddenly, from somewhere above them, a shadow swooped. John jumped, twisting his body defensively to shield Harry while Sherlock almost seemed to materialize bodily in front of them. The owls in their cages were screaming wildly, hooting and screeching and grabbing at their bars. All but one. The one that had just somehow flown freely and landed on top of the tiny owls' cage. It wasn't a large owl, though it seemed huge compared to the ones beneath it. It's face was white and its wings were a deep brown, some almost red in color, and it hooted softly, almost gently. John stared at the owl, then glanced up where he could see one of the cages with its door hanging open.
"See, Sherry," John said, his voice low in case it might spook this unexpectedly not caged wild animal in front of them, "They can fly if they want to." The other owls seemed to glare at him reproachfully from behind their bars. Harry was squirming to see better with Sherlock still blocking the way and John holding him sideways, almost having turned them around completely towards a row of cages holding bats and faintly glowing lizards.
"Hello there," Sherlock said to the creature perched almost regally before him, his voice soft and strange, "Now, how did you get out?" Predictably, the owl did not suddenly obtain speech and start talking. It did fluff up its feathers, causing Sherlock to jump, before holding out one talon as though to shake hands. A single long claw scratched sharply at the air. "Oh," Sherlock whispered, just as though it had answered, "You are a clever one. Sherry, come and see."
"Sherlock," John answered sharply, still eying the wild creature warily even as Harry reached towards it. Before John could explain exactly why he wasn't taking Harry one step closer to the owl, the door opened.
"Oh, not again!" the shopkeeper exclaimed from the doorway, more exasperated than dismayed, "She's always getting out, that one. Terribly sorry but they do like to show off when customers come in."
"Is she…is it safe?" John asked. The shopkeeper held out his arm and the bird flew to land on his wrist. Then he glanced at John and Harry.
"New to wizard's owls, are you?" he asked with a kindly smile, "Well you don't have to worry about this wicked little devil here. Quite maternal, owls are; she wouldn't harm a child for anything. Here, boy, do you want to touch her?"
Still hesitant, John finally gave into Harry's squirming and moved them closer, though not close enough to touch. Sherlock gave an impatient huff and strode over, reaching out his hand. It went against John's instinct to let him, to not call him an idiot for always wanting to touch things and drag him away. The owl stood perfectly still as Sherlock's fingers med its feathers. Its eyes were trained on John, almost as though it were trying to say, 'see? I won't bite'.
"Daddy, daddy, can I see? Please?"
It was probably the daddy that did it. Or the please. Or the way his ridiculously huge glasses magnified his puppydog eyes times a million. But finally John gave in and approached the owl. He watched as Harry slowly, reverently, reached out his hand. The owl stood just as still for him as it had for Sherlock.
"It's soft," Harry told them, his voice filled with awe. Then in a decided tone of voice he told the bird, "Softy." At least that's probably what he meant to say, it sounded more like 'soffy'.
"Sophie," Sherlock said, smiling gently at the two of them, "She's perfect."
Almost as one, Sherlock, Harry, and the owl all turned their heads to look hopefully at John. John tried to imagine this owl loose in the house. Clawing at the furniture. Landing among Sherlock's experiments. Hooting all night long. Social services coming to find a wild animal living in their house. Then he looked at Harry. Then at the owl. He swore that owl had an identically fragile and hopeful expression in its far too intelligent gaze.
"Right," he said, "Sophie it is."
The shopkeeper happily set about making sure they had a good cage (for transport, they assured a worried Harry, not to live in always), a perch (see, she won't be trapped on this), food, some toys, and a book on the basics of owls and familiars that looked as though it were written with a five year old in mind, full of bright pictures and large lettering. John would have thought the book fine if the shopkeeper hadn't kept talking like he thought it would be a great help for John, rather than Harry. Sherlock glanced at the book and turned his nose up at it.
Sophie hooted happily, willingly getting into her new cage and puffing up her chest. The other owls had quieted, and John tried not to look at the tiny owls where they were huddled in a sad, depressed mass. Sherlock eyed them.
"Perhaps I should get a few more," he suggested quietly, "I have a few experiments that could benefit from extra, expendable specimens." The tiny owls gave tiny alarmed hoots and darted as one to the back of their cage where they huddled, trembling.
"Come along, Sherlock," John answered sternly. Sherlock gave one last reluctant sigh and followed them from the room to finalize the purchase.
It was as they were almost done that the real trouble started.