Chapter 1

Sherlock rolled out the parchment over the table, his bright blue eyes scanning the stuffed animals surrounding him. There was a skull in his left hand, which he placed over the map to hold it down. "Alright men," he announced, "Lord Mycroft will be here any minute now. We must not let him get to the treasure! Is that understood?" Sherlock looked around determinedly at the toys, then grinned to himself and pulled his plastic sword from its sheath, which was tied to his belt with a bit of shoelace. He proceeded to announce his plans to his crew, constantly pushing the pirate captain's hat up as it fell over his eyes. He stopped very suddenly, however, as a very familiar creak in the floorboards reached his ears. His eyes widened and he stared, horrified, at the doorway as the towering shadow of his brother approached. "Mycroft," he whispered.

Sherlock immediately dashed to the door and hid himself behind it, waiting for his brother to enter the room. He did, of course, calling Sherlock's name, but the boy was much too fast for him. Sherlock was on his back in a second, nearly knocking him over, and with a battle cry loud enough to ensure Mycroft had an immediate headache. The elder Holmes quickly managed to grab ahold of his brother by his arm, dragging him off of his back and onto his own feet again. "Sherlock!" he snapped, pulling his wand from his pocket and pointing it threateningly at his younger sibling, "I've told you to stop doing that!"

Sherlock merely glanced at the wand and grinned. "You can't stop me, Mycroft. You're still underage."

"Only for a few more months," he growled, "And then you'll get it, I promise you."

"Mother wouldn't allow it. Besides, what would you do to me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mycroft, finally bored with the exchange, put his wand back in his pocket. "Now come on, it's time for lunch."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, stubbornly glaring at Mycroft as if he had just suggested the most repulsive idea.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and reached down to grab his brother by the arm, forcefully hauling him out of the room, despite his protests. Mycroft dragged Sherlock all the way across the house, to where their mother was waiting for them in the dining room. As soon as he let go of him, Sherlock stubbornly marched his way over to his seat and glared at his brother. "Mummy, he's done it again," he whined.

"What has he done, Sherlock?" Violet Holmes questioned, running her fingers through the mess of curls atop her youngest son's head as she passed him to take her own seat.

"He threatened me with his wand," Sherlock said, earning himself a sneer from Mycroft.

"Mother, it was nothing. He knows I wouldn't actually –"

"Mycroft," their mother warned, "I won't have you using that against him, especially not after your birthday. Understood?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock's smug little grin, then turned back to his mother sheepishly. "Yes, mother."

"Good. Now eat up, I have a surprise for you, Sherlock, when you're finished eating."

"What kind of surprise?" Sherlock asked, while their servants began circling the table and setting their food before them. His mother didn't answer, but only grinned to herself as she began eating. Sherlock stared at her, narrowing his eyes. He noticed a paper cut on the forefinger of her right hand. It was fresh; couldn't have happened more than an hour ago. But what would have given her a paper cut? He glanced up at the clock on the wall, a frown spreading across his face. It was 12:30, and less than thirty minutes ago, the post would have arrived. "It's my letter," he finally stated, making his mother look up at him in defeat. "I've gotten my letter, just like Mycroft did?"

His mother, noticing the hurt in his voice, attempted to console him. "Now, Sherlock, there's no reason to be upset about it –"

"But I don't want to be a wizard!" He shouted, angrily pushing his plate away and dashing out of the room. He ran straight back to his bedroom, his mother calling after him a few times, and slammed the door closed behind him. He locked it, knowing that would at least keep his brother out, and fell dejectedly into his bed. He screamed into a pillow, and finally fell limp, all of the energy drained from his eleven-year-old body.

He laid like that for quite some time, not crying, not moaning in agony or hatred, just simply lying there; Dead to the world. At least an hour had passed before he heard a whispered spell on the other side of the door and the lock clicked open. His mother walked in cautiously, seating herself beside him on the bed. "Sherlock," she whispered, combing her fingers through his hair, "Sit up, please."

Despite his annoyance at his mother, he complied to her request, sitting up and grimly staring at the wall opposite them.

"Would you like to tell me why you're so upset about this?"

"I don't want to be a wizard," he muttered.

"Why not? I'm a witch. Your brother is a wizard. Even your father was a wizard, Sherlock."

"And what good did it do him?" Sherlock snapped.

His mother stared at him for a moment, a strange combination of shock and concern crossing her features. "Sherlock, don't speak of your father that way. He was a brave man."

"And he went and got himself killed by –" He stopped there. If his mother had ever taught him anything, it was that he was never to say that name aloud.

Visibly shaken by her son's petulance, Violet quietly pulled the boy onto her lap, hugging him tight. "Don't think about that, Sherlock. You're too young to understand."

"Mummy," Sherlock whined, pushing himself away from her embrace so he could look her in the eyes. He really detested the way she coddled him with constant physical contact. "You know I could understand!"

Ignoring his obvious hatred for her motherly caresses, she ran her fingers through his hair once more. "Sweetheart, if I could explain it, I would. But those were dark times. We won't speak of them again unless we have to."

Sherlock glared at her. He knew his father had once served the darkest wizard of all time, but he never understood why. He had spent countless hours searching his father's old study, but of course, his mother always caught him in the act. He could never learn enough about the father he barely knew in order to make the one simple deduction he craved for. "I don't want to be a wizard," Sherlock stubbornly insisted, "I'm going to be a pirate."

Violet couldn't help the smile that graced her lips in that moment. "A pirate?" She asked, "Sherlock, you know that's not reasonable."

"I don't care. I don't want to be like father and Mycroft. I want to be different."

"Alright, how about this; You go to school for just one year, and if you decide that you don't like it, you can stop and become a pirate. How does that sound?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment, then turned to look his mother in the eyes again. He could tell from the way she smiled at him that she wasn't quite as serious as he would like her to be, but he also knew that he would easily be able to talk her into keeping her word in the end. "Okay," Sherlock muttered, refusing to show her that he was at all pleased with this compromise.

His mother smiled and placed a gentle (and not altogether unpleasant) kiss on his forehead, before setting him back down on his bed. Before leaving, she pulled an envelope out of the pocket of her dress and placed it on the bed beside Sherlock. She gave him one more smile, then left him alone to brood over the coming year, which he assumed would be hellish.

It was a normal morning in suburban London. An occasional car passed on the street, but otherwise it was quiet. A young boy was sleeping peacefully in his family's flat that he shared with his mother and sister. Little did he know that that was all going to change.

"John!" shouted a woman's voice from downstairs.

The boy, named John Watson, rolled over in his bed and opened his eyes slightly. The sun was only just over the horizon.

"John, get up and help your mother!" the woman's voice shouted again.

John groaned and sat up, rubbing his hazel eyes to wake himself fully.

"I'm coming Mother!"

John shuffled over to his dresser and pulled out some trousers and a shirt. After pulling his shirt over his head, he fixed his sandy hair in the mirror. Taped to the mirror was a picture of his father. When John had been 8 years old, his father died. His father, a marine, died during routine training exercise. It had been explained to John as a freak accident.

John pulled on his shoes and rushed downstairs to his mother, who was helping his sister Harriet get ready for the day.

"You called Mother?"

"There is some money on the table," Rebecca Watson said, motioning off to her side. "Do you mind running down to the market and getting some milk?"

John nodded, grabbed the money from the table and headed out. The cool air felt refreshing on his skin, but he knew it would not last. The sun was rising, and so would the temperature. John turned the key and heard the satisfying click of the bolt turning when a blood curdling shriek was emitted from inside the building.

"Mother!" screamed John.

The lad fumbled with the key for a second before yanking open the front door. John rushed into but paused when he saw the scene before him. Harriet was sitting at the table, stroking a large owl while his mother was passed out on the floor. The owl turned its head toward John before taking off and flying out the open window. John hurried over to his mother and helped her into a seat.

Harriet walked over to John and pulled lightly on his sleeve.

"John, letter."

John looked down at his sister, who was holding a letter that seemed to be made from what appeared to be old parchment. Taking the letter from his sister, John saw that it was addressed, in emerald ink, to him. John opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

Dear Mr. Watson,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Before John could read any further, his mother stirred. Dropping his letter, he hurried to aide her.

"Is the owl gone John?" she asked weakly.

"Yes. It flew off when I came in."

She let out a soft sigh and leaned forward, resting her head on the table.

"Mother, the owl dropped a letter," John whispered, picking the letter up from the floor. John glanced at his mother, who still had her head on the table.

"The letter was addressed to me," he continued, and still she remained motionless.

"It is addressed from a place called Hogwarts."

John watched as his mother pushed herself up from the table, and slowly turn toward him.

"John, there is something that I haven't told you. Your father, he was a wizard. I found out in his will. In it, he told me that you would be a wizard to, and Harriet a witch."

John stood there, soaking in the information. His mother stood up and gave him a hug.

"Are you okay John?" she asked timidly.

"Okay? I've never been better," John said with a ridiculous grin on his face. "I'm a bloody wizard, how could I not be okay?!"

His mother smiled and hugged John closely. She looked over toward Harriet who had a confused look on her face.

"Are you okay honey?"

"Does this mean I can turn John into a frog?"

Both John and his mother laughed.